CHAPTER ONE REVEAL!

     Every Tuesday until The Sun God's Heir goes on promotion January 18th, I will post a new chapter.  The book will officially launch and go on free promotion for five days beginning Wed. January, 18th. If you want to get a jump on reading it, it will, however, be available on Amazon Janurary 4th in eBook format for $.99, and in paperback for $16.99 at The Riverrun Book store in Portsmouth, NH

Elliott

Elliott Baker, Author of The Sun God's Heir: Return

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                          CHAPTER ONE 
                                                            1668, Bordeaux, France

THREE MEN bled out into the dirt.
     René stared at the hand that held the bloody rapier. His hand. Tremors shuddered through his body and down his arm. Droplets of blood sprayed the air and joined the carmine puddles that seeped into the sun-baked earth. He closed his eyes and commanded the muscles that grasped the rapier to release their tension and allow the sword to drop.
     Years of daily practice and pain refused his mind’s order much as they had refused to spare the lives of three men. The heady exultation that filled him during the seconds of the fight drained away and left him empty, a vessel devoid of meaning. He staggered toward an old oak and leaned against its rough bark. Bent over, with one hand braced on the tree, he retched. And again. Still, the sword remained in his hand.
     A cloud shuttered the sun. Distant thunder brushed his awareness and then faded. Rain. The mundane thought coasted through his mind. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve and glanced down hoping to see a different tableau. No, death remained death, the only movement, that of flies attracted to a new ocean of sustenance.
     The summer heat lifted the acrid blood-rust smell and forced him to turn his head away. Before him stretched a different world from the one in which he had awakened. No compass points. No maps. No tomorrow.
   The Maestro.
     The mere thought of his fencing master filled him with both reassurance and dread. René slid the rapier into the one place his training permitted, its scabbard. He walked over to where the huge black stallion stamped his impatience, and pulled himself into the saddle.
      Some impulse caused him to turn his head one last time. The sunlight that surrounded the men flickered like a candle in the wind, and the air was filled with a loud buzzing sound. Although still posed in identical postures of death, three different men now stared sightless.
     Their skin was darker than the leather tanned sailors. Each wore a short linen kilt of some kind that left their upper bodies naked. As strange as the men appeared, their weapons were what drew René’s eye. The swords were archaic; sickle shaped and appeared to be forged of bronze. These men wore different faces and yet their eyes—somehow he knew they were the same sailors he had just killed. René blinked and there before him the original three men lay unmoved. Dead.
For an instant his mind balked, darkness encircled the edges of his vision.
    Do not anticipate meaning. The Maestro’s voice echoed in his head. Meaning may be ignored, but it cannot be hurried.
    The darkness receded, and he reined the stallion’s head toward home.
                                                                          ***

