Hymn of the Pearl Preview

Hymn of the Pearl Preview

I’m pleased to present you with an excerpt from my upcoming fantasy novella, The Hymn of the Pearl.

Pompeii Villa Mysteries

            Cteira
would have kept her composure under threat of death. Advocate lore spoke of far
worse fates. Grapt knew more than most about such exotic torments, and the
livid mask of his face hinted that he intended one of them for her.

            “Husband,” Cteira said, struggling
against her bonds.
            Grapt tightened the last cord
binding Cteira’s left wrist to the chair. His motions stuttered in the
guttering flame of a small brazier made sweet with incense. He moved toward the
altar carved from one solid rock wall of the cramped room. The scraping of
metal instruments on stone twisted Cteira’s stomach into an icy knotted ball.
Grapt turned back to her holding a pair
of iron pincers.
“Look past the wrath that blinds you,”
Cteira said. “I am still your wife.”
            Grapt paused. His dark eyes studied
her as an augur might study an eviscerated dove. “I do not know you,” he said
without emotion. “My bride was pure.” He grasped the pincers in his left hand.
Cteira failed to keep herself from
flinching. She vowed to herself that she would not scream; then broke that
promise when Grapt calmly tore the fingernails from his right hand. Small
graven images of the gods stood upon the altar. He let a drop of blood from
each finger fall on one of the statues. One by one, his fortune threads
detached.
            Grapt took hold of Cteira’s fate
threads and intoned forbidden cheiromantic formulas. Though uttered in a calm
monotone, his invocations overpowered her cries. She recognized some of the
names: titles of gods and spirits who traded human fate like haggling
merchants.
            “The threads of blessing and woe are
five,” Grapt said. “Health, Prosperity, Honor, Love, and Life. Fate’s hands
hold all like a puppeteer grasping a marionette’s strings.”
            Every
apprentice Advocate knows as much,
thought Cteira. But it seemed that Grapt
recited the familiar lecture not to her, but to himself.
            “Greater beings can intervene in the
destinies of their inferiors,” Grapt went on. “Altering the fate of an equal
incurs nemein. Advocates lay this divine guilt before the gods and are forgiven
the price of their cheiromancy.”
            “No god will absolve you of this sacrilege!”
Cteira spat.
            “Gheanon would,” said Grapt.
            Cteira flinched at the accursed
name. “The god of chaos lies buried beneath a mountain of nemein. He cannot
blot out your crime.”
            “It’s just as well,” Grapt said as
the final knot joining their fate threads neared completion. “Absolution will
soon be of no use to us.”
            Cteira desperately sought a lie to
stay her husband’s hand. She found none he would believe. She almost told him
the truth but knew he would believe that even less.
            Grapt laid his maimed right hand on
Cteira’s left. She flinched at his touch as if his ragged fingers were writhing
worms. His grim litany droned on, and Cteira realized that her husband was
sacrificing the sum of their destinies; fortune and misfortune alike.
“Be loosed from your bonds.” Something
reckless and feverish burned behind Grapt’s glassy eyes as he cut the cords of
braided sinew that bound Cteira to the stone chair. “You severed the threads of
love that joined us. See? I have done likewise to the rest, save only the life
threads now twined in an endless loop. We are cut off from fate; set adrift
like two pieces of flotsam lashed together.
Cteira stood and rubbed her sore wrists.
She stared at the stern face that once kindled her love but now evoked pity,
shame, and revulsion. She fled the underground chamber with oddly weightless
steps, feeling her way upward in the dark.
            Cteira stumbled into blinding
daylight like a ghost quitting her lonely crypt. That she did indeed emerge
from a tomb—one of several caverns that riddled the necropolis hill—lent weight
to her growing sense of displacement. What had her husband done?
            Enough. She was wasting time fearing
for herself. Grapt had vented his misplaced rage upon her, but she still
breathed and moved. Who knew what twisted vengeance he meant to exact from
Oleth? Gathering her resolve, Cteira raced down from the necropolis toward the city
of the living.
