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RAVEN'S HEART

AuthorHouse

Chapter One

"'Not ready for racial harmony,'" Arcturus mused, then smirked. He read the paragraph again before closing the heavy book. His eyes were tired from reading the fine print and from reading the same information in every source he selected. His head bent forward, he stared absently at the tabletop.

Why do I go through such lengths in my research? Arcturus wondered. To what purpose? I cannot return to my home ... He sighed. And I cannot stay here. His thick hands pushed the book away and halfheartedly pulled another book from the stack. The Cataclysm and Its Heroes, the title read. Gleaning the contents, a particular chapter appealed to him. His eyes devoured the text in hope of finding new information.

There were seven races responsible for the imprisonment of the Dark One: Amirah Motega of the Falquirians, Rishanna Naxom of the Humans, Malkri-Shinoss of the Jornoans, Donerys Akarthra of the Nemeloreans, the Ilangien Chierond of Celaedrion, the Durgoth Burlahn, and Trinnad Markanturos of the New Race. By the hand of Markanturos were written the details of the Cataclysm. Titled The Forging, each of the seven witnesses gave an account of the Dark One's defeat.

He stopped reading. What was missing? This book had no mention of any "League of Races." In fact, of all the literature over which he had pored, only two acknowledged any such attempt at racial unity. Were the laws created by the League too idealistic and impractical to be utilized? He doubted this conclusion, for seven brilliant minds working together could not fail so completely. A thought returned from what he had read: "Secramore was not ready for racial harmony."

Of all that he had learned in his research, this statement bothered him the most. Racial harmony was a belief close to his heart and at the top of his aspirations. Long ago, he had promoted such an ideal, but his own people had not been ready. They had not been willing to see beyond themselves and take a glimpse at life as a whole in Secramore. Because he had been young and ambitious and mistakenly thought his people were prepared, he had been exiled. Of course, the details of his banishment were much more complicated.

Or were they? He thought back to his origin in Markanturos-the territory named for its founder more than two thousand years ago. Trinnad had failed in his grand plan of racial unity then, but he managed many other successful achievements-achievements of which his people still preached and venerated to this day. He remembered his schooling from less than three hundred years ago. He knew the accomplishments of his city's founder, but he had never been enlightened to the initial laws of the League of Races. Why?

Then an answer came to him: fear. It was unwarranted fear, and he did not completely understand it. What was to be feared from racial unity? He could only theorize: a loss of cultural identity, rulers being forced to share their power ... If he had become Sovereign, he could have shown them that they need not be afraid of such notions.

He shook his head sadly. That opportunity ended with his exile. He was an outsider now, a stranger to Markanturos and its people. He was....

Abruptly, Arcturus glanced up. He was in a library-not any library, but the great library of the Human kingdom of Belorn. Shelves of books covered the vaulting walls and formed a labyrinth within the spacious chamber. Handwritten texts were there alongside ancient scrolls and printed books. A wealth of firsthand accounts and both fiction and nonfiction literature surrounded him. Was this not the reason he came to Belorn in the first place?

Arcturus hungered for knowledge. He hungered for a reason to believe that he still had purpose-still had credence in what he believed all those years ago before his exile. And here he was, searching for an answer, for a glimmer of hope, for a reason.

"To return," he murmured. Ignoring the logic that told him returning to Markanturos was impossible, he stood, suddenly inspired. He turned to a dimly lit and secluded section of the library, attracted by its isolation. There he might be able to find the mysterious answer he was seeking.

* * *

"Excuse me, milord." A young page with an upturned nose approached the master librarian.

The large, overweight fellow peered down at the boy with narrowed, beady eyes. He straightened his glasses as if to assure himself that this insignificant servant was truly standing before him, daring to address him. "What is it you want, boy?" he asked with a sneer.

"I wanted to tell you that the foreigner you told me to watch is heading for the reserved section, milord."

"The Blood Mage?" the master librarian asked with sudden interest.

"Yes, milord." The lad grinned, hoping that he would bear witness to some sort of upcoming conflict.

"This was inevitable. Mark me well, boy: you cannot trust foreigners-especially their sort. A haughty race, those Blood Mages." He studied the page for a moment. "Fetch the girl. We will allow her to have a hand in this."

The boy's grin broadened as he bowed his head and quickly strode away. He did not much care for the girl, and he knew that the master librarian was not fond of her either. He had gotten her in trouble several times before, and he always relished seeing the look of terror in her eyes, the way she trembled as she received rebuke.

He found her carrying a stack of books nearly equal to her petite height toward the back of the shelves of historical documents. She had not noticed him, too engrossed in trying not to lose her balance. Without a sound, he crept up behind her.

"The master librarian demands you at his side!"

Taken completely by surprise, the weighty stack in her arms was offset. Within two seconds, every book was sent tumbling to the floor. Several patrons turned in their direction with irritated expressions.

Though dark-complexioned, the girl's face flushed scarlet as she turned to face the page.

"He wants to see you immediately," the boy said. "Best clean up that mess before he sees it." Without another word, he stalked off, satisfied in knowing he had thoroughly intimidated her.

As quickly as she could, the girl restacked the books into a neat pile upon the floor, intending to come back for them later. She clenched her hands, wondering just what it was her employer would criticize this time. She was always doing something wrong, and he always made certain to tell her just what that something was-in painfully condescending detail.

As she approached him, she summoned the courage to lift her eyes...