Excerpt: Pawn to Queen

Kervinie waited in the antechamber to the ritual room. She wished she could be with her Master and his other Apprentice. There were times when her Name Day seemed so far away, when it was hard to remember she was really a journeyman now. _No, don't think of that. You can't ever think of that._ By all rights, she, not Peron, should be assisting Zinoforo with the ritual, but she couldn't. Not unless she wanted to throw her life away. And so, she waited.

When they were done, they would want tea, which she kept ready. It was a difficult ritual, and they'd be exhausted. They'd need to eat before they slept, though. Kervinie would have to call for food from the kitchens and keep them up long enough to eat it. Then, they could crash, and she could clean up the ritual room. She sighed. She knew it was an important ritual--the succession of the kingdom depended on its outcome--but surely they should have been done by now? She watched as one of the candles burnt itself out, and lit the next one, allowing the smoky parafin fragrance to fill the room. It was one of her favorite scents, the way candles smelled when they burned out, but it also relaxed her. She began to pace around the room. She couldn't afford to sleep. She had to be ready when they--

A loud scream burst through the normally soundproof door. Kervinie pressed her ear against it, and reeled when a second, higher scream followed. Uncertain as to whether she should burst in, and possibly wreck the ritual, she kept her ear against the door. There was the sound of something heavy hitting the floor, and her uncertainty disappeared. There was no way the ritual would have called for toppling furniture. Grasping the door's handles, she pushed against the magic holding it in place, adding just a touch of her own force, force she shouldn't have access to, to it. The doors grumbled, but parted.

The scent of burning flesh drove her to her knees. She struggled to breathe even as she took in the scene before her. There was Peron, sprawled across the brazier on top of the altar which had fallen on one side. He was the cause of the burning flesh scent. She tried to pull him off, and succeeded only in dumping the brazier on top of him. She didn't bother cleaning it, but did get it off of him. Then, she looked for Zinoforo. Where was her Master?

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Chapter Three: Unknown Origins

Valen drove his pitchfork into the hay, then hoisted it over his shoulder. He was cleaning out the stables because tomorrow was Festival Day, which meant the city people would all be coming to Arbotha to see the prize horses of the realm. He was dreading it. He didn't mind the grime and dirt of cleaning out the stables, but he hated dealing with city people. He hefted another pitchfork of hay, and tried not to think of the next day, especially since the light was already fading. That would make it harder to clean out the rest of the stalls, and they had to be cleaned before tomorrow. They couldn't show the prize horses in their usual muck, of course. Not the Royal horses, oh no.
Valen grimaced to himself as he finished tossing the last of the old hay from the stall he was working on. It was bad enough that they treated him like some kind of useless inferior, but it was far worse what they did with the horses. You'd think that with the respect and honor they gave to the horses that they'd know better how to treat them. But no, they just offered apples, and if they bought one, would treat it just like any dumb brute, not understanding the magnificent creature they'd bought. And they always bought the showiest ones, so Master Leonon always made sure to groom the ones that were of lesser quality the best. The best horses always managed to stay in Arbotha, besides the ones sent to the King of course. Or Queen now, he supposed. She hadn't requested any horses yet, but it was sure she would. Would she, unlike the King, actually try to pick out her own horses? He almost hoped she would; like the foolish nobles coming from the city, she'd probably pick the worst of the batch. At the same time, he'd always admired the old King for understanding that they who worked with the horses would know the ones of the best quality. And of course, he always paid handsomely. Not that he needed to: being advertised as the only source of Royal Horses was an incredible boost for Arbotha's trade.
The Queen, though, was a different creature. Most likely, being a woman, she'd get her sights on some beauty of a horse and ignore its other qualities. Then, she'd demand excessive grooming and other unnecessary services to make the horse look even better. Women just did not have the temperament to deal with horses. Their emotions were too volatile, and their interests too petty. Not that the whole Festival itself wasn't petty. It was just stupid: freshen the stables, groom the least valuable horses to make them into the most valuable looking, and then spend all day praising the horses in verses even poets would find too flowery. It was all just a big show with no substance.
In fact, he could say that about his whole life. He didn't even know who he was. Named Valen by Kele, the woman who'd found him and later raised him, known as Valen Nenotz, and spending all his time in the stables, Valen had no real fixed identity. Sometimes, he felt more like one of the horses he worked with than a man. He'd grown up without parents, though he suspected that the Arbotha House knew something of his origins. He was sure Kele didn't. He'd questioned her so many times, he was sure she couldn't have hid it from him. But there were times when the Master and Mistress of Arbotha exchanged glances in his presence, and he suspected they knew more than they had told. It didn't really matter, though: no one was going to acknowledge him at this late date. He was Nenotz, the unnamed, the bastard. But tomorrow, he'd be Valen Nenotz, the horse showman.