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    The Story Road
    The Story Road
    The Story Road
    Ebook109 pages1 hour

    The Story Road

    By Blaze Ward

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    About this ebook

    Henri sets out across space to find the perfect wood for his violins. However, star travel takes time, as humanity still digs itself out of the Great Darkness.

    On his quest, he gets help both from his shipmates and his muse, the unreachable lady of his dreams. Until his visions lead him to Suvi, the last genie in the last bottle, and they forever alter the course of human civilization.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherKnotted Road Press
    Release dateJun 19, 2015
    ISBN9781513036205
    The Story Road
    Author

    Blaze Ward

    Blaze Ward writes science fiction in the Alexandria Station universe (Jessica Keller, The Science Officer,  The Story Road, etc.) as well as several other science fiction universes, such as Star Dragon, the Dominion, and more. He also writes odd bits of high fantasy with swords and orcs. In addition, he is the Editor and Publisher of Boundary Shock Quarterly Magazine. You can find out more at his website www.blazeward.com, as well as Facebook, Goodreads, and other places. Blaze's works are available as ebooks, paper, and audio, and can be found at a variety of online vendors. His newsletter comes out regularly, and you can also follow his blog on his website. He really enjoys interacting with fans, and looks forward to any and all questions—even ones about his books!

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      Book preview

      The Story Road - Blaze Ward

      Part One: BAYONNE

      One

      "But why do they call it The Story Road," the girl asked him, scrunching her face as she looked up at him, standing now beside the bed.

      That just made her green eyes and dimples even cuter, but Henri could not, for the life of him, remember her name this morning. And when she had sat up in bed and let the sheet fall away from her naked chest, his eyes and his mind wandered out of what little focus he had managed until that moment.

      In a pinch, he let his training take over. After all, what good was a Bard who couldn’t tell tales at the drop of a hat?

      Because all of the stories of our past came from there, love, he purred, letting the words flow out while he carefully tuned his favorite violin, Nyange, named for the city on the planet Zanzibar where it had been made. He should have done that last night, but there had been other needs to attend. "So when I wrote this song, I simply had to call it that. The Story Road."

      All of the stories? she asked in a petite, wondrous voice.

      Looking around, he decided that the girl’s flat might be large enough to hold the sound, but it would echo strangely off the knick–knacks on her shelves, and the woven art hangings on the wall and in the doorway.

      The tune of the strings was right though, finally. His instructor, the old Master, had always insisted that he start each day with song. How else to keep the fingers and mind supple?

      Henri pulled his pants on, but left his shirt and tunic draped across the chair. How had he managed to make them look so neat? Last night, he had been focused much more closely on her clothes than his.

      He caught a reflection of himself in the girl’s antique cheval mirror. He had finally stopped growing and was started coming into his rangy height by adding kilos around the shoulders and chest. All those hours of practice kept him lean, and the girls always appreciated muscles.

      He lifted the violin to his chin as he stood at the foot of her big, comfortable bed, decorated with the pink hearts and unicorns printed on the comforter and smiled. Probably a leftover from her just–passed teen years. Didn’t all girls have a pink phase?

      The first notes were warm and inviting, as befit the ballad he had in his mind this morning.

      The girl scooted to the top of her bed and leaned back against the headboard to listen. She still hadn’t covered up that magnificent chest, although her long chestnut hair was almost adequate. Almost.

      Henri closed his eyes instead and lost himself in the first song he wanted to play. The Story Road.

      Ξ

      That’s so sad, she said as the last quavering notes of the third piece faded, breaking the spell.

      Henri blinked, eyes adjusting again to the bright morning sun coming in through the curtains.

      Sad? No. That last piece was a love song. One more ancient than starflight, if the stories were to be believed, passed down from master to student across millennia from the long–since destroyed Homeworld of galactic humanity.

      But it broke the spell of romance and morning and pretty girls.

      She was just a pretty girl. He was just a Bard. It was morning, and he had much to do today.

      Henri pulled on his shirt and tunic, and tucked the wonderful instrument carefully away.

      She kissed him with a promise of passion that was almost enough to stay another hour, but she had broken the spell, and the kiss wasn’t enough to restore that magic.

      Henri wasn’t sure anything was.

      Ξ

      It was good that the family never ate an early breakfast. Otherwise, Henri would have had to face the day on an empty stomach. He was pretty sure that the antechamber to hell started out that way.

      Father sat at the end of the great table that was capable of seating sixteen if needed. Today, it held four, although it had been set for six.

      Henri was fine with that. They obviously hadn’t expected him home so early, but Sebastien, the middle brother, and his wife were still in their newlywed phase, so they had not come down to breakfast yet.

      Henri took the empty place next to his mother and kissed her on the cheek with a smile. The years had been extremely kind to Emily. In public, she might be mistaken for his older sister, or his date, but never his mother.

      Father lowered the newspaper long enough to study his wayward youngest son intently, accompanied by a harrumph.

      Good morning, Jean–Michel, Henri replied brightly.

      It still felt strange to address his father by his given name, but Father had insisted on the old ways, once Henri had reached his majority. Fortunately, mother was much less strict, except when she was pretending to be his girlfriend on a date, around strangers. But a woman that beautiful was allowed a touch of vanity, wasn’t she?

      Across the table, Gaspard eyed him speculatively, although his wife, Daphne, grinned at him over the edge of a steaming mug before she took a sip.

      I fail to understand, Gaspard began, in that dull, lecturing tone he took when it was the Oldest Brother addressing the Youngest, picking up the argumentative discussion they’d been having every day for a week, why you refuse to simply import the materials you need. Why this difficult trek across deep space?

      Daphne winked at him as her husband spoke.

      Henri fought down a smile. His family deserved a better answer than something flip and trite. It wasn’t their fault that they couldn’t understand him. He was the youngest. Weren’t they always passing strange?

      Dear brother, Henri replied, while I appreciate the sentiment, and I believe that Baudin & Sons could import quality materials from a variety of worlds, the cost/benefit ratio of materials acquisition would be far too high to justify the semi–random nature of relying on agents in the field to adequately identify the correct components that I need to produce master–craft instruments capable of subsequently bearing the family name.

      Father smiled at that, pleased that his wastrel son had learned something useful about business, seated at this table and learning at his father’s knee.

      Henri wasn’t a businessman. That didn’t make him a fool.

      Gaspard blinked in surprise. Mother and Daphne shared a snort, almost perfectly in unison.

      So instead, you’ll take a wander year to find the perfect wood, the perfect materials? Gaspard’s voice trembled between annoyance and incredulity.

      Henri smiled and paused while an elder woman, his old nanny Kai, emerged from the kitchen and filled his mug with coffee. She had been his other mother, a family retainer for nearly thirty years, so she also kissed him on the top of the head.

      It was so pleasant being home. What fool would decide to set off for the stars, surrounded by such love and luxury?

      Henri could almost see those words in thought bubbles over Jean–Michel and Gaspard’s heads. The women knew better.

      The wander year is for Journeymen, Gaspard, Henri corrected him lightly. "Now that I have achieved my Mastery, I have no other Lord to

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