The Shadow Princess: A Stone Veil

Novel (Chronicles of the Stone Veil

Book 6) Sawyer Bennett
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The Shadow Princess
Chronicles of the Stone Veil

SAWYER BENNETT
The Shadow Princess
Chronicles of the Stone Veil

SAWYER BENNETT
The Shadow Princess is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used
fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2022 by Sawyer Bennett

Kindle Edition

All rights reserved.

Find Sawyer on the web!

sawyerbennett.com
www.twitter.com/bennettbooks
www.facebook.com/bennettbooks
The Shadow Princess is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used
fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2022 by Sawyer Bennett

Kindle Edition

All rights reserved.

Find Sawyer on the web!

sawyerbennett.com
www.twitter.com/bennettbooks
www.facebook.com/bennettbooks
 TABLE OF CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright Page

Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Epilogue
About the Author
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Epilogue
About the Author
 CHAPTER 1
Bastien

THE GARDEN OF the Gods crackled with magic as Bastien Dunne entered it, leaving behind the clang
of swords and the hissing of attack spells. His own powers—normally humming on a low frequency
—sparked hot as he stepped foot into the circle before settling again. As innate to him as his own
heartbeat, the warrior caste magic passed down through his bloodline was something he often took for
granted.
It was there, and he knew how to use it for attack or defense.
Just as he knew how to gut a man ten different ways with his sword.
As he moved deeper into the garden, a sacred space meant for reflection and peace, the sounds of
battle training receded. Bastien was tired after a long day and was sick of trying to mold young men
into hardened soldiers just so he could send them out to die.
At the center of the park, a large pressian tree rose from the ground. Its thick trunk split at the base
into several arms that grew up and outward to form a protective arch over much of the garden.
Smooth of bark, the wood was the color of bleached bone, the leaves a deep purple threaded with
glowing veins of misty white. The tree served as a sign of strength in the land, withstanding dry heat,
humidity, or ice, depending on what region of Vyronas you traveled.
The pressian also had delicate qualities, growing fragile, five-petaled flowers that felt like silk
and tore just as easily. They not only perfumed the air but were used for many healing potions and
even spells that required the paradox of strength and vulnerability.
Not that Bastien had experience with that. His magic was very particular to what he was—a
soldier.
No, that wasn’t quite right.
He was the commandant of an army that was being decimated, and he was out of options.
Around the perimeter of the pressian tree, but still falling under the canopy of shimmering leaves,
stood five stone statues representing each of the five gods. They were life-size, each figure clothed in
robes and one-shouldered cloaks that hung to the ground. Three women and two men—all referred to
as gods regardless of gender—were once called the Infinites because they had always been so.
At least according to legend.
Gardens such as these were all over the realm of Vyronas, allowing respite for weary travelers
who wanted to pray and seek help from their gods.
This space was built only seven years ago when the army of Kestevayne settled into the valley
and built what was supposed to be a temporary village until they could defeat Ferelith.
The evil sorceress was an unknown, rising to power through murder and blood magic. She used
blood oaths to garner soldiers and summon demons from the Underworld, and with her immense
powers, she swept through the capital city of Kestevayne right into the palace where she killed the
king and queen.
Ferelith had magics no one had seen before because it was banned in Vyronas. She gleefully bled
 victims to increase her power and systematically brought Vyronasians under her boot heel by
conquering the other regions around the capital. It had been a long seven years of skirmishes, battles,
death, and resilience. Bastien and his army made it one step forward for every two steps they were
thrown back, and he had little left to offer his people.
And yes, they were his people, for now. With the rightful ruler of Vyronas in hiding for her safety,
he was the one who held it all together. Some of the other royal houses were too fearful of Ferelith
and swore fealty to avoid death and destruction. Those who tried to fight her usually perished.
ng Some royal houses in outlying cities had held out, but that was merely because Ferelith’s forces
cyhad not ventured that far yet.
wn She’d eventually get to them. She wouldn’t be satisfied until every single subject of Vyronas paid
orsole homage to her or died in their refusal.
Bastien walked around the statues, easily identifying them by sight. The sculptor had done an
exceptional job.
There was Circe, the god of Fate, which included free will and destiny. She was not someone
ofBastien routinely prayed to. He was of the firm opinion you made your own path in life by reasoned
endecision.
Veda was the god of Humanity, which included love, hate, and virtue. Rumors purported she had
sesilver eyes, but no one knew for sure. She was as much myth as potential reality. Their likenesses had
n.been memorialized over time in books, paintings, and statues like this, though, and thus were
threcognizable.
at, Next to Veda stood Rune, the formidable god of Life, which conversely meant he ruled death as
well. He was the steward of the Underworld—and the most feared of them all.
lk Bastien’s favorite god, Onyx, was next. She was the god of Conflict, which included both war and
ndpeace, and the one Bastien prayed to most.
Every night, in fact, to give his men strength, cunning, and skill. He asked for protection over them
—aand for weakness to befall his enemies. Whether Onyx listened, he didn’t know. It certainly felt like
his recent prayers had not been heard if the rising death toll was any indication.
He came upon the last statue—the god of Nature, Cato. His statue stood taller than the others, as it
was rumored he was seven feet tall. He could command all the elements and use them for punishment
es,or grace. The farmers of this world offered gifts of fruit, vegetables, and grains at the base of statues
inthey’d erect in their fields with the hope the gods would bless them with fair weather.
to Those hardworking citizens who tilled the earth had faith in Cato and the other gods.
It was something Bastien sorely lacked right now.
He sat on a bench at the base of the pressian, kicked out his long legs, and leaned back. Head
rstilted, he gazed up into the amethyst canopy above and considered his options. Bastien wasn’t sick at
heart over the losses their side had taken, because he had no heart.
ey Not really.
But he was tired of talking to widows and orphans, trying to explain how their loved one died in a
edwar that seemed never ending and hopeless.
se Folding his hands over his midsection, he closed his eyes and tried to disconnect from it all.
he Just for a little bit.
It was a blissful few seconds, until a sense of danger skittered up his spine, and with no thought
edother than trusting his gut, Bastien flew off the bench and drew his sword, pointing it at the source of
byperil.
es, Standing there, behind the bench where he had been sitting, was a man.
re Reaching out with his senses—soldier honed and magical alike—he quickly realized this wasn’t a
man.
ty, At least not by conventional standards.
th He pulsed with power, although he looked no different from Bastien. He was tall and muscular,
with blond hair not unlike Bastien’s own, although this man’s hair was long—to his shoulders—
eswhereas Bastien wore his cropped close to his scalp.
His clothing was odd, but a style Bastien recognized as coming directly from the First Dimension
idof Earth. Strange for a man—well, something obviously more than a man, for he had powers—to be
dressed in the clothing of a dimension that was ironically known to lack magic.
an Which never made sense to Bastien, since the First Dimension was the original source of most
magic.
ne “Who are you?” Bastien demanded, keeping the tip of his sword aimed at the intruder’s chest. He
edalso powered up a spell in his free hand, ready to launch if needed. It had enough punch to knock the
intruder clear out of the garden if unleashed.
ad The stranger extended his hands, palms out—a universal sign to show lack of harmful intent.
ad“Relax, Commandant Dunne. I’ve come to help.”
re It did not reassure Bastien that this man knew his name and rank, nor that he offered help. He kept
poised in defense. “Come from where? And to help with what?”
as “I come directly from the gods,” he replied smoothly, and that startled Bastien so much his sword
tip dropped an inch. “Namely Onyx, although Veda sends greetings as well.”
nd A slight wave of dizziness passed over Bastien. In all his life, the gods had never given him a
sign, and his faith was never very strong, which kept him wary. This man could be an enemy, using the
