By Vow and Royal Bloodshed (Blood Ladders 2)

Restored to a working body, Morgan Locke has returned to Troth to seek the legendary athenaeum at Vigil in the hopes it will produce a solution to the enchantment binding the elves. But elves are not the only creatures now stepping out of folklore: the demons are coming, and they bring with them the armies of the dead.

If they do not want to see their world consumed, Morgan and his companions will have to find the answers, whether they come from books... or bloodshed. Time is running out....

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https://soundcloud.com/m-c-a-hogarth/an-excerpt-from-chapter-1-by-vow-and-royal-bloodshed

Genre (setting): high fantasy
Tags: elves, Regency-ish, students, disabilities, angels, demons
Rating: R for violence

Excerpt from Chapter 6

“You were never my lesser, either,” Eyre replied, fond. At my startled glance, he said, “Oh, you had to have known... didn’t you? You were one of my finest students, Morgan. It was an honor and privilege to teach such an enthusiastic and insightful mind. Perhaps it was your illness that taught you your tenacity and discipline, but whatever its impetus, I have rarely seen its equal.”

Such a stunning compliment, and all I could think to say was, “You speak as if my schooling is done.”

“Isn’t it?” he asked. “You no longer have the luxury of studying great deeds. Now you must enact them.”

I rubbed my temple, wishing the incipient headache away. “It has never been in my temperament to be a hero.”

“Nonsense.” Eyre tapped the table between us. “When have you ever been free to develop any sort of temperament, besides that of an invalid? And that is preparation enough: you fooled all of us for years, Morgan. None of us had the first idea that you were in such dire extremis. The strength it took for you to fight the debilitating effects of your enchantment will be wonderful preparation for the tasks before you.”

“I would have preferred to finish my degree, marry, have a child or three, and live quietly until I died,” I said, my heart squeezing painfully. How long had I worn this shape? Less than a month? And already I could hear Kemses’s voice whispering, longing: To die! To be able to die!

Eyre snorted. “So save the elven nation, then finish your degree, marry, have a child or sixty, and live quietly until you die a century or two from now.”

I glanced at him. “And are you prepared to leave off the study of history and become one of its participants?”

“We all participate in history,” Eyre murmured, considering me. “Whether we are remembered or not.”

His eyes were resting on me again. I looked away. “Am I so changed then, that you cannot help but stare?”

“It’s not the sight of you. It’s the smell. And the feel.”

“I beg your pardon?”

Eyre’s smile faded. “You smell... like a night breeze off cold water. Something vast and deep with poetry: salt like tears. Pale and clean like jasmine. Sweet and bitter.”

Now it was I who stared at him. He ignored me to finish off his tea; perhaps the brandy was making him strange.

“And the feel?” I prompted.

“Your skin is softer than any living thing I’ve touched. Your hands over mine....” He shook his head. “You are made of rarified stuff, my student.”

“I am just a man,” I murmured, and finished before he could object, “If you would see rarified stuff, you should rest your gaze on my brother.”

“The king? Yes, I imagine he is another class of matter entirely.” Eyre tipped his head to one side, stretching his neck, then rose. “I wonder where your friend has got off to, though? I should away if we are to leave soon. There are arrangements to be made.”

“If you need money to purchase anything—” I said, standing, but Eyre shook his head, and the merriment in his eyes reminded me of older days.

“To go to Vigil?” He laughed. “When half the faculty would give an arm to make the journey? No, money we won’t need. I’ll apply to the dean and have the department underwrite the expedition. We are nothing if not scholars, ah? There is more than enough to occupy us at such a site.”

I grinned. “Just so.” I offered him my hand which he took after hesitating. Once I had it firmly clasped, I pulled him to me and wrapped an arm around his shoulders. His breathing hitched, jerking his ribcage against mine, and then he eased into the embrace, his head against my shoulder.

“Like the sea,” he murmured.

“Only because you have been weeping,” I replied. “It is your own tears you smell.” I stepped back. “I’ll send for someone to bring you to the door—”

“No need. I remember the way.” He turned to the door... and halted abruptly.

Chester had reappeared, his face gone pale and stiff and his gait awkward with tension. With him was a priestess. Or at least, I realized it was a priestess later, for one saw her face and could not look elsewhere. Eyes darker than cracks in stone, and as impenetrable, and a mouth firm and shaped by secrets. Her smooth brown countenance was an enigma: appropriate, as the white, silver, and sanguine mantle over her shoulders marked her as the Vessel of the Covenant. Among the holy orders there was no one to equal her in rank, save her male equivalent, the Sacred Escutcheon.

There was an inevitability to her being the most high of all the priests in Troth. Everything about her bespoke power.

She was younger than I’d expected. She was also carrying what looked like a covered birdcage, cradled in dark hands.

“The Vessel,” Chester said, and now I knew he was shaken; normally his introductions were executed with flawless courtesy. “Locke, she’s come looking for you.”

“For me?”

“For you,” she agreed, and she had a smooth contralto, rich and practiced. “Because you have run out of time, my lord. The demons are coming.”