Julian Thatcher’s world is about to get seriously elfed up!

Elvan: The Legacy of Thaer is the first book in a fantasy series that follows the growth and progression of a young boy who must leave behind the life he’s always known to save a world he never knew existed. Along the way he must come to terms with his identity as an Elvan - the only of his kind - and unify the race of elves who have been torn apart by political scandal and driven into several different factions, all in hiding, who trust none but their own.

I think of the Elvan series as something akin to Harry Potter with elements of Lord of the Rings. The Legacy of Thaer is a coming-of-age quest that offers adventure and drama, suspense and humor, romantic tension, political intrigue, and an ending you would never expect that profoundly sets the stage for the follow-up books. As I count down to Saturday, September 21st (LAUNCH DAY ON AMAZON KINDLE), I invite you to read the offering of the first chapter (and previous posts), read a bit about me, subscribe for updates, and mark your calendars to be among the first to purchase a copy on ELVAN DAY! (9/21/13, 9/21/13, 9/21/13, 9/21/13!!!!!)

Look out for the Book Trailer, debuting within the week of 8/26 - COMING SOON!

Elvan: The Legacy of Thaer, Chapter 1 - Due Time

           “Is he conscious?”

The voice was calm and even with the slightest hint of menace.

“Yes, my lord, the healers have brought him back to a… suitable health, as you’ve ordered. Do you think he’ll break this time, my lord?” The servant was careful to add that last honorific lest his question seem too forward for his station.

“I think a great many things…” he replied, trailing off in thought. The servant imagined his master pondering clever ways to kill him. Those eerie eyes alone made his heart skip a beat, and now they were fixed on him. How the servant hated those eyes! He tried to look away, to find some excuse, but he knew that his master had little patience for cowards – or at least those fool enough to let it show. He held his composure and waited.

The master smiled. “What I think about should not concern you, but you already know that don’t you?”

A shudder ran up the servant’s spine and he trembled ever so slightly, silently cursing himself as he answered. “My lord, I––”

The master held up a hand and the servant almost bit his lip in his attempt to close his mouth as fast as possible.

“Focus,” The master chided. “Tell the healers to leave, and the guards. I will deal with the prisoner myself. Concern yourself with your duties not what I think. Go. Now.”

The servant needed no further prompting. He hated being in a room with his master by himself and the practiced nerve he managed to muster was far from perfect. Hurrying out of the room, he struggled mightily to keep his brisk pace from turning into a full blown jog.

The master sat alone in silence for a time, his eyes closed in meditation, summoning his will for the task at hand. Then he rose, crossed to the other side of the room and withdrew a curious item from a cupboard: a barbed crown. Various lengths of wire protruded from around its rim with each end capped off by a sharp hook. Knotted rope connected a jewel in the center of the crown to a leather headband. A few inches away from the headband, along the rope, was a triangular metal fitting equipped with finger grooves – this was the channeler.

The master would get answers with this, his Angarr. Its maiden use would prove very painful indeed and he almost smiled thinking of how it would perform up to his dark design. As it was, the prisoner was costing him too much time. It was a clear understanding of timing that enabled his ascent, but his final goals were still too far out of reach. So he set a grim face and proceeded out of his quarters, down the hall, down the spiraling stairs leading to the lowest chambers of the compound. There, where the most unspeakable things were done, he saw the guards melt away at his approach, heeding the order to retreat from the area on his arrival. As they passed him, and he them, they might as well not have been there for his singular focus. He reached the wrought-iron door, pulled back the deadbolt and entered, locking it behind him with the only key made for the purpose of keeping people out.

The master walked over to the prisoner and surveyed the stirring form. He was gaunt and shabby, but a sharp smack to the face brought him wide-awake. Defiance shone in the prisoner’s eyes. For a moment the two looked at each other – prisoner and captor – without saying a single word. It was understood: the prisoner would not break and the captor was sure the time had come. The master revealed his new tool.

