Rogue Legacy by Jeffrey L. Kohanek (classic reads .txt) 📖

Harman eased the window open, wincing at the squeak that emerged. He poked his head out and found the alley below covered in shadows, the sky above purple – teetering between sunset and nightfall. One leg slipped through the window, his body following as he found a foothold on the vine-covered trellis. Pain shot into his finger, almost causing him to fall. The bloody fingertip found a moment of relief in his mouth as he tried to suck the pain away.

“Stupid thorns,” he muttered.

“Funny. I seem to have no problem with them.” Harman looked down and saw an old woman standing below, her hands on her hips. “Then again, I’m not the one who’s climbing down the trellis in hope of finding trouble.”

Harman sighed and climbed down, dropping the last few feet to land in a crouch.

“You’re old, Grandma Jane. You’re happy living a boring life.”

The woman’s graying eyebrows rose. “You think your life is so bad, then? In your fifteen years, you know all there is to know and you’re ready to conquer the world? Have you learned nothing from the history books I gave you?”

With her arm about Harman, the old woman led him down the alley and toward the front door.

“Since my parents sent me here, I haven’t done anything fun. My entire life was spent preparing for the Academy, but now that I’m to join the school, I realize that I have yet to see or do anything interesting.” Harman stepped through the door as the woman held it open for him. “Besides, I’m tired of studying history. Why do I need to learn about some dusty old king who’s long dead? I want to go out and experience the world.”

Jane scooped the glowlamp from the sconce near the door and shook it, the soft blue light flaring up to light the room. She set the lamp on the kitchen table and pulled out a chair.

“Please sit, Harman,” his grandmother beckoned. “I’ll pour us each a cup of tea.”

Harman dropped into the chair, his shoulders slumping as he sulked. When his grandmother returned to the table, she set a steaming cup before him and sat at the opposite chair.

“Believe it or not, I remember what it was like to be your age. The world is full of possibilities for you yet, a series of adventures waiting for you to find them.” Jane nodded with a bemused look on her face. “As for history, there’s a fair bit you can learn from it. You might find it less painful to discover what others have gleaned from their mistakes rather than making every mistake yourself. I’m sure you’ll make enough of them, regardless. Issal knows I did.”

“I get it.” Harman tilted his head backward, running his hands from his forehead and through his black hair. “But studying is so boring.”

The old woman frowned, her amber eyes meeting Harman’s. If not for the surrounding lines, one would find that their eyes mirrored one another. Harman took after his grandmother. Everyone told him so.

“Perhaps a story will help to provide perspective.” Jane took a sip of tea, grimacing. “It needs a squeeze of lemon,” she sighed. “However, they’re out of season, and we are far from the ocean.” She set the cup down. “The tale I’m about to tell you is quite old. It’s a tale of sorrow, a tale of adventure, and a tale of wonder. Despite the outlandish nature, I assure you that this is what really happened. It includes the details that history forgets – and sometimes details make all the difference.

“Let’s see…where to begin?” Jane put her finger to her chin as her mouth twisted in thought. “In the country of Vinacci, in a city called Vinhagus, there lived a girl…no. No, that’s too early.” Her brow furrowed for a moment before her eyes lit up. “I know. Let’s start in Vingarri instead.” The old woman’s gaze shifted outward, staring toward something distant, something Harman couldn’t see.

“Picture yourself as a starfetch, soaring high above the Sol Mai Ocean, your wings stretched wide as you float on the never-ending ocean breeze. You tilt your body, wings extended as the wind carries you toward a city overlooking a sheltered bay. You circle, slowly descending toward rows of houses stacked on the hillside, strewn along a zigzagging dirt roadway that connects the castle at the top with the bustling harbor below.

“A haunting melody captures your attention as you near the rooftops, the beauty of the sorrowful tune luring you in. Downward you spiral, irresistibly drawn to the music. The enchanting tune grows louder as you near its source – the first-story window of a house nestled halfway up the cliffside.

“You flutter your orange-streaked wings and settle on the sill to find two people within. One, a middle-aged man with dark wavy hair and a bushy mustache that hides his upper lip. The other person, you discover, is the source of the mesmerizing song.

“Blurred fingers masterfully stroke lute strings that accompany the haunting lilt of her voice. With black hair and eyes like amber pools in the light of the setting sun, the girl’s face portrays the emotion of her song. Beneath a sleeveless dress of pale blue, you notice that she retains a frame more common to someone younger than her fifteen summers might suggest.

“Unable to restrain yourself, you begin to tweet along, providing harmony to the aria. Pointing your tiny beak toward the reddening sky, you lose yourself in the emotion of the song, swaying to the rhythm of the melody. Far too soon, the song reaches its conclusion, the last remnants of the final strum remaining in the air, the music refusing to accept its fate…until it is swallowed by the sound of crashing waves, far below. With the melodic spell broken, you take flight to return to your nest for the evening.”

“Very good, Lyra,” the man said as he dried his eyes. “Very good, indeed. I believe your skills are now beyond mine, leaving me with little I can teach you.”

“Thank you, Father.” Lyra responded, wiping the sweat from her brow with the back of her hand. “Does that mean I can finally play for an audience?”

Her father grunted. “The inns that might allow you to play are no place for a young lady like yourself.” He stood and held his hand toward her. “I shall seek you an audience a bit more refined. There are options between playing in a tavern and playing for Queen Iglesia.”

As she handed the lute to him, she smiled. “Really? You promise?”

Taking the lute, her father smiled in return. “Yes. I’ll find you something soon.” He lifted the instrument over his head as he slid the strap over his shoulder. “But now, I must go to the castle. The Queen has guests tonight and I’m to perform,”

Lyra stood, smoothing her skirt. “Do you know who the guests are?”

He stared at Lyra as he considered a response. “I’m not sure. Some duke or baron, I suppose.” He slid his hat into position and stepped to the door. “I expect I’ll be back late, so don’t wait up for me. Keep the door locked, and I’ll see you in the morning.”

Lyra nodded. “Goodnight, Father.”

With a final nod toward his daughter, he slipped out the door, pulled it closed, and used his key to secure the bolt.

Lyra stared at the door, listening as the key slid into the lock, clicked into place, and was withdrawn. She moved toward the open window and peeked her head out to survey the street outside. When she saw the back of her father’s green cloak heading uphill, a smile crossed her face. After closing and locking the window, she bolted to the stairwell.

Reaching the second floor, she ducked into her room and stripped down to her shift. The movement in her vanity mirror caused her to pause, turning as she held her shift tight to her stomach and examined her reflection. She frowned at the athletic figure in the mirror, one that appeared too much like a boy. A sigh slipped free. The women in Vinacci tended toward voluptuous and she envied their curves. Perhaps her body might blossom as she matured. For now, she would use her physique to her advantage.

Lyra loosened the buckles of the sheath strapped to her thigh and set it on the bed. She shifted to the foot of her bed, bending to open her storage chest and removed a