Echoes of memory, p.1
Echoes of Memory, page 1
Echoes of Memory
M. Anthony Harris
Published by M. Anthony Harris, 2022.
This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.
ECHOES OF MEMORY
First edition. April 14, 2022.
Copyright © 2022 M. Anthony Harris.
ISBN: 979-8201292799
Written by M. Anthony Harris.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Prologue
Part I: Beginnings
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Interlude I
Part II: Things Remembered
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Interlude II
Part III: Unforgotten
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Interlude III
Part IV: Remembrance and Return
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Interlude IV
Part V: Endings
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Epilogue.
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I want to dedicate this book to my amazing wife Rachel, who, without her love, I would be a headstrong fool. Now I'm just headstrong.
I also want to thank my family, especially my brother Zach, who's my main sounding board for book ideas as well as the rest of my siblings who are always there for me. I also want to thank the various coffee and tea shops all around Xining that I spent innumerable hours writing this manuscript in, including but not limited to, Greenhouse Coffee, Snow Mountain Creamery, Lighthouse Café, Gax Tea, Macau Imperial Tea, and last, but certainly not least, Lian Si Tea Café.
Thanks to all my friends who've encouraged me, helped me, and have loved me. Without you guys, this book wouldn't have happened.
Prologue
DREN’S LIFE WAS POURING out of him.
“I can’t let it end here,” he had lost too much blood. It was getting harder to focus. That thought alone demanded all his energy.
“There must be something I can do to stop that monster,” Dren was the only one left alive that could stop him. Every other member of the Rebellion was already dead. Killed at the hands of the Emperor’s men mere minutes ago.
Dren would soon join them...But not before the Emperor’s Inquisitors had their way with him.
The memories of torture arrived long before the Inquisitors set foot near him.
Agony tore through Dren, his mind was flooded with pain. His fingernails were being slowly pulled off to have red hot needles shoved into the viscera where the nails had just been.
Recollections of the most brutal horrors that could be inflicted on a man overwhelmed Dren’s senses. He was back there again. Being brutally tortured.
“These memories aren’t mine! They didn’t happen to me!”
But it felt so real.
“I can’t die yet. I WON’T DIE YET!” this was the one thought that kept Dren from going insane from the agony that threatened to rip his mind into shreds. He held onto it like a man clinging onto flotsam in a tsunami.
As his mind was assaulted with another wave of memories, these of having the bones in his feet systematically dislocated and then being confined to a cell too small to lie down in, realization dawned on Dren. “I’m a Giver. There’s still hope!”
The plan formed in his head. It was hard to think at all and black started to pepper the edge of his vision, but if he didn’t act then the rebellion would die and so would his nation. They would dance their way to their deaths.
The blackness grew.
Dren summoned his ever leaking reserves of strength and focused. Before he died Dren would send his memories into one of the Inquisitors that were torturing him to death. It was a risky gamble. One that would take all that he had and kill him in the process, but it was the only roll of the dice that he had left.
He let go of his mental walls. He let the Inquisitors have their way with him.
A horrific scream tore through his ears, causing a sharp pain in them that was just a tiny gnat in the avalanche of misery the Inquisitors heaped on him. It took Dren a second to realize it was his voice making the horrid scratchy sound.
By focusing only on the Inquisitor's mental defenses and leaving his mind and body unguarded, Dren knew he was signing his own death certificate, but if he could write his memories onto the mind of one of those memory mages killing him, the tiniest grain of hope may survive.
Dren's screams felt like they would cause his ears to bleed, and his vision was growing increasingly dark, but still, he focused his whole being into remembering everything he could about the impostor, remembering how he’d destroyed empires under the guise of a savior, how he feasted on the death of nations.
Dren prayed to whatever being ruled the universe that his final actions would be enough.
It had to be enough.
The Inquisitors were Givers just like him. If they realized the truth, they could fight. They could save the nation. They were Vealand’s last hope. Givers like he and the Inquisitors were a dying breed. He’d been among the few whose bloodline had survived the great purge nearly twenty years before his birth. Every other Giver he’d known was either long dead or had just been murdered not more than five minutes ago.
Dren felt the last of his life slipping away. He could barely think. He could barely do anything. His head was filled with cotton and his vision had gone almost completely black.
He had to share his memories now, or the future would die with him.
Using the last bits of strength he could muster, Dren released his memories. Any second now there’d be a spark of recognition in the eyes of one of the Inquisitors. There’d still be hope.