     René approached the linden shaded lane to the château. The stately trees, their clasped hands steepled over the gravel drive, had always welcomed him. Now they were just a faded backdrop that moved past the corners of his eyes. Could it have been only hours ago that the anniversary of his sixteenth year had presented itself like a gaily wrapped gift waiting for his excited appreciation? The day had dawned as grand as any he had yet experienced, and he had awakened early, eager for the morning’s light.
     “Henri,” he yelled, as he charged down the marble staircase and into the dining room. Breakfast was set and steaming on the polished mahogany table. Burnished silver platters and cream colored porcelain bowls held a variety of eggs, sausages, fruits, and breads. How Henri always seemed to anticipate his entry amazed René.
     “Oui, Master René.” Serene as always, the middle-aged major domo entered the dining room. Henri walked over to the table and poured a cup of tea for René. “ S’il vous plaît, be seated, sir.”
     “I cannot. Maybe a roll and a link of sausage. Henri, do you know what today is?”
Henri paused as if deep in thought. “Thursday. Oui, I am quite sure ’tis Thursday.”
René took a still sizzling sausage from a tray and did his best to fold it within a baguette. “Non, ’tis my birth date,” he managed around a mouthful of sausage and roll.
     “Which one is that, sir?”
     “How do you not know? You were there.”
     “Well, I remember ’twas after the end of the war. Let me see. The war was over in…”
     “Very droll, Henri. Your memory works fine, ’tis your humor that leaves room for improvement. Today is... so... I cannot explain, it feels like anything is possible today.”
“Given that there is still plenty of day left, perhaps you might sit down and eat. I expect you will need all your strength for a day so filled with possibility.”
     “I cannot be late.” René gulped his tea and shoved the rest of the roll and sausage into his mouth.
     “Happy anniversary, Master René.”
     “Merci Henri.” René checked his appearance in one of the grand foyer mirrors, and then strode toward the courtyard. The time had come to present himself to the Maestro.
     René vibrated with excitement. He paused just inside the entrance to the training area. This was no way to face the Maestro. He sucked in a deep breath, exhaled, and reached for that quiet center. The torrent of chaotic thought stilled and that unique calm of intense focus settled around him. His friends Marc and Anatole sported their weapons in public. René had yet to earn that privilege. Disarming the Maestro was the only way, and since that possibility seemed as remote as the ability to fly, it generated a great deal of frustration.
     Today, however, might be the day.
     He approached the master and bowed, already deep within that inner awareness that catalogued and recorded the location of each element that made up the courtyard. He saw this space with every sense. He knew the groundskeeper had removed marigolds that had overgrown their bed, and that a chair had been added to the small table in its customary place against the lichen streaked courtyard wall.
     René focused on the Maestro’s eyes. A slight man with pale hair, his face could have been struck from marble for all the information it conveyed. The Maestro bowed in return.
     “Begin,” said the master.
René walked to the stack of bricks in the northwest corner of the courtyard. The sound of birdsong faded, along with the warmth of the sun on his neck, the crunch of the dirt beneath his feet, and the breeze on his face. Paradoxically, while his attention narrowed to the bricks in front of him, it expanded to every movement within the courtyard.
     The practice area was fifty paces by fifty paces, with one wall a scarred reminder of the Thirty Years War. Slicing the square into two triangular shapes was a well-worn path that measured a little over seventy feet and led from one corner to its opposite. René lifted the first two of two hundred and forty-one bricks, one in each hand, keeping his wrists straight with the palms down and his arms rigid in front of him. He walked across the courtyard and placed the bricks on the ground, then turned and walked back for two more bricks. Two hundred and forty-one bricks, always one left over like the condemned’s reprise that never arrived.
     The number of times he needed to move the bricks from one side of the courtyard to the other was never fixed, however, it rarely stopped at one. Three moves, sometimes four or five would constitute the day’s beginning. At first, the torturous exercise had left five-year-old René in tears and incapable of lifting his arms, let alone a brick. This day, as René replaced the last brick in its original location, the Maestro spoke.
     “Do you wish to spar with me?”
     And René answered with the only answer, “Oui, Maestro.”
     “Choose your weapon.”
     René settled deeper into that trance-like state where he was able to respond to external conditions much faster than he could think. He selected a rapier from a table of various edged weapons, each one’s deadly mirror bright angles reflected blue in the morning light.
     “En garde,” said the Maestro, as he flowed into position.
     The sparring proceeded evenly, thrust and parry, until René exhibited weakness on his left side—just a touch, a whisper of indecision. The Maestro had a preternatural sense of the feint and was rarely fooled. Although René had long since become comfortable and deadly with either hand, this morning’s strategy required the weapon be held in his left.
     A deep breath here, a slight pause there. He must be subtle beyond the movement of a butterfly’s wing, for he faced the Maestro.
     Rasp.
     The blades slid off each other. René moved to the left, opening his defense for a brief second. As the expected thrust came through, he circled his blade toward the hilt of the Maestro’s and pulled down with all his strength.
     Silence.
      They both stared at the impossible, the Maestro’s blade in the dirt. It was as if a deadly snake had sprouted there.
     The Maestro favored René with a rare smile.
     “You may now arm yourself.” And with that, he leaned down, picked up his sword—checked to see that René remained en garde—smiled again, and walked from the courtyard.
René whooped and danced, exhilarated by the victory. To lift into the air like a bird no longer resided within the realm of the impossible.
      He swaggered from the courtyard, rounded the corner, and ran into his father’s study. Perched on the edge of his father’s large mahogany desk, René adjusted his newly attached sword to be sure it was visible. “Bon jour, father.”
     Armand Gilbert looked up from his ledgers and his face came as close to a smile as it ever did.            “Bon jour, to you, as well.”
René shifted a little, banging the sword against the desk.
     “What are your plans for today?” His father’s gaze returned to the ledger.
      Focused on the accounts before him, he failed to comment on his son’s recent change in status. René stood and walked across the front of the desk. “No plans. Probably ride over to Martin’s.”
     “Perhaps you might run an errand for me first. The Belle Poulé has finished her refit and is preparing to depart. Can you carry a payment to the victualer for me? This year’s early grape harvest has left us a bit shorthanded.”
     “Happy to. And you no longer need be concerned for the safety of your money.” René turned again and brandished the lethal addition to his attire.
     “We live in dangerous times, but it adds little to be overly concerned.” Armand glanced up, his expression once again approached a smile.
      Unable to wait any longer, René placed his hand on the sword hilt. “Do I not look a little different today?”
     “Today? Your birth date. I am sorry I have been so busy, what with the Poulé’s departure and all. I am sure Marie will make something festive for tonight’s dinner and we will celebrate then.”
     “Non, not that, this.” René struck a martial pose, his hand on the sword at his hip. “My sword. I am wearing my sword. I disarmed the Maestro.
     “So I see. Well done.”
     For René, those two words spoke volumes from a man who was as spare with praise as the Maestro. “Oui, I am happy to carry the payment into town for you.”
     “Merci.” Armand reached into his desk drawer and withdrew a leather sack heavy with silver.
      “Here. Make sure you get a receipt.”
     “I will.” René grabbed the sack with an outward show of nonchalance, and headed for the door.
     “René.”
      He turned to face his father.
     “Happy anniversary.” A broad smile spread across Armand’s face.
     “Merci, Papa”
                                                                            ***

