Foretold Betrayal: A New Fantasy Adventure Set Within Kyron's Twisted Worlde.

Acknowledgments

Wow! I finally get to thank all the wonderful people who helped me during this leg of my life journey. It's a wonderful place to be looking at the completed book. When I do I see a line of faces and names lined up like a series of dominoes. There is no way I could include everyone in this section as sometimes a simple question on a completely unrelated topic spurred a new direction, or scene, for Foretold. If I've somehow left you out of this list and you feel you deserve credit, please, please, please write me. It's a massive oversight due to the length of time it's taken to write this book.

A huge thanks goes to my test readers, without whom the book would still be a word document. Special thanks to Constance Epperson, Crystal Thompson, Tiffany Corell, Sandra Wolbert, Karen Swaty, Tom Stiles, Kellie Stone, Vickie Stephenson, Sylinda Chowning, Jennifer Thompson, Heather Vaughan, Jenny Daugherty, Kim Franco, Rob Stretz, Susan Bastin, Lee Hunt, Matthew Wispinski, Doug Lawrence, Rick Haga, James Taylor, Harrison Brook, Karin Rochelle, and Nathan Thompson for their encouragement and constructive criticism. Thank you for keeping me on track when things didn't make sense but most importantly expressing your love for the characters and concepts of Kyron's Worlde. For technical advice concerning survival tactics and techniques I must thank David Tilton.

I must give a special thanks to my daughters: Tiffany Corell, who allowed me to read the book aloud to her, not once but twice, and Crystal Thompson, who read the whole thing for me more times than I can count.

My thanks to any and everyone who has contributed towards editing. You found mistakes my tired eyes had looked past. Two people in particular helped me see the book in a different light. Constance Epperson, my mother, has been with me throughout this entire journey, walking through the book with me and pointing out each flaw as well as what really worked. Her insight and moral support have been invaluable. Patricia Bates edited only a few chapters but had I found her sooner this book would have been on the market much faster. You can thank her for making the book more interesting by teaching me to make tells into shows in a way that made sense.

How fortunate I have been to conspire with artists of such marvelous caliber who have not only read my books but also understand the feel of Kyron's Worlde and his peoples. For the original cover art of the first book a huge thanks goes to Karen Swaty, who also designed the Kyron's Worlde logo and helped in finding just the right fonts for my books. I have Mark Hardman to thank for the foreground art of the second book. He was also my technical artistic help, digital hair dresser, and turned my rather erratically scribbles of a map into something enjoyable. Also a special thanks to Nerys Evans for the use of his font and Janka Urminska for the use of her forest fog background.

For help with creating the monetary system and making the map distances realistic I have to thank Tom Stiles, a very special friend who has an intriguing array of odd information stored within that genius brain of his. For help with 'the foretelling' ballad my thanks goes to Tom Stiles and Rachel Kovak.

Thanks also to Michael R Hicks, Scott Lang, Bethany Halle, Michelle Phillips, and Molly Wens for technical publishing advice and encouragement!

E.S. Tilton Bio

E.S. Tilton’s voracious hunger for all things fantasy was birthed at the age of eleven while reading The Hobbit.  For the next 47 years she continued feeding that thirst with thousands of books.  She also raised three children, spent ten years making people’s homes beautiful with paint, and indulged in numerous roleplaying games.

One perfectly normal morning in 2008, E.S. Tilton awoke from sleep with a dream that haunted her, begging to be written.  That dream is Kyron’s Worlde.  She invites you to step into her mind, where not everything is as it seems.

Llayentia Map

A full size, printable, map is available at: http://sexyfantasyfiction.com/maps.php

Foretold: Betrayed By Desire

An Es Tilton, Kyron's Worlde Creation

"The conscience mind is a stone skipping across the liquid fabric of reality. "

Xoltern Prigseth

Frevellian Seven Mouthpiece of 711 BB

Author's Note

We start our adventure with prologues. Yes prologues. With an S. As in multiple. Not one, but five, to be exact. Like most prologues, they are not essential to the core of the story. That means you can skip them. However, if you find yourself struggling with the appearances of the races or wondering why they harbor such animosity towards other races you may want to give them at least a quick skimming. Besides they introduce some of the primary characters of Kyron's Worlde. And I wrote them. What could be better than that? Did I hear someone say chocolate? Okay, you got me on that one. Sex is better too. And...oh never mind.

