This is my first proper attempt at a book so please no harsh, unconstructive comments.
Longer Summary: Çraycia - the heart of the island of Thaliohn, the largest island of Rockfell. The Qausiëns are closing in and the treacherous Arireron holds the dice. The wild cards, Kaalelia and Oleriën, cannot escape the war for long. The inexperienced Çraycian Quín Lía must hold onto the Crown. It is said, in the book of Shala, that when the six remaining islands of Rockfell unite, the seventh will rise and the eighth shall fall; what's lost will be found and the Crown will move once more. Yet it seems the Crown has deadlier plans. In this tale of Witches and Dragons, Horses and Swords, secrets from the past will be relived and tormented minds speak their peace. It combines mystery and intrigue with romance and war. It explores a different kind of familial relationships and delves in to the world of the prestigious and the poor and reveals their similarities and their differences. In this first instalment of the Atop the Throne trilogy it would be advisable to stay alert, keep your sword in hand and never, ever take your eye of the Crown.
In this tale of Witches and Dragons, Horses and Swords, secrets from the past will be relived and tormented minds speak their peace. It combines mystery and intrigue with romance and war. It explores a different kind of familial relationships and delves in to the world of the prestigious and the poor and reveals their similarities and their differences.
In this first instalment of the Atop the Throne trilogy it would be advisable to stay alert, keep your sword in hand and never, ever take your eye of the Crown.
We are all murderers. Every time we step outside of our homes', our shelters', we squash the lifeblood from a creature of microscopic proportions. They mean nothing to us.; too small to count as lives worth living. In the days before even the simplest of weapons - before we'd even learned to throw a stone - we must have been fruitarians. Yet, it seems we are now the very monsters we used to hunt. The monsters we used to call monsters. We kill to stop ourselves being killed when, for the majority of the time, those whom we kill were of no intimidation to us. We kill in cold blood just to feel superior above those who refuse to. We start wars to end wars yet this is not what we achieve. We achieve only to worsen the war to a level of inhuman violence that spreads like a plague across the world, and inside our hearts, until we believe it is right to kill. A poet of ancient Loaa once attempted to express his distain at the way war seems to be played as if a game.
Lo roi vourer pa morer pao,
Lo roi vourer pa tomir pao,
As ile subre reger avom soa l'ilho,
Ae cacher derras iles toud.
His words were established in the minds of every Mortal, Perpetual and creature ever to bear the Loaan designation. Yet it seems not a one had listened. Not a one had heeded the words of caution and regret that filled the words of the lost poet. He himself was once a fighter. However, he had realised the truth behind the wars and made his choice to stop - a choice that, it is believed, took his life from him in the cruellest of way - execution by way of sea. This entailed being chained around the ankles and wrists with a leaden weight attached to both of your feet. You were then unforgivably thrown in to the callous cerulean depths to struggle until you took your final death-filled breath. It's ironic, to take that concluding inhalation only for it to be the thing that ends you - the sardonicism of which adds to the pain. Humiliation, derision and trepidation are just a select few of the emotions that bounce off of the walls of your cranium as you prepare yourself for that last glimpse of briny light. The last thing you see before your heart closes whilst the eyes stay open. A traditional Loaan custom was to burn the dead before burying or scattering their ashes. They did not, however, close the eyes. Though many find it respectful toward the passed to close their eyes, the Loaans believed it to be quite the opposite. To deny the dead their last look at the life they have left is inhumane. They believe that they should be allowed to choose their last sight not have it stolen from them as their eyes were shut by someone they used to call friend. This tradition however was a paradox within itself. The men of war were respectful only to their own, to those fallen on their side. Only those loyal to them would have their eyes closed. The unfortunate souls who had perished from across the line would have their eyes harshly shut to the world they were no longer a part of.
It seems men of war have an insatiable desire to see the blood of those who oppose them spilled on every field in the land. Yet when faced with the question 'how would you like it', they freeze. They are unable to answer such a catechism because they know that in their final moments their hearts would be flooded with fear, not courage or hope or redemption but fear and regret. They will know and recognise the very emotions that they have caused their victims to feel, the very pain they have inflicted. And they will scream.
They will scream their throats dry. They will wail their wounds clean. They will cry their sorry little hearts out. But why should we cry for them? Did they cry for our wounded? Did they cry for those whose airless throats lay solemn and silent? Did they cry for each of their own men wounded?
Then again, an effeminate mind is supposedly feeble compared to that of a man - in these times especially.
My name is Lía. What follows my tirade is what I discovered of war, what I imagined of life, and how it all was washed away in an ocean of blood. Though my prior harangue may seem irrelevant and immaterial I assure you though the meaning of it may not seem clear at first, my diatribe has meanings many. It will become evident soon, of that I am definite.
I implore you to read on to discover just what reasoning I had to form this tirade against war. Though now my sympathy lies in different quarters. As an effeminate being, murderous men are vermin to my eye. Though again, my eye sees different views now. I am confusing myself as much as I am you, I assume. If you wish to clear your befuddled mind, the following tale of war and death, feminism and strength, should aid you well - a remedy for muddled minds. It may muddle you more in places and in others leave you with unanswerable questions, but by the end you will have more peace than torment.
This is the story of life atop the throne.
Lo roi vourer pa morer pao, (Low roy voo-rare pa more-air pow)
Lo roi vourer pa tomir pao, (Low roy voo-rare pa tom-eer pow)
As ile subre reger avom soa l'ilho, (Ah ill soo-bray rey-jair av-om so-ah lee-lo)
Ae cacher derras iles toud. (Ay chakair day-ras ee-ul too)