     René decided to stop for a glass of beer at the Boar’s Head to show off his new status. The tavern’s location along the road from the port into Bordeaux caused it to be a favorite haunt for the young men of the town as well as sailors on leave. A few minutes more would make no difference to the Poulé’s scheduled departure. René strode in to the dimly lit tavern and exhaled the breath that had kept his chest expanded. The room was near empty, with three men seated around a lone table in the corner. No one he knew. He walked up to the counter and ordered a “small beer,” more barley water than alcohol. The weight of his sword thumped against his hip. With this symbol, others would view him as an adult. He was sure that he had grown taller between yesterday and today.
      The tavern keeper nodded in recognition “Where away, lad? You are excited about something.”
     “I am on a business errand for my father.” He patted the money pouch. “As for being excited, ’tis my birth date today and a good day to be alive.”
     “Oui, ’tis. Well then, a happy day to you.” The tavern keeper moved to one of the tables to retrieve empty tankards.
     The three at the corner table rose and sauntered over to René.
     “Here is a likely specimen of a young man,” the tallest of the three spit out through rotted teeth. A scar that ran from the corner of his right eye to the bottom of his jaw flexed an angry red with each word. He stopped, his face inches from René’s. “How about you buy us a drink? A wealthy gentleman like yourself throwing a little charity our way.”
The other two laughed. All three carried cutlasses. René studied the three men. Having spent eight months at sea when he was eleven, and another seven months at fourteen, he recognized sailors by the way they stood. Seaman just into port exercised care when moving about, for it was the land that challenged long accustomed sea legs. Although he was not concerned, the Maestro had taught him to use his head in any threatening situation.
      Always take the line of least resistance. Never let useless emotions cloud your judgment.
      “Twould be my pleasure to buy three fine sailors a drink.” René motioned to the tavern keeper and tossed coins on the counter. “Set these men up with whatever they choose.
      “Gentlemen.” René nodded to the ragged sailors, took a final swallow of his beer, and headed for the door.
     The three men followed René into the street.
     Again, the man with the scar spoke. “We will be taking the money you carry.”
     They drew their cutlasses and held them with the casual ease of long familiarity. Although the weapons were nicked, they were otherwise in reasonable repair. These men were veterans. A dead calm, much like the center of a storm settled over René. He radiated threat. The men took a step back.
     “He is just a damn boy.” The scarred man brandished his sword. “Stop wasting time and give us   the coin, or you will be a head shorter before this day gets any longer.”
      “I cannot give you this money.” René’s voice was quiet, the words spoken without emotion.
      “Then you are a stupid, dead child.” The scarred man attacked, flanked by the other two.
René leaned back and allowed the first blade to sing past his chest. Almost faster than the eye could follow, he had drawn his sword. He stepped into the scar-faced man. With an elbow strike to the chin, he dropped the man to the ground like a rag doll released from a child’s hand. He continued the turn, drew his blade across the second sailor’s throat, and with a swift change of line he parried a thrust from the third. Frantic, the man tried a slashing overhand cut, which René pushed up and to the side.       Then a quick thrust beneath the heart.
    Three inches is all you need.
    The scarred man rose and shook his head, his face a mask of blood-red rage. He lunged forward.         René parried the thrust, and then riposted through his adversary’s neck. The attacker’s face wore a look of incredulity as a fountain of blood sprayed in rhythmic surges from his severed jugular vein.
He dropped to the ground a second time, choking as he expired. The fight had taken only seconds. Released from the eye of the battle’s storm, René’s every sense vibrated with the supreme joy of victory, of survival, of life. He had defeated three grown men. He was invincible. Then he looked down.
     Three men were dead. He had killed three men.
                                                                            ***

