∴ A Forward Payment ∴

The chanting deepens, a low murmur of mourning bouncing softly against the glassy black vaults. You scrunch your eyes shut, wishing you could clamp your black-gloved hands over your ears to block out the gentle insistence of sorrow. You daren’t, though. Your father would see, and would think you weak.

You dart a glance at the stately, somber man, and as if irritated by your very gaze, he flickers his hawkish features toward you. He inclines his head only slightly – first toward you, and then in the direction of the black stone dais. You know what he commands.

At once your legs become jelly, the little step up to the platform a suddenly insurmountable feat. The echoing chants of mourning surge nauseatingly in your skull, underscored by your racing pulse. Your grip tightens around the wreath you carry, and you wish you could crumble it to dust between your fingers and undo the death that it must mark.

On the dais lies your father’s personal guard. A great grinning hero of a man, with as many stories as he had scars. When your father admonished you it was Aster who would escort you from the hall, full of little jokes to ease the sting. When you struggled with swordcraft, he would practice with you in the orange gardens.

With swaying steps you cross the seeming chasm between the safety of the crowd and the strangeness of the funeral pyre. Aster lies atop it in his splendid black armour, no trace of his usual smile on the stillness of his face. His dark hair streams around his shoulders, dotted with little white blossoms, and atop him lies his sword.

You remember holding that slender rapier some years ago, curiously touching your fingertips to each of the four silver discs that marked the rings and quillons of its guard.

“Do you know what those are?” he asked.

You shook your head.

“Those are my coins for the ferryman.”

You scrunched your nose with confusion, peering again at the polished carvings.

“Where I come from, we cross a river when we die, to reach the Eternal Lands. There’s an old ferryman who’ll take you across if you can pay. I like to keep them on me, just in case.”

“Why are your coins on your sword, then, and not in your pocket?” you asked him, still staring wide-eyed at the flowing black bars of the guard.

“Why do you think, child?” Aster chuckled, tousling your hair. “I need to be sure I have them on me when I die. And I intend to go down with my sword in my hand.” Continue reading →

∴ A Glittering Guard ∴

It is a perfectly starry night, of the sort where the longer you look the more diamonds blossom against the darkness of your peripheral vision. You could stare into the sky’s stillness for hours, but for the fact that it is suddenly fractured by a burst of brilliant gold.

Gasps and nervous laughter ring around the garden as the guests turn their attention to the heavens. Another bejeweled explosion, and the firework display is begun, with stars of blue, red and green dancing to join their siblings in the sky.

You lift your glass of sweet madeira to toast the unexpected splendour. Your host has outdone himself tonight.

Your companion cannot help but laugh at your whimsical gesture, and you turn with a smile to take her in. She is stunning, still swathed in the dark silks of mourning, yet the sprays of small diamonds at her throat and ears catch the light like the stars themselves.

You are about to tell her as much, when a familiar and none-too-welcome face leers over her shoulder. 

Your face falls.

“Chauncey,” you intone, permitting a curt bob of your head.

The interloper looks you up and down as he might do horse or hunting hound.

“Well if it’s not the duellist that would be Duke,” he laughs. “Come now my lady, surely you can do better than this.”

“Chauncey, don’t,” your companion pronounces, her voice low and dangerous.

“I mean no offence,” he chuckles, “It’s just that I can’t help but wonder what your dear late father would think if he knew you’d turned down my fortunes for this threadbare fop?”

With a sudden rush of red madeira your hand is at your hip. With a snarl you draw your rapier, and its swirling grip is the black of the sky, bespangled with a thousand diamonds. Continue reading →