THE BLACKMOON CYCLE

Book One

THE OBLIVION KING

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PROLOGUE
The streets of Aarden were turning to mud. The rain had not stopped for two days, and was now pelting its way well into the third. Thousands of droplets splashed onto roofs, earth, and the heads of those brave few who dared to venture out of doors. Most townsfolk were disgusted by the downpour, loath to be trapped inside their homes. Young men and old men alike muttered curses under their breath when the wood box was finally empty and they were forced to partake of nature's soaking wrath as they fetched more logs. The clouds, however, had no ears for their bitter murmurs. The entire city found itself continuously deafened by the rain's dull roar. For a particular group of huddled-together citizens, this fact found itself being praised as a blessing. A house, nestled deep within the city's lower district, appeared the same as any other residence. A small yard, surrounded by a fence built with wooden poles, encased it on the left side and to the back. More houses stood uncomfortably close on every side and corner, keeping with the cramped style of most lower district blocks. Only the front entrance was left unblocked, opening into a street that was slowly turning into a river. The walls were rough-hewn masonry of an average quality; its roof was roughly shingled; a small, ancient wood shed slumped in the far corner of the yard; and a short, crooked stonebrick chimney leaked smoke into the chilled, damp air. The shutters were closed, presumably to block the wind and raindrops from leaking their way through the cracked windows. To any eye on the outside, nothing unusual was afoot. But past the dwelling's heavy oaken door, in a simply furnished room lit by firelight, was an event most unusual indeed. The curtains to every window were drawn, as much against the sound from within as the weather from without. A group of ten children sat on the floor in a tightly knit half-circle near the fireplace. Their faces showed ages ranging from under ten through the teens, and every one of them was fixed in the same direction, all displaying the same look of rapt attention. A few women - presumably mothers - sat in chairs behind them, likewise facing the same way. The subject of all their gazes was a man, in his middle ages by the looks of him, sitting in a wooden chair by the fire. This was Burren, owner of the home, esteemed citizen of Aarden... and one of the few people in the kingdom willing to relate the Old Histories. The firelight flickered across his face and cast shadows into the wrinkles of his face as he spoke, making him look older than his years. His eyes, however, used the dancing light to just the opposite effect, reflecting its radiance and sparkle and adding it to the glow that already burned within them when he spoke. The children surrounding him served as both his audience and his unannounced pupils. The makeshift lessons had gone on for two days, ever since the rain began, but somehow Burren's deep, gravelly voice had lost none of its effectiveness. All the children seemed to be held in a trance, listening reverently to the words they wouldn't hear anywhere else. Something that most of you are unaware of, he said, addressing his captive audience, is that Aarden is a kingdom under new rule. Looks of slight confusion crossed the faces of all but the oldest child, sixteen-year-old Lanse. He had been six when Carab Blackfeather had taken Aarden under his wing. Though he had been young, he still remembered bits and pieces of the coronation

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ceremony, if it could rightfully be called such. It had not been an event easily forgotten, especially for a young child. He lost himself in a sudden swirl of memories, snapping back to the present only when he heard a shrill voice pipe up directly next to him. Alicia, a girl of eight, was absolutely befuddled by Burren's statement. You mean Carab the Magnificent wasn't always king of Aarden? she asked innocently. She found her surprise replaced quite suddenly by a startlement much more intense as Burren's head snapped in her direction, his gaze now cold and piercing. Don't you ever call him that again, he snarled at her through gritted teeth. Every child in the room fell silent in an instant, suddenly uneasy. Burren was a man slow to anger and quick to love. Very few, if any, of the people in the room had ever seen him even close to upset. Yet now the firelight in his eyes held no warm glow, but instead reflected off his pale blue irises as if they were polished ice. That man is not worthy of any title resembling magnificent. His gravelly voice grated against the back of his teeth, and Alicia's lip began to quiver. You know nothing! If you had any idea of the pain Carab and his black servants have inflicted, you would not... Burren. The voice cut him short, soft but commanding. Burren looked up and met the eyes of one of the women seated to the back of the room: Esmeree, Lanse's mother. Her look pierced him with a clear warning, though her face showed no anger. In her eyes was only a gentle strength, underlaid by well-hidden layers of pain. Burren realized that she had stepped in not only as a mother Alicias own mother was one of the women not present that day but as someone who understood. He looked downwards, and what few drops were left of his anger evaporated into nothing at the sight of tears brimming in Alicias eyes. Her lip was now visibly shaking, and when he looked back at her she looked at the floor, scared and ashamed. He found himself unable to react for several seconds, staring blankly at the girls shaking form. What is this, he wondered silently. What has this become? Heavens above, a little girl All she had done was ask a simple, innocent question. She had not even been alive then, he knew. Her mother had been only a girl as well, no older than eighteen years. He knelt on the floor, reached out and gently grabbed the girls chin with his thumb and forefinger and turned her face back upwards, away from the floor. He could see a few small, dark dots on the floorboards where her tears had fallen. He almost shed tears himself when he saw her trembling face. He looked around at all the other children, fearing what they now thought of their mentor. Most of them were staring at the scene open-mouthed, frozen in fear and apprehension. A few of the older children looked at the floor or another fixed point in the room, trying their best to avoid the situation. Another girl, close to Alicias age, was nearly in tears as well, and Lanses expression was blank and unreadable. He had disappointed them all, he realized. He turned back to Alicia and pulled the girl into a brief, tight hug. Im so sorry, child, he whispered to her, and then set her back. Her lip was still trembling slightly, and she did not look quite reassured, so he made a point to smile widely and sincerely, then reach out and muss her blonde tangles. That was all it took. Her smile instantly returned, and a small giggle escaped her lips. The power of innocence and trust never ceased to astound Burren, and it pained him that those qualities would not last long in the world these boys and girls would be forced to grow up in; nonetheless, he maintained his smile, shunting those thoughts to the side. Let them stay that way for this precious while. He looked around the room again, and this time he found far fewer

