An Empress of Air and Chaos, page 1
By Noelle Rayne
Text copyright © Noelle Rayne 2021
Map copyright © Noelle Rayne 2021
Artwork copyright © Natasha Roberts 2021
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
First Paperback Edition August 2021
First Hardback Edition August 2021
First eBook Edition August 2021
ISBN: 978-1-9196109-0-0 (Paperback)
ISBN: 978-1-9196109-2-4 (Hardback)
ISBN: 978-1-9196109-1-7 (eBook)
www.NoelleRayne.com
A dedication
To my grandmother, who always taught me to believe in imagination. Who taught me to search for the magic in adventure and myth. My Faerie Angel.
The air was crisp enough for the hairs to stand up on the back of Emara’s neck. She brushed her hand over them as a command to stand down. They reappeared within a second. The air was changing. Rolling her neck, she turned her gaze to the burnt orange moon that lit the night’s sky. The Blood Moon was entering the waxing gibbous stage of its cycle, coming close to its fullest strength. A full moon happened twelve times a year, but the Blood Moon—a celestial event that took place once every year—was one that her grandmother was always uneasy about. For whatever sacred reason she had that linked to the ancient Gods of Caledorna.
A feeling of unease spread over Emara’s skin and she folded her arms in efforts to calm the growing unrest that had been brewing in her stomach all day. Nothing in particular had happened today that could have stirred up the strange sensation igniting in the pits of Emara’s belly, but regardless, it swirled.
“Emara!” her name vibrated through the glass doors to where she stood on the balcony facing the surrounding forest of fir trees. “Emara Clearwater, come inside at once.”
She threw a glance over her shoulder to spy her grandmother standing in her room. Her slender finger pointed at her and then motioned to come inside.
A bitter shiver snaked up Emara’s spine as she turned her back on the moon and ventured into her room. Tugging at her white nightgown, she wrapped the loose material around her body as if it would defend her from the chilling night air and tiptoed from the humble wooden terrace. She slid open the glass door that gave entrance to her room and rubbed her feet on the thick, woven rug that offered instant heat. Feeling the warmth niggle into her toes again, she inhaled deeply.
“What on earth are you doing outside, child?” her grandmother asked, her unsmiling eyes meeting hers at last. “By the Gods, you must be freezing standing out there.”
“Grandmother, I am not a child. There is no need to lecture me on what temperature I should keep my body.” She smiled warmly. “I was just fine.”
A small corner of her grandmother’s lips turned up. “Regardless of your age, one can still catch a chill.”
Emara wanted to roll her eyes, but thought better of it and just smiled. “Were there any interesting clientele at the gallery today?” she asked as she rubbed her arms to gather heat.
Her grandmother swept a paint-stained hand over her brow and raised her chin. “My darling, when you work with art, your clientele is always interesting,” Theodora Clearwater declared as she looked around the room. Emara knew exactly who she was scanning the space for. “Speaking of interesting individuals, where is Miss Greymore?” Her grandmother’s lips pursed together in the way that one’s did before a poised person lost their temper.
Emara’s nose wrinkled. “She still appears to be out at the moment.”
Theodora Clearwater’s dark blue eyes narrowed in on Emara’s face. “I can see that. Does Callyn Greymore believe that she lives above the rules of my household?” Her structured face straightened, but a glimmer of amusement rang through in her voice. “She knows that curfew is before dusk in the lead up to a full moon, yet she always seems to think she can bend the rules.”
Dusk had fallen onto the earth an hour ago and that meant Callyn had missed curfew—again. It was a condition that her grandmother was unfaltering on, even as they matured into young women.
Emara sighed internally and cursed at whatever quarrels her grandmother had with the full moon before hearing a noise from downstairs. “Ah, I think I can hear her now,” she announced, her heart beating a little faster. “That must be her.” She gathered from the creaking wood that moved on the staircase.
Theodora Clearwater turned towards the door slowly, awaiting the arrival of Emara’s best friend.
Emara let out a nervous exhale. Just as her swirling breath disappeared, she heard a clicking of familiar shoes as footsteps made their way through the hallway. Before she could move towards the door to warn her that her grandmother was in the room, Callyn Greymore burst through the threshold of the bedroom, looking glamorous.
As always.
“Sorry, I am late. I have wine—” Callyn halted, her fashionable footwear skidding on the wooden floor. “Mrs. Clearwater!” Callyn’s eyes widened, and her spine straightened as she observed Theodora, standing cross-armed before her. She drew a dazzling smile across her face to hide the fact she knew she had been busted. “I thought you might still have been working,” she gulped. “You know…late.”
Emara stifled a laugh at how, even after living with them for most of her life, Callyn still called her grandmother “Mrs Clearwater.”
Theodora pulled in her cheeks tight and took a step towards her before saying, “Callyn, in case you haven’t noticed, it is dark outside.” Her hand broke through the regal, cerulean cloak she had gathered around her shoulders and gestured to the night outside.
Callyn nodded, her light-as-sand hair lay curling around her shoulders, immediately brightening up the room with its golden shine.
