Rook’s Gambit

Chapter 0 ~ The Screaming Aether

As Varick hung suspended, dizzyingly high by naught but a few mere cables and a seat of leather, cloth, and wood, the wind knived through his fine dinner suit. The tails of his tailcoat flapped straight out in a ninety-degree panic. No one ever talked about the aether, such as that which surrounded him now, as a mad, screaming entity. They always described it as gentle and serene, tickling wispy clouds with feathers made of crisp breezes. But scream it did, past his freezing ears, hysterical with rage. The howling gales, that is. His ears, as far as he knew, had never been hysterical. Varick was glad of the sturdy straps that held his hat close and tight on his head—that, at least, had been a wise choice.

As for the other steps on the path that had landed him in this situation, some of them, he was willing to admit—although, only begrudgingly, even to himself—had, perhaps not been such an impressive showing of forethought, to say nothing of his outright flouting of basic natural laws, like gravity. He felt that particular law taunt him, as he now and again glimpsed the night-shrouded landscape sliding slowly by, far, far below. And it was precisely that sort of thing—taunts—that made him bat away the notion of calling this whole thing off and scuttling back from whence he came. They had led him to where he stood now.

Sideways, and hunched against the buffeting wind.

Another step, Varick told himself. And another. And another. As many as it takes. Feet pressed against an almost sheer wall of metal and glass and wood, he crab-walked at a snail’s pace. Were crabs and snails related? They both had shells, of a kind. The fatuous questions helped distract him from the cold trying to seep into his bones. He said in his head, Keep going, you dapper snail-crab, you. In between cursing the wind, of course. Stars, he sounded like Coal. Which, on balance, was no bad thing.

Pride certainly had its upsides. When he thought back to the things that had been said to him, the way they’d been said, it scorched his insides anew. The anger sizzled against some of the cold, turning it to steam, a fierce propellant.

He. Was Varick. Sodding. Pendragon!

And while he didn’t buy into all that noble blood rot, he knew what he’d endured as he’d run the race of his life. A relatively short fifteen years though it had been thus far, it had contained countless hurdles and caltrops, gleefully thrown before him. He’d come through bruised and scarred, in every way, but come through he had. And he wasn’t done yet.

Ambition too, pride’s sharp sister, had certainly had her part to play. This opportunity to show that he was capable of so much more than they all thought, it was too good to pass up. Ooooh, and how satisfying it would be be to rub upturned noses and simpering faces in his victory.

He was not beguiled by youthful confidence, that delusion of invincibility adults always yammered on about upstart young men being plagued with. Varick felt very vincible indeed as he gripped his cables, currently the only connection between life and death for him. It was a matter of necessity, because he wasn’t alone in this. He needed to take care of his crew, and this was the only way. So he grit his teeth and pressed on.

Out of the Shadows

Into the Fire

Across the Ice

Raven’s Cry