So...I’m going to do it. Between everything else I’m doing I’m trying to write a novel. It’s a story I’ve had in my head for over 20 years and it’s time to get it out. So without further delay, here is draft 1 of the first scene of chapter 1.
Heavy humid air hung over Averdeny's night thanks to an approaching storm. Terren Cordan, King of Alvanyr, stood at the balcony rail of his apartments, watching lightning play out in the clouds that yet remained some distance away. His heart still beat fast after having woke from the latest version of his Dream. The intensity of it had left him wakeful and restless. He could still smell the smoke and stink of fear from the burning of the city; the pain of crisped flesh, his own.
It felt like the anxiety before battle. The trepidation. The fear. Terren even his breathing and slowed it just as he used to do though it had been a long time since he had led from the front. He did as his master taught him decades prior and relaxed. It was only a dream after all; not real. Not yet anyways.
A bright flash illuminated the clouds and drew Terren's attention back outward. The storm was close enough now that he could see lightning strike the ground. The low rumble of the as yet distant thunder slipped overhead along with a momentary gust bringing the smell of rain.
Terren welcomed the storm. The too-dry summer had left fields parched though the Lord Steward's irrigation projects had borne some fruit. The old marchlands in the south needed the rain most of all. He prayed silently for the storm to pass just a little south and water the fields, vineyards, and orchards. Another peal of thunder washed over the city; it came faster this time.
Little torchlights scurried throughout the sleeping city as the guardsmen who patroled the streets for the Faire became aware of the impending rain. Most would welcome a good washing for the city but to be soaked is never pleasant. It was still yet late enough that the craftsmen and their goodwives remained yet asleep. Other than guards only those of nefarious intent or dogged industry (or perhaps both mused Terren thinking of the sharp dealing merchants and trader engaged in) were awake.
Terren looked down to the courtyard of his palace. Guards moved less hurriedly inside the grounds as they possessed ample protection from the rain should they desire it. They could go indoors at any moment or patrol in ways that gave them the most cover from the rain.
A knock at the door announced that someone (a guard) would enter shortly. The Lord Steward most likely as Terren had sent for him. He'd sent a bodyguard to fetch him shortly after waking and he would be back within a few moments. Terren turned just as the door opened and a young man wearing artfully tooled leather armor with a yellow sash of a sergeant entered the apartments.
"Your Grace," the young man, Earic, announced, "The Lord Steward has arrived."
"Send him in Earic," Terren replied.
Earic bowed and backed up slightly before turning and making a slight motion with his left hand. This was part of the ceremony for the King to receive any visitors in his apartments. It was partly traditional and partly to monitor for assassins.
"Ketheric, the Lord Steward of Alvanyr, answering the King's Summons. Enter Lord Ketheric," Earic intoned as an older man with long silver-gray hair wearing a long black robe in the style of the Nareshi (floor-length with voluminous sleeves, chevrons sewn into the arms that meant something to those learned in the lore of Library of Naresh) entered and bowed deeply.
Even in supplication, Ketheric always bore himself with an air of nobility and almost regal dignity. It was never arrogance for the man was deeply respectful of even minor knights who came to petition him. Terren had practically forced the title of Lord Steward on Ketheric, effectively making him the second most-powerful man in the kingdom. But even Ketheric saw the necessity of that title.
Terren nodded to Earic saying, "You may leave us Earic. Have Bleasand run to the butlery for mulled wine. I would have some at this hour and perhaps to help me sleep."
"Of course, your Grace," Earic saluted, his right hand making a fist that he brought to his heart in a sharp motion. He withdrew from the room backing up to the doors and closed them, leaving Terren alone with his Steward.