So I managed to round up 200 followers on BlueSky, so to celebrate I wanted to post Chapter 1 of the book!

I am planning to do this for every 100 followers up to 1000, so up to chapter 10 (Very nearly 1/4 of the book!), as an extended preview. Depending on how things go, I might just say forget it and self publish the rest, but I am still hoping to land a traditional publisher somewhere in the middle of this process.

Anyway, here’s chapter 1, enjoy!

~~~

1 – Roderika 

Roderika, First Daughter of the Tower City, was literally running late. 

She rounded a corner, nearly bowling over a serving woman and only able to call out a strangled “Sorry! Sorry!” Before continuing on her mad dash.

Today’s reception had been months in the making, over a century if you counted just getting to the point where it was even possible. Her father had made it very clear that she needed to be present, and if the bell tolling the hour out in the courtyard blurring past was any indicator, she was about an hour behind when it was supposed to start and just on time for her own funeral. 

Not helping things was the damned dress she’d also been told was very important she wear. She thought it was overly modest; dark grey with a lack of meaningful embroidery, a high neck tickling at her chin, and a not particularly form fitting cut that she couldn’t help but fill out anyway. But, more to the current point, the blasted skirt was barely cut for walking in much less running. She had it hiked up in both hands and was praying to some forgotten God of laundresses that the wrinkles wouldn’t be too obvious. 

She finally came to the last stretch of hallway before her goal and slowed down. She smoothed out her dress as best she could and focused on breathing slowly. She jammed herself between a group of serving men and women queued up ahead of her and desperately hoped no one noticed her entering the room. 

The reception hall was one of the more grandiose in the Sovereign’s Palace. She entered through a door behind a pair of tall backed thrones overlooking the rest of the room atop a cascading flight of stairs. The floor, walls, and high vaulted ceiling were all white-viened black marble, with white marble columns running the length of the room. Silver banners and drapery hung everywhere, the largest pieces embroidered with silhouettes of a dragon in flight, wings outstretched. 

“You’re late.” Her father’s voice rang out as soon as she crossed the threshold. There was no heat in his words, just a rueful amusement. “But, as our guests have yet to arrive, that seems to be in fashion at the moment.”

She walked around to the other side of her father’s chair, desperately fighting against the embarrassed heat rising in her cheeks. “Apologies Father. Practice ran late and when I realized the time, it was either be late and smell like a muster yard, or bathe and be later.”

Rodgier, Second of His Name, Dragon’s Chosen, Sovereign Justicier, Lord of the Tower City, did not look like the kind of man to hold so many lofty titles. He looked more like a man you’d find pulling a pint behind a bar. Tall, lean, and broad shouldered, he had wavy auburn hair down to just above his shoulders and a thick beard speckled with grey around his square jaw. His eyes were deep emerald green with the seeds of laughter hidden behind flecks of gold. He sat with his elbow on the arm of his chair, having rested his cheek on his fist if the red streaks peeking up over his beard were anything to go by. 

“And instead you split the difference, bathing and then tearing through the halls to only be slightly more on time.” Her father half chuckled out as he stood and opened his arms towards her. “But, results are results. I forgive you.”

Roderika laughed and rushed over to her father’s embrace. Most women with twenty summers behind them might be reluctant to be hugged like a child by their father, but she welcomed it. After a moment they separated and he looked her up and down. “The dress looks lovely, but aren’t you missing something?”

She rode out a wave of self consciousness by running a hand through her hair and looking away. “I couldn’t get it on without some of my hair sticking out. I thought it would be better to come without it than to have it on wrong.” 

“More like you went looking for an excuse not to wear it and found one.” Rodgier held out a hand and a serving woman stepped forward with a length of white silk and a brush on a tray. 

She allowed her father to lead her by the shoulders over to a mirror hung out of sight of the rest of the hall. She would never admit aloud how right he was, or how much she hated these confining clothes. The dress she could at least pretend was one of the flowing gowns she preferred for functions such as these, but wrapping her entire head in cloth was too much for her to stand. 

He ran the brush a few times through her wavy shoulder length hair several shades brighter orange than his, gathering it at the back of her neck for her to hold. “Unfortunately for you, I am not giving the Faithful’s envoy a single reason to take issue with this meeting.”

