From The Watcher's War

An excerpt, from my first book. Enjoy. :-)

Night crawled across the grounds as Ragal made his way up the path from the stables. Darkness came early here, drawn in by the denseness of the trees which grew closer to the house each year, reaching out grasping branches in hopes of someday overtaking its walls.

The door opened instantly to his knock. The girl before him was pale and thin, like a child only recently recovered from a lingering illness. She was unfamiliar to him, but then so many servants came and went, in this house. The Master never had been able to keep maids. This one dropped a deep curtsy, her skirts brushing the floor, her head lowered so far that her stringy hair hid her face.

“My Lord awaits you.” The girl's voice was soft, her eyes properly downcast behind the veil of hair. Ragal dismissed her with a gesture as he pushed forward, needing no guide here, of all places.

Inside, Ragal’s steps echoed in the stone halls. The great house was even quieter than it had been in his youth. But of course the tutors, linguists and sword masters would have been sent away long ago, and that wouldn't have left much.

Turning the corner at the end of a long hall, Ragal stopped before a heavy wooden door. He stood contemplating it for a moment, angrily ordering his heart to slow, his breathing to deepen. Would he never cease feeling like a child in this house?

Ragal reached for the door latch, but his fingertips had just brushed the cold metal when it opened of its own accord. He was expected. Taking one last breath, Ragal stepped into the room.

“Welcome, my son. It is some time since I have had the pleasure of your company here.” The voice spoke from the dimness of a room which has not yet been lighted against the dark. Ragal felt a presence behind him and the door closed softly. The candles would be burning soon.

“The honor is mine, my Lord.” Ragal bowed respectfully, his face holding no betraying emotion. Thus he had been taught; he had learned well.

The room slowly lightened, the few rich furnishings coming out of the dimness to take their old places. Nothing had changed. Nothing ever changed here; nothing ever would.

“You appear well, my son. Traveling the country agrees with you.” The Master spoke slowly, his voice low; flat and deep as a black pond on a still day.

Ragal only inclined his head in response, waiting for the Master to direct the conversation. He wouldn’t step into the snare of silence which was being so carefully woven for him. The flickering candlelight wavered as the door behind Ragal opened and closed again. They were alone.

The man who called him “son” was seated in a high-backed chair, a small table at his elbow containing a single dinner setting. At Ragal's side was an empty chair which he had not been invited to use. It was like the Master to leave him standing, alone, in the middle of the room.

“And how are your men?”

The Master had little concern for the men, but Ragal knew the game and played along.

“Well, my Lord. And yours?”

“Few enough of them left.” There it was again. The silence. Ragal waited for the Master's next move.

“You have had trouble with your princess again.” It was a statement, not a question.

Ragal declined to respond. The Master knew of the escape, else he wouldn't have been summoned. The Master always knew. It was why he was the Master.

“I hear many things. Many things. Some of which are not to be believed. Perhaps you should tell me who is to blame for this...mishap.” The Master's tone was disinterested, as if he were inquiring about a child's quarrel.

Ragal spoke slowly, weighing each word before allowing it to pass his lips. This must go well, else all was lost. For him, at least.

“It is believed, my Lord, that the fault of this...mishap...lies with Sheld, former leader of the Watchers.” Ragal paused, waiting for the Master to speak. Answering more than was asked was a fatal flaw, like dropping your guard in the middle of a fencing match.

The Master raised one eyebrow imperceptively.

“Sheld? Your hand-picked lieutenant? Whom you trained personally?”

Ragal shifted slightly, transferring his weight to his left foot. Raising his eyes to those of the Master, lest his words admit unaccepted guilt, Ragal answered firmly.

“Yes, my Lord. This same Sheld.”

The silence following this statement was uncomfortably long. When he spoke again, the Master's voice was colder, even, than usual.

“Perhaps you had best explain, Ragal, how you could make such a grievous character misjudgment. And how this treason was allowed to fester under your personal watch.”

“You've missed your strike again, boy.” “Never allow your enemy to even think without your knowledge.” “Never, never permit your opponent to know your next move. You mustn't betray your plans, boy.” The voices echoed in Ragal’s mind; old, dry voices from his childhood. Voices he had heard his entire life.

But never had this much been at stake. And he was no longer a child; he was a man. Chosen son of the Master, second to none but the King.

Yet here, standing before the Master, Ragal felt himself that child again, inept and worthless. Silently swearing at his own weakness, Ragal banished his feelings and willed himself into focus. He knew what he had to say, what he had to do. It would be his only chance.

Copyright, 2009 by Tesi, the Barefoot author