Melody of the Fates

Prologue P.1

Rynel watched as his friend stood and left the room. Alone, he grabbed his glass and downed its contents. How best to get their attention? Perhaps, if I sing light. That usually impresses people. The empty room held no answers for him as he stared into the fire. Setting the tumbler back down, he reached for the decanter.

He was pouring himself another glass when the soft sound of a crashing cymbal jarred him so much that he spilled a bit of the liquid. Brushing himself off, he set the drinking implements aside and stood. The cymbal sounded again.

Not here, not yet, he thought.

The young servant reappeared, crossing the room silently to retrieve the glasses and decanter. She curtsied respectfully to Rynel, and then turned to leave. The cymbal sounded a third time.

“Wait,” Rynel called to the woman. She turned and regarded him with curious eyes. “Do you hear that?”

“Hear what, sir?” she asked, cocking her head.

“Cymbals, do you hear cymbals?” Rynel pressed, still quite unable to trust his senses.

She smiled prettily and curtsied again, “I’m sorry, sir, but I do not.” She turned and scurried out of the room, the hint of a concerned look on her face.

Rynel paused, his mind reeling. Dare I get even more involved? After a brief moment of indecision, he walked swiftly out of the room and exited the house. Who else is there?

Darkness had fallen completely, the only light on the street coming from torches burning in the entryway to each building. The fog that plagued the day still clung to the shadows, pulled by invisible strings across the pathways and up the stone walls.

Rynel stood back behind the columns and cleared his mind. Calling on a few tricks he learned a long time ago, he cocked his head and focused on the sound. With a nod, he started off back toward the plaza. From there, he walked quickly along the curvature of the Summit. At every intersection, he paused for a moment, letting the sound guide him. The quality of it told him a few things, chief among them that a servant of Vral was in the city. Perhaps, he’d already found their spy. Rynel knew as well as anyone the shortage of ability among the Tashers, but this exhibited lack of care was pure arrogance. One should always take care that you’re not overheard. There’s always a bigger lizard, he mused.

A dark alley, almost indiscernible in the dim light, snuck off from the main street to Rynel’s right. He actually passed the opening once before doubling back to enter it. The sound was definitely coming from here. He paused before continuing on and moving quickly despite the dark, unconcerned with any potential obstacles or hidden assailants.

Near the end of the alley, Rynel found himself standing outside a dingy wood door. It was most likely the servant’s entrance to another of the Eclectic’s houses. Quietly, he tried the handle, but the door would not budge. It was locked. There was a keyhole on this side of the door, probably accessed with a servant’s key, which Rynel obviously did not have.

He put his hand flat on the door frame. There was a soft glow, and a few seconds later the mechanism opened with an audible click. He eased open the door and slipped inside. Traces of light washed down a narrow stairway to his left. Rynel guessed that the servants used it as a back access to the second floor, so he climbed, following both light and sound now. At the top was a closed door, the entryway to the upper chambers, a glow bleeding beneath.

There was no lock on this door, and Rynel pushed it open to reveal a long hallway with doors on either side. Large candles burned in sconces on the wall, illuminating a richly patterned carpet and several paintings on the walls. Rynel crept down the hallway, taking care to make as little noise as possible. He hadn’t gone far before he happened upon an open door. Tapestries adorned the walls inside and leather upholstered chairs sat spaced around the room. It was not completely unlike Marcko’s library, except lacking books and with a bit more ostentation. On the floor, a man kneeled before a grand, heavily gilded fireplace. A roaring inferno raged within the impressive feature. It didn’t give off enough heat, however, and thus seemed unnatural, as if the fire were more than simply a fire.

The man on the floor was the source of the clangor. The cymbals were clearly coming from him. What’s more, he was talking to his fireplace, or, more accurately, the strange fire within.

“But my Lord, it is protected,” the man was saying. “I cannot puzzle out how to bypass its guards.”

“Do not waste my time and patience,” the fire answered in a gravelly voice that Rynel recognized instantly. “At any time I can reach out with a Hand, and you know the price of failure. I will have that shard, one way or another.”

Rynel stepped into the room. “Sending others to do your dirty work as usual, Vral?” he asked casually.

The man on the floor spun around, “Who are you? What are you doing in my house?”

Rynel ignored him, focused on the fire.

“So you are in Tashaba, Rynel,” the flame crackled. “Such a logical choice. I am surprised you did not turn up before now.” If the revelation elicited any emotion, the voice did not betray it.

“Yes, well,” Rynel answered flippantly, “we can’t all be as logical as you.”

“A pity,” Vral’s voice in the fireplace said simply. “Kill him,” he ordered.

“Yes, my Lord,” the man on the floor replied. “Gladly.”

Rynel narrowed his eyes, preparing to face the man in front of him. It swiftly became evident that the lackey was not well trained. There was no elegance to his attacks from the start. He simply lobbed a ball of fire across the room. Rynel responded by calmly holding up a hand, and the flames winked out. The man tried several other elements–charged air, rock, even water–and got the same results. Recognizing that he would not be able to touch Rynel from a distance with conjurations, the man pulled out a small knife, held it up, and flames began to dance along its surface. He flung it with a quick flick of the wrist, fire trailing behind as it rocketed across the room. Rynel didn’t even appear to move this time, yet the knife shifted course in the air and passed harmlessly to his right. It lodged itself in a tapestry on the wall, twanging loudly. The fire jumped quickly to the cloth and began climbing up the wall.

Rynel grinned wickedly, drawing his sword. He calmly closed the distance between them. The man responded by wheeling and snatching up the poker from the fireplace. He held it in front of him, fear contorting his features. As Rynel approached, the man backed up. They traded step for step until the man backed into the wall next to the still roaring fire. There he began to quiver, holding the poker in front of him defensively.

“No, please, don’t kill me,” the man pled. “I know things. I can help you.”

“I don’t think so,” Rynel answered.

The man raised the heavy metal poker to meet his opponent’s blade as Rynel sliced downward. As expected, the blade cut cleanly through the solid steel of the poker like a hot knife through butter. Rynel’s second slash was through the man’s neck, with much the same effect. A hollow thud sounded as the severed head hit the floor, followed by a short staccato of limbs as the body followed suit.

“How… expected,” Vral’s voice rasped. Then flames died down to a more natural level.

“Nice seeing you, too,” Rynel scowled toward the fire that was now just a fire.

Behind him, a woman screamed, startling him. Rynel spun around, searching for the source of the sound. A rather pretty blonde stood in the doorway, horror written plainly on her face as she stared at the blood pooling around the body on the floor. Rynel wiped the spatter off of his face and attempted what he hoped was a winning smile.

“Murderer! Guards!” she screeched, fleeing the room in terror.

“Great,” Rynel sighed as black smoke began to fill the room. “Marcko’s not going to like this….”