mgods in vain. If that were the case, Bastien prayed they struck him dead for his temerity.
ke “My name is Maddox.” The man looked around at the statues and nodded toward the one of Rune.
With a flick of his hand, the stone cracked and fell into pieces before disintegrating to dust that
itdisappeared on a soft breeze. His gaze came back to Bastien. “Rune is no longer the god of Life
ntwhich also meant he governed death. Zora is now your new deity.”
es Bastien’s jaw dropped, for with another wave of his hand, the man created a new statue out of thin
air. This one wasn’t of stone but rather shining gold, and the god was beautiful to behold with long,
flowing hair and jeweled eyes that sparkled with prisms of blue, green, and gold.
Maddox stared at his creation for a moment, a pleased smile curving his mouth before he turned
adback to Bastien.
at “How did it come to be that Rune is no longer a god and there is a new one in his place?” Bastien
puzzled, his curiosity now genuinely piqued, although he was more skeptical than not.
This could be nothing more than fancy magic to gain his trust.
na With a sigh, Maddox glanced at the statue of Zora before bringing his forest-green eyes back to
Bastien. “It’s a long story, but I basically helped prevent a world-ending apocalypse originating in the
First Dimension.”
The First Dimension—sometimes referred to as the Earth realm—was the primary plane of
ghtexistence on this planet. Through the use of magic, other dimensions had been created and were
ofreferred to as AltVeritas. The First Dimension (or Earth realm) was merely the original, but over
 millennia, hundreds of other AltVeritas had been created.
The braggadocio in the man’s tone should have made Bastien doubt him, but weirdly, it only made
t ait seem more real. And it was a shocking reminder that Vyronas only existed if the First Dimension
existed.
World ending meant if the First Dimension was destroyed, every other AltVeritas would die as
ar,well. Vyronas had been created from magic originating in the First Dimension when a meteor struck in
—the middle of Egypt’s Western Desert. It was so inundated with magic that just a tiny stone chipped
from its mass, in the hands of the right people, could create new worlds from nothing but the
onimagination.
be Vyronas was just such an example. It was an entirely separate entity from First Dimension—
existing on its own plane and layered upon countless others created from the stone’s magic. While
ostVyronas existed independently and exclusive of the Earth realm, its heartbeat came from the stone
magic that created it. Vyronas’s life force was still linked to the Earth realm’s primary dimension, and
Heif it ended, so did all dimensions.
he “What happened?” Bastien asked, his warrior instincts wanting to learn all about how such an
event might occur—and be thwarted.
nt. “Kymaris tried to break through the veil into the First Dimension—”
Bastien scoffed. “Kymaris, queen of the Underworld?”
pt “That’s the one,” Maddox replied, snapping his fingers, then pointing at Bastien. “Her nefarious
plan was to tear open the veil so that all her Dark Fae, daemons, and other nasty creatures she created
rdin that cesspool called Hell could pour out and wreak havoc in the First Dimension.”
How in the gods’ names had original inhabitants of the First Dimension managed to repel such an
ainvasion when they were not particularly magical as a whole, nor even aware of such evil below?
heOh, they had their faiths and religions, but they had no clue.
Not really.
ne. All their myths and legends remained just that, with faith in the fantastical bred out by generations
hatof logic, reason, and modernization. No one needed magic as inventions sprang forth from brilliant
feminds, and magical practice unfortunately died out.
“The veil surrounding the Underworld is impenetrable,” Bastien said.
in “But is it really?” Maddox replied, a smirk on his face.
ng, Bastien didn’t really know. Kymaris was an original fallen angel, stripped of her wings after
trying to lead a rebellion against God and cast into the Underworld. She and her brethren became
edknown as Dark Fae but were thought to be powerless to break through the veil separating her world
from the First Dimension.
en But the thing with magic, as Bastien well knew, was that anything was possible.
“How was she stopped?” Bastien asked, abandoning the need to know how she did it and curious
how she was defeated. Perhaps he could glean something to help against Ferelith.
to “A human savior named Finley and her twin sister, Zora—”
he “The same Zora who has taken Rune’s place?” Bastien interrupted.
“The one and only,” Maddox quipped. “They managed to defeat Kymaris with the help of a lot of
ofmagicals. Mostly Light Fae and daemons, a couple of demigods, and even some Dark Fae who didn’t
rewant to be under Kymaris’s thumb any longer.”
er It pleased Bastien to hear that daemons played a role in the defeat of such evil. Vyronas itself was
 founded three thousand years ago by druid-practicing daemons—offspring of Light and Dark Fae—as
dewell as a multitude of humans who inhabited the early creation of Vyronas. He was descended from
ontheir combined blood.
“Anyway,” Maddox continued, gaining Bastien’s full focus again, “Zora and Finley killed
asKymaris, the veil was repaired, Rune was stripped of his powers and imprisoned for interfering in a
inprophecy, and Zora took his place. The First Dimension was saved, and now I’m here delivering a
edmessage.”
he “Quite the lowly drop in duties,” Bastien muttered, still not sure whether to believe this man.
“A request by Onyx to deliver a message is never lowly. It’s always with purpose.”
— This took Bastien aback, as he’d forgotten that the stranger had said he was sent by Onyx, god of
leConflict. That meant if Maddox was legitimately a messenger on behalf of the Council—the formal
nename given to the group of five deities—then it pertained to this never-ending war.
nd But if nothing convinced Bastien that Maddox was indeed sent by the gods to help, his next words
did. “It’s time to retrieve your princess and put her on the throne to become queen.”
an “Thalia?” Bastien asked incredulously, taking an involuntary step backward as if the notion itself
was an enemy to be leery of. “It’s not safe for her.”
“No, it is not,” Maddox agreed, moving around the bench to approach Bastien. He was bothered
neither by the pointed sword nor the power emanating from the commandant. “But it is time, and she
uscan help win the war.”
ed Bastien waited to feel something about Thalia and her possible return, and he got almost nothing.
Perhaps a faint flicker of annoyance that he’d have to change battle plans to retrieve her, but his
anemotions weren’t stirred otherwise.
w? “Time is of the essence,” Maddox announced.
Frowning, Bastien lowered his sword. He sensed Maddox wasn’t a physical threat, but he wasn’t
willing to trust him with this directive yet. “I don’t know you. I don’t know the gods. This could be a
nstrap or a misdirection.”
nt Maddox didn’t seem offended. “I was created by the gods to do their bidding. Sometimes it’s to
fight their wars, sometimes it’s to help others fight their wars. Sometimes it’s just delivering
messages such as this one.”
Bastien’s frown deepened. “Created?”
er The man shrugged. “No clue how that really works. I’m a demigod and nearly as immortal as my
mecreators. I promise I’m here at their behest. And again, time is of the essence.”
ld Bastien shook his head to bring his focus back to the issue at hand. The Conclave had no intention
of bringing Thalia back to Vyronas until Bastien had defeated Ferelith and regained the throne. While
Bastien commanded the army, the Conclave were the magical advisors to the ruling family, and they
ushad his trust.
“If nothing else will get you going,” Maddox drawled as he opened his hand to reveal a ring
resting in his palm, “then this will.”
Bastien cursed as he took in the small golden circle with a dome-shaped top set with a smooth
ofblack oval stone.
n’t Thalia’s ring.
Bastien had no choice but to sheathe his sword, step forward, and retrieve the jewelry from
asMaddox. His teeth were gritted in fury when he asked the demigod, “How long ago did you take this
 asfrom her?”
m “Just before I arrived here,” Maddox replied with a careless shrug.
“You should have started with that,” Bastien snarled, because if that ring wasn’t on Thalia’s
edfinger, then she was in grave danger. It was the source of protective magic that ensured her safety
awhile in the First Dimension. It hid her existence and location in that realm as long as she wore it.
aShe’d been bespelled with compulsion to never remove it, and gods knows how Maddox got it from
her.
Regardless, without it on her finger, Bastien had no choice but to trust the demigod and all that he
had said.
of He turned away, prepared to bend distance to his brother so they could leave to find Thalia.
mal Maddox’s words stopped him. “Veda says you cannot give up on love.”
Whirling to face Maddox, Bastien frowned. “Love?”
ds Maddox nodded. “Love. You and Thalia.”
“There is no love,” Bastien growled. “Tell your god she’s wrong. You can’t give up on something
elfthat doesn’t exist in the first place.”
And with that, Bastien disappeared into thin air.
ed
he * * *