A note concerning the italicized parts. All mental thoughts are italicized. Kyron's Worlde includes psychics who deliberately, and sometimes not so deliberately, send thoughts. I've chosen to differentiate those thoughts with this symbol: ~

A psychic thought, deliberately sent, will look like this:

~Read more ES Tilton books, read more ES Tilton books, they're good for you!~

All other thoughts will look like this:

Foretold sure does rock...I should tell people about the series.

Prologue One

The dark pools of Ishk’s eyes slid with self-satisfied triumph over the seven females waddling in. They moved awkwardly, some cradling distended stomachs as though the sheer weight of what they carried were a burden too difficult to bear. He stalked down the line of women, smiling in derision at the way they cringed as he drew near. Soon he would have his pawns. Raised from birth. Raised to do his will alone. Not influenced by the weak pathetic peoples of Llayentia. Not raised to respect Kyron, or his precious worlde. He spat at the thought of Kyron, his mind so engulfed in rage that he didn’t notice the way the women gasped at the sudden movement.

With a muffled whimper, the glidarth’s legs buckled, scraping already bruised knees. She froze in her struggles to rise when he stopped, an insignificant creature caught in the gaze of a predator. A low growl of satisfaction escaped the straight line of his blackened lips. Slits of animalistic eyes widened into dark pools moments before his hand shot out to grasp her ebon hair. He gave it a rough jerk, sending the woman sprawling forward onto her hands. Sudden tears landed with heavy splats onto the stone pavement beneath her head, but she didn’t fight. She didn’t dare.

With an abrupt rake of a single clawed fingertip, he sliced through the fabric of her simple robe, baring her scar-laced back. Tracing his claw lightly over the two largest scars, he savored the shudder of dread that passed through her body before pressing the ragged point into still tender flesh. A moan escaped taunt lips, rising to a wail of pain, as fingers dug into the indents, which had once housed her wing joints.

Music…his thoughts purred out with pleasure. And a lesson to all within his fortress; none attempted escape without paying a price, not even one valuable enough to carry his seed.

~Music,~ this time projecting the thought-word into the minds of every subject within the hall.

Ishk's barbed tongue snaked out to taste the agony emanating from the glidarth. His nostrils widened, drawing in the pain that hovered on the air like the sweet scent of honeysuckle in spring. Glancing up from the writhing woman, he embraced the look of sheer terror on the faces of the other females. Their horrified thoughts rolled in a wave through his mind, mixing with the glidarth's, adding exponentially to his pleasure. He bared the sharp points of his teeth in something that was more grimace than smile. They averted their eyes from his penetrating stare, unwilling to draw his attention. Unwilling to risk punishment such as he had doled out on this...

Feeble glidarthian lamb, he thought with contempt.

Abruptly releasing the woman’s shoulders he grasped her long tresses, drawing the woman to her feet.

Stand. His low guttural voice was harsh in the near silence of the room.

Tears streaming down her face, she staggered forward, catching her balance as he let go. He felt the internal tension of her trembling muscles as they cried out under the heavy load of her pregnancy. She would not be able to hold the position for long.

No matter. It will be over soon.

His eyes strayed down her body past the mound of flesh which housed his seed to the trickles of blood that ran from her knees before returning to rest on her glidarthian face. She had been comely when they captured her. His free hand moved in an almost caress across her cheek. She froze, terror racing through her blood. He took in her thoughts with satisfaction, adding to the dread by leaning in as though to kiss. Just shy of her lips he stopped, aware of the hammering of her heart, of the scream that raced frantically through her mind.

She's nothing but a pathetic rabbit seeking escape from a snare. My snare.

His gaze captured her frightened eyes, daring her to pull away while the hand which had almost tenderly cupped her cheek traveled down her neck. Her thoughts shrieked so loudly he was tempted to strike, to give her something to scream about. Barely, he restrained himself. She remained frozen under his hand as he ripped the fabric away from milk heavy breasts. His rough fingers grasped, pulling at those breasts till she gasped out in pain at the pressure of nails against bare skin. Finally he looked down. The tip of his tongue slid over the pointed edges of teeth as he considered adding more puncture wounds to the multitude of tiny dots covering them. Scars created with deliberate slow pleasure as he took her the night he’d ripped the wings from her back. Living proof that she belonged to him. Was forever marked as his. Releasing her breasts so abruptly she staggered and almost fell, he walked across the room to stare down at the game table.