“You will find tonight that you are not as great as you think, not the only one capable of truly amazing things. I call this Angarr. It’s like a crown; I thought you’d like that. Here, try it on.”

Bound as he was to the wall, the prisoner could not very well try it on. The master smiled facetiously and placed the crown on his prisoner’s head. Methodically, mercilessly, he pierced the Angarr’s hooks into the key areas of his prisoner’s neck and chest. The prisoner barely flinched, resolute in his defiance. Finally the master placed the leather headband on his own head and sat cross-legged across from the prisoner. He placed his fingers in the grooves of the channeler and closed his eyes. The prisoner said his first words.

“This will not work. I’ll die before I allow you to win.”

The voice was low and weak but confident.

The master opened his eyes, looking straight at the prisoner with his peculiarly colored eyes that so scared those under him. “Yes, you will die, but not yet, my friend, not yet. There are many more left to die before you.”

The master closed his eyes again and began a low hum that became a steady chant. When he re-opened his eyes they shone bright in their irregular colors. A purplish light emanated from all around his person in unsteady waves before being focused along the length of rope toward the prisoner.

The prisoner winced, for the pain was incredible. The chanting became faster and steadily louder. The waves of light lanced into him through the hooks but he held himself in check, though he began to feel the intrusion into his mind.

Then the chanting reached a crescendo and the prisoner, in spite of himself, began to scream––it was impossible to tell whether defiance or pain was the source. It sounded terrible. But to his captor, it was most beautiful.

 

Earth

 

David screamed into the phone. “It’s a boy, it’s a boy!”

Well of course it was a boy! As long as Alistaire had known the Thatchers they always had boys; a fact that none of them seemed to question. Rather, the Thatchers accepted the occurrence as ‘just the way the Thatcher bloodline ran.’ Alistaire knew better.

Alistaire was once told to take note of the pattern. Although he found it hard to believe at first, Alistaire had come to accept it as part of the secret that was passed down to him by his father – and to his father from his grandfather before that. His family, the Spencers, had observed the Thatcher pattern early. Among the various other things they taught him and passed on in their roles as Vigils, things that regularly scouted the lines of what was ordinary, it was the pattern of a male Thatcher bloodline that stuck out the most.

Alistaire knew why, of course. When Alistaire was young, he often wondered why the role of Vigil was only passed onto the first-born sons, as opposed to daughters and younger sons; there were enough of each in his bloodline after all. He wished he could share the burden with the rest of his kin. As time wore on and the complexity of his duties took its toll he concluded that maybe it was better that way. The responsibility, the insanity of it all… who would want that? He didn’t. But he accepted it and had hoped for the day when it would all make some sense. Today was that day. He would see this secret, this legend, come true once and for all. If not, he would begin to enter his twilight years with little more than the nagging doubt that ultimately killed his father. But today was the day!

Determined and excited, Alistaire said a quick goodbye and disconnected the call. He grabbed his keys, pulled on a sweater and headed for the door. But not before consulting his father’s book one more time. The fantastical nature of the book was enough for him to sprint to his car with the energy of a man half his age and drive faster than he had ever dared. He hoped it was towards a destiny he could finally share.

Speeding the entire way, Alistaire almost crashed as he pulled into the hospital parking lot and he knew a ticket was almost certain to come in the mail. He decided he didn’t care, not if the boy––

“Oi! Sean Connery! You’re not James Bond anymore!”

Jarred from his thoughts, Alistaire located the direction of the taunt to a trio of teenagers idling in the lot as he hurried from the car. They looked at him as if he shouldn’t have been able to drive that fast. They didn’t think he could run that fast either. Still, he was panting when he reached the front desk and could only sputter his request.

“Th-Th-Thatcher, what room? Quickly now! The ones with the baby!”

The attendant scowled; annoyance plain on her face. She glanced down and typed in the name.

“Room 314… Hey wait!”