ng.NOT EVERYONE COULD bend distance. It was a magical means of travel within Vyronas, but only those
hishighly skilled in magic could accomplish the feat. Coming from the warrior caste in the House of
Dunne, Bastien had the ability, though he rarely used it.
Only in emergencies, and this was the biggest one he’d ever faced.
n’t The instantaneous method of travel didn’t propel the physical form through time and distance but
arather pulled two separate geographical points together so one could step from one into the other. It
all happened in the blink of an eye, and those experienced in it barely felt a shift in balance.
to It was how Bastien was able to appear at his brother’s bedside within a second of leaving
ngMaddox in the Garden of the Gods.
True… it was midday, and true, there was work to be done with the soldiers, but Kieran was
taking a lunch break with one of the camp followers. A busty redhead who was busy on her knees
mybefore Bastien’s brother.
Always unflappable, Kieran didn’t so much as twitch a muscle at Bastien’s sudden appearance.
onThe woman, however, squealed in fright and scrambled away, trying to cover her nakedness.
le “Get out,” Bastien barked at her.
ey She didn’t need to be told twice. Commandant Dunne was the highest-ranking leader of the
citizens of Kestevayne right now, and until the throne was restored, no one dared to disagree with him
ngabout anything.
Except maybe Kieran.
th “That was rude,” his brother drawled as he tucked himself back into his pants, but he didn’t really
sound put out. The redhead was nothing but a leisurely passing of time for Kieran.
“Thalia’s in trouble,” Bastien said, and Kieran instantly went on high alert. Holding the ring out,
mBastien recounted his meeting with the demigod, Maddox. “I have to go to her now. You’ll stay and
histake over my command.”
 “Fuck that,” Kieran said, ever the wordsmith. “If she’s without that ring, Ferelith has already sent
someone after her. More than one someone, I’m betting. The army won’t fall apart while we’re gone.”
’s Bastien considered that this was probably true, but his instincts as a leader didn’t like leaving his
tyarmy with no guidance. It was antithetical to everything he’d been taught growing up in the warrior
it.caste.
m “It will be a quick in and out of the veil,” Kieran pointed out, referring to that magical barrier that
separated the dimensions. “We won’t be gone long.”
he True enough. Travel through dimensions was too hard for most, but both Bastien and Kieran had
the ability. Not only was their bloodline thick with magic, but it was strengthened by the ley lines that
traversed Vyronas.
When this realm was created from a chunk of the meteor, it had been done by a sect of druid
daemons who, though not overly powerful in any magics themselves, were incredibly smart. They
used the stone’s power to set up a framework of magical ley lines that crossed the land with
ngconcentrated power hubs in the capital cities. Those with magic in their blood used the lines not only
to charge their powers but also to cultivate and grow them with study and practice.
It was how the brothers would travel freely to the First Dimension without the Conclave’s aid.
Not all dimensions were accessible, but the veil between Vyronas and the First Dimension of Earth
was easy to breach.
They could get to Thalia in a matter of seconds, and get her back here where she would be better
se protected. Bastien had no thought to leave her there, even if he installed the ring back on her finger.
ofMaddox had shared enough that Bastien believed the demigod was indeed delivering a missive from
the gods, and he intended to obey it. He’d probably have conflict with the Conclave later for not
discussing it with them first, but there was simply no time to do so.
ut As it stood, Thalia was on her own in a land called Wyoming. He’d only been there once before
Itto set up a home for her to live in peace and safety until she could be brought back to Vyronas. Seven
years ago, Bastien had helped the Conclave perform a ritual against Thalia’s will, stripping her of her
ngmemories and implanting fake ones in their place. A whole lifetime of falsities she would use to
remind herself she lived a placid existence in a remote region of the First Dimension. They even
asprogrammed her to never want to leave the tiny horse ranch Bastien had acquired. Thalia loved
eshorses more than just about anything, and he’d wanted her to be happy.
When she’d realized she was being sent away against her will, oh, how she’d hated him.
e. But then he made her forget that too.
Bastien was now going to have to bring her out of that false reality she’d been living in and
restore her to her true self.
he And when he did, she was going to hate him even more.
m Not that he cared.

ly

ut,
nd
 “Fuck that,” Kieran said, ever the wordsmith. “If she’s without that ring, Ferelith has already sent
someone after her. More than one someone, I’m betting. The army won’t fall apart while we’re gone.”
Bastien considered that this was probably true, but his instincts as a leader didn’t like leaving his
army with no guidance. It was antithetical to everything he’d been taught growing up in the warrior
caste.
“It will be a quick in and out of the veil,” Kieran pointed out, referring to that magical barrier that
separated the dimensions. “We won’t be gone long.”
True enough. Travel through dimensions was too hard for most, but both Bastien and Kieran had
the ability. Not only was their bloodline thick with magic, but it was strengthened by the ley lines that
traversed Vyronas.
When this realm was created from a chunk of the meteor, it had been done by a sect of druid
daemons who, though not overly powerful in any magics themselves, were incredibly smart. They
used the stone’s power to set up a framework of magical ley lines that crossed the land with
concentrated power hubs in the capital cities. Those with magic in their blood used the lines not only
to charge their powers but also to cultivate and grow them with study and practice.
It was how the brothers would travel freely to the First Dimension without the Conclave’s aid.
Not all dimensions were accessible, but the veil between Vyronas and the First Dimension of Earth
was easy to breach.
They could get to Thalia in a matter of seconds, and get her back here where she would be better
protected. Bastien had no thought to leave her there, even if he installed the ring back on her finger.
Maddox had shared enough that Bastien believed the demigod was indeed delivering a missive from
the gods, and he intended to obey it. He’d probably have conflict with the Conclave later for not
discussing it with them first, but there was simply no time to do so.
As it stood, Thalia was on her own in a land called Wyoming. He’d only been there once before
to set up a home for her to live in peace and safety until she could be brought back to Vyronas. Seven
years ago, Bastien had helped the Conclave perform a ritual against Thalia’s will, stripping her of her
memories and implanting fake ones in their place. A whole lifetime of falsities she would use to
remind herself she lived a placid existence in a remote region of the First Dimension. They even
programmed her to never want to leave the tiny horse ranch Bastien had acquired. Thalia loved
horses more than just about anything, and he’d wanted her to be happy.
When she’d realized she was being sent away against her will, oh, how she’d hated him.
But then he made her forget that too.
Bastien was now going to have to bring her out of that false reality she’d been living in and
restore her to her true self.
And when he did, she was going to hate him even more.
Not that he cared.
 CHAPTER 2
Thalia

“SCOOP, LIFT, TOSS. Scoop, lift, toss.”

