Building the World: Giving Places History

For this week (and to make up for the fact that I missed last week), I'm posting a short story that is based off The Child of the Sky. I find that fictional worlds that have cultural memories embedded within short stories, songs, food, and traditions make the worlds feel so real and rich. It's amazing to think about intimately connected our stories are to those that people told thousands of years ago---look at the Percy Jackson series, or Thor. In attempts to capture a little bit of that magic into my work, I have come up with a few stories about places and mythical people that litter the world that The Child of the Sky inhabits. This story features the Tower of Ramnor, which Tania, the main character, visits many centuries later, and the tragedy that befell it.

This is only the first half of the story, and I'll be posting the next half within the coming weeks. So, stay tuned for that!

I hope you enjoy it! And please let me know what you think in the comments or in my Instagram DMs. This blog is an opportunity for me to share my process, but also to hone the story I'm telling. I greatly appreciate any critiques, both positive and constructive!

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The Baems of Ramnor

(pt. 1 of 2)

“I’ve said it once, and I’ll say it again,” Haggins said, a red welt blooming on his forehead where a branch had smacked him. “You’re sister’s probably run off with Jeromi.” 

The blacksmith’s boy? Patrim shook his head, swinging his broadsword to clear a path through the underbrush. “Adelaire’s not that stupid, and he’s not that handsome.” Of course, he’d have to look like the Knight Kampala to be handsome enough for her to forsake duty. To leave her family.

Haggins shrugged, following in Patrim’s wake of crushed leaves, broken twigs, and trampled wildflowers. “He doesn’t have to be that handsome, just fifteen years younger and with a few more teeth than her current prospect.” 

Patrim shuddered, imagining his sister marrying the old Lord Wanderling. “You forget that Jeromi was in the courtyard when we left.” The lackwit had even waved them off, when they stalked past him with swords on their hips. Not even a blacksmith’s boy would be foolish enough to happily wave at the brother of the girl he had kidnapped. No, she’s out here somewhere. 

Those thoughts, however, did not seem to cross Haggins’ mind. “Probably stashed her somewhere, then went to work to allay suspicion.”

Patrim scoffed. “To ‘allay suspicion?’ What, have you been reading?” 

“I wouldn’t take that tone,” Haggins replied, rubbing the shining welt on his forehead, “considering you’ve dragged us into the middle of the woods to find the witch that stole your sister. At least I’m reading the chronicles, and not the bedtime stories that madas tell little lordlings.” 

Patrim rolled his eyes. “She wouldn’t have disappeared without reason–” 

“Seems to me she had reason.” 

She’s not the first to marry a man older than her. “Or without a trace.” 

Haggins sighed. “Perhaps you should give her more credit.” 

Had he not heard about Lord Mason’s daughter? They had found her desiccated body after she had disappeared without warning. Just as Adelaire had. Yet, Haggins had the gall to mock him. Patrim spun on his heel, his grip tightening on his sword’s hilt. The blade, covered in tiny splinters and bits of dead, green things, hovered in the air between the two young men. 

Haggins took a step back, throwing his hands in the air. “If I didn’t want to help, I wouldn’t be here with you. Now, can you put your bloody sword down so we can reach your blasted tower?” 

“Thank you.” Patrim lowered his sword. “You’re a true friend.” With that settled, he went back to hacking his way through the wilderness. 

“How do you even know there’s a witch out here?” Haggins called, twigs cracking as he hurried to catch up. 

Patrim hacked through a bush, causing a family of finches to launch themselves into the blue sky. “I’ve seen her.” 

...

She had come to court only a week before. It had been one of the dark nights of late spring, when a coming storm had caused the clouds to hang heavy in the sky and drown out the sunlight. As a result, all were inside, playing games and drinking at the trestle tables in the King’s Hall as Patrim’s father spoke with the petitioners. Patrim drank his weak ale beside Sir Roberts, the Ruby-Cheeked Knight, a man more renowned for his heavily embellished stories than his honor. He had been halfway through a story about how, when adventuring through the unending wood, he had come upon a young maiden that insisted he spend the night in her keep. Patrim couldn’t remember the story exactly, just that the maiden was actually a troll. 

No maiden alone in the woods is ever just that, the Ruby-Cheeked Knight always concluded. If they’re alone, they’ve the Maultin in them somewhere. 

The Ruby-Cheeked Knight had just made it to the part where the maiden’s horns sprouted, when the doors opened to admit a dark shape clothed in a roughspun cloak. 