Seven children. I've seen it. Seven to lead this world into destruction. My children.

He was determined they would be his. Determined he alone would control the outcome. As a twisted smile settled onto his face the women across the room reached for each other’s hands, knowing that anything which made this monster smile foretold evil. Glaring at them from under furled brows, he let his power move towards them, towards their unborn children.

Would these be the ones?

The others, they had failed him. Their short lives completely unworthy of his seed. Lacking power or drive or even enough of the skill to survive the simple tests he put before them. Most before they could walk. He frowned, though the power allowed him to see much he could not see the ones who would be his. His children. His pawns. His tools of destruction. With a sudden decisive movement he scooped up the bits of colored glass on the table and dropped them into a stone bowl. No matter. It was enough to know that one day he would have them.

His dark eyes shifted to the women across the room. Seven feeble lambs, one from each of the tribes of men. All with traces of the gift but none with enough power to resist. All pathetically holding hands as though this alone could protect them. The corner of his lip lifted in a sneer. Weaklings all, unworthy to raise his children. No matter, none of them would survive. Time for this stage of the game to end. With a flick of his hand all seven women cried out, grasping their stomachs as an excruciating contraction sent them lurching forward and amniotic fluid gushed from between their legs. Ishk strode from the room without a glance, leaving their care to the attendants.

Within the hour seven worthless bodies would lie in graves and seven tiny infants would cradle within his halls. His seven. His tools.

Prologue Two

As the pink blush of alumoon blossoms blanketed the trees the Peoples of the Tri-Land gathered together for the annual celebration of the new year. Winter’s fierce breath had come and gone in one last blast of icy cold, taking with it the unfulfilled desires of the previous year. Life poured into the land with enthusiastic bursts of cheerful green, infusing the seven races of Llayentia with joy. It was a time of celebration, a time of new beginnings.

A kaleidoscope of bright colored tents, booths, and people lay sprinkled across the petal strewn meadows of the Unity Clearing. From tent to tent and person to person, greetings and gifts were cheerfully given and received. Showers of petals drifted softly to the ground like fragile slivers of cotton-candy confetti. Glidarth’s whirled through the sky in complex maneuvers, their brilliant wings mirroring the festivities below.

Wagons bedecked with ribbons streamed into the clearing, bringing with them exotic wares from faraway places. Traditional favorites and delightful new flavors were sampled along with stories of the passing year’s triumphs. Bards traversed the field carrying tales of long ago and singing ballads for the highest bidder. Lovers, entwined in gentle caresses, gazed into each other’s eyes, renewing heartfelt promises of eternal love.

Zarum, appointed seer for the Glidarth, took in the merriment with wistful yearning while gliding towards a wide balcony specifically designed with his people in mind. His festival dyed wings pulled in as he landed with a running step. Although he wouldn't get to join the festivities right away he smiled. Life was good and the Peoples of the lands knew it. He knew it. Jauntily starting towards the meeting halls, he checked himself in midstep. A sudden foreboding chill grasped his spine. Numbness spread upwards from that stabbing cold towards his brain before he cut off the connection with...

Who?

He pivoted to stare down at the celebration that not only sealed the ancient ties between the seven races of men but served as a gentle reminder for them to reconnect with their god, Kyron. A steady stream of traffic filtered into the tents for the various religious sects; mingling with colorful pavilions carrying goods of a less spiritual sort. Zarum allowed his mind to skim the surface of thoughts, flitting from one group to another, searching for the source of evil which surely walked among the people.

Nothing. No sign. Everything was as it should be.

He shrugged broad shoulders against the pervasive chill before turning away. Perhaps he had imagined it. Long trips under the heat of the sun were said to addle the brain. Walking once again towards the meeting place, he stretched the ache of the journey from his wings. After the long trip he was glad to finally rest them. Pulling pale green wings tight against the lean muscles of his back, he stepped through the low arched doorway, entering a labyrinth of caves. Arch shaped openings, crafted in the distant past, led into the Seven’s traditional meeting place. Their only adornment, time-worn intertwining spirals of primitive design, invited touch. He paused a moment, allowing his azure flecked eyes to adjust to the soft light of the torches flickering along the walls of the room.