I grunt out this mantra as I muck the stall, moving horse shit to the wheelbarrow, which will later
be dumped on the manure pile at the back of the barn. Sweat runs in rivulets down my face, grabbing
the dust and grime left by a hard day’s work, but this is my last stall and then I’ll be done for the day.
“Scoop, lift, toss.” It’s a ridiculous chant, but I’ve always found some sort of cadence helps me
with the repetitive chores.
My gelding quarter horse and number one man in my life, King, is tethered in the aisle while I
clean his cozy abode. He’s watching me with eager eyes, knowing he’ll get his evening feed once I’m
done.
Sliding my shovel under the last of King’s “contribution” to my workload, I dump it into the
wheelbarrow and push it outside the stall. King doesn’t shy away from me or the wagon whose rusted
wheel squeaks. He’s the calmest, gentlest, most steadfast horse I’ve ever had, and at ten years old, he
just gets more mellow with age. I could crawl under him right now and go to sleep between his four
hooves and under his thousand pounds of weight, knowing he’d never so much as bump my body with
his.
Removing my work gloves, I toss them onto an old pine bench against the far wall. It’s a five-
dollar purchase I made at an old antique store in Casper this past weekend, and I high-five myself for
such a thrifty and practical purchase.
Grabbing a peppermint from a bucket, I remove the cellophane and offer the candy to King. He
uses his lips to sweetly pluck it from my palm, and I use the opportunity to lean into him for some pets
and snuggles.
They don’t last long, though, as King is hungry for his dinner. He snorts in annoyance over my
attention, shaking his head to dislodge me.
“Fine,” I drawl as I lead him back into his stall. “Choose food over me. I won’t forget it.”
He nickers softly, not understanding what I’m saying but reiterating he’s hungry. I refresh his
water, scoop feed into his bucket, and take one last moment to admire him after I slide the stall door
shut and bolt it.
King is a chestnut quarter horse with a beautiful blaze of white running down his back right leg,
from hip to hoof, and stands a little over sixteen hands high. My parents gave him to me for my
seventeenth birthday, and it was love at first sight.
“See you in the morning, my man,” I murmur as I turn away and head out of the barn. The other
horses are quiet, all having been fed and shut in for the night. All except for Dealer, a big bay in the
last stall and the only breeding stallion I currently have. He kicks the back wall as I walk past.
“Be nice,” I admonish softly. “I’ll turn you out in the morning.”
He snorts in response and kicks the wall again. He’s really a big baby, and I love him to death,
just as I love all my horses.
 I exit the old barn but leave the two swinging doors open. It’s going to be a crisp night, and the
fresh air will be good for them.
I relish the last lingering smells of fresh hay, horse, and leather as I stop at the water spigot. These
are the smells of my ranch, and they are sweet to me.
I quickly wash my hands and dry them on my jeans. Grabbing the water bottle I left outside, I
drain the contents and cross the enclosed paddock that connects to the barn.
Beyond that, the majestic, snow-covered peaks of the Teton Mountains still manage to take my
breath away, despite having lived here my entire life. The setting sun paints an orange glow on the
erupper peaks’ remaining snow that sparkles like crushed diamonds lit on fire.
ng It was warm today for early July in Wyoming, but as the sun drops, I can feel the chill creeping in.
The exertion from cleaning stalls has soaked my shirt in sweat. My back aches slightly from the
meconstant shoveling, and my shoulders are sore from the repairs I made to the front paddock gate
earlier today. These are all feelings I cherish because they confirm I have the strength to carry on my
e Iparents’ work and make this old ranch flourish.
m Pulling off my Stetson that shielded me all day from the blazing sun, I wipe my sweaty forehead
with the back of my shirtsleeve and push the hat back into place on my crown.
he My parents taught me that I could do anything I set my mind to, which included taking over this
edranch after they were killed eight years ago. I made the choice to leave college and come back here,
hedetermined to make it work in my parents’ memory. God, I’d give anything for them to see what I’ve
uraccomplished. Whenever I think of them, I hurt so deeply in my chest, it steals my breath.
th I have no other family members. While I don’t think it’s totally weird, I really don’t have any
close friends. Oh, I have acquaintances in the horse community, but no one with whom I can share my
e-innermost thoughts.
or And yet, despite that loneliness, it’s never occurred to me to leave home. To venture forth to a city
where I could be surrounded by people. A part of me likes the solitude, and I’m not merely content
Hebut happy here. I feel most at peace on the ranch, nestled and protected in the shadow of the Tetons,
etssurrounded by raw beauty and the soft nickers of horses joyful to see me every day.
I grab the cooler I keep stocked with bottled water and snacks for while I’m out working and head
myup to the main house, eager for a hot shower, a good dinner, and a nice romance novel after I’m tucked
in bed.

his * * *
orBY EIGHT O’CLOCK, I feel human again. The steamy shower worked out my sore muscles. My skin is
slathered in sweet-smelling lotion, a nod to my girly side since I’m sweaty and grimy most days. My
g,hair is blown dry and left to hang long since I normally have it in a braid down my back. After
mypolishing off two microwaved meals (because I didn’t have it in me to cook after physical labor all
day), my belly is full.
er In a pair of leggings, fuzzy socks, and a long-sleeved, soft cotton tunic, I sip a cup of tea and
henibble on shortbread cookies while flipping through bills. Breeding and training quarter horses is my
passion, but the paperwork is the pits. A necessary evil.
Working solidly for the next half hour, I write out checks, stuff envelopes, and resolve to reconcile
th,my checking account tomorrow.
 he Affixing a stamp to the last envelope, I lean back in my chair and stretch, satisfied with a
productive evening and looking forward to relaxing.
se I take my teacup and empty plate to the sink and wash them by hand. The dishwasher is on the
fritz, and I don’t have the spare cash to replace it. And I’ll have to get a new one rather than repair it
, Ias the current machine is avocado green, meaning it’s really, really ancient.
The kitchen is my favorite room in the old family ranch house. It was the first thing I renovated
myafter my parents passed on, wanting to keep the same charm but needing to make it mine, as well. I
herestored the knotty pine floors and whitewashed the cabinets. I couldn’t afford to replace the
appliances, but I more than made up for that by finding my kitchen table at the junkyard. Made from
n.reclaimed chestnut, it’s hand-carved with square inlays and a trestle base. I only had to do some
heminor refinishing, and it looks amazing under the wrought iron chandelier with metal roosters. Of
tecourse, there’s a hodgepodge of mismatched chairs surrounding it, but I don’t think it in any way
mydiminishes its beauty.
Nabbing a cloth from the drawer, I wet it and move to the table to wipe my crumbs when all the
adhorses in the barn start to whinny at the same time. There are several loud bangs, and I can tell Dealer
is kicking the back of his stall again. Something has them worked up—I’m guessing a coyote might
hishave gotten too close. Perhaps even went into the barn to look for food.
e, “Goddamn it,” I mutter as I toss the cloth back into the sink and head for the front door.
ve I slip into my boots and shrug into a jacket since the temperature has dropped to the low fifties.
Before stepping onto the porch, though, I grab the shotgun hanging on the wall and check to make sure
nyit’s loaded.
my I peer hard into the darkness surrounding the house. The porch light illuminates just a few feet
outward, but over to the right, the outside bulbs on the main barn light up its front as well as part of
tythe paddock. Only the area between me and the barn is dark, but it’s a quick walk, and I’m confident
ntwith my gun.
ns, It’s always with me if I go out at night because you never know when a serial killer might be
lurking behind a bush, just waiting for the dumb female to walk his way. That won’t be what’s written
adon my epitaph.
ed Instead, it will say, She went out with a fight.
Another loud bang as I get closer to the barn. Clearly, Dealer’s kicking out his displeasure over
something.
Admittedly, I’m a little spooked in the dark, but I don’t feel any real apprehension. Moose Gap is
a safe community. Crime is virtually nonexistent.
is Thump.
My Freezing mid-step, I snap my head toward the barn and listen intently.
er Thump.
all That’s a different sort of noise, not a horse kicking at his stall.
As I step into the light spilling at the barn door, a weird sensation prickles the back of my neck.
ndShaking off my foreboding, I step inside and turn on the interior lights. The center aisle is flooded
mywith brightness, and all looks well, just as I left it not long ago. All the stall doors are shut and
bolted. One of the horses lets out a whinny that sounds like a greeting, not a whimper of fear.
le I move forward, traversing the aisle and double-checking to make sure each stall door is still
bolted shut. At King’s stall, he nickers, but I don’t offer a greeting. I’m listening for the sound I heard
 abefore. Dealer is quiet, almost as if he knows I need the silence to figure out what’s going on.
I walk the remaining length of the barn to the back door, also shut. I turn the latch and step outside,
hethankful for my foresight in installing lighting on the back of the barn too. I’m immediately bathed in a
itsoft, sulfurous glow, but it only extends so far. Past that, I peer hard into the dark, but I can’t see
anything.
ed Because I don’t want to get back into the house and have the horses set off again, I decide to walk
. Ithe entire outside of the barn to make sure everything looks okay. Between the lights on the front and
heback of the building, there’s enough castoff illumination to see where I’m going, so I easily move
maround the back corner and head toward the front.
me After only two steps, I trip over a shovel I must’ve left on the ground. Falling forward, I land on
Ofmy hands and knees, my gun tumbling out of my grasp.
ay “Shit, shit, shit,” I mutter as I push myself up and wipe my dirty hands on my leggings. I feel my
cheeks flush with embarrassment, even though no one could’ve seen me except maybe a foraging
hechipmunk.
er Bending over, I grab the shovel in one hand and the shotgun in the other. Just as I straighten, I
ghtcatch movement from the corner of my eye, and I whip that way.
I’m boggled and frozen in fear for I am now face-to-face with what can only be described as a
monster from a nightmare.
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before. Dealer is quiet, almost as if he knows I need the silence to figure out what’s going on.
I walk the remaining length of the barn to the back door, also shut. I turn the latch and step outside,
thankful for my foresight in installing lighting on the back of the barn too. I’m immediately bathed in a
soft, sulfurous glow, but it only extends so far. Past that, I peer hard into the dark, but I can’t see
anything.
Because I don’t want to get back into the house and have the horses set off again, I decide to walk
the entire outside of the barn to make sure everything looks okay. Between the lights on the front and
back of the building, there’s enough castoff illumination to see where I’m going, so I easily move
around the back corner and head toward the front.
After only two steps, I trip over a shovel I must’ve left on the ground. Falling forward, I land on
my hands and knees, my gun tumbling out of my grasp.
“Shit, shit, shit,” I mutter as I push myself up and wipe my dirty hands on my leggings. I feel my
cheeks flush with embarrassment, even though no one could’ve seen me except maybe a foraging
chipmunk.
Bending over, I grab the shovel in one hand and the shotgun in the other. Just as I straighten, I
catch movement from the corner of my eye, and I whip that way.
I’m boggled and frozen in fear for I am now face-to-face with what can only be described as a
monster from a nightmare.
 CHAPTER 3
Thalia