Stepping into the hall, the dark figure pulled off their hood to reveal a maiden far more fair than any the Ruby-Cheeked Knight might have conjured. Patrim watched, transfixed, as she pulled her long, jet hair free of the cloak, letting it fall around her shoulders. As she strode down the hallway, joining the line of petitioners, the torchlight caught in the silver strands mixed into her black hair. They didn’t make her look old, not at all, but made her appear regal. She looked immortal, divine, like no other woman Patrim had ever seen.

Scouring the room with her piercing gaze, she met his eyes. He straightened, suddenly conscious of his slouching posture and the stained linen shirt that just peeked above his doublet. One dark eyebrow jerked upward, then she continued to scan the room. When her gaze slid over the Ruby-Cheeked Knight, her lips twisted in distaste. 

“There’s a rare sight,” the Ruby-Cheeked Knight grunted, before taking a long draught from his drinking horn. The veins in his cheeks grew more red with every drink. 

The strange woman smiled, as if she had heard, and turned away. 

Patrim looked around the room, not surprised to find that every man had his eyes upon her. Every man, that is, and Patrim’s sister. Adelaire sat across the room, beside her betrothed, Lord Wanderling. The old man drank from his horn, only a bit of ale escaping his mouth and streaking through his already graying beard. He, unlike most men, did not watch the strange woman. Rather, he turned to Adelaire to whisper something in her ear. Her face emotionless, she continued to stare at the stranger. When the strange woman turned her head in that direction, Adelaire blushed and looked at her feet. 

A rare sight indeed, Patrim thought. 

The strange woman waited while Lord Bruin, Patrim’s father, concluded his discussion with the earlier petitioners. Then, when they walked away, she stepped forward and dropped to a curtsy at the wooden throne.   

“What can I do you for?” Lord Bruin fumbled, clearly exhausted. The crowd chuckled at the implication of the mistake, but Patrim didn’t laugh. Just leaned forward, waiting to hear her speak. 

“My lord, I have land in Ramnor.” Her voice rebounded off the thick stone walls like a bell ringing, free and clear and absolutely perfect. “A few months ago, I discovered a white stag on my land. Three days ago, I found its body. Headless. In our grandmothers' days, they called such beasts eifelwich and would cut off the hands of any man who dared to kill one. I ask, my lord, not for punishment–-though I should–-but just that you instruct the neighboring lords to respect the boundaries of my domain.” 

Lord Bruin’s brow knotted. “Are you sure the beast was on your land?”

She nodded, the glass beads that hung from her ears sparkling. “Yes.” 

“Do you have any other witnesses to attest to seeing this body?” 

“I was alone, my lord,” she huffed. “Can you not still speak with Lord Mason?” 

He shrugged. “Of course, my dear. I’ll chide him for the dead deer.” 

She nodded, her lips pursing and cheeks hollowing as she clearly bit her tongue. When she bowed and stood up, stalking off from the throne, the hem of her under-dress flashed. It was covered in strange symbols, all embroidered in dark hues of green. Demon tongue. She pushed through the doors at the end of the hall, disappearing into the day’s dark gloom. Adelaire, only a second later, whispered something in Lord Wanderling’s ear, before creeping to the door herself. She had almost made it before the doors flew open again, this time revealing the large, hulking figures of Lord Mason and his son, Rickar. They strode in, their boxy shapes concealing Adelaire as she slipped out the door and ran down into the gloom. 

No one saw, Patrim thought. Except for me. He knew where she was running to. 

The doors shut with a boom, but Lord Mason’s voice was louder. “My daughter’s dead.” 

The murmuring crowd fell silent, and Lord Bruin suddenly looked much older. 

“My boys’ found her three days ago, her face like a skull and her body shriveled up like an apple left out in the sun,” Mason boomed as he strode towards the throne. “She had no meat on her body, just skin stretched over bone. They only recognized her because they found this.” He held up his hand, letting a gold chain unspool from his fingers. Its stamped gold pendant shone in the torch light, almost as bright as the strange woman’s silver hair. “Her mother gave it to her when she was a babe. Now, she’ll wear it to greet the Maultin.” He threw it at the throne. 

Someone, probably one of the old ladies bent over their embroidery, whispered a prayer. They sent the girl luck in the underworld, where the Maultin enacted his cruel justice.  

Lord Bruin nodded, slowly bending down to pick up the golden chain. Straightening back up, he ran his thumb over the stamped image. “Where did you find the girl’s body?” 

“Ramnor.” 

Lord Bruin’s brow knotted. “Near the barnat?”

“Near the tower.” 

...

