Prologue.3 - an Omen

Mason tossed something into Castor’s cell. The prisoner slowly knelt and picked it up, noticing that it was a small piece of parchment paper wrapped in string. He unrolled it to see a perfect circle drawn in black charcoal.

The Head Magistrate smirked. “My daughter, Sayra, drew it. This isn’t the only one. Usually, her eyes are closed when she does it. What do you suppose it means, eh?”

After a thorough inspection, Castor rolled it back up and tossed it at the magistrate’s feet through the bars. He offered a sarcastic look in addition to his silence.

“I know you may find it hard to help me,” Mason said. He attempted to pacify his dog, Malthus, who stared daggers at the prisoner for his insubordination. “Do you think I’m playing around with you? I will send your son to the pyres this year if you don’t tell me something about this, you rogue!”

“You will send him there either way,” Castor muttered in contempt.

Mason snarled. “Well, don’t help me, then! But help her; help my daughter. She needs guidance. If she is Destined...”

“If she is Destined,” Castor interrupted, sitting back down on his plank bed and directing his gaze to the moonbeam on the floor, “then I’ve no doubt you will make use of her gift to aggrandize your own power and profit.” The Head Magistrate made to argue, but Castor put up two fingers. “It’s no good, Mason. I will never help you.”

“I can make it difficult for you in here,” Mason threatened, grimacing. “You may think two hells are alike, but this little cell will look like a luxury suite next to what goes on in the basement here.”

Castor simply shrugged.

Throwing up his hands in disgust, Mason turned away from the bars. “I know you’re stubborn. I can’t force you to help me. Still, watch your back in here. There are limits to what I can tolerate. Here’s a taste of what you can expect until your last wretched breath in this rat-infested hellhole. Malthus...”

Anticipating his request, Mason’s hired muscle was already on the crimson-coated floor, fumbling around with the guard’s keys. With a jangle of his armor, he stood, grinning in anticipation. Castor watched him indifferently and leaned his head against the stone wall. The door opened with an evil creak, and Malthus charged in. With his studded gauntlets, he gave Castor’s undefended body a series of hard jabs to his ribs. As the prisoner collapsed, Malthus pressed his iron boot into Castor’s hand and, for good measure, kicked him square in the face.

Blood vessels and pain receptors fired where iron crushed and bounced off of Castor’s bones. He thought of defending himself, but decided that not reacting would annoy the men more. The prisoner merely pulled himself up against his bed and spat blood onto the cracked stone. Malthus clicked his tongue and walked out, leaving him to paste himself back together as well as he could.

“Always nice visiting old friends,” Mason called as he sauntered down the hall and into the darkness.

The iron gate slammed shut, and the key clicked in the lock. When the echo of heavy feet died away, Castor took consolation in being alone again. Though alone, his pain fed acrimonious thoughts to his head.

If the gods wouldn’t help him, he could try to curse his enemies.

But wait... there could be something better.

A certain ritual occurred to him. With some strain, he managed to prop himself up on his forearms. His candlestick had been knocked over in the beating and the flame had gone out. With a shaking, blood-slicked hand, he picked the candle up. He propped himself up to a standing position and set the candlestick on his slanting windowsill. It slid back at once and fell to the ground. His glance drifted to the candle on the floor and then to the windowsill once again. The candle had made a blood circle that was more burgundy than the fresh red that might have been expected. The moonlight had seasoned it for him, even showed him something.

Castor, short on blood and vitality, fell back onto his plank bed in a heap. After a time, he slowly inclined his head and looked at the circle again. Having further seasoned in the moonlight, it had lightened and transmuted into a golden ring.

It’s an omen. The gods have heard my prayer; they have not forsaken me and my people!

He smiled to himself, despite his labored breathing.

My people made mistakes, and so they were conquered. But this daughter of the Head Magistrate... she could be their angel of vengeance. Maybe they were right all along to be peaceful and let fate and consequence run their natural course.

He permitted himself a laugh, even though the blood pooled at his lips.

She could be our vengeance, too--of both the living and the dead. A slayer of her own wicked class.

A weapon like no other.

Author's Note

Synopsis: For 500 years, the ruling nobles of Blithe Haven have preyed on the commoners. They used the mythical fruit in their Sacred Grove to assure dominance. Heeding the cries of the countless souls of the human sacrifices to their Sun Goddess, along with the prayers of a certain prisoner, supernatural powers are summoned that augury relief and vengeance. Strangely, this supernatural power is offered to an unlikely recipient: Sayra Beech, the daughter of Blithe Haven's most powerful tyrant and noble.

---

If you enjoy this story and want to see more, support the author by reading on amazon vella by searching 'Blithe Haven' or the author's name. Thanks.