Nothing happened.
Everything he’d done had been in vain. He’d let the world fall into darkness.
Everyone was damned.
Part I: Beginnings
Chapter 1
FIELL WAS ONCE A BEAUTIFUL city. Nestled at the feet of the Kearn mountain range, and boasting close to six hundred thousand people, it was the biggest city in the country of Vaeland and its de-facto capital.
It wasn’t too long ago —it had only been little more than forty-five years since the invasion that destroyed the old Vaeish capital Brinhold and its sister city of Portin— that Fiell had been little more than a mountain trade settlement.
But with the mountains to the north of the city, and the Lao river, the biggest inland trading route in Vealand, bordering the southeast side of the city, it had become a refuge for the survivors of the destruction of the capital and the other coastal settlements as they had followed the life-giving river inland during their mass exodus.
It was soon after the mass settlement of the mountain outpost that the new emperor who’d saved them from the calamity that had torn down so much of their country, declared Fiell the new capital city.
The burgeoning population had exploded after that.
Growing so fast so quickly was always stressful on a city, and though Fiell had grown, it was far from a graceful sprouting.
Buildings had shot up like untrimmed weeds, and the valley was choked with a seething mass of people. Mountain men and sailors mixed in a strange hybrid society that was often racked with tension between the various cultures that had been forced together by the mass exodus fleeing the destruction that had nearly torn apart their nation.
Fiell’s landscape had become an odd mixture of coastal design mixed with the much more earthy mountain aesthetic. What had once been a beautiful city of rustic browns and greens was now a confused mixture of the natural mountain colors and th e light blues, reds, and tans of the seaside, dotted with the lifeless greys of a military city.
It was a strange mixture but it was home.
As he looked over the city from the edge of his large estate, Aris Ravenscroft breathed a contented sigh.
The sun rising over Fiell brought the mountains to life and the buildings seemed to shimmer in the light.
Aris saw the same view every morning and each day brought something different. It was a beautiful mess. He would never tire of Fiell. The city had become a part of him.
Aris Ravenscroft spent every morning the same way, he was a man of routine, and it was a very rare occasion indeed when he did break it.
His routine brought Aris Ravenscroft comfort and stability, and as he watched the sun rising over the city, it reminded him of the beauty that surrounded him.
Some might not see the haphazard buildings and mismatching colors as pleasing, but it spoke to Aris of the power, will, and ingenuity of man. It spoke of how his people rose from the ashes of disaster and had built a whole new empire.
How was that not beautiful?
His people had nearly lost their country forty years previous and here they were in a new capital city that had grown to double the size of their former largest city. This was the land that had raised him. Fiell was truly his home.
Born to minor nobility in Brinhold nearing the end of the fall, Aris' family had lost all their lands and titles during the exodus and had immigrated west with the rest of the survivors. Aris had been in Brinhold less than a year old during their flight. Fiell was the only city that he’d ever known and Aris loved it deeply.
It was this love for his city and the country that had born him, that had spurred Aris to join the military as soon as he came of age. His attention to detail and his rigorous self-discipline had helped him rise quickly in rank.
Aris had made captain at twenty and general by the age of twenty-five. At twenty-eight he’d been so distinguished that the Emperor himself had offered Aris a position as the Deputy of Internal Security for Fiell. He protected the capital of the Veaish Empire.
Fiell was Aris Ravenscroft’s city. He was its guardian.
After taking a deep breath of the fresh morning air, he made his way to the courtyard.
It was a brisk mid-spring morning. The weather promised warmth in the afternoon and a slight chill in the evening.
Despite the coolness, Aris had only put on a vest and basic trousers, as he always did for his morning drills.
After his daily stretches and breathing exercises, Aris grabbed the nearest Metalvine stick. Metalvine was a plant that grew in the mountain valleys of the Kearn range in abundance and was prized for its endurance, strength, and flexibility. It was taken while still green and whittled into a roughly two-foot-long stick and then slowly tempered over a low flame until it had a hardness close to that of iron, thus the name of the weapon.
“A clear, focused mind, a love for my leader, and unquestioning dedication to my nation,” Aris mentally repeated the mantra as he started practicing his morning kata.
After half an hour of forms, Aris called on one of his guards, all of whom had master rank in Falis, to spar with him.
The martial art had many forms, but every one of them focused on angles of attack. They taught intercepting and trapping those angles of attack. It was perfect for the close-quarters combat that Fiell required. Every member of the city guards under Aris was trained to deadly precision with the use of the Metalvine.