These caves remain as they have for eons…he ran his hand over the edge with appreciation for the natural stone. Simple…mostly unworked by the hands of man…as Kyron intended.

He strolled past the break-fasting table where piles of fruit, meat, and nuts invited consumption. His stomach rumbled its agreement. Placing his unity gift near an empty spot in the center he savored the satisfying way the silver bowl, filled with exotic fruits, shone softly in the low light. Zarum stretched his aching wing muscles once again at the memory of the extensive flight it had taken to gather those fuzz covered delicacies. Moving at a languid pace towards the far end of the overburdened table, he gave the appointed seat a leery stare.

~As usual I’m the first one here,~ he sent while seating himself on the cushioned edge.

~Guard that food with your life,~ Sulansthia jested.

~And you thought we chose you to head up the proceeds based on your negotiating abilities,~came Lillium’s lighthearted response.

Zarum’s heart raced in anticipation as he felt the teasing smile in her words. He knew better of course. He hadn't been chosen because he excelled at negotiating. It was the year of the Gildarth; his race’s turn to be the mouthpiece of the Seven.

Zarum shifted, uncomfortable in the formal high back chair, then switched it out with a lesser x-stool from the edge of the garland bedecked cave. He supposed this was why they put the extra chairs in the cavernous room, since there were only the seven of them. Always had been, and always will be. Seven seers, sent to represent the seven tribes of men. Sprawling, content now, in the lower-backed chair, he allowed his wings to fan open.

They turned out fantastic this year, he admired the fine leaflike veins that had been painted on.

The unfurling spring leaf design was, without a doubt, the best he’d ever gotten. The expensive artisans who had forced him to sit for hours while they painstakingly dyed his leathern wings were well worth the extra d’yroap. Even the brown velvet tunic and matching pants they had provided faultlessly accentuated the leafy design. A creamy bloused poet’s shirt swirled around his wrist in loose ruffles, adding contrast and dramatically playing up his swarthy countenance. He flicked at the lace, watching the way the tiny glints of metal beads caught the light. Long slender fingers, bedecked in glittering metal rings, plucked a nearby lemon striped grape and popped it into his mouth.

~Mmmmmm, the carlt grapes are sweet and tangy this year,~ he tantalized the late comers, letting them feel the burst of pleasure he experienced as he bit into another one. ~It’ll be a good year for wine if this keeps up.~

~Zarum! You’re making my stomach growl!~ came K’lammat’s sharp reply.

~Precisely the point my quick friend,~ he shot back sardonically. ~Best hurry before I finish off all the good stuff.~

Sulansthia entered the room at that moment, Lillium’s petite hand casually resting in the crook of his elbow. Sulansthia laughed in a low rumble at whatever Lillium had shared, his amber eyes crinkling in delight. Zarum took him in for a bare fraction of a second—bare-chested again, a tribal hero in the flesh—before moving on to Lillium’s perfect figure. She, a tiny snow princess in an elegant bead encrusted gown, sparkled white in the torchlight.

What a pair those two make, Zarum’s mind privately moved to the mistaken whispers concerning the two. Some believed they were to wed. He knew better.

If she leaves the Seven for anyone…it’ll be for me, Zarum's musings turned possessive.

Sulansthia sat heavily in the seat next to him, his muscular sharpra body dwarfing the chair. It creaked as he leaned forward to take one of the petite carlt grapes. ~He’s right, they really are delicious,~ he sent after popping one into his mouth. Leaning forward with a grin, he bashed forearms with Zarum in traditional Sharpra style.

How are you? Zarum’s voice was rich and deep, the voice of one comfortable with himself.

Sulansthia shrugged one massive shoulder, Prrretty good—all things considerrred—harrrd winterrr this yearrr.

Lillium seated herself with restrained poise on Zarum’s other side, forgoing the Freni-Kyn kiss of greeting. Well it can’t have been too difficult. You seem to have had no problem hunting. Did you catch that one? She gestured towards the spotted cloak he had slung over the back of his chair. Lillium, like the rest of the Freni-Kyn race, held a high interest in a clothing styles and types. A gown design based on the graduated spot pattern had already begun forming in her head.