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frightened faces. They were all carefully looking at him now, measuring him, wondering what was to come next. Lanses face remained expressionless. Burren let his smile dim, but only enough to show them that he was serious before he made his apology. He looked around at each and every one of them in turn as he began to speak again. I am sorry, he stated simply, to all of you. Knowing that would not be quite enough, he continued. No man should behave this way, especially at my wise age, and especially not to children. His guilt was evident in his voice, and he was almost too ashamed for a moment to keep looking at their expectant faces. He had to show them strength, though. He had to continue to be an example. I have showed you today an example of what is far from noble. You will see many such acts in your lives, so take these things as I hope you will take my folly just now: as a lesson. Learn from these actions what not to do. A few of the children nodded thoughtfully as he continued. Take this also as evidence that no one is perfect. Not me, not you. Not even your mothers, he added with a wide smirk, much may it dismay them to hear it! The children burst into giggles as he turned and winked in the womens direction. Esmeree smiled and shook her head, ever amazed at the power of the old mans words and charisma. He always had some sort of wisdom to turn your way, and even in the darkest of times his smile and humor were infectious to everyone. The children were no exception, and when he turned back to look at them he saw no more fear or mistrust, only grins and shining eyes. Even Lanse let an obvious smirk creep out the side of his mouth and across his left cheek. Burren was astounded yet again. How the weight of his actions and his words seemed to just melt off of them! He knew he would have to change the approach of his storytelling from this point onward. The subject matter he was about to relate could take on a very dark tint if he wasnt careful, and even when told carefully it was information that would permanently change their perceptions of the world around them. It had only been ten years, and already Carab Blackfeathers endless stream of propaganda and rhetoric had thoroughly soaked into the new generation. In that single decade, the man had erased or changed nearly all of the Aarden that Burren, Esmeree, and any other living adult had grown up knowing, leaving little but a barely recognizable echo bouncing off the walls of newly built prisons and workhouses. All recounts of the times before Carabs reign had been omitted from the educational curriculums, and all written accounts had been painstakingly gathered up and placed in a hidden library somewhere deep in the bowels of the Aardfort, the massive fortress castle that served as Aardens capital seat. This collective knowledge had been dubbed the Old Histories. Carab had prohibited the people of Aarden from repeating what they knew of it, under penalty of severe punishment. Burren was a renowned figure among the commonfolk of lower Aarden, and he heard a great many things through the proverbial grapevine. He had never in these last ten years heard of anyone being seen again after being sentenced to this severe punishment. It was an enormous risk he was taking, re-telling the old histories. Not just for him, but for the families of the children he was teaching. Yet he and their parents had all agreed that the knowledge of the Old Histories knowledge that, at some period in time, there had been a better world, and might be again needed to survive. They had each lost something when old Aarden fell, and for all of them, keeping the memories of brighter days alive was essential. Even more essential was giving a sense of hope to their children, knowing that some small glimmer of the world they knew would survive

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inside of them, keeping their faith at least somewhat alive in the face of the ever-growing darkness in which they were immersed. Thus Burren sat, in defiance of punishment, or death, or whatever the Blackfeather deigned to call it, readying himself to teach the children the most forbidden piece of the Old Histories, the piece that would act as fuel for their dreams for years to come. He would tell them of the true king. Deciding at this point that it would be better to establish a further measure of closeness with his young audience, he refrained from moving back to his chair by the fire and instead remained seated on the floor. A good many of them scooted closer, tightening the circle as he began to speak again. Something you all have to understand, he said, trying to put this to them as gently as he could, is that Carab Blackfeather is not the man he pretends to be. Several small gasps escaped from his audience. This was less in response to his statement as it was in response to his use of the term Blackfeather. Commonfolk were forbidden to call him by the title of Blackfeather, and were instead forced to refer to him as Carab the Magnificent. Only his high courtiers and personal council were permitted to call him by his true title. So hes not really the king, then? Alicia asked, this time more cautiously. No, child, Burren replied gently, his voice and his smile revealing a sadness beneath. You must never repeat the words I am about to speak, he cautioned, pointing his finger towards all of the children in turn, none of you. This house is the only place where you may talk of these things, and even then, it must only be on lesson days. The Blackfeather has ears everywhere in Aarden, and they will not hesitate even for a minute to report breakers of laws. Kings were not often poor men, and the man who called himself Aardens king was no exception. Spies were cheap enough to acquire for a man of such means, but the eyes, ears and mouths of the desperate could be bought for cheaper still, and there were many in the kingdom who currently found themselves in a state of great want. Awful things would be in store for all of us, Burren cautioned, if he heard that you had learned the Old Histories. There is a reason everyone fears Carabs laws, and we should be no exception simply because we hold knowledge that few others hold. Knowledge gives us power, but it is a very different sort of power than any other; it can shield our minds and our hearts, but I am afraid it can do nothing to protect our bodies.