AM I DREAMING?
Stroke?
Psychotic break?
Blazing red eyes radiate pure evil, clearly not a man or animal even recognized by man. I take it
all in quickly—tall, standing on two legs with arms hanging almost to its knees, reed thin except for a
potbelly, blotchy gray skin, and completely hairless. It has a squashed-in face, and when it peels its
lips back to reveal yellowed, pointed teeth, I know I can’t afford to consider this a psychotic break.
I have to believe this is very real.
I’m right-handed and that is where my shovel is gripped. I’m not able to muster up a big swing,
but I bring it across my body as hard as I can, catching the thing in the side of the head.
If it were a man, it would have dropped him to the ground. But my blow did nothing except cause
the creature to snarl.
With lightning-fast reflexes, one long arm shoots out and wrenches the shovel away from me
before tossing it aside where it bangs into the side of the barn. I take a few steps back, horrified as it
stalks toward me slowly, matching me step for step. Its head pushes forward, tilting back and forth as
it creepily appraises me.
As if I’m its next meal.
Without hesitation, I take a large step backward, raise my weapon, and shoot. There’s no aim
required as it’s a shotgun and my target is only a few feet away. The blast catches the thing in its
upper right arm, causing it to stumble backward. I almost gag when I see the arm is torn—muscle
gaping to expose bone—and the monster looks down at the wound almost curiously.
It attempts to move its limb, but when it dangles uselessly, the beast becomes infuriated. Head
swiveling my way, it opens its mouth, tips its head back, and lets out an indignant, earsplitting
screech.
I don’t stick around, pivoting hard and running to the door at the rear of the barn. As I round the
corner, I slam into something hard and let out an involuntary scream of terror, assuming it’s another
hell-beast.
A hand comes down over my mouth, my shotgun is torn from my grasp and tossed to the ground,
and then I’m being dragged through the open barn door. My adrenaline surges, and I punch, kick, and
claw at my captor.
The arm squeezes around me tighter, and then I feel lips near my ear. A deep, rumbling voice says,
“Hush and be still. I’m here to help you.”
Understanding that this is a human speaking and not a slimy creature from my worst nightmares, I
sag with relief.
“You good?” he asks.
Fuck no, I’m not good. But I nod, anyway.
 Slowly, his hand slides from my mouth and reaches to shut the door, latching it from the inside.
Releasing me from his embrace, the man takes my arm and pulls me along the aisle. I get a
glimpse—a mere first impression—and note he is tall, easily over six-five, with dark blond hair
shaved down to his scalp. His shoulders are broad, muscles bulging under a brown shirt that hugs his
frame. When he glances over his shoulder at me, his eye color is indistinguishable in the shadows, but
I can tell they are incredibly light.
Not once do I consider this person to be a danger. I follow him, intrinsically knowing that at this
moment, he’s a safer bet than whatever that was outside the barn.
The stranger stops at the ladder that leads up to a loft. I don’t keep hay up there—it’s stored in a
separate barn—but rather boxes of junk. “Get up,” he says quietly, nodding up to the platform bolted
itinto the barn wall and supported with beams along the edge. “Hide near the back, and don’t come
adown until it’s safe.”
its “My gun,” I whisper, glancing at it lying on the ground near the door. “I need it to protect myself.”
“Your gun is useless against an erchras. I’m your only hope.”
I have questions.
ng, What the hell is an erchras?
Is it a new species in Wyoming?
se And how did this man just mysteriously appear?
However, the erchras has reached the barn door and is rattling the latch. I scramble forward, right
meinto the man for protection. His hands come to my shoulders, and he turns me toward the ladder. “Get
itup there now. And stay absolutely silent.”
as The barn door rattles violently, the damn thing on the other side clearly not understanding how a
latch works. The door isn’t locked—all the erchras has to do is turn the handle clockwise and it can
easily walk inside.
m I don’t wait around, instead flying up the ladder and moving to the back of the platform where I
itssprawl on my stomach. The flooring is no more than about twelve feet wide, so I flatten myself as
lemuch as possible and hope I can’t be seen. The boards are old and shrunken, and I can peek between
them to the barn aisle below.
ad The man has disappeared, and for a brief but crazy second, I wonder if he was real.
ng The barn door judders again, and then it goes silent.
Did the thing give up?
he A huge explosion of wood and the sound of shrieking metal has me clasping my hand over my
ermouth to stifle my scream. I can see through the crack in the planks that the entire door is gone, and the
erchras is entering. Its arm still dangles useless, dripping blood so dark, I think it’s actually black,
d,which means it was strong enough to pull that barn door free with just one hand.
nd My entire body trembles with fear as I start to understand that the man below won’t be a match for
this creature. What it doesn’t have in brains, it certainly makes up for in brute strength.
ys, I need to calm down, but my blood pressure steadily rises. Deep breathing will make too much
noise. Hell, I may just die of a heart attack rather than being pulled limb from limb by that thing. My
, Ibody is once again so racked by terror, I shake uncontrollably.
Through the wooden slats, I watch the erchras move down the aisle toward the ladder. As it nears
the first stall, the horse inside starts blowing and snorting. Hooves kick at the stall walls, riling up the
other horses.
 The erchras ignores their cacophony, instead tilting its head left and right as if it’s plagued by
acuriosity. The beast’s shredded, dangling arm and slouched posture with protruding potbelly make it
airno less intimidating.
his It reaches the ladder, and I fervently pray for it to keep moving, but it stops. Dealer’s stall is
utopposite, and the big stallion is going crazy inside. As if noticing the horses for the first time, the
erchras’s head swivels almost ninety degrees to look at the stall, saliva dripping from its mouth. It
hisseems mystified by the noises, but when it licks its lips and moves toward Dealer’s stall, I’m
horrified that it’s no longer looking for me.
a Where in the hell is that man? Shouldn’t he be doing something, or did he abandon me?
ed Dealer screams in fright as the erchras nears his stall, and I can’t stand it. Twisting my head, I
mespot an old baseball bat a few feet away. I inch over, grab it, and sling it as hard as I can over the
platform edge. It bounces on the concrete floor ten feet to the left of the creature.
” As expected, the bat gets the erchras’s attention. But rather than move to the bat or even turn back
for Dealer, its head lifts and it appraises the platform. It shuffles toward the ladder, that creepy head
tilting side to side.
I shrink back into the shadows, my heart hammering so hard, I’m afraid the monster can hear me.
The erchras stops at the ladder, tips its head back, and sniffs deeply.
Goddamn that sweet-smelling body lotion I put on after my shower. I might as well have a neon
ghtarrow flashing above me.
Get The creature’s lips pull back, exposing those sharp teeth, and it lets out what I can only describe
as a howl of victory. At this very moment, I know I’m dead.
a It moves to the ladder, uses its good hand to reach out to a rung, and lifts a leg to begin its upward
anclimb. I glance around, looking for a weapon, but that freaking bat was the only thing of use.
I look back at the erchras to see it has climbed halfway up. I start praying.
e I Before it can take another step, though, something hurtles from the left, ripping the creature from
asthe ladder, followed by a loud crash to the ground. I don’t think as I belly crawl to the edge to peer
enover.
It’s the man, and he and the monster are both on their feet, tearing at each other with fists and
kicks. The erchras is strong, backhanding the man, launching him fifteen feet down the aisle. He rolls
to his feet quickly, pulling a sword I hadn’t seen from a sheath at his hip, and runs toward the thing.
Teeth bared, the man swirls the long blade around his head once in mid sprint, moving so fast that
mythe erchras can’t react. The sword hits it at the bottom of its neck and cleaves its head right from its
heshoulders.
k, The head thumps against the wall as the body pitches forward toward the man. He launches a
power kick to its chest and it flies backward, crashing into one of the support beams holding up the
orplatform.
There’s a split second when all is quiet. Then I hear the beam crack before snapping loudly. One
chend of the platform tilts downward, and I hear bolts ripping out of the walls. With one lurch, the entire
Myfloor angles steeply, and I slide toward the edge. Scrabbling to grab on to something to stop my fall, I
come up with nothing but a handful of dust as I’m propelled over, a few of my hoarded treasures
rssliding after me.
he The fall is not overly long, but it seems to take forever before I’ll inevitably crash into the
concrete floor and break every bone in my body.
 by Except… I don’t hit the aisle but rather land in the muscled arms of the man. I have no clue how
ithe moved so fast, but he has me cradled, staring at me. Those eyes are now distinct, an incredibly
light shade of blue.
is And then, he’s dropping me.
he Not to fall on my ass. He makes sure I’m on my feet before he turns his back and walks to the
Iterchras.
m I think the danger is averted, but I don’t know for sure, and my mom raised no fool. I run for the
barn door, which catches the man’s attention.
“Don’t,” he barks. “There are more.”
, I But he misunderstands. I’m not running to flee him but rather to get my shotgun.
he I skid to a stop, bend, and grab it. With the barrel pointed straight at him, my finger hovers above
the trigger. He might have saved me from whatever the hell that thing was, but he is still a stranger.
ck A very strong, deadly stranger, and I don’t trust him at all.
ad “No offense,” I say as I keep the barrel pointed in his direction, “but I don’t know you.”
“Of course you do,” another man’s voice says from behind me, deep and rumbling but with a tone
me.of amusement.
Before I can fathom another person being in the barn or fully pivot to face what could be new
ondanger, the gun is jerked out of my hands, and I snarl in frustration.
Whirling, I find a man just as tall as the other, this one with crystal-blue eyes and wavy brown
behair that looks perfectly messy.
He has an easy smile that oddly puts me a little at ease before moving his gaze to the other man
rdstanding near the dead creature on my barn floor. “There were two more outside, but I took care of
them.”
The other, much more dour man, by all accounts, nods curtly.
m I don’t like being ignored or having my gun taken away, so I whip my leg back and launch it
erforward, kicking the man in the shin. Not sure it hurt him much, but it startles him enough that I’m able
to grab my gun. I back up several feet, now standing between the two men but keeping the barrel
ndpointed on the second since he was the one who disarmed me.
ls “Now, who the hell are you two, and what the hell is going on?” I demand, looking back and forth
between them.
hat “I’m Kieran Dunne,” the brown-haired man says, again with that warm smile as he leans against
itsthe doorjamb where the barn door stood just moments ago. He crosses his arms casually over his
chest and nods toward the other man. “That’s my brother, Bastien.”
a I glance back at that guy, and he doesn’t smile. Expression hard, he stares at me.
he “One of you better explain things,” I snap, now swinging the gun toward the man named Bastien
since he appears to be more of a threat, despite his brother taking my gun away before. “One minute
nemy horses are going crazy, and the next minute, monsters are trying to kill me. I better get some
reanswers, or I’m apt to start shooting.”
, I The blond man looks irritated. “If you’ll just relax—”
es “Relax?” I screech in indignation. “You have to be fucking kidding!”
Kieran laughs. “She’s got a mouth on her now, huh, Bastien?”
he I glare at the handsome man. “You act like you know me. You said I knew you when you took my
gun.” My attention goes to Bastien who stares at me dispassionately, so I swing my regard back to
 wKieran. “You said I have a mouth on me now, implying I didn’t before or that you knew me before. I
lycan assure you, as a rancher’s daughter, I’ve been dropping F-bombs since I was thirteen.”
“We need to explain things,” Bastien says flatly. “Perhaps we can go into your house and sit.”
“I’m not inviting you into my home,” I seethe with mounting anger and fear. “You’re both strangers
heto me, and I’m starting to freak out.”
“I can explain everything,” Bastien says with a huff of annoyance. “If you just—”
he “Allow me,” Kieran says, straightening up to face me. “You are the princess and sole heir to the
throne of Kestevayne in the dimension of Vyronas. It’s this whole other world, which you are
originally from. Through the power of magic, you’ve been living here, in Earth’s First Dimension, for
the past seven years, with no memory of your prior existence. The erchras are hunting you… to kill or
vecapture, we don’t know. But more will come.” He points at himself, then Bastien. “We are here to
ensure your safety and return you home.”
My jaw drops, and I’m actually sorry I asked for an explanation. Of all the stories possible, I
couldn’t have made this up. “You’re nuts,” I stammer.
ne But, how do I explain the erchras? That’s a creature not of this world, I’m sure of it. Up until now,
I guess I’d been thinking perhaps it was an alien, but the mention of magic has me second-guessing
wthat.
Kieran said more would be coming. I don’t buy any of his bullshit that I’m a princess with no
wnmemories, but I am terrified that there could be more of these creatures. I can’t defend myself against
them.
an With a heavy sigh, I realize there are no good options. If they’re going to hurt or kill me, they
ofcould do it here just as easily as in my house. They had my gun, and still saved me from certain death.
Even though I think I may be tumbling into madness, I hear myself say, “Come on inside. I could
use a drink, and you can tell me your story.”
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Kieran. “You said I have a mouth on me now, implying I didn’t before or that you knew me before. I
can assure you, as a rancher’s daughter, I’ve been dropping F-bombs since I was thirteen.”
“We need to explain things,” Bastien says flatly. “Perhaps we can go into your house and sit.”
“I’m not inviting you into my home,” I seethe with mounting anger and fear. “You’re both strangers
to me, and I’m starting to freak out.”
“I can explain everything,” Bastien says with a huff of annoyance. “If you just—”
“Allow me,” Kieran says, straightening up to face me. “You are the princess and sole heir to the
throne of Kestevayne in the dimension of Vyronas. It’s this whole other world, which you are
originally from. Through the power of magic, you’ve been living here, in Earth’s First Dimension, for
the past seven years, with no memory of your prior existence. The erchras are hunting you… to kill or
capture, we don’t know. But more will come.” He points at himself, then Bastien. “We are here to
ensure your safety and return you home.”
My jaw drops, and I’m actually sorry I asked for an explanation. Of all the stories possible, I
couldn’t have made this up. “You’re nuts,” I stammer.
But, how do I explain the erchras? That’s a creature not of this world, I’m sure of it. Up until now,
I guess I’d been thinking perhaps it was an alien, but the mention of magic has me second-guessing
that.
Kieran said more would be coming. I don’t buy any of his bullshit that I’m a princess with no
memories, but I am terrified that there could be more of these creatures. I can’t defend myself against
them.
With a heavy sigh, I realize there are no good options. If they’re going to hurt or kill me, they
could do it here just as easily as in my house. They had my gun, and still saved me from certain death.
Even though I think I may be tumbling into madness, I hear myself say, “Come on inside. I could
use a drink, and you can tell me your story.”
 CHAPTER 4
Bastien