            Mura stood on the shore of the
Middle Sea. Its towers and temples, markets and homes were circumscribed by a
high brick wall. The guard at the north gate didn’t challenge Cteira as she cut
past the line of travelers waiting to enter. She wove through the late morning
crowds that filled the streets and soon reached the market. A riot of sights,
scents, and sounds assaulted her still foggy mind. She didn’t see the
heavy-laden oxcart until it was too late.
            Cteira watched the massive vehicle
bearing down on her, resigned but cursing her failure to warn Oleth about
Grapt. Her curses died on her tongue as the ox team veered right. The wagon
rumbled past. An inch closer, and it would have torn off her nose.
Cteira stood marveling over her narrow
escape until a feeling like a cold wind at the nape of her neck made her turn
around. Grapt stood beneath the colonnaded market entrance, watching her
impassively. Goaded by the hateful sight, Cteira dashed across the bustling
square toward Oleth’s shop.
            Cteira hoped the physician hadn’t
left his assistants to run the open-air counter fronting his practice. Coming
within sight of the building’s white stone façade, she heaved a sigh of relief
to see Oleth lauding the virtues of various meats and potions to a bent-backed
crone. Chiseled features graced his noble head, which a vestige of light hair
encircled like a victor’s crown. The sight warmed Cteira’s soul to the same degree
that Grapt chilled it.
            “Oleth!” Cteira said, running up and
slamming her hands down on the stone counter. “Take whatever’s to hand and flee
the city. Grapt is coming. I escaped with my life, but he blames you for—”
            “Yes, madam,” Oleth said to the
crone. “This poultice will banish the gout.” Cteira leaned against the counter,
panting. He wasn’t even looking at her.
            “Grapt was at the south gate when I
saw him last,” Cteira said, struggling to keep her words from running together.
“His cheirology is beyond your medicine. Even the temple Advocates fear him.
You must run. Now!”
            Oleth smiled. “That’s kind of you to
say, but please take care lest you make my lover jealous.” Cteira’s mouth
dropped open. Then she realized that Oleth was diverting the crone’s
flirtations with no regard for his actual lover’s presence.
            Cteira swept her arm across the
counter, sending stone jars and glass vials crashing to the pavement. Oleth’s
head turned toward her, his brow knotted, before he continued plying the crone
as though nothing had happened.
            Cteira stared at the comely
physician. Her heart roiled with frustration and sorrow. A hand took gentle
hold of her arm, and she spun to find Grapt standing behind her as emotionless
as ever.
“Despair,” he said. “We are as phantoms
to all but each other.” She jerked her arm free, smearing her sleeve with his
blood, and plunged back into the teeming square.
Stifling simultaneous urges to scream,
laugh, and cry, Cteira straightened her posture and strode toward the south
gate. The chill pricking her neck told her that Grapt followed. He always will, an inner voice told her
with the surety of death. Escape was impossible.

But that was no reason not to try.

The Hymn of the Pearl will be available soon. The award-winning Soul Cycle is available now for less than $9.00.

The Soul Cycle - Brian Niemeier

@BrianNiemeier

9 Comments

  1. Man of the Atom

    Sold!

    • Brian Niemeier

      😀

  2. D.J. Schreffler

    Interesting. Interesting questions about world-building are shown even in this little excerpt. Look forward to the rest of it.

    For a moment, I thought you were going to have a reprise of Hypatia.

    • Brian Niemeier

      Glad you're interested. Of the world building in my published work so far, the magic system in HotP is some of my favorite.

      Sadly, the main conflict of the novella isn't an internecine feud between neo-Platonists. Perhaps next time 😉

  3. SmockMan

    Wow, cant wait!

    • Brian Niemeier

      Thanks. Luckily, you won't have to wait long.

  4. xavier

    Brian,
    This long excerpt has piqued my curiosity. I suspect that this is retelling of a Greek story/myth. I'll wait til it comes out to find out more 🙂

    xavier

    • Brian Niemeier

      The setting is definitely inspired by the Greece of late Antiquity.

  5. xavier

    Cool not many storie are set there

Comments are closed