The Oblivion King

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THE BLACKMOON CYCLE

Book One

THEOBLIVION

KING


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PROLOGUE

The streets of Aarden were turning to mud.

The rain had not stopped for two days, and was now pelting its way well into the third.

Thousands of droplets splashed onto roofs, earth, and the heads of those brave few who dared toventure out of doors. Most townsfolk were disgusted by the downpour, loath to be trapped inside

their homes. Young men and old men alike muttered curses under their breath when the wood box

was finally empty and they were forced to partake of nature's soaking wrath as they fetched more

logs. The clouds, however, had no ears for their bitter murmurs. The entire city found itself

continuously deafened by the rain's dull roar. For a particular group of huddled-together citizens,

this fact found itself being praised as a blessing.

A house, nestled deep within the city's lower district, appeared the same as any other

residence. A small yard, surrounded by a fence built with wooden poles, encased it on the left side

and to the back. More houses stood uncomfortably close on every side and corner, keeping with

the cramped style of most lower district blocks. Only the front entrance was left unblocked,opening into a street that was slowly turning into a river. The walls were rough-hewn masonry of

an average quality; its roof was roughly shingled; a small, ancient wood shed slumped in the far

corner of the yard; and a short, crooked stonebrick chimney leaked smoke into the chilled, damp

air. The shutters were closed, presumably to block the wind and raindrops from leaking their way

through the cracked windows. To any eye on the outside, nothing unusual was afoot. But past the

dwelling's heavy oaken door, in a simply furnished room lit by firelight, was an event most unusual

indeed.

The curtains to every window were drawn, as much against the sound from within as the

weather from without. A group of ten children sat on the floor in a tightly knit half-circle near the

fireplace. Their faces showed ages ranging from under ten through the teens, and every one of

them was fixed in the same direction, all displaying the same look of rapt attention. A few women

- presumably mothers - sat in chairs behind them, likewise facing the same way. The subject of all

their gazes was a man, in his middle ages by the looks of him, sitting in a wooden chair by the fire.

This was Burren, owner of the home, esteemed citizen of Aarden... and one of the few people in

the kingdom willing to relate the Old Histories. The firelight flickered across his face and cast

shadows into the wrinkles of his face as he spoke, making him look older than his years. His eyes,

however, used the dancing light to just the opposite effect, reflecting its radiance and sparkle and

adding it to the glow that already burned within them when he spoke. The children surrounding

him served as both his audience and his unannounced pupils. The makeshift lessons had gone onfor two days, ever since the rain began, but somehow Burren's deep, gravelly voice had lost none of

its effectiveness. All the children seemed to be held in a trance, listening reverently to the words

they wouldn't hear anywhere else.

Something that most of you are unaware of, he said, addressing his captive audience, is

that Aarden is a kingdom under new rule. Looks of slight confusion crossed the faces of all but the

oldest child, sixteen-year-old Lanse. He had been six when Carab Blackfeather had taken Aarden

under his wing. Though he had been young, he still remembered bits and pieces of the coronation


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ceremony, if it could rightfully be called such. It had not been an event easily forgotten, especially

for a young child. He lost himself in a sudden swirl of memories, snapping back to the present only

when he heard a shrill voice pipe up directly next to him. Alicia, a girl of eight, was absolutely

befuddled by Burren's statement.

You mean Carab the Magnificent wasn't always king of Aarden? she asked innocently.

She found her surprise replaced quite suddenly by a startlement much more intense as

Burren's head snapped in her direction, his gaze now cold and piercing. Don't you evercall him

that again, he snarled at her through gritted teeth. Every child in the room fell silent in an instant,

suddenly uneasy. Burren was a man slow to anger and quick to love. Very few, if any, of the people

in the room had ever seen him even close to upset. Yet now the firelight in his eyes held no warm

glow, but instead reflected off his pale blue irises as if they were polished ice. That man is not

worthy of any title resembling magnificent. His gravelly voice grated against the back of his teeth,

and Alicia's lip began to quiver. You know nothing! If you had any idea of the pain Carab and his

black servants have inflicted, you would not...