BASTIEN MOVED AROUND Thalia’s living room, examining knickknacks and photos that represented her
life over the past seven years. He vaguely listened in on the conversation between Kieran and Thalia
in the kitchen as she prepared drinks. While he didn’t really want to be sociable, he knew Thalia
needed some time to adjust. The alternative was to kidnap her with brute force to take her back to
Vyronas, and that wasn’t really an option. He had no desire to further traumatize her.
For now, they were safe. All the erchras Ferelith had sent were dead, and Bastien cast a
perimeter warning spell around the area to sound off if any more intruders appeared. He doubted
more would come anytime soon, as it would take time for Ferelith to realize her demons had failed.
Kieran’s voice was boasting as he regaled Thalia with a trumped-up tail of once dispatching
twelve erchras with nothing more than a butter knife, which elicited a genuine laugh from the
princess. It was a low, husky sound of amusement, and Bastien knew that sound well. There was a
time that laugh could’ve driven him to his knees in desire, but now it did nothing other than stir up
annoyance at his brother’s shameless flirting.
From the mantel above the fireplace, Bastien picked up a framed photograph of Thalia’s parents,
Jaron and Selena Clairmont. They’re sitting on horses with the Teton Range in the background.
That scene never happened, of course. It was a manufactured memory, part of the complex
magical spell that brought Thalia here in the first place. It’s her actual parents’ faces, but they were
never here in Wyoming. They died in Kestevayne when the throne was taken.
The magics surrounding her false reality made it so she wouldn’t want to leave this area, fake
memories of rancher parents implanted and a deep sense of familial duty to continue this ranch. It was
all done so Thalia wouldn’t stray and could therefore remain under a cloak of protection that was
sealed around her and fortified with the ring he’d put on her finger.
Bastien wasn’t surprised the ranch had flourished under her care. She was an animal enthusiast,
but horses were her greatest love. He wondered, though, if she ever felt she didn’t belong. He also
wondered how lonely she was, for she was fairly isolated. This pricked his conscience a little.
Glancing into the kitchen, he was unmoved by Thalia’s stunning beauty. Oh, one couldn’t deny that
her hair was glorious with its soft, chocolate-brown waves cascading past her shoulders. Her eyes
were the color of spring grass, and they always sparkled with intelligence, kindness, and humor. Her
lips were soft—that he knew from much experience—but that knowledge of her was so muted and
dulled he easily pushed it aside.
As he looked back to the photos on the mantel, he could see Thalia was happy and content, and he
knew that after tonight, he probably wouldn’t see such joy again. He was going to hit her with heavy
stuff and would be receiving nothing but enmity from here on out.
Thalia walked into the room carrying two highball glasses and a bottle of amber liquid with a
black label.
“Okay, I say we make this a drinking game. Every time I think one of you is feeding me a line of
 bullshit, you have to drink.” She threw a chastising look at Kieran. “You already owe me one for the
erchras story you just told me.”
In only a few minutes, Kieran had managed to penetrate her distrust, significantly lightening her
mood. There’d been a time in years past when he was able to do that with Thalia, but now he simply
had no desire to see her laugh or smile.
Her amusement shouldn’t have irritated Bastien, but it did, and his tone was sharp. “This is no
game, Thalia.”
er The smile vanished, her words punctuated by anger. “You think I don’t know that? I’m very aware
iathis isn’t a game, as evidenced by me nearly dying tonight. Even though you say you know me, you
iadon’t. I use levity to ease difficult situations, and I’m sorry if that bothers you.”
to “My apologies,” Bastien said stiffly with a slight nod. “I didn’t mean to offend.”
Thalia snorted as she addressed Kieran. “Is he always this proper and civilized?”
a Kieran leveled a thoughtful look at his brother. “Do you mean stuffy and boring?”
ed Thalia nodded. “Exactly what I mean.”
Attention still pinned on Bastien, Kieran rubbed his jaw as if this were a complex riddle. “I’ve
nglong suspected his humor was surgically removed, but no… he wasn’t always like this.”
he More banter followed, and Bastien didn’t like it. But he didn’t tell them as much, merely waited
afor them to get serious about the discussion.
up Thalia grabbed the liquor bottle and twisted off the cap. As she poured a few inches in the
glasses, she nodded toward two chairs. “Might as well sit down.”
ts, Bastien took one chair, which wasn’t quite big enough for his large frame to fit comfortably.
Kieran took the other, and Thalia handed each man a glass before moving to the couch.
ex “Aren’t you having a drink?” Kieran asked.
re Thalia picked up the bottle, put it to her lips, and took a hefty swig. She hissed through her teeth
after swallowing and held it up. “No glass required. I feel like I might need the rest of this tonight.”
ke Dropping onto the couch, Thalia set the liquor on the coffee table that separated her from the men.
asShe leaned forward, elbows resting on her knees, and clasped her hands. There was no more sparkle
asof levity in her eyes, her expression now deadly serious.
Looking between Bastien and Kieran, she said, “You have ten minutes to explain why you’re here.
st,If I don’t believe you, I want you out of my house. If you don’t leave when I tell you to…” At this
sopoint, Thalia leaned sideways, reached under the couch, and pulled out another shotgun. She rested it
on her lap and said, “I’m going to shoot both of you. Understand?”
hat Kieran barked out a laugh, but Bastien wasn’t amused. Thalia had placed her shotgun on a rack
esnear the door when they’d entered the house, so it was a surprise she had a weapon in her hands
eragain.
nd “Understood,” Bastien clipped out, refusing to look at the gun but keeping his eyes locked on
Thalia’s. “Since our time is limited, I’m going to give you the short version, and you can ask
hequestions as needed.”
vy Thalia nodded, lips pressed into a flat line of skepticism before he even started.
Bastien leaned forward in his chair, putting his untouched bourbon on the coffee table. “You are
afrom a land called Vyronas. Kieran and I are from there as well. It is in another dimension.”
“Wait a minute,” Thalia interrupted, holding up her hand. “Assuming I believe you, are you talking
ofabout another planet?”
he Bastien shook his head. “Vyronas is what’s known as an AltVeritas. A separate dimension of
existence right here on Earth. There are many dimensions that exist—”
er “I don’t believe you,” Thalia scoffed, again interrupting his explanation.
ly “You don’t have to,” Bastien replied flatly. “I’ll prove it to you soon enough.”
“How are there different dimensions?” Thalia asked, lending credence to the possibility that she
nomight believe him a little since she wanted more of an explanation.
“Where we are now, here in Wyoming, at this particular time, is known as the Earth realm, or the
reFirst Dimension. Thousands of years ago, a meteor crashed to Earth, and it was discovered to have
oumagical properties. The large stone was broken into smaller pieces, and the magic was used for many
things, but often it was used to open doorways into other dimensions. To create other worlds
coexisting with this one.”
Thalia raised an eyebrow. “Why would anyone want to create other worlds?”
“To escape persecution, poverty, prejudice,” Bastien replied. There were hundreds of reasons,
but those were three very good ones. “There are similarities among the dimensions, but there are also
vegreat differences. For example, the First Dimension—which is here—is technology driven. Most
other AltVeritas, including Vyronas, are driven by magics.”
ed “Give me an example.”
“Here on Earth, you may use a car or airplane to travel great distances. In Vyronas, we use magic
heto bend distance. To bring our destination to us so that we can step from one place to another.”
“I’d ask you to prove it to me now,” Thalia muttered, picking up the bourbon and taking another
ly.sip, “but I think that would waste time.”
Bastien took this to mean she believed him. He knew that her encounter with the erchras probably
had more to do with her accepting this crazy story than his assurances.
th “While there are several royal families, all of Vyronas is governed by a ruling sovereign from an
old and advanced line of magic. House Clairmont ruled our world from the capital city of
n.Kestevayne. Your parents were king and queen, and you are their only heir. Seven years ago, your
leparents were assassinated, and Kestevayne was overtaken. You were secreted away, sent to live here
until such time as we were capable of reclaiming your throne. That time is now.”
e. Thalia sat silent as she processed. Bastien knew that what he’d said must sound preposterous, but
hisas he promised… he could prove it to her.
it Still, he allowed her a little grace for more curiosities before he sprung upon her the real truth of
her life.
ck “Why don’t I have any memories of this supposed life? Of my parents or of Kestevayne?”
ds Bastien exchanged a quick look with his brother, who seemed on edge by the question. It was
going to be the toughest part of the entire ordeal of bringing Thalia home—how to explain that she’d
onhad no say in any of this.
sk “It was felt to be in your best interest to suppress the memories of your old life. Instead, a new
life was built for you. The consensus was that it would be easier for you not to remember until it was
time for you to come back.”
re Thalia chewed on her lower lip, apparently brooding over what little information she had learned
so far.
ng When no questions followed, Kieran offered, “We have the power, right now, to bring your
memories back. It will answer a lot of questions you may have. Then we can fill you in on the rest.”
 of Thalia still said nothing, her gaze falling on the bottle of alcohol and staying there. Bastien would
allow her one more sip, but past that, no more. He couldn’t afford to have her drunk when time was of
the essence.
“That is, if you think it will help,” Kieran finished a bit lamely due to Thalia’s awkward silence
heas she brooded.
Bastien could imagine what Thalia must be thinking because he knew her so well. She’d built a
hevery nice life here and would not want to leave based solely on their word that she had another life
vesomewhere else. What was worse, he couldn’t even tell her it was a better life, because she’d be
nygoing back to war, death, and destruction.
ds He knew she had to be reeling from this information but he didn’t intend on coddling her. The
Thalia he knew wouldn’t want that.
But then again, he didn’t know her at all anymore.
ns, “What if I don’t want to go back?” Thalia suddenly asked.
so Kieran scoffed. “Why would you not want to return to your home?”
ost “This is my home,” Thalia retorted sharply. “This is what I know and love. Tell me… why would
I want to leave?”
“Because it’s your duty,” Bastien growled in frustration. “You have a duty to your people. They
icare suffering under an evil ruler, and without you, they will continue to suffer.”
Thalia sighed. “I’m terribly sorry this is happening, but I’m just not able to connect to what you’re
ertelling me. I don’t feel like this is my problem.”
Bastien sighed irritably at her stubbornness. While he didn’t feel much for Thalia, he did
lyremember a time in his life where he liked that quality about her. “You try to talk some sense into her,
Kieran.”
an It was silent in the living room as Bastien sank back into the chair and forced himself to have
ofpatience. Kieran was connecting better with her, and he could probably bring her around.
ur Thalia looked from Bastien to his brother. “I don’t disbelieve what you’re telling me. But I don’t
rewant to leave. This is what I know. It’s who I am.”
“Thalia,” Kieran said with a gentleness that Bastien just didn’t have. “This is who you are for
utright now. But there is so much more to you that you don’t know. Aren’t you even the tiniest bit
curious about where you come from?”
of “Of course, I’m curious. My world just got turned upside down, and I want to know why. But I
don’t want to give up my life here. It’s easy, and what you’re suggesting is going to be very hard for
me to go back to. And honestly, there’s something about your brother that doesn’t sit right with me.”
as “Like what?” Kieran asked, casting a glance at Bastien. “Tell me and let me put your mind at
’dease.”
Thalia snorted, her skeptical regard moving to Bastien. She glared at him. “He seems like he’s
woperating on a short fuse, and I can’t entrust myself to someone like that.”
as Kieran didn’t even look at his brother. “Bastien would die to protect you. You can trust him.”
“He clearly dislikes me,” Thalia dismissed the notion. “I could never trust him.”
ed Bastien remained silent through this exchange. It made him uncomfortable that they were speaking
of him as if he weren’t sitting there. But he also knew he didn’t have the ability to address Thalia’s
urconcerns because he simply didn’t care about them.
It was a good thing he’d brought his brother, because he was a far better ambassador.
 ld Kieran sighed, his expression somber. “You and Bastien have history together.”
of A jolt of some unnamed emotion went through Bastien at Kieran’s offhanded mention of his
relationship with Thalia. Until this moment, nothing about her had penetrated, but that stark reminder
cethat they had a history dating back to childhood caused something to stir deep within.
He brushed it off and watched Thalia’s reaction.
a “What kind of history?” she asked skeptically.
fe “You were in love with each other,” Kieran said and Thalia’s face registered shock alongside a
besound of disbelief.
Bastien let the words roll over him. It sounded like an untruth, yet he knew there was a time when
hehe and Thalia were in love.
He just couldn’t fathom it.
When he looked at Thalia, he felt nothing.
Well, almost nothing. He still felt a tenuous pull toward her, but he dismissed it as nothing more
than loyalty to the crown and his mission. She was important only to the well-being of all
ldVyronasians.
“My brother is an admittedly complicated fellow,” Kieran said easily, and that almost brought a
eysmile to Bastien’s face. “He’s changed over the years, but his loyalty to you has not.”
Thalia picked up the bottle of liquor but didn’t drink from it. She merely held it in her hands,
restaring at the label that read Jack Daniels before lifting her green eyes to Bastien.
He tried to ignore her beauty. It was unparalleled in their land, and when she returned, she’d have
idevery eligible royal seeking her hand in marriage. It aggravated him to no end knowing they’d all be
er,making fools of themselves for her, and he wasn’t sure why that would even bother him.
“I want to hear it from you,” she said quietly. “What were we to each other? Was it love? And if
veso, what changed you, because you clearly don’t like me now.”
Bastien chose his words carefully, still maintaining truth. “It’s not that I don’t like you. It’s that I
n’tdon’t feel anything for you at all.”
Thalia’s expression crumbled. She didn’t remember him. Had no clue what they’d shared or the
ordepth of feelings between them. But his response was callous, even to an observer.
bit Guilt flickered inside him, not just for the hurtful words, but because they weren’t the truth
exactly. He had indeed felt something for her just an hour ago. He’d been scared when Maddox had
t Ihanded him her ring, fearful he wouldn’t make it to her in time. When he saw her tearing around the
orcorner of the barn after shooting the erchras, his relief at finding her alive was so great, his knees
almost buckled.
at For the throne, he reminded himself. All he did now was for the throne and not her.
Thalia placed the bottle on the coffee table and stood from the couch with her gun cradled over
’sher arms, pointed away from the men. Kieran and Bastien stood as well.
She looked from one brother to the other. “I thank you both for helping me with those… whatever
those things were. But I’m going to politely decline your invitation to go back.”
Kieran looked to his brother for direction, but Bastien was done trying to talk sense into her. He
ngheld out his hand, palm facing her. Thalia tipped her head curiously at his gesture, as it seemed
’sinnocuous.
The power building behind it wasn’t.
His lips curled upward in the barest of smiles, but his words were anything but warm. “You’re
 under the mistaken impression, Princess Thalia, that this was an invitation.”
his Her emerald eyes rounded at the implication, and before she could move her gun one fraction of
eran inch, Bastien hit her with a spell. “And now… you shall remember.”