“And it is rather cold,” Theodora said, taking in Callyn’s attire. “You should be wearing a lot more than what you have on.”
Her ensemble certainly wasn’t made to keep out the cold, as the soft fabric of her cerise pink dress hugged her thin curves, exposing her bare arms and most of her long legs.
Immediately, Emara knew Callyn had made the garment. Probably in the last day or two. The village of Mossgrave only had one seamstress and she certainly wasn’t the one responsible for making that dress. Not in a million moons.
Since having ambitions in women’s fashion, Callyn had been pushing every boundary there was in hem height, tight fabrics, and suggestive cuts, and the sleepy, traditional village of Mossgrave had never seen anything as scandalous as Callyn Greymore’s style since they day the Gods put life on the world. She, of course, had picked up the newest fashion trends from the elite she styled, who often had travelled to cities or more exotic places outside Mossgrave.
“I am terribly sorry, Mrs. Clearwater,” Callyn announced with an angelic smile. “But I had a job to finish up. You know what clients can be like.” She flicked a look in Emara’s direction.
“That I do.” Theodora said before turning to Emara. “Very well. Have a good night, girls.”
Relief filled Cally’s face as Theodora moved towards the door to exit the room, but halted midway.
She peeked over her shoulder and said, “And just before I leave,” she turned back to Callyn, who had gone rigid again. “Whatever is clinking away in that bag of yours”— her suspicious eyes trailed over the leather haversack that was completely out of place on Callyn’s shoulder—“please do not drink it all in one go.”
Theodora eyed both girls in warning and then left the room, her cloak sweeping behind her graciously like a soft, blue wave.
“Phew.” Callyn’s shoulders sagged as the door closed. “I thought I was done for there. She almost always knows when I am up to no good. It’s like she has super-powers.” She chuckled, placing the bag on the floor carefully.
Emara let out a hearty laugh. “She can see right through you, Cally.”
Cally.
A nickname she preferred. She always said Callyn was way too formal for her.
“However, what I do want to know is what sort of no good you were getting up to this time.” Emara eyed her best friend before making her way over to the fireplace to check the wood. “Because I know you were not working until this hour. The elite never have dress fittings at night.”
Cally’s light blue eyes twinkled. “I may or may not have met someone to trade some fabrics that they will not sell to me in Mossgrave.”
“Oh?” Emara popped an eyebrow. “And who exactly are you meeting to do a dodgy deal of forbidden fabrics with?”
A devilish smile formed on her face, highlighting her curved cheek bones. “Well, there is this guy—he’s very handsome and he works at the farm, up past the village centre. You will know it. Rosemill farm?” She bit into her pink lips as naughty look flashed in her eyes. “He has connections.”
A barking laugh escaped Emara’s throat, “What kind of connections? Do I even want to know?” she asked hesitantly as she poked the dead firewood with the pit shovel. The motion sent ashes flying up into the air and she stepped back to look at her
Cally’s hands flew up. “Okay, you start the fire, and I will get the alcohol prepared before I tell you.”
Emara rolled her eyes and snorted. Typical Cally!
Callyn Greymore was more like a sister to Emara than a friend. Having met when they were just ten years old outside the village bakers, it seemed even then that Cally had a knack for getting herself into situations she shouldn’t be in. Whenever trouble would be caught red-handed, Cally would be the one with the paint.
The day Emara first met Cally, she was being dragged out of a bakery shop by the hair, kicking and screaming like a wild animal.
She had been screaming, “I don’t want your shitty bread anyway, I don’t even like it. There are maggots in it. You heard it here, folks. MAGGOTS! Maggots in the baker’s bread. Don’t feed this to your children. They might die!”
Cally had bellowed and cursed at the shop owner for ten minutes as he emptied her pockets in the main street of the village. Five different kinds of confectionery had dropped out of her coat and fallen into the muddy road. The human traffic went by, gawking at the young girl with the face of an angel and the actions and mouth of a feral heathen.
In that very moment, Emara couldn’t help but feel drawn to her. Entertained by her. Something about Cally was freeing and alluring, even though she had just stolen from the only baker in the village and got herself branded a thief, she found her unique.
Emara, who had nipped ‘round to the baker’s from her grandmother’s art gallery, was compelled to strike up a conversation, just desperate to speak to another child her age, even if she was abrasive. In the village, you didn’t tend to have many kids your own age, let alone someone as thrilling as Callyn Greymore.
From that day, she and Cally were inseparable. However, the recollection of her first time speaking with Cally had been overshadowed with her thoughts on why Callyn would have to steal. How hungry had she been that she had to steal bread to eat? To survive?
Due to Theodora finding out about Cally’s turbulent family life at the orphanage, and the inseparable bond they had made so quickly, her grandmother had signed for her adoption papers a year after they had met and moved her into their home. It wasn’t in her grandmother’s nature to have maternal instincts, but Theodora took Cally in like she was her own child. And Cally had come willingly, with few belongings.
A smile almost broke past her lips at the memory of how their friendship had begun as Emara made her way over to the unit beside her bed for the matches that lit the fire.