Before she could finish shouting to him where the elevators were, Alistaire was off and running up the stairs.

306, 310, 312, the numbers whizzed by and he burst into the room almost colliding with David before coming to a stop. David was beaming and didn’t seem the least bit surprised. “It’s a boy!!” he shouted and flung himself into Alistaire. He allowed himself to be swept around by David’s exuberance – he could barely contain himself either. He looked around and noticed that he was the only one there besides David and Melinda – their respective families hadn’t arrived yet. 

His gaze fell on Melinda. She hadn’t uttered a word since he came into the room, her attention focused only on the baby in her arms. As he approached, un-entangling himself from David, she looked up and smiled.

“Alistaire” Her voice was soft and radiated a warmth that always made him feel at ease. He felt a little awkward but leaned over to get a better look at the infant. “Do you want to hold him?” He gulped and almost choked.

“C’mon man, it’s not the first baby you’ve been around!” David said excitedly, “You were there when I was born!”

It was true: Alistaire’s family, the Spencers, had had a long association with David’s family. The Spencers had been close to the Thatchers for decades but the Thatchers did not know there was a deeper reason beyond friendship. Alistaire had, in fact, been there for David’s birth – out of his friendship with David’s father sure, but more under specific mandate from his own father to examine the child. Having not seen anything remarkable, Alistaire resolved to look forward to when David would have his son.

“Uncle Al?”

“Uh, yeah… yes David.”

Alistaire was nervous and he knew it, but he mastered himself and stretched out his arms.

“Let me have that boy.”

David laughed and Melinda chuckled softly and looked up at Alistaire. “Be gentle,” she said as she lifted the baby towards him.

Alistaire nodded and took the baby, careful to support the head with the curve of his arm. He resembled a little caramel loaf of bread, Alistaire decided, and smiled at the thought. He was the perfect testament of his mixed parentage: David was white and Melinda was black. However, it was that one other bit of ancestry that Alistaire was looking for, something beyond the understanding of his parents.

“He has the ears!”

He almost shouted it out loud and thanked God for the little composure he had left though he was sure he had quite the silly look on his face. The new parents didn’t notice and Alistaire was glad for that small mercy. For a long moment he stopped breathing. After so many generations, here he was, ‘the one from without.’ The one on whom so much was dependent.

“What will you name him?” he asked not taking his eyes off the baby. David and Melinda exchanged looks. David spoke up, “We both agree on Julian, Julian Thatcher.”

“And what will you name him?” asked Melinda. The question was directed to Alistaire. As David’s wife, Melinda learned of the unique tradition of having the Spencer family give the Thatcher children their middle names. She had thought it a bit odd, but had accepted it just as she did the marriage proposal of David Aryll’un Thatcher. She had joked with him when they first met calling it the “oddest name she ever heard.”

Alistaire looked at her and smiled, and in a mock dramatic voice declared: “Julian shall henceforth be known as Julian Vau’n Thatcher!” The parents looked at each other. Melinda went first.

“That’s not that odd actually… Vau’n” She said the name slowly as if tasting it. “I like it.”

David’s grin was cartoon wide and he laughed out as much as said, “It sure as hell beats Aryll’un!”

Everybody laughed long and hard for a good many seconds before Alistaire cleared his throat and asked, “Where d’you suppose he got the ears though, David?”

“Hi-Her side of the family,” the jumbled reply came from both parents.

 “Definitely Melinda’s folks, I’ve never seen ears like that in the Thatcher family.” David stated matter-of-factly.

The two new parents bickered playfully and Alistaire thought to himself, “If they only knew, little one, if they only knew.” He took a stroll around the room away from them, holding the infant close, and whispered, “I have my eye on you Vau’n. One day, when you’re much older, you’re going to have to do something unimaginable but I’ll be there to help you, to guide you. I promise. I only ask one thing in return.” Alistaire smiled knowing full well the implausibility of his request, but he said it anyway: “Hurry up and grow up!”