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under the mistaken impression, Princess Thalia, that this was an invitation.”
Her emerald eyes rounded at the implication, and before she could move her gun one fraction of
an inch, Bastien hit her with a spell. “And now… you shall remember.”
 CHAPTER 5
Thalia

MY BODY FREEZES in place, but I don’t feel unbalanced or like I might fall backward with the pull of
gravity. I can’t move a single muscle and I try to stave off the panic. Can I breathe? Am I
suffocating?
I inhale deeply but can’t register my lungs or chest moving. Regardless, I feel the oxygen and
blow it out through my nose in relief.
I try to glare at Bastien, who still has his palm facing me, but my face doesn’t twitch to show my
anger.
But wait… my eyes can move, and they slide over to Kieran, watching warily.
Bastien moves to stand on the other side of the coffee table, directly opposite me. “I’m going to
channel some of my magic into you. It won’t hurt. I just want you to keep your mind open and don’t
fight the integration. You will feel the memories come back.”
I’m not ready for this. Not ready for my life to change. I don’t want these memories because I
have a million more questions first.
Bastien stares into my eyes, and I try to convey something with them.
Please… don’t do this to me.
“I’m sorry, but we have to.” His tone sounds regretful, his expression determined. “It won’t take
long. You won’t be reliving each memory. It will flood back, and you may have certain memories that
stand out, but eventually, you’ll have a sudden awareness of everything you used to know.”
I’m furious he’s doing this without my permission and I feel violated. I’m terrified my life might
be changing for the worse.
“Relax,” Bastien orders, and surely he has to know how ludicrous that sounds.
I glance back at Kieran who nods at me with encouragement. He seems the easygoing brother who
I actually kind of liked, but I’m angry with him, too, for letting this happen.
And then… it hits me.
Like a raging tidal wave, my entire life rushes back. It consumes me. Much like being hit by a
wall of water, the wind is knocked out of me, and then I’m spinning downward. Everything goes dark,
and I struggle to breathe.
I’m drowning.
Oh, God… I’m drowning.
I want to claw at my throat to open it up, panic rising within me.
“Focus,” a voice says.
Deep, baritone… Bastien.
Rage boils my blood and gives me strength to push back at the enveloping darkness. As if rising
from the ocean depths, I break the surface and suck in a huge gulp of air.
And then memories assault me, one after another.
Brief recollections at first, flashing through my mind.
 Fishing with my father. Dropping a doll in the mud and crying. Learning how to ride my first
horse. Eating dinner with my parents. Attending a dance at their palace.
General awareness comes next. Five seconds ago, I knew nothing about the real Jaron and Selena
Clairmont. But now, with every fiber of my being, I instinctively know my parents were kind, loving,
and generous people. They absolutely doted on me, their only child, and I thought the sun rose and set
on their shoulders.
I had a wonderful life in Kestevayne. I was loved by the citizens, and I, in turn, loved them. I
ofcherished my role as the people’s princess. I was honored I would one day rule my land, and I hoped
Ito do it with as much love and integrity as my parents had.
And I remember… they’re dead.
nd Deep, agonizing grief hits me. I hadn’t had enough time to mourn their loss after it happened, and
the wound is flayed open again. I can’t feel much of my body, but warm tears slide free and tickle my
mycheeks.
I don’t have time to get lost in grief as more enlightenment overwhelms me.
There’s sudden knowledge that… I know magic, and I know it well. Sovereign families have deep
tomagic tied to their lineage. While not my only magical ability, my most cherished magic centered
n’taround healing. I took great pleasure in ministering to the poor and sick. My mother taught me most of
what I know about healing potions and remedies.
e I And the horses. Wow! I was horse crazy there too. I’ve been riding horses since I could walk, and
I spent all my free time among them. My parents always joked they should’ve built a bedroom for me
in the palace barn.
Oh, how I miss that life, I realize.
ke My real life.
hat I missed all of it so much now that I know I haven’t had it.
I now understand and suppose I must be grateful to Bastien for making me see this.
ght Bastien.
A sudden surge of emotions rockets through me, forceful enough that I break free of whatever
spell he froze me with. I shake off its clutches and am free to move again.
ho But the feelings are so complicated, swirling in my head, my gut, and my heart, they make me
weak. I drop to the couch, crossing my arms over my stomach, and lean forward to rock as I try to
process everything.
a All my memories of Bastien rush forward, first in a warm wave of love and security. He was my
k,childhood protector and friend. Handsome, funny, and mischievous. Generous and thoughtful. Strong
and brave.
Sexy… oh gods, the things we shared in bed. The things he did to me, and I did to him, and…
I can access and flip through a thousand memories of us together, but I don’t need to.
I simply know there was a time when we had been madly in love. Anyone who knew us had no
doubt we were soul mates. We had our parents’ blessing to marry, and we had planned to grow old
together.
ng He was simply the other half of my heart. My eyes lift to take him in.
Bastien watches me carefully, a muscle ticking at the corner of his jaw that indicates he’s tense.
I mean… I know that about him. When he’s uptight, which isn’t all that often, he grits his teeth and
that tiny muscle jumps.
rst But… the warm feelings slowly recede like a tide being pulled back. My most recent memories of
him fill my mind, turn my blood cold, and blacken the recesses of my heart.
na Running through tunnels under the palace with Bastien. My parents, dead… murdered by Ferelith.
ng,Kestevayne had been overtaken. Bastien and I escaped, and we were able to meet up with a few
etmembers of the Clairmont Conclave who also managed to flee the palace.
Over the next several weeks, we were on the run and reunited with many citizens and soldiers
. Iloyal to my family. My supporters gathered in secret places hidden under cloaks of magic. We rallied,
edand we planned. Weeks went by while strategies were made for war with the usurper, Ferelith
Haramish. We would regain Kestevayne.
Troubling news kept filtering to us that Ferelith was using powerful blood magic, which was
ndabsolutely prohibited in Vyronas. We couldn’t fight her with it and faced moral dilemmas never
mypresented to us before.
Bastien worried constantly for my safety, for Ferelith needed me dead. I imagine the sacrifice of
my blood would give her powers we couldn’t even imagine. The Conclave worried because if I died,
epKestevayne would be lost.
ed A plan was ultimately hatched by the Conclave to move me to safety until they could amass
ofenough forces to retake Kestevayne. It was a plan I would not agree to, and we were in stasis.
Every ruling family had a Conclave—an appointed group of advisors. They descended directly
ndfrom daemons who practiced druid mysticism and are known as the Scrinia. Their line of citizens are
mepowerful in magic and supposedly wise in all ways. While rulers didn’t have to always agree with
their Conclave, they did listen to them carefully and almost always took their advice.
I wasn’t having any of it, though.
I refused to be separated from either Bastien or Vyronas, despite the immense danger from a
crazed sorceress amped up on blood magic. I was the ruler of Vyronas now, and I was in charge.
Except… I wasn’t.
I focus in on the very last memory I have before beginning my new life.
er “How long have I been here?” I ask, my voice shaking with more emotions than I can name.
Bastien doesn’t answer, but Kieran does. “Seven years.”
me I squeeze my eyes shut, cursing under my breath. I bury my face in my hands, and my stomach
tochurns as I recall my last memory of Bastien.
We walked together, hand in hand, in a small apple grove. We’d settled into a camp at the base of
mythe Rosethorn Mountains and cloaked the entire area under a protection spell held firmly in place by
ngthe Conclave and bolstered by a large ley line running through it.
Bastien had stood by my side in agreement with my decision to stay in Vyronas. His father,
Graeme, was the commandant of the military, and Bastien was a high-ranking officer under him. The
Dunne name carried clout. The Conclave had been stepping lightly around us. While they are
norespected, they are but one-third of the ruling equation.
ld “It’s nice not having the Conclave breathing down my neck to go away until Ferelith is defeated,”
I mused. It was a beautiful day with cool breezes and the fragrance of tart apples in the air.
Bastien didn’t respond, but gathered me close in his arms. His nose in my hair, he took a deep
breath. “I adore you,” he murmured gently.
nd I snuggled into him, relishing our time together as it had been hard to find quiet moments in the
midst of war. “The feeling is very mutual.”
 of He then stared down at me. His gaze searched mine, as if I had answers to questions he hadn’t
thought to ask. I lifted to my tiptoes and brushed my lips against his.
th. Bastien’s hands came to my face, and he took control, something he was very good at. The kiss
wdeepened, and I started to spin, letting my troubles melt away.
Lifting his head slightly, he whispered urgently against my mouth, “Never forget that everything I
rsdo for you, I do out of love.”
d, Sighing, I melted into him, my body molding to his. I loved him like no other, and he made it easy
thto forget our perils.
But then Bastien abruptly released me, and with his hands at my shoulders, he held us apart. I
astipped my head and frowned, thinking he might have some important words of affirmation. His face
erwas so serious as he said, “I love you. Please don’t forget that.”
A sudden wind whipped around me, swirling my hair around my head and flapping my dress
ofagainst my legs. But the breeze didn’t touch Bastien who stood only an arm’s-length away. His lips
d,moved, but I couldn’t hear what he was saying.
His arms fell away from my shoulders, only to take my left hand in his. His expression frightened
ssme. It was one of complete and utter guilt.
I felt his fingers working at the pink diamond on my left finger, not to remove it but more like he
lywas fiddling with it. He had put that ring on my finger as our commitment to marry and when I glanced
redown, I gasped to see the diamond was gone, a smooth black stone in its place.
th There was so much confusion and before I could comprehend the meaning behind the change to
my ring, Bastien pulled free and stepped back. I tried to move to him, but I was frozen.
“What have you done?” I shouted over the wind. I held my arms out to him, silently begging him to
acome closer.
He stepped farther away, and my eyes widened in astonishment as a yellowish-orange glow
emanated from the center of his chest. His face contorted in pain, and his fists clenched tightly as the
glow turned a deep red.
“Bastien!” I screamed, terrified that somehow Ferelith had found us and was at this very moment
killing him.
ch “I’m sorry,” he yelled above the whipping wind, that deep voice riddled with remorse.
The crimson light in his chest coalesced, tightened, and seemed to pulse in time to what I believe
ofmight have been his actual heartbeat.
by Then it flew from his body, coming fast. It slammed into me, and I gasped at the invasion. It’s like
all of Bastien’s emotions and feelings and devotion were pumping inside my blood. It felt foreign but
er,not unpleasant.
he Warm and comforting and purposeful.
re Something tugged at me, and I watched in horror as Bastien faded before my eyes. It was at that
moment I realized what was happening.
,” I was being sent through the veil and away from Vyronas. That also meant Bastien had betrayed
me.
ep “No!” I screamed in fury, the treachery hurting as much as my parents’ deaths. The hurt was
crippling—it spelled the death of our love. “Please stop this.”
he I tried to fire up my magic, call on the ley lines to strengthen me, but nothing happened. Bastien
stood there, watching me with a grim expression. His eyes, usually so warm and expressive, were
n’tice-cold now.
There wasn’t an ounce of love or even regret within that beautiful face, and I wondered if he was
ssworking for Ferelith. Had he betrayed not only my heart but the throne as well?
Before he faded completely, the last thing I recall was dropping my arms to my sides and
g Iclenching my fists so tightly, my nails drew blood from my palms. Fueled by my anguish, power
surged through me, but not enough to break his spell. It was enough, however, to seal a vow. “I hate
syyou,” I screamed. “And I will never forgive you for this.”
He seemed unmoved by my words and merely pivoted on his foot, giving me his back. He walked
. Iaway as I was pulled from my world, and he didn’t even care enough to look at me again.
ce I let out a wail of heartbreak as I was wrenched from Vyronas and everything I knew.