Remembering, Sulanstia reached into an inner cloak pocket of the cloak to withdraw a handful of tribal necklaces; pointed claws gleaned from his own hunting trips and polished till they shone. Among them a solitary necklace of triangular wooden slivers stood out. He plunked them down in the center of the table without ceremony. No need to tell anyone who the carved one was for. K’lammat, a vegetarian like the rest of the M'hakru race, would never wear something made from animal parts.

Lillium watched, unable to help but admire the way Sulanstia’s chest hairs entwined the matching string of claws he wore around his muscular neck. Leaning forward with controlled grace, her delicate fingers chose a necklace from the jumbled mass. Knowing their primitiveness contrasted oddly with her shimmering gown she put it on anyway. In turn, she opened a bead encrusted pouch to retrieve six tiny vials. Among the Freni-Kyn, her people, scent was the most prized gift worthy of giving or receiving.

Zarum watched the way her pure white hair swayed about her heart shaped face as she placed them next to his bowl of fruit. Everything about her entranced him. Pale hair floating languorously, each delicate filament throwing off occasional sparks of light. Inch long white eyelashes with tiny dots on the tips resembling butterfly antennas. Full peach colored lips, all but begging to be kissed. Perfect hour glass figure… At that dangerous train of thought he hastily shut the speculative thinking down. He didn’t need that type of temptation. Not as a Seven.

His mind shifted to his first encounter. The sheer psychic force of her passion for dance, and as though that hadn't been enough, the first time she walked in the room...

Kyrrron’s bells, don’t encourage herrr! Sulansthia exclaimed. She alrrready has a big enough head.

Zarum shut down his mental ruminations with a mental jerk, wondering how much they had overheard.

Lillium smiled broadly, enjoying the attention without a word. Men were drawn to her. She had long since grown used to the bombarding energies, even reveled in them most of the time. After all she was an entertainer first and foremost. Performers need an audience. That hers watched because of physical appearance instead of dancing abilities didn’t bother her in the least.

A spicy-sweet smell wafted through the room, rescuing Zarum from any further embarrassment by drawing all attention to the doorway. Stooping his angular form to avoid the low curve of the arch, Ellerinth entered. Exquisite specimens of breal blossoms swayed with each step as the frevell man carried an overfull container to the table. Against the contrast of those graceful spiraling stalks his strict black suit stood out in stark relief. The expensive fabric, its singular artistic touch, shone aquamarine when the light caught it.

Clapping her hands with delight Lillium leaned over the lime green spires, flashing them with a glimpse of her ample bosom. She closed her eyes, drawing in the delicious scent before turning to hug the frevell in a rare act of enthusiasm. Not that she wasn't enthusiastic towards other people, just not him. All the way from the Western Frevell Reaches! Wonderful Ellerinth, absolutely wonderful!

Discomfited, Ellerinth gulped and averted his eyes while his sculpted features reddened at the compliment. In a nervous gesture he was completely unaware of making he tugged down the edge of his suit. His head jerked out a nod as though the muscles were controlled by someone else. Stiffly striding to the seat next to Sulansthia, he didn't bother hiding disdainful thoughts concerning Lillium's disconcerting lack of inhibitions.

Lillium giggled, quite enjoying the perceived compliment.

Not that she ever actually did anything with anyone…not that any of us did. That would mean risking death…or worse…insanity, Zarum’s private mulling turned somber.

Zarum shifted his attention to Ellerinth, whose behavior mystified him.

He’s the oldest of us all…almost sixty…yet he acts like an awkward schoolboy.

Though he grasped that Ellerinth had in fact the mental age of a twenty year old with a youthful body to match, it still created a paradox in Zarum’s mind. Zarum shook his head, unable to fathom what it must be like to live sixty years before being considered an adult. Why, the frevell had been a Seven for over fifteen years. He had already found, and begun training, his replacement.

Guessing he did that because of the whole maturity thing...might not be so eager to release his seat now that he’s come of age.

