Artesans of Albia: 01 - King's Envoy

Rhemalda Publishing
Rhemalda Publishing, Inc. (USA)
P.O. Box 2912, Wenatchee, WA 98807, USA
www.rhemalda.com

First American Paperback Edition

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control and does not assume responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.

Copyright ©2011 by Caroline Peace
Editing by Kara Klotz
Text design by Rhemalda Publishing
Cover art by Eve Ventrue
www.eve-ventrue.darkfolio.com
Author photo by Martin Saban-Smith
www.saban.co.uk

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ISBN-13: 978-1-936850-13-6
ePUB ISBN: 978-1-936850-14-3
ePDF ISBN: 978-1-936850-15-0
Library of Congress Control Number: 2011920941

Printed in the United States of America
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

The paper used in this publication meets the minimum requirements of the American National Standards of Information Services - Permanence of Paper for Printed Library Materials, ASNI Z39.48-1992.

Visit Caroline Peace at her author Web site
www.caspeace.com

This novel is dedicated to my true and loyal friend, “Bobbie.”

(Karen J. Faulkner, 8/11/56—27/05/97)

She would have loved this and would have been a great source of early encouragement when my self-confidence was low. I just wish she was here to read it.

Sleep well, Bobbie, until we meet again.

Namarië!

I must thank my husband, Dave, for his love, belief, encouragement, incredulity, support and constructive suggestions.

Also my parents, Barbara and Dennis for ... well, everything, really.

Heartfelt thanks are due also to my many long-suffering proofreaders; to Jan Church for her enthusiasm and the A++; to Erin Peace, Sallie Jones, and my brother Dave Snell.

Special thanks must go to Barry Tighe, Gerry Dailey, Gordon Long and Judy Sutherland for all their hard work and constructive comments.

Also to the hundreds of readers on Authonomy who helped me polish and hone this book.

Special thanks also for unasked and unknowing help during the writing of this novel must go to AH*NEE*MAH for “Spirit of the Canyon.” For me, the hauntingly beautiful “Light from the East” will always be Sullyan’s theme.

Cas Peace

Rhemalda Publishing

“Are you quite sure about this, Taran?”

Cal’s voice echoed in the gloom as Taran Elijah closed the cellar door behind them. He raised the lantern and sharp-edged shadows fled up the walls.

Taran glanced at his Apprentice standing three steps below him and ran a hand through his short brown hair. It came away clammy and he wiped it on his shirt.

“I have to go, Cal. It’s my last chance.”

Cal frowned, taking in Taran’s tall but sturdy frame, clad in leather pants and boots, the sword belted at his side and the pack of supplies slung over his shoulder. He met Taran’s hazel eyes. “What if there’s something we haven’t thought of ?”

Trying to keep his voice level, Taran said, “I’ve tried every way I can think of to find another teacher. My father was right, there simply aren’t any Artesans left in Loxton Province. Maybe even in the whole of Albia. Entering the Fifth Realm might be dangerous, but it’s the only place I’m going to find other members of our craft.”

The words sounded sharper than he’d intended. As Cal turned to descend the steps, Taran saw him shrug. He followed, his heart pounding.

When Cal reached the bottom, he crossed the floor to the only items the cellar contained—a bedroll and a night pot. Taran watched the younger man drop a small pack of food on the floor and turn to face his Master.

Taran halted opposite Cal and gave him what he hoped was a reassuring smile. He shrugged out of his pack and laid it down. He was beginning to tremble, although it was more from tension than excitement.

Where’s your courage, man,
he berated himself.
You’re twenty-eight years old and a Journeyman. It’s not as if you haven’t created a portway before.

Ah yes,
came a sly thought,
but not without your father watching your every move, making sure you got the sequences right.

Taran took a deep breath, filling his lungs with cool, chalky air. He shoved away his misgivings. His father had died two years ago—he’d have to do this by himself. He was perfectly capable. Journeyman was the third of the eight Artesan ranks and he had mastered the primary element of Earth. He could also influence the secondary, Water, and was well on the way to becoming an Adept. All he needed was a bit more instruction and what he had planned for today would, with just a little luck, be the means of obtaining it.

He set the lantern on its shelf and cast his gaze to the cellar’s rocky floor. It was formed like a shallow bowl and would help shape the Earth force he intended to call. Across the space, he caught the diamond glitter of Cal’s eyes.

“Ready?”

Cal shrugged again. “I’m ready. It’s not as if I’m doing anything.”

“You’ll be guarding the portway, Cal. Without you, I wouldn’t be doing this in the first place.”

And probably shouldn’t be doing it now,
he thought, unable to quell his doubts. Once he had formed the portway, he intended to leave it active. This was a huge risk, he knew—a breach of every rule he’d been taught.

Never, ever leave a portway open, son. You don’t know what might make use of it …

His father’s disapproving tone resounded in Taran’s mind, yet he was determined to ignore it. He was terrified of becoming stranded in the Fifth Realm and, even if all went according to plan, creating a new portway when he needed to return would cost him too much time and energy. The skills of a Journeyman weren’t sufficient to determine where such portals would open, so he could end up many miles from his village when he came back.

Asking Cal to maintain and guard it was the best solution Taran could think of. He intended to weave his young Apprentice’s strength into the structure as he formed it so all Cal had to do was stay in the cellar. He had his bedroll, supplies and the lantern. He’d be alright.

Everything would be alright. It had to be.

Catching Cal’s nod of acceptance, Taran took a slow breath, closed his eyes and gave himself a moment to settle into the cellar’s thick silence. He turned his gaze inward and sought his psyche, the unique pattern through which an Artesan channeled his power.

The whorls and spirals materialized in his mind. Soft with pearly colors, the pattern’s familiarity soothed Taran’s nerves. Gathering his strength, he called on the power every Artesan possessed—metaforce—and it rose, suffusing his soul. His heart exulted as the power grew and his body sang with potential.