They found her without any muscle on her, just skin stretched over bones. Patrim wondered if he or Haggins’ would trip on a root, only to realize that its the desiccated body of a young girl. Only to realize that it’s Adelaire. How many dead girls are in these woods?

A slight whine, not unlike the buzzing of a gnat or mosquito, began to sound in his ear, and his fingertips itched with anticipation. No sooner had he noticed these small changes, before he saw stones peeking out from between the trees. Haggins had noticed it too, for he suddenly stopped walking, staring at it with the wide eyes of a frightened child. Patrim had been right, the tower was here. When they had set off, Haggins had been sure they should follow the country lanes, but Patrim knew different. The witch wants to keep her victims hidden, so no one can discover what she does to them. He might have gloated, but they had to keep quiet. 

Patrim sheathed his sword, hiding its shining edge, and motioned with his hand for Haggins to follow him behind a great, towering oak tree. They crept to it, crouching behind its roots and peering into the meadow. Whoever lived there, witch or no, had cleared the area directly surrounding the castle, creating a meadow choked with grasses, flowers, and thorns—all knee high. There’d be no way to get across the meadow and to the small, squat door without the witch seeing them. And, even if they made it there unnoticed, the door was sure to be locked. It would take them time to break it down. Time that the witch would use to summon demons of the unending wood, dormeum, to attack them. 

Patrim had heard tales of the dormeum before. They were men who, having wandered too far into the woods, had returned changed. They grew antlers from their heads and spoke in a language so old only the trees and stones remembered it. When they came across living, breathing men, they slaughtered them, pushing them into the living wood of trees and leaving them to suffocate. The Ruby-Cheeked Knight had seen one; it had stalked him on his return from a troll hunt in Belfif. If it hadn’t been for his reputation, he might have met his end entombed within a tree. 

Patrim shuddered, eyeing their oak’s thick trunk. It could hold Haggins and me both. 

Beside him, Haggins snorted. “Not much of a keep.” 

Patrim nodded, that much was clear. The tower, which stood shoulder to shoulder with the trees around them, was no more than a few wagons’ length in width. The local barnat’s new cathedral could have swallowed this tower, and still had room for cake. On the inside, there couldn’t be more than three rooms, one on each level. Once they broke their way inside, they’d have no trouble finding Adelaire. Patrim tightened his grip on his sword hilt. 

“Patrim…” Haggins’ voice was low and quiet, just as it was whenever they came across a deer on the hunt. “Look in the window.” 

The tower had two levels of windows, all fitted with glass in the new fashion. The lower level was slightly larger, with stained images that made it impossible to see within. In the upper levels, however, shadows danced. 

“There are people up there.” 

Patrim couldn’t see their faces, but their shapes were clear enough: long hair and slender bodies. Just below the gnat’s constant whine, he could hear the high-pitched tinkle of women laughing. Blonde hair flashed past one of the windows, the same straw blonde of his sister. Adelaire was in there, the puppet of some wicked sorcery. 

It was all too much. Patrim leapt over the root, stalking through the knee-high grass as he pulled his broadsword free of its sheath. The whine grew stronger in his ears, until he could no longer hear the birds in the trees or the wind in the grass. Bracing himself, he grabbed the handle at the door and flung it open. It wasn’t locked.

A chill creeping up his spine, he plunged into the tower. 

Just as he had suspected, one room took up the entirety of the lower floor. A hearth stood at one end, its great fire belching out black smoke that raced up the mouth of a chimney. Beside it stood locked chests, scrolls piled in heaps, plants hanging from the exposed rafters, and armor stands dressed in complete sets of leather armor. He ran the pads of his fingers across the insignia, recognizing the basilisk of Lord Mason’s house. Just skin stretched over bones. 

He peered down at an undone scroll on a table beside him, which was covered in odd characters. The language of the trees and stones, he thought, just as the Ruby Cheeked Knight had said. 

Patrim shuddered, tightening the grip on his blade. 

Looking over his shoulder, he realized that Haggins hadn’t followed him inside the tower. His dark curls peeked over the oak tree’s root. Coward. 

However, the odd artifacts and scrolls written in a demon language did not disconcert him as much as the biggest mystery of the room—the lack of a staircase. Typically, in a tower such as this, a staircase would wind its way around the walls until it reached the second, third, or fourth floor. Here, however, the walls were flat. Above, there wasn’t even an opening from which a ladder or rope could descend. Just an unbroken circle of wood, its rafters covered in strange plants and the language of the stones. Still, the soft music of women’s voices filled the space, no longer laughing yet speaking in hushed tones. His sister’s deep alto was among them, he could hear it. Somewhere, hidden above the wooden floor, she was here. 