Pushing her thoughts of the past aside, Emara plucked the matches from her favourite storage box that was encrusted with stones of bright jade, flushed pink, glowing-sun yellow, and sapphire that wove around an ancient mandala design on the pale wood. It always sat atop her bedside table, keeping a few things like notes, some coins, and hair pins inside.
It had been a gift from her grandmother on her ninth birthday and it was by far the most sentimental and valuable gift she had ever been given because it was once her mother’s.
Emara had gone to stay with her grandmother when her parents had been killed. She had just turned three years old when a fire ripped through her family home, devouring everything—including her parents. She didn’t remember them or even the fire. And her grandmother had, oddly, made sure to keep it that way. She never spoke of the day that took her only daughter to the other side, leaving behind her only grandchild. Information on her mother was something Emara never pushed for because she saw the pain it caused her grandmother to talk about. So, through the years, she welcomed any forthcoming stories that Theodora would offer on her own accord, but never asked for more.
Emara ran her fingertips along the pattern of the box.
“This box now belongs to you, keep it safe and always remember your mother when you open it.”
She had kept it safe; she had opened it a thousand times and always expected something to appear inside it—as if her mother could gift her something from the other side to remember her by. But nothing ever came.
Just before she could feel that usual pang in her chest when she thought of her parents or even the longing to know them, Cally dragged a bristle brush through her hair, giving her a decent tug back to reality.
“Remember before you start giving me all sorts of horrible looks, you promised that I could give you a makeover tonight.” She said it with a flat confidence like, that was a good thing. “A Cally-style makeover. Which fits in perfectly with the new garments I need modelled.”
With a groan of disapproval, Emara heaved herself away from Cally’s evil bristle brush and threw a lit match into the fire before she made her way over to her four-poster bed. “Do we really need to do this tonight?”
Cally heaved the leather bag, stacked full of all sorts of trickery, onto the bed and then unbuttoned it. “Yes. What else are we going to do now that we are stuck in here for a few nights?”
True, Emara thought.
Cally opened the bag wide with dramatic flair that was fit for a theatre performance and revealed her newest fashions.
“What in the mother of Gods?” Emara’s eyes widened, her cheeks flushing crimson as she took in what she saw in the bag.
“Em, hear me out!” She placed out a hand to stop Emara from objecting. “I need a model to try these on and it must be you.” Cally chuckled. “You have no idea what I had to do to get my hands on these garments; and, as much as I would like to see them on myself, I need to see them on someone else first. I think it could change fashion as we know it. For women, of course.”
“Cally, no way! I am not wearing any of this stuff.” She dipped her hand into the bag and picked up a pink lace corset that had shimmering, intricate detail in all the places it needed to be. She had never seen anything like it. Certainly not in this house. Her cheeks blushed at the sight of it, even though it was beautiful.
“Oh, wow, Cally, where do you even get this stuff?” She flashed her best friend a look of concern before she surveyed the contents of the bag. There was no store in the village that would dare to dream of a front window that displayed or sold garments like this. The villagers would have a heart attack, or a brain aneurysm.
Or both.
Emara doubted any of the women in Mossgrave had seen attire like this, let alone owned any. “No, seriously, where did you get these?” Curiosity coated her tone.
“Well, you know that farm guy?” She patted down the lace that had peeked out the bag.
Cally never called a guy by his actual name. It was always, milk carton guy, or handsome welder guy, or there was even a handsome man who sold sugar at a stall in the village, so she had referred to him as sugar lips guy…
But never by their actual names.
“Uh-huh,” Emara confirmed, acknowledging that she was following which man Cally was referring to.
“He has family in Huntswood city!” she almost squealed. “And he takes trips up there and they have those markets there…”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah, we all know what kind of markets there are in Huntswood city,” Emara said, flustered, pushing the pink lace back into the bag.
The Huntswood markets were notorious for selling all sorts of black-market items you would never find in the fluffy village of Mossgrave—or anywhere else in Caledorna, in fact. Cally talked about them religiously.
Even in her sleep. She was obsessed!
But you couldn’t just wander into markets like that, you had to either know someone or be someone to be able to gain entry to them. And two small-time village girls weren’t exactly anyone special enough to gain that kind access.
“This stuff came from Huntswood city?” Emara almost sounded impressed.
“Yes,” Cally beamed. “Well, now you know that farm guy could be a great asset to keep around.” She walked over to the other side of the bed and swung around one of the four poster bed poles like she was dancing for someone special. “To be fair, I have heard all the boys from Huntswood City are great assets to have. They are hot and dangerous. City boys. Their sex appeal is unnatural. Off the charts. I have laid eyes on a few in the homes of the elite, their guards are often from the city and they do not disappoint.” She raised her eyebrow and a smile tugged at the corner of her mouth as she flopped onto the bed. “It’s a shame we have to stay in for the next couple of nights because of this lousy moon shit, or I could really be seeing what good-looking farm guy was all about.” She puffed out a dramatic sigh. “Grandma Clearwater needs to update her rules, Gods damn it. She is to blame for all your superstitious malarkey.” She flung a hand in Emara’s direction.
