My novel “Queen of Fire” is volume one of ‘The Leather Book Tales,’ a
fantasy series that takes place in the geographical landscape of western Canada
and the western United States. A previous excerpt from Chapter I of the book
can be found on this blog in July 2014.
The book is available from Amazon and on Kindle, as well as for sale in
McNally Robinson and Indigo Books in Saskatoon.
“Queen of Fire” is currently on the short list of the High Plains Book
Awards in the young adult category. Winners will be announced the first weekend
of October.
I am now working on the second book in the series, “Child of Dragons.”
Chapter II
Samel
IT’S STILL dark when I wake to a groan and
a shout from the next room. “Papa?” I call. “Anything wrong?”
Silence.
I hold my
breath, lie perfectly still so as not to rustle the sheets, but I don’t hear
anything more. Quietly I get up, tiptoe across the chilly hall floor, lean
against the doorway. Can barely make out the humped shape of Papa on the bed.
“Zarm
mumble mumble sorry,” I hear. Then, “No! Zarmine!”
I kneel
by his bed, grab his shoulder. He pulls away, rolls, tangles in the sheet,
slips out the other side of the bed, thumps on the floor. A muffled curse.
“Papa.”
“Samel?”
His head and shoulders rise. “What are you doing out of bed?”
“Heard
you call out. What’s wrong?”
He shakes
himself like a dog stepping out of water. “Nightmare.”
“Who’s
Zarmine?” I ask, standing up.
“What?”
I know
he’s heard me, is just stalling for time. After thirteen years I know his ways.
He’s keeping secrets, which isn’t surprising, because I don’t tell him
everything either, though he probably guesses most things about me.
“Zarmine,”
I repeat. “Sounds like a woman’s name.”
“Go back to bed,” Papa says. “It’s the middle
of the night.”
“I wouldn’t
be up if it wasn’t for your shouts.”
“Samel!”
Louder and snarly.
Oh, yes I
know that voice and it means I’d better do what he says. Even though I’ve grown
in the last year he’s still bigger than me, could squash me like a bug if he
wanted, though he never does, hasn’t hit me since I was about four – a slap on
the rump for lying to him. He can
make me do all the dirtiest chores around the house, or keep me inside when I’d
rather be out. So I go back to my room and lie awake listening to his bed creak
as he tosses and turns.
Sun
blazes into my eyes. I fell asleep again and forgot to close the shutters all
the way last night. The house is quiet, which probably means that Papa has gone
out. Sure enough his room is empty and very tidy, bed made as an example to me.
Papa isn’t the kind to pester me about keeping my room clean, and he doesn’t
snoop if I close my door, so I usually don’t root around in his stuff either,
but this is different. I’m worried about him; he’s not the kind to have
nightmares.
His bed
is smooth and tight as the skin of the drums that the Lord’s militia uses to
beat out the marching rhythm. There’s nothing under the pillow. On the chest
beside the bed only the stub of a candle. I lift that and raise the lid.
Underwear, robes, a belt. I try to be careful, because what if Papa finds out
I’ve been looking through his things? He could walk into the room right now. I
duck under the bed even though I haven’t heard a thing. It’s dusty down there;
even Papa misses spots, so a few times a year he gets in a woman who gives
everything a good going over. She washes windows, floors and walls, sweeps
under beds and cupboards. Her name is Anna.
There’s a
shiny thing underneath the head of the bed, by the wall. I stretch out an arm,
stirring up bits of fluff. I always wonder where this stuff comes from because
you never see it anywhere but under things. When I was small I thought there
was some kind of creature that lived under beds and cupboards. Its fur was made
of fluff and would fall out. I’d try to sneak up on it, but never managed to
see it. I get a fingertip on the shiny object. It slides away, toward the other
side and out from under the bed so I follow, cleaning the floor with my shirt
front.
I sit on the far side of Papa’s bed holding a
silver bracelet in my hand. It’s warm, which is odd because even though Papa’s
shutters are open, no sunlight reaches under the bed. I wonder who the bracelet
belongs to. The woman whose name he mumbled last night perhaps or a present
he’s going to give her. Most of the women I’ve seen with Papa are other
musicians or neighbours, and none of them is called Zarmine. He’s never talked
about any woman that he might give gifts to. Unless the bracelet is meant to be
for the Lady Domitilla, which doesn’t make sense because, although Papa works
for the Lord, that doesn’t mean he walks in the Lady’s circles. I just hope
that if he’s going to present me with a new mother, he’ll give me some warning.
I stand
and brush dust off my clothes, blow as much of it as possible back under the
bed. Look over the room, move to the other side and shift the candle on the
trunk just a finger’s width. Good, everything looks the way it did when I first
walked in. At the head of the stairs I listen for a moment, but hear no sounds
of movement downstairs.
Back in
my own room I shut the door, then open the shutters all the way. Sit on my
still unmade bed and examine the bracelet, a circlet fashioned of leaves linked
together. I don’t know much about metal work, though I’m interested in this sort
of thing, how objects are made. Why one drum sounds different from another, and
why wheels sometimes fall off chariots.
I shift
to get the bracelet into the light coming from the window so I can see better.
A blaze of reflected brightness spears my eyes making them water. The room is
blurry, and my head spins as if I’ve been turning in circles. A woman’s pale
face framed by hair as red as mine floats there in the air. I blink, fumble,
drop the circlet, hear it clink on the floor. I rub my eyes to get them clear.
The room looks ordinary again, but chills are moving up and down my back.
Nothing like this has ever happened before. The circlet lies by my right foot.
I nudge it gingerly. Nothing happens except that it slides. I get up, walk
carefully around the bracelet and close the shutters almost all the way. When I
swivel, I see a faint glow. I return and squat, cautiously slide one finger
toward the glow. There’s no flash of light, no visions. I take a deep breath,
and move my finger to actually touch the silver. It feels slightly warm. Taking
a deep breath, I pick up the bracelet, ready to throw it back down immediately.
Nothing happens. Did I just have a vision or is it lack of sleep making me
imagine things? I don’t want to ask Papa because he’d not only be angry that I
poked around in his room, but also furious that I was talking about visions.
I ought
to take the bracelet back to Papa’s room and put it away, under the bed or on
it, as if it fell there accidentally. Probably a trunk would be better. If I don’t
put it back Papa might miss it and ask me about it.
I don’t
want to give it up.
There’s a
bunch of long leather lacing in the trunk at the foot of my bed. I’ve been
planning to make a braided belt for a small drum, but haven’t started yet. I
take the longest piece and completely wrap the bracelet, leaving two ends that
I can knot together. It takes a while, and when I’ve finished it looks like a
sort of braided leather amulet. I tighten the knots, then slip it over my head
and tuck it under my shirt.
