Note to the reader:

The fictional world of this novel and its people was inspired by myths and legends from around the world. It is not meant to be a direct or faithful representation of any one race, country, or culture.

The Making and Woe of Gods and Mortality – Origins Unknown

The Torrent flowed through space and time,

Alone but for herself and saddened for it.

For there was but naught,

Until consciousness brought with it thought.

And so the three sisters were born,

Equal in their love and scorn.

She that birthed the life,

That would beg, cry out, rejoice, and have strife.

She that bore witness,

To their fight, building, triumphs, and weakness.

She that bid them farewell,

To know the truth of their toils and return to the river swells.

There they will drink again of vitality and magic,

To be swept away along that Great River’s flows,

To land upon the banks of life once again.

Prologue

‘Do you really think you can win old woman,’ came his velvety voice. The words oozed from his tongue as if fine silk had been dipped in vile mire. He moved another piece on the numinia board. Its checked tiles of obsidian and ivory gleaming with polish made the figurine clink at it was placed.

‘Old woman?’ she said with a curl in the crook of her mouth. ‘You’re almost as old as I am, and half as held together,’ she mocked almost curtly, though only almost. She moved another piece on the board with her elegant hand. They gripped the fine white marble stone of the figurine. It was carved in the visage of a three headed owl, wings wreathing the form of a woman. It seemed strange in her hand, familiar, but with an expanse of memory holding her understanding at bay. She looked about the room in which they played. It was ornate with leafy golden fillagree along white stone columns against the walls that radiated outward from where they sat. The room was round, and it was now that she realised there were no windows or doors. How did I get in here? She thought to herself.

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She regarded her opponent. He was thin with hard jaw and cheekbones and long ashy blonde hair tied back with a net of moonstones. His ears rose into points on either side of his head and rubies and sapphires hung from silver clutched earrings along the length of both ears. He wore long dark robes of heavy cloth intermixed with leathers and hides of various creatures. His appearance was like his voice, elusively handsome yet with a poorly concealed malice beneath. He smiled, and as he did the corners of his mouth stretched farther across his face than should have been possible.

‘Well… are you going to make your move or not?’

‘Who are you?’ she said confused. She was sure she knew the answer yet is seemed just beyond her grasp. The name danced on the tip of her tongue like the first snow of Winter’s Crest in the northern reaches. It was there a moment and melted beyond recognition to the next. It galled her though she attempted not to show it.

‘A friend,’ he said softly. She nodded slowly at this, yes, they must be if they were here together and jibing as only old friends could. ‘Do you not remember me dear?’ he said with concern.

‘Of course I do!’ she said anger and embarrassment flaring in her voice. The words escaped her before she could stop them. Quickly she recovered and a wavering calm returned to her as she spoke again, ‘and this place…’ she said looking to the room again. ‘I have been here before have I not?’ she asked.

‘Tisk, tisk,’ the man in front of her tutted. ‘Memory is such a fickle mistress and keeper,’ he said half to her and half to the ornate room as though there were others observing. ‘She walks through one’s life grabbing and clinging and collecting and keeping… dear love you’ve not yet made your move… come now,’ he said pointing to the board in front of them. She placed the strange stone piece in her hand down on the board. He nodded in approval as if there were no other move to have been made. She too felt as though it must have been so, though she was not certain she could recall why. What were the rules of this game? I feel like I have played before and should know it well, she thought with vexation.

‘Where was I? Ah yes, memory. She collects all things throughout the life and yet she is but small and fail. She cannot possibly carry so much for so long,’ he said this looking at the board in front of him regarding his move.

‘Memory knows all that have even been and done … all things experienced are still there merely waiting to be dusted off and made fresh once again,’ she said as if reciting words once heard. It surprised her and clearly it had the same effect on the man before her as he looked up from under his brown regarding her quizzically.

‘Some things must surely fall from her grasp, mere trinkets clattering upon the floor as she goes. Perhaps she will come back for them, perhaps they weren’t important at all. Or another may come along to hold them for her, for a time, along their own way,’ his eyes looked up toward her. He sounded almost bored as he spoke, he too reciting another part of the same instruction. Wherever it had come from, she could not say.

‘Do you agree?’ he questioned. She nodded absently.

‘Of course you do. There must come a time when all things fail. When all things grow weak,’ he returned his gaze to the board.

‘Ahhhh, there you are. I see you little raven,’ he lifted a piece from the board. An obsidian piece depicting a cloaked woman holding a raven. As he did so he held it in front of her and regarded her, awaiting a response. She looked around the room and saw that it had grown dark. The columns remained though they began to decay and crack before her. Water began to drip from somewhere far above in the darkness of the ceiling. She looked at her hands and saw that they had begun to age too and the rings tarnish in the dimming light. For the first time she heard sounds from above. Sounds of swords clashing and fighting. She looked to the man; his features rotted before her eyes. The eye sockets darkening purple and the skin that wrapped his skull sagged until flecks flitted from his face like old parchment.

‘Not long now Ey’Vennara,’ he said. The silk and velvet gone from his voice and replaced with words spoken as if by the wind. He placed the piece down on the board in front of another of her own. In front of a mountain lion wrought in iron. As he did there came a piercing scream from all around, the scream of metal grating upon metal. It shook and rebounded off the walls and pounded within her ears. She pressed her hands to her head to try to block it out, but it did nothing to stifle it. The scream drove into her like a drill and tore her apart from within and forced its way out through her own mouth in an agonised wail.