Distracted by an intense itching sensation across his shoulders Zarum's hand began to lift but he checked the movement. The feeling wasn't his own. Jerking as though bitten, Sulanstia reached up to scratch at the three inch long ruff of banded hair growing along his shoulder. Unsatisfied he turned to scrubbing his back against the chair. The strip of hair running from the nape of his neck to a point ending at the small of his back itched intolerably. The others shifted uncomfortably. Feeling the intensity of the itching he suffered from, they all resisted a compulsive urge to scratch their own shoulders and backs.

How do you deal with it? Lillium’s voice was laced with compassion. The spring molting would drive me crazy.

He shrugged again but stopped when he heard Lillium’s thoughts concerning his well-muscled shoulders. Swallowing he said, I brrrush, and brrrush, and brrrush. Would you mind keeping scrrrutiny of my body to a barrre minimum Lilly? I haven’t got a rrreplacement yet and don’t need to take the mating temptation home with me. They all understood how he labored to avoid the single women of his home village who were trying to tempt him into bonding. His trips for a replacement had been fruitless. None held enough of the gift to be considered worthy of becoming a Seven.

Lillium nodded her understanding while the rest of the Seven sent out waves of mental discomfort. They hated the way these two races talked of sex as though it were the most natural thing in Llayentia. Though the Sharpra and Freni-Kyn held vastly different views on what was appropriate behavior they were not opposed to sitting down for long-drawn-out debates on the subject.

They heard Epherema’s mind before seeing her. Lillium found it reminiscent of water running over pebbles and the others sent their agreement. She moved into the room on slippered feet, hesitant, silent, eyes shifting from turquoise to pale yellow in embarrassment at the comparison.

Nearly as tall and lean as a Frevell, Zarum concluded. And more strikingly foreign.

Almond shaped eyes outlined in varying shades of dark blue patterns created an even more exotic cast to her Watrelk face. Though the blue colorations resembled inkings he knew they were a part of her skin. Her gown, with its deeply cut diagonal bottom edge and heavy overlay of iridescent beads, shimmered cool in the torchlight.

Epherema that gown is perfect. Absolutely perfect! There couldn’t have been a better color with your hair. Lillium stood to give her friend a tender embrace. She tucked back the violet hair Epherema hid behind. Cascades of overlapping pearl strands dripped from multiple piercings running along the outer edge of her double-tipped ears.

Epherema glanced for a split second into Lillium’s face. Her lips rounded to a soft smile before her eyes dropped back to the ground. Of all the seven she had been the hardest to become acquainted with; even her surface intellect hid behind the natural shyness of her race, the Watrelks.

Epherema looked towards the rest of the people at feasting table. She started to move forward then hesitated before finding some inner well of resolve. Gliding to the table, she laid a huge bowl-sized shell down. Entranced by the liquid fluidity of her movements, they watched as she pulled aside the protective wrapping to reveal a bulky pile of shrimp. The crustaceans were easily as large as her long slender hands. Her blush at their psychic wave of appreciation caused the blue marks surrounding her eyes to deepen; turning not quite black before fading.

Sulansthia slapped his muscular abdomen in approval as a loud growl of hunger went up from it, then turned to glare at Lillium.

Spreading her hands palm up the universal 'how can I help it' gesture, she sent on a tight band, ~If you don’t want me thinking about your body so much wear more clothing.~

He rolled his eyes at the ridiculous recommendation. What need had he, a Sharpra, of excess layers of clothing? I’m starrrving! Wherrre arrre K’lammat and Marrrna?

Marna’s sturdy form answered from the doorway, I’m here, and he’s late—again. You’d think the race known for its quick reflexes would be the first one here. And yet, every single year, without fail, he’s late. Marna strolled with quiet confidence to the table. He shoved at the blond unruly hair falling forward over his eyes without thinking, exposing the high forehead of an average H’euman face. As usual, believing that every day should be a celebration of life, he wasn't dressed for the year beginning meeting. He wore the same sturdy clothing that he wore every single day: the blackened leather apron over a roughly woven shirt and pants befitting his station as a blacksmith.

Realizing that she had never seen him without the apron, Lillium wondered if he was hiding behind it, if the rugged leather length somehow made him feel more secure in his manliness.

Marna’s slate-gray eyes flitted to her face as he replied back in a tight beam of thought, ~I heard that. And no I’m not. I’m plenty secure in my…manliness. It’s just comfortable.~

Instead of being embarrassed, like most of them would have been at the leak of a