Garden of Madness - Prologue
Updated: Sep 25
Prologue – A Fate Worse Than Death
They were still dancing in the square when the first Spores began to fall.
Breath misted and crystallized around Pylia as she laughed and spun. It had been so long since she had felt like a girl. The burden of rule weighed on her like a stone, heavier each year since standing across from Goran all those years ago by the Morning Throne. Time had beaten those smiles out of them. Recently she had begun to fear they may never wear them again.
But here Goran was, spinning her in the blistering cold, surrounded by the mirth of their people, showing her that their best days had not yet passed them by. And then there was Dram, her little light. He was—
Dram wasn’t next to her. And the sounds of good humor were not what she had been hearing, they had twisted without her realizing. Warping now to sounds of terror.
Snow fell among them, but the sky was clear as the last vestiges of daylight slipped away beyond the looming dark. That old familiar terror that lived within all of them, even those who had never seen it—fear of the Garden—seized her.
No. Not snow, Spores. But that couldn’t be. They couldn’t be here.
The truth was written on the faces of those who realized and reacted far faster than she had. They gathered their loved ones and rushed inside, chaos erupting all around. Still she stood, a tree against the storm. Unfaltering. Unmoving.
“Dram!” Goran screamed as the Morning Guards hauled him to safety, covering his nose and mouth. “Dram!” The scene fell further away, the square now a land of desolation and destruction. Someone was pulling her, covering her mouth.
Where was Dram?
She cut her roots, not to fight the storm, but to welcome it; to cast herself into the winds and accept where she would end up. Pylia slipped their grasp and ran into the swirling Spores. Instinct drew her hands over her nose and mouth as she ran, but the air was thick with the little white puffs. Absently, she thought it would not be enough, but still she moved.
Her feet kicked up the dun powder that piled on the ground. She worked to comprehend what was coming for those that were doubled over on the ground, trying and failing to cough out the invasive dust. The Taint was upon them. She turned a corner out of the square to find Dram huddled against a wall, a mess of too many limbs.
There, under his arms and the protection of his body was Ulimar’s girl—Senna. Of course. Dram was his father’s son through and through. Too sweet a boy to contemplate self-preservation. Far too sweet to rule.
And now he never would.
Pylia knew she should turn and rush back to safety. But what mother could see her child approaching a fate worse than Death and tear her eyes away? Do nothing? What person could see something so tragic and not be stilled by the macabre beauty of a foolish child’s sacrifice?
The Spores did not slow. If she lingered, she would not make it. She wrenched her eyes away from her soon-to-be Mad son. With a shock, she realized that Dram sat amidst the Alasce piling high in the street. Piling everywhere except in a distinct circle around him.
Pylia gasped, forgetting herself for a moment as she lowered her hands in shock. Had Dram known? Had Goran? No, they would have told her. They would have…
It started with a shock. A pinprick of pain deep within her chest, searing for a moment before others rose to join it. Fires. Little fires that rushed to join one another, a pain so deep and blinding it became incomprehensible. Her body doubling over in a fit, knees unfeeling as they slammed into the stone and kicked up the alasce in a great plume.
“Mother?” She turned tearful eyes at Dram, who had finally noticed her. “Mother!” He started toward her, leaving Senna behind on the ground. Pylia fought through the rolling flares of pain and raised a hand to still him. He looked over his shoulder at Senna who was a terrified mess. Pylia’s own fear reflected in the girl’s face. But she could still have a life, could still live.
Dram looked down in utter disbelief, finally noticing the ring of Spores that were avoiding him.
Pylia’s mind surrendered to the pain then. Dram faded to the depths of her awareness, then awareness itself slipped away. Nothing else mattered. Nothing other than going home.
Yes, she was going home.
***
Goran stood by the window, cursing himself as a coward. In a fit, he had sent the Morning Guards away. Around the small room, people huddled in fear, all muttering to one another, casting furtive glances his way. Outside, the swirling white danced in the fractals of glass. Part of him knew he couldn’t have fought them, not six at once, but another part of him screamed that he failed to even try.
It all happened too fast; one moment he was spinning Pylia, feeling the heat of passion that had been absent far too long. The next he was being pulled away and locked in a room while his people were Tainted before his very eyes. None of his people talked to him as they crowded around the tables, murmuring the worried prayers of survivors. There would be time for questions after, when it was done. For now, they focused on enlisting the grace of the Gods that survivors yet lived outside those doors. Prayers that they would open them to find it had just been a collective nightmare. That they had all ingested bad wine and their minds shared in some grand delusion.
But hope—that was the real delusion. Goran knew as well as anyone that when the Spores cleared, there would be two things remaining: Dust and Echoes.
Wealth and Madness.
So he did what anyone would do in a moment such as this: he joined the prayers. He prayed to all the Gods. He prayed to Solis to keep his family and his people safe. Then he prayed to Death, to take his people and spare them a worse fate.
“Dust and Echoes.” Then he took a breath and closed his eyes.
***
The sun was gone. The lanterns were lit in the courtyard before the scouts declared it was clear enough for them to leave. Goran barked orders to have the bar lifted from the door immediately. The doors had barely cracked before he shouldered through, sprinting out to search for any signs of life.
He was a fool and admonished himself as such while he trudged through the thickest Alasce deposits he had ever seen. The wealth of it all did not even register in his mind then. Perhaps even in a right state it would have been unfathomable.
Streets blurred together as tears filled his eyes, smearing the harsh beacons of light. Others searched alongside him—other fools. Searching for loved ones. As if they didn’t know. As if they all didn’t know. His disgust for them grew with each failed moment. Why did they think themselves special? That they should not have lost in the same way he had. Irrational thoughts, he knew, but ones he couldn’t be bothered to combat just then.
Then he heard it. Someone yelling his name, a shuffle of feet.
“My Lord,” Captain Ulimar called. “My Lord, come quick! A miracle. There’s been a miracle! Praise Solis.”
Goran followed the guards, not letting himself believe it until his eyes beheld exactly that promise: a miracle. There was not one, but two. Two survivors. A Blessing from the Gods themselves.
Dram’s face was a mask of confusion, pain, exhaustion, and a hundred other terrible things. But his face was still his own. Whole, not Tainted. Unmarred by the toxic kiss of Madness.
The other was not Pylia. That would have been too much to pray for. It would have been selfish. This day, Goran was not the only recipient of a miracle; Ulimar and Nessa would have one as well. And that was more than any of them could have hoped for. It flooded him with relief.
But as that relief washed away his fears, his mind opened up to the questions. Before he could ask the glaring question, he looked down at Dram.
No Spores. No Alasce. Simply a perfect circle of protection.
A day of miracles indeed.
As for those that were lost that day, they had slipped through the grasp of Morous to be taken by another.
Taken away to a fate worse than Death.
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