ssI’M JOLTED OUT of my memories, my eyes springing open. There’s no embarrassment in the wetness
psstaining my cheeks as it’s born not of a broken heart but a vengeful one. My breath is ragged.
Without even thinking, I launch off the couch and round the coffee table. I cock my right arm back
edand slap Bastien as hard as I can across his left cheek. It makes a resounding and satisfying crack,
rocking his head to the side.
he “You son of a bitch,” I snarl through gritted teeth, attempting to slap him again, but his arms band
edtightly around me.
I struggle mightily, but he’s too big and strong. I attempt some kicks, a knee to his nuts, but he turns
tohis body away and holds tight until I wear myself out.
“Let me go,” I seethe, writhing left and right.
to “Calm yourself, and I will,” he mutters.
Hatred burns in my gut, but my energy wanes. “Let me go,” I repeat, this time keeping my voice
wlevel.
he Bastien regards me dubiously, but his arms fall away.
Kieran steps toward me, his features awash with sympathy. “Thalia… I know this has been a
ntshock, but—”
“I want you and your brother out of my house right now,” I snarl at him. “Don’t ever return here
again.”
ve Shoving past Bastien, I run to my bedroom. After I slam the door, I throw myself on my bed, face
into my pillow.
ke Fuck… my chest hurts. It feels like my heart has been ripped in two. For me, the pain of betrayal
utis fresh, since I’m experiencing it as if it just happened instead of seven years past.
What’s worse, I would have expected remorse from Bastien. If he loved me the way I thought he
did, regardless if he was sending me away for my own safety, I would’ve expected him to feel
hathorrible about it. At the very least apologize and try to explain his actions.
Instead, he’s totally indifferent. Not just now, but I remember the expression on his face right
edbefore I was pulled through the veil.
He didn’t care.
as He had just kissed me, told me his actions were done in love, and then showed an utter lack of
emotion. It’s so confusing.
en The only thing I know for sure is that I can’t trust him in any way. He either betrayed me and
redoesn’t care, or he’s not loyal to me at all. There’s no way I can safely agree to go with him—he
 could be taking me straight to Ferelith.
as I pop up, cursing myself for my thoughtlessness. Living in the isolation and wilds of Wyoming,
I’ve been taught by my dad to always have my gun during perilous times.
nd Wait… no… that’s a false memory. I had no father here in Wyoming. That wasn’t my reality, just
ermagic keeping me oblivious to the truth.
te Still, it was stupid of me to leave my gun in the living room.
I roll off the bed, tiptoe to my door, and put my ear against it. My bedroom sits right off the living
edarea, and I can hear Bastien’s and Kieran’s voices.
“That went well, don’t you think?” It’s more of a statement than a question. “Here… drink this.”
I imagine Kieran is pushing the drink from earlier into Bastien’s hand.
“In what way did that possibly go well?” Bastien growls.
ss “It seems she had the option of shooting you with that gun of hers. So, I’d say things went pretty
well compared to what could have happened.”
ck I should have shot him. That would’ve been more satisfying than the slap across the face.
k, “Are you okay, Bastien?” Kieran’s voice holds uncharacteristic concern. As memories have filled
me and I remember my life in its entirety, I know Kieran is forever joking and teasing, regardless how
nddepressing a situation. If he’s concerned, then things must be very bad.
“I’m good,” Bastien says, his tone flat. That isn’t the man I know.
ns Or rather, knew.
There’s something very wrong about him, and I have to wonder what in the hell has happened
these last several years to change him so much. “Get Thalia’s horses together with all the necessary
tack. We’re leaving for Vyronas soon, and she’ll want to take the horses with her.”
ce Damn it. If I had my gun, I’d sneak out my window and guard the horses.
“I’ve got it covered,” Kieran says, and I hear him walk out the door.
Footsteps fall heavy across the pine flooring, and I realize they’re coming straight for my door. I
aturn the lock just before Bastien rattles the knob from the other side.
I scramble back, knowing it won’t keep him out. My legs no sooner hit the side of my bed than
reBastien kicks open the door with a spray of broken wood. A fearful yelp squeaks from me, and I
summon my long-buried magics. Prepared to knock him flat on his ass, I hold my arms out to the side,
ceclose my eyes, and murmur ancient incantations.
Except… nothing happens.
al No power floods my body, my senses don’t tingle with anticipation of unleashing a spell on him,
and when I open my eyes, Bastien is watching me with annoyance.
he “Your magic won’t work here,” he says.
el “Why not?” I demand, shaking my hands. Maybe I’m just rusty.
“You don’t have any magic. You know our powers come from the magic that’s threaded into the
ghtfabric of the land and the ley lines that run throughout. You’re on empty, but your powers will return
once we go back.”
Yes, I did know this. But it’s pulling on my existing knowledge that’s rusty, not my actual skills.
of “But I shook off that spell you hit me with to integrate my memories,” I point out suspiciously.
“You didn’t break it,” he counters. “I chose to end it once it accomplished its goal.”
nd My fingers flex outward with the raging desire to conjure magic and turn Bastien into a toad.
heInstead, I try to sound reasonable in my request. “I’d like you and Kieran to leave. I appreciate your
 help, but now that I know what might be coming, I can protect myself.”
ng, “We’re not here to protect you, Thalia,” Bastien says. “We’re here to collect you, and you will be
coming with us. I suggest you pack whatever you want to take with you.”
ust I scoff with indignation. “You’re crazy if you think I’m going anywhere with you. I want you out of
my life, and I never want to see you again. Can I make that any clearer?”
I square my shoulders to lend extra authority to my statement. I wait for him to say something, but
nghe only stares at me.
Perhaps I’m not being direct enough. “Don’t you think you’ve brought enough pain to my life? If
you have any decency whatsoever, if you want to make amends for the hurt and betrayal you’ve
heaped upon me, please go and leave me alone.”
My voice now borders on whiny, which is pathetic, and I hate myself for it. Thalia Clairmont, heir
ttyto the throne of Vyronas, exhibits no weakness to anyone. And yet, I feel like crying again.
Although I may have lost my country, and my parents were killed, it’s the loss of not only
Bastien’s loyalty but his love that has me on the verge of crumbling.
ed He regards me impassively, features carved from granite. Will my vulnerability cause some level
wof humanity to shine forth from that arctic gaze?
Bastien takes two steps toward me, coming toe to toe. I can’t back up as I’m pressed against the
bed, but I don’t look away.
In fact, I raise my chin in defiance.
ed This could be a pivotal moment.
ry I’m stunned when he says, “I don’t have time for your princess dramatics, Thalia. You need to
grow up and act like a woman, not a petulant child.”
Inhaling sharply with surprise, I sputter, “Who the hell do you think you’re talking to—”
“A damn spoiled brat, I’m thinking.”
. I My jaw drops open. Am I in the Twilight Zone? How dare he say these things to me when he
should be groveling at my feet for forgiveness? I’m the victim here, yet he’s acting like he’s the one
anwho should be affronted. When red covers my vision, I don’t have any control over my actions.
I I wind my arm back, prepared to launch a right hook at that stubborn jaw that used to feel my lips
e,but now will only feel my wrath. I take the swing, knowing I might even break a few knuckles, but
it’ll be so worth it.
Regrettably, I’m stopped a few inches short of my target by his big hand banding around my wrist.
m,Bastien’s voice is cold with menace while his eyes blaze with fury. “Don’t even think about doing
that again because I will put you over my lap and blister your bottom. Then I’ll put you in shackles
and carry you out of here. I suggest you remember that you are Thalia Clairmont of the House of
Clairmont and sovereign ruler of Kestevayne. Your subjects are suffering, starving, and dying, and
hethey’ll continue to do so without your help.
rn “Most of all, if you fail to return with me, you will dishonor the memory of your parents. Their
murders will have been in vain, and that will be on your head.” Bastien snarls those last words as he
releases my wrist.
His ire immediately dies, and he looks worn to the bone. “Now, you have fifteen minutes to pack
up what you want and get ready to go.”
d. Bastien pivots and strides out of my bedroom. I stare after him only a few seconds before turning
urto my dressers. I don’t need any time to consider my next move.
 His reminder that my people need me is enough inducement to get moving.
be Suffering, starving, and dying.
There’s no choice but to help them.
of I’ve also heard enough from Bastien to determine he’s still a loyal subject of Vyronas, which
means he’s developed a hatred for me over the years, for some unknown reason.
ut Regardless, he wants what’s best for our country, and so do I. Thus, I’ll return with him and
Kieran through the veil.
If
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 His reminder that my people need me is enough inducement to get moving.
Suffering, starving, and dying.
There’s no choice but to help them.
I’ve also heard enough from Bastien to determine he’s still a loyal subject of Vyronas, which
means he’s developed a hatred for me over the years, for some unknown reason.
Regardless, he wants what’s best for our country, and so do I. Thus, I’ll return with him and
Kieran through the veil.
 CHAPTER 6
Thalia

I STRIDE OUT of my house, locking the door behind me. My possessions include the clothes on my back
—jeans, an olive-green work shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and my cowboy boots—and a pack
filled with other clothing essentials more practical than my usual royal attire. I’m heading back to
war, and I have no intention of sitting in my princess tower to watch things unfurl.
By the gods, I’ve lived the last seven years running a horse ranch on my own. I’m capable of far
more than just wearing a crown.
I’m going to be in the thick of it.
With my hair in a low ponytail under my favorite Stetson, I head toward the barn. Immediately,
Bastien appears out of the shadows to walk by my side. He’s vigilant for potential danger as noted by
his hand resting on the hilt of his sword, but I’m going to assume no further attacks will come tonight.
Only when Ferelith’s erchras fail to return with the prize—which is probably my head—will she
know she’s failed.
Speaking of which, “Why did Ferelith send erchras to bring me back?”
The erchras are Underworld demons that can be conjured with dark magic, something I’d learned
about in my studies growing up. But they’re not the smartest beings and are easily duped.
“I’m guessing she didn’t care if they brought you back,” Bastien replies curtly as we reach the
barn. “I suspect they had orders to make a meal of you.”
I shudder at the thought. Had Bastien and Kieran not shown up, I would be dead. No matter how
good I am with a gun or how smart I am, there were three of them. I wouldn’t have survived.
Kieran leans against a stall door watching us approach. “I didn’t know which horse you rode so I
wasn’t sure who to saddle for you. We can tether the others to follow us through the veil when we go
back.”
“No need,” I reply, dropping my backpack at King’s stall. “I’m only bringing my horse. I’ve
arranged care for the others.”
In that fifteen-minute window Bastien gave me to make up my mind and pack, I used a precious
five minutes to call my ranch manager and explain I had to go on an unexpected trip. He’s more than
equipped to run things in my absence, has full access to the business books so he can make deposits
and pay bills, and I know he’ll care for everything with as much dedication as I do.
“I assumed you’d want your horses,” Bastien muses as he watches me saddle King.
“I do want them,” I reply, tightening the cinch. “I’m coming back once this is all over. My ranch
manager will handle things in my absence.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Bastien scoffs. “You’ll be crowned queen of Vyronas once we defeat
Ferelith.”
“I’ll abdicate.” I bridle King, slipping the bit in his mouth and pulling the crown over his ears.
“Archer would take on the responsibility with pride.”
Archer, my one and only cousin whose blood flows thick with Clairmont magic, would be the next
 logical successor.
“But why?” Kieran asks, frowning at me.
I spare him a glance as I grab my backpack, shrugging it onto my shoulders. I marvel at how much
the brothers look alike. Kieran is two years younger than Bastien, but they could be twins if you
looked past the differences in hair color and length. Despite being so similar in features, you can tell
them apart by their bearing. Kieran, the youngest son of House Dunne, carries himself with an easy
grace and usually has a light smile on his face. Bastien often moves as if he has the weight of the
ckworld upon his massive shoulders. He’s slated to take over as commandant of the army when his
ckfather retires, and he has big shoes to fill.
to I refuse to answer Kieran’s question. My plans are none of their business. They don’t need to
know that my feelings have been deeply hurt, not just by Bastien sending me through the veil and
arstripping me of my memories, but by the Conclave conspiring against my wishes. They are the people
I trusted most with my well-being, and they didn’t respect me enough to let me stay. My parents are
dead, I have no siblings, and my relationship with Bastien is ruined.
ly, I have no reason to stay in Vyronas, and my life here in the solitude of Wyoming is far preferable
bynow.
ht. “I’m ready,” I say as I take King’s bridle in one hand so we don’t get separated as we make the
hejourney through the veil and back to Vyronas.
Sparing a glance at Bastien, I can see he’s not happy with my attitude and is probably dismissing
my promise to abdicate.
ed It doesn’t matter.
Bastien doesn’t matter to me anymore, and I ignore the ache in my chest produced by that
heacknowledgment.
Closing his eyes, Bastien begins chanting, his words too low to hear. The wind kicks up and King
wrears slightly, surely a little spooked, but Kieran puts a hand to his neck and murmurs to calm his
nerves. Then I feel the tugging on my body