The loud whine stopped, filling the tower with absolute, complete silence. The voices ceased their whispering, the birds stopped their singing, and even the wind’s whistle went quiet. Patrim rocked uneasily on the balls of his feet, a chill running up his spine. He tightened his grip further, and fell into the unassuming stance that the Ruby-Cheeked Knight had shown him. 

Weight in the front of the feet, he had said, positioning Patrim’s feet just so, and your head on a swivel. They can’t creep up on you if you see them. Unfortunately, Patrim couldn’t see them. In this mess of clutter, the witch could appear from absolutely anywhere. He shifted his grip on his broadsword. 

Wind whipped through the tower, closing the door with a bang. The black, belching smoke leapt off the logs, fashioning itself into the shape of a tall, slender woman. The dark creature resembled the strange woman that had attended court four days ago, an exact replica down to the roughspun cloak with its hood thrown back. Patrim fell a step backwards and raised his sword, gripping it with both hands, as she took a step closer. The dark, smoking head bent to the side, like a confused dog peering at its master, as she raised a dark, smoking hand. The mosquito’s whine returned, so loud that it felt as if small knives had driven into his ears. He cringed from the pain, falling another step backwards. 

The musk of burning wood dissipated as a more acrid, rank smell replaced it. 

Flesh. It was burning flesh. 

Looking down, he realized that the edges of his leather jerkin had caught fire. He panicked, hitting the flame and trying to put it out, but the flame only grew stronger. It stuck to his fingers as he pulled them away, spreading up his arms all the way to his shoulders. As heat blistered his skin, his nose filled with the awful, acrid stench. Searing pain absorbed his entire body as that whine drove its blades deeper and deeper into his mind. He fell backwards, blinded by tears and incapable of feeling anything beyond the white-hot pain that engulfed him. Still, somehow, he was able to find the door. Fumbling for the handle with what little remained of his fingers, he grabbed onto it and heaved backwards with what little strength he still had. He would have cried in relief when the sunlight graced his face, had he not already been crying from the pain. 

Racing out into the yard, he threw himself into the grass. He rolled and rolled until he smothered the flames that covered his arms, and the searing pain had dulled. Then, he lay there gasping, listening as the sharp knives piercing his mind subsided into only a faint, low whine—not unlike that of a gnat or mosquito. He didn’t know how long he lay there, whether it was hours or seconds, but when it was done he found Haggins staring down at him, confused.

“By Skyi, you’re such a coward,” Haggins said, his lip curling. 

How could he say that? When he didn’t even go inside? Patrim tried to speak, but only a choking sob escaped his throat. What remained of his tears slipped down his cheek. 

“Get up,” Haggins continued, “I want to make it home in time for supper, and I’m sure Jeromi wants to introduce you to his new wife.” 

“No,” Patrim said, his voice coming out in a low moan. “No. No. No.” 

“What’re you on about?” Haggins sank into his hip, rolling his eyes and looking around. He looked towards the tower, but didn’t even seem to notice the shadows dancing in the highest level of windows. Blonde hair twisting around slender frames… There lived Adelaire, he was sure of it… And a witch, a witch of smoke, of fire, of pain… She would kill his little sister. 

“Come on, I’m starving,” Haggins moaned. 

But Patrim shook his head. He couldn’t get up. That would mean having to look at the little that remained of his hands and the raw, pink flesh that undoubtedly covered his arms. And he couldn’t do that. Couldn’t, couldn’t, couldn’t. 

“Stand up, you coward.” 

Despite Patrim crying out in protest, Haggins grabbed his hand and pulled it towards him. To Patrim’s surprise, the skin of his hands was smooth and unbroken. It was a trick. This time, when Haggins pulled him up, Patrim jumped up to help him. He grabbed onto Haggins shoulder to steady himself, finding that even his jerkin was still intact. Pulling up his sleeves, he discovered only smooth, unbroken skin. The burning had been a trick, then. Something conjured up by the sorceress that lived here in order to drive away men that had come to save their sisters. How many men had this same trick worked on? How many knights had run home, their tails between their legs, too humiliated by their defeat to tell the story? Had Lord Mason’s sons tried to find their sister, failed, and then discovered her dead body only hours later? 

Patrim wasn’t yet a knight, but he’d prove himself more valiant than any that had come before him. He wouldn’t give up. Not until the witch’s blood coated his broadsword. 

That was an oath he'd swear before the gods. 

“Come,” he said, swatting Haggins in the chest. “I’m hungry.”