His Falis training didn’t stop there though. Each city guard had to be lethal in unarmed combat as well. Aris demanded nothing less from his men.
The sparring started easy, but as the two warmed up, the pace quickened and the fighting began in earnest.
Aris and his guardsman exchanged blows and bruises with each other, testing each other’s guards and strengths. After a series of parried blows, Aris saw an opening as the guard stepped in with a high sideways blow aimed at his temple. With the grace of years of practice behind him, Aris drove under the wide blow, caught the guardsman’s arm and trapped his opponent's lead hand to his side, and then delivered a series of blows to his partner's ribs as he stepped behind him, locking his shoulder. He playfully tapped the back of the guard’s neck with his Metalvine, letting him know that if he’d wished, his opponent would be dead from a spine-crushing blow.
After half an hour more of sparring, Aris called it quits for the morning. He allowed himself a small smirk of satisfaction as he wiped away his sweat and headed to the baths.
“It’s good to know I still have it,” he thought.
At forty-four years old Aris was beginning to slow and was starting to know the true meaning of feeling something in your bones, so his mastery of the martial art was a boon to his spirits. He was glad to know that he could still take out masters half his age despite the age that was starting to slow him down.
“Daddy!” Aris’ young twin daughters, Elan and Elise cried as they charged into his arms when he entered the dining room for breakfast.
“Good morning little darlings, did you give nanny Syra any trouble this morning when she was getting you ready?” he asked as he winked conspiratorially to his little ones.
“Oh we would never do such a thing,” Replied Elise, the more talkative of the two, while Elan giggled at the lie.
“You better be careful or Syra might just give you two to the cook so your mother and I can have a little extra meat for breakfast,” Aris replied, eliciting a series of snorting giggles from the twins.
“Why don’t we just toss them in the oven now?” a soft but earthy voice called out.
With a smile, Aris turned to see his favorite sight in the world; the face of his lovely wife Corrine. “I suppose we could do that,” he replied as he embraced his wife of twelve years.
“Good morning love,” she said, stepping in and squeezing Aris tight and playfully giving him a pinch on his bottom. “How was your sparring today? Did you realize that you’re getting too old and should learn to take it easy?”
“I doubt that will ever happen, dear. I’ll still be just as stubborn in my nineties the blessed emperor willing I live that long,” Aris replied, giving Corrine a smooch, eliciting giggles from their young twins. “Weren’t you saying we should toss them in the pot for breakfast?” He asked as he swooped and grabbed his daughters in each arm.
They screamed in delight.
“Sadly it looks like they’ll have to wait until tomorrow morning. The cooks have already finished preparing breakfast,” Corrine replied as one of the cooks, a young twenty-something maiden who was just freshly married to one of Aris’ guardsmen stepped into the room and informed them that breakfast was ready to be served.
“Where’s Sephira?” Aris asked as they sat down at the table to eat.
“She said she was feeling ill this morning, so she didn’t want to come down,” came Corrine’s reply.
Sephira was Aris’ niece, the daughter of his disgraced brother who had spoken out against the Lord Emperor. Van’s hatred for the Emperor had always been a point of contention between the brothers. Aris’ older brother had insisted that the Lord Emperor wasn’t who he said he was, but he was never willing to say any more than that.
Despite his idiotic and frankly, dangerous opinions, Aris had sworn to never abandon his older brother, but despite the best Aris had done to try to convince Van of his foolishness, his part in the rebellion had ended up getting him captured and killed.
Sometimes Aris still ached when he thought of those days.
It was while he was still in mourning for his recently passed brother that Aris had met Corrine.
Aris had already taken in his brother’s daughter Sephira —who after her father’s execution had been orphaned— and started to raise her as his own when he’d first met Corrine.
It hadn’t been easy at first, but it wasn’t long before he wooed Corrine and she joined Aris on his life journey and for that could never be thankful enough.
Aris still remembered when he had first seen her. He’d felt an instant connection. It was as if he had known her for years, and in the first meeting of their eyes, he knew that she felt the same way.
After a year of courting, they married and Sephira had taken to Corrine as if she were her own mother. After six more years of marriage, the twins had come along, and though they'd feared that Sephira would think that she was losing her place as their daughter, she’d naturally fallen into the role, and her little cousins adored her and never thought of her as anything other than their big sister.