     The next morning dawned with no hint of change. The quality of light that shone through the mullioned glass windows was no different. The sounds and smells of the awakening château were familiar, but carried no comfort. The courtyard looked the same, but each sound, each smell, each stone’s meaning had changed.
      Although the incident was quietly taken care of, it could never be undone. Even if it had been grist for Bordeaux’s gossip mill, no one would have blamed René for defending himself. No one but him. He could have disabled the three men and yet he had not. Within the fight’s brief duration he had experienced an exhilaration facing real danger and a strange kind of joy in his power to defeat it. The Maestro never hesitated to wound him and had done so many times over the years, but in his heart, René was convinced he would never die at the hand of the master.
     There was no pretending the three men’s deaths were accidental, that perhaps he had reacted before the arrival of awareness.
     To deny truth is to uninvite it. The more unwelcome, the less it appears, until you are left in perpetual darkness.
     Some part of him had known the inevitable outcome of his actions. Against his level of skill, the fight was not self-defense, it was murder. He had murdered three men and that fact made him sick.
René had avoided the Maestro when he returned to the château. He needed time to gather the courage to face the master. His father had told him what he wanted to hear; that his actions were necessary. But the untruth only served to solidify his guilt.
     He moved into that level of calm attention, which was the essence of the fencer’s art, and walked into the courtyard. He approached the Maestro and, as usual, bowed before him never releasing his focus on the man’s eyes.
     “I think we will have a cup of tea this morning.” The master gestured toward the small table set against the stone wall.
     René stopped, confused. He had never been invited to join the Maestro for tea before and had never expected to be.
     The unorthodox is the application of creative strategy and is usually necessary for victory.
There was irony in hearing the echo of one of the Maestro’s previous lessons while facing him. René settled deeper into that level of trance that comprised battle calm and focus. If this was to be a chess match of will, so be it. He sat and then accepted the cup of tea from his teacher. He waited. The Maestro would move the first piece.
     The Maestro smiled, an expression he rarely wore. “I am aware that you experienced some difficulties yesterday.”
      “I murdered three men.”
      “Oui, you did.”
      René had not expected the Maestro to coat the truth, but the three word confirmation shook him. The silence between them lengthened. René drew his sword from its scabbard and placed it on the table, hilt toward the Maestro. “I am grateful to you for teaching me, but I will never kill another man.” René scraped his chair back.
     “S’il vous plaît, keep me company a bit longer.” The Maestro gestured at René’s chair.
The Maestro had never used the word ‘please,’ and the command was of such proportions that René could not have stood had wild horses pulled him from the chair.
     “Your skill is a weapon that should never be used with casual intent,” said the Maestro. “Did you employ it with contempt?”
     “Non, master.”
     “Did you employ it for personal gain?”
     “Non, master.”
     “What emotions are you experiencing?
     “Disgust, sadness, anger.”
     “As I have taught you, all are cousins of fear and fear is useful only as the perception of danger, useful in the moment only. Useless in the past or the future. Is perception by its nature limited?”
    “Oui.”
    “Then you do not, cannot, have the entire picture. Destiny and free will are the paradox that confronts our every step. I have taught you to forgo judgment on yourself, for it is often inaccurate.”
    “I cannot change the way I feel. My desire is to bind wounds, not create them. With a sword in my hand, the outcome can only be death and more death. I will never pick up a sword again.”

     “René, the universe smiles when it hears the word never. Like all of us, you have a destiny for this lifetime. Although, with our limited awareness, it is difficult to understand, destiny is never involuntary. You have chosen this path, and it will bring to you what you need. There are many roads to awareness. Some are rougher and more painful than others, but all lead to our chosen destinations. I wish you well.” The Maestro stood, bowed, and walked from the courtyard.





Stay tuned! Chapter 2 will be released next week!