Burren. The voice cut him short, soft but commanding. Burren looked up and met the

eyes of one of the women seated to the back of the room: Esmeree, Lanse's mother. Her lookpierced him with a clear warning, though her face showed no anger. In her eyes was only a gentle

strength, underlaid by well-hidden layers of pain. Burren realized that she had stepped in not only

as a motherAlicias own mother was one of the women not present that day but as someone

who understood. He looked downwards, and what few drops were left of his anger evaporated into

nothing at the sight of tears brimming in Alicias eyes. Her lip was now visibly shaking, and when

he looked back at her she looked at the floor, scared and ashamed. He found himself unable to

react for several seconds, staring blankly at the girls shaking form. What is this, he wondered

silently. What has this become? Heavens above, a little girl All she had done was ask a simple,

innocent question. She had not even been alive then, he knew. Her mother had been only a girl as

well, no older than eighteen years. He knelt on the floor, reached out and gently grabbed the girlschin with his thumb and forefinger and turned her face back upwards, away from the floor. He

could see a few small, dark dots on the floorboards where her tears had fallen.

He almost shed tears himself when he saw her trembling face. He looked around at all the

other children, fearing what they now thought of their mentor. Most of them were staring at the

scene open-mouthed, frozen in fear and apprehension. A few of the older children looked at the

floor or another fixed point in the room, trying their best to avoid the situation. Another girl, close

to Alicias age, was nearly intears as well, and Lanses expression was blank and unreadable. He

had disappointed them all, he realized. He turned back to Alicia and pulled the girl into a brief,

tight hug. Im so sorry, child, he whispered to her, and then set her back. Her lip was still

trembling slightly, and she did not look quite reassured, so he made a point to smile widely and

sincerely, then reach out and muss her blonde tangles.

That was all it took. Her smile instantly returned, and a small giggle escaped her lips. The

power of innocence and trust never ceased to astound Burren, and it pained him that those

qualities would not last long in the world these boys and girls would be forced to grow up in;

nonetheless, he maintained his smile, shunting those thoughts to the side. Let them stay that way

for this precious while. He looked around the room again, and this time he found far fewer


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inside of them, keeping their faith at least somewhat alive in the face of the ever-growing darkness

in which they were immersed. Thus Burren sat, in defiance of punishment, or death, or whatever

the Blackfeather deigned to call it, readying himself to teach the children the most forbidden piece

of the Old Histories, the piece that would act as fuel for their dreams for years to come. He would

tell them of the true king.

Deciding at this point that it would be better to establish a further measure of closeness

with his young audience, he refrained from moving back to his chair by the fire and instead

remained seated on the floor. A good many of them scooted closer, tightening the circle as he

began to speak again.

Something you all have to understand, he said, trying to put this to them as gently as he

could, is that Carab Blackfeather is not the man he pretends to be. Several small gasps escaped

from his audience. This was less in response to his statement as it was in response to his use of the

term Blackfeather. Commonfolk were forbidden to call him by the title of Blackfeather, and were

instead forced to refer to him as Carab the Magnificent. Only his high courtiers and personal

council were permitted to call him by his true title.

So hes not really the king, then? Alicia asked, this time more cautiously.No, child, Burren replied gently, his voice and his smile revealing a sadness beneath.

You must never repeat the words I am about to speak, he cautioned, pointing his finger

towards all of the children in turn, none of you. This house is the only place where you may talk

of these things, and even then, it must only be on lesson days. The Blackfeather has ears

everywhere in Aarden, and they will not hesitate even for a minute to report breakers of laws.

Kings were not often poor men, and the man who called himself Aardensking was no exception.

Spies were cheap enough to acquire for a man of such means, but the eyes, ears and mouths of the

desperate could be bought for cheaper still, and there were many in the kingdom who currently

found themselves in a state of great want.

Awful things would be in store for all of us, Burren cautioned, if he heard that you hadlearned the Old Histories. There is a reason everyone fears Carabs laws, and we should be no

exception simply because we hold knowledge that few others hold. Knowledge gives us power, but

it is a very different sort of power than any other; it can shield our minds and our hearts, but I am

afraid it can do nothing to protect our bodies.

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The Oblivion King