1st Draft Fridays - A Fistful of Deception: Book #4, Chronicles of Marsdenfel

Year 253 of the Bynding - somewhere in the Pardys Isles - winter, part I

A/N: *rubs hands together* Oh, I think you'll like this part! ^_^

In any event, the end is in sight. I'm not fully decided on what my next First Draft Fridays project will be. Possibly A Fistful of Air, Endellion's story, because I think I need to write that before I can write the book that comes after this. I suspect that one will be shorter, though, more of a novella. We'll see.

Also, I've jumped back on the drawing board for the covers for the Aleyi short stories. I'm still tweaking, but you can see the route I'm thinking of taking on the current covers on "Driven by the Deadline" and "Of her Own", here on the site. Could you let me know what you think, please? Thanks!

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The smells of wet seaweed and fresh currants greet me when I next snap my eyes open. I swing myself up to sit, pause but feel no dizziness or nausea, and pause again upon realizing the small room’s empty. I’ve gotten used to Aldrik watching over me when I’m incapacitated. Bad habit, that.

Something about the specific seaweed niggles at my memory, but I can’t quite place where I am. The cot’s decent quality, and the earthen walls have been smoothened into a pleasant albeit undecorated room, though they retain a roughness that indicates I’m in a cave. I doubt Aldrik would let Gobarul keep me sedated long enough for them to take me out of the islands.

But Aldrik wasn’t there when they put you to sleep.

I grimace and remember that Aldrik and Owen had been going after Zanton when Weevil and Bruneli hauled me away. They aren’t easy to kill, but considering their quarry…any or none or all of the three might be dead.

If Aldrik’s dead, what will I do with his child?

I focus on taking a normal-sounding breath and distract myself by going the two steps to the small table, which has a bowl of currants on it.

Currants? In the middle of winter?

I pick one up and dare draw up my magic to check, but they’re completely natural. Genuinely fresh, not dehydrated then freshened by a water mage or felf. That means they came straight from the southern hemisphere, and recently.

I wait for nausea to bite me, but it doesn’t come. I cautiously pull up more of the magic that makes me montai. Still feel fine.

Thus reassured—though admittedly puzzled and concerned regarding what my wellness may mean about the baby—I dare eat the fruit I hold and take the two steps further to the door. The stone wall beside the door feels forbidding to the touch, a sensation that only worsens as I intentionally prod it with my magic. It’s been worked by dwarves, then, or someone else with stone-based magic—and recently. Otherwise it would be willing to give the time of day to someone with earth magic.

Guess I’ll have to find out where I am the old-fashioned way, then.

I glance around, but whoever left me in the room apparently dressed me in a shirt and slacks, but no weapon. The spartan room doesn’t give me much chance of finding one, either. Although…

I go back to the cot and check under the pillow. When that has nothing, I try under the mat.

There, between the stone base and the mat that cushions it, I find a slim dagger, placed to be under a sleeper’s head. I pick it up and frown at it. Metal looks good, no wires. A brief test with my thumb tells me the blade is sharp. The full weapon balances fine on a fingertip.

And it’s quite obviously designed for placement like this, to be hidden under something without being easily felt.

I flip it around in my hand, testing a few different grips until I find one that’s acceptable for use. The dagger isn’t designed for more than that—it’s an emergency weapon, not a regular one.