The Redeemer’s Faithful had appeared almost two centuries ago in a field on the western edge of the Alliance. Some two million souls dumped in the middle of nowhere. The oldest, most fragmented histories suggested that was how all of the members of the Alliance had come to the world, but something of that scale hadn’t happened in millennia. They were human like Roderika and her father, but the Faithful lived half as long, only seventy or eighty years to the one hundred and twenty or more she could expect. 

She reached behind her back grudgingly to take her hair from his hand. Once she did, Rodgier took the white cloth from the serving woman’s tray, resting it lengthwise over her head so that one edge was below her hairline. He draped the remainder over her shoulders and tucked the back under where she held her hair. 

She twisted a lock of hair around her finger while he worked. “The Faithful find issue with everything we do. They’ll probably find some insult in you having me here no matter what I wear.”

Her father’s silence told her she was probably right. The Faithful were notoriously hostile to anything from outside their faith. They spoke a language no one else spoke and that they vehemently kept anyone from learning. In most cases they also refused to learn the local tongue. They had been terrified of the other races of the Alliance when they had arrived and remained steadfastly so to this day. They abhorred magic of any kind, making and building everything by their own hands or not at all. 

The last would not have been a problem for anyone except the Faithful, had they not demanded an entire city be built not far from where they had arrived in the world. A construction that should have taken a handful of months had instead taken over half a century, at which point the Faithful had sealed the gates and only allowed enough people to staff the handful of Churches they’d built along the Pilgrim’s Road to leave. 

“Regardless,” Rodgier said, twisting the cloth over her shoulder into a loose spiral while nodding at her to do the other side. “We don’t want to lose what progress we’ve made with them.”

Her father, all of the Nine bless him, had gotten it in his head that it was about time the Faithful began participating in society. After ascending to his office, he began inviting them to participate in the City’s many festivals, and was denied at every turn. He asked to attend services in solidarity with them, and was told that as a representative of the Nine and the leader of their city he was haereticos, whatever that meant, and could not receive the Redeemer’s word without leaving his post. When he had shown up anyway with a Wyldkin attendant in tow, the Head Priest at the time instructed his congregants to throw stones over the wall to get Rodgier’s party to leave. Every few months he tried something new, to no avail. 

“Progress you’ve made with Jonah you mean.” She handed the spiral of silk to her father and he crossed it with the one in his hand, looping them around her neck and under her chin before tying them together in the back. 

Father Jonah had arrived in the City seven years ago and had proven the most receptive to Rodgier’s overtures. After months of prodding he agreed to a private sermon which she’d also attended. It was still delivered in the Faithful’s tongue, so neither of them had understood a word, but her father had been beside himself with his success. The next year, Jonah opened the church’s gates for a festival of his faith. Only human citizens were allowed to attend, but it was still progress. 

Year over year things improved until finally Jonah came to the Sovereign’s Palace to announce that the next year’s pilgrimage would be the seventh of Rodgier’s reign, seven being a significant number to the Redeemer. To commemorate his efforts to be more welcoming of the Faith, Jonah had arranged for the church to send a special envoy to participate in this year’s All Gods Festival. Her father had nearly jumped for joy. 

Rodgier reached over to the tray again, this time for a silver circlet he rested across her brow to hold the headwrap in place. Unlike when she’d tried to do the same on her own, there wasn’t a single red hair out of place. She looked in the mirror, comparing herself to her father. Her brighter hair, heart shaped face, pointed chin, and full lips had definitely been passed down by her mother, but their eyes were the same. The same bright gemstone green, the same kind look, and sparkle of joy behind them. 

“There,” he said, looking back at her in the mirror, “that wasn’t so hard, was it?” 

She stuck her tongue out at his reflection. He laughed, leading her back to their seats. “I know this all probably seems ridiculous to you,” Rodgier said somberly, “but today is the result of the last fifty years of my reign. We have to bring the Faithful closer to us.”

The conviction in her father’s tone surprised her. Maybe this wasn’t the pet project she thought it was. She said nothing, but straightened her back and settled in to wait for the results of her father’s hard work to walk through the tall metal doors at the other end of the hall. 

Just when she was beginning to grow bored there was a commotion on the outside that swiftly resolved into a page swinging open the doors and announcing, “Father Jonah, Shepard to the Faithful of the Tower City, and The Bishop Dominic of the Redeemer’s Faithful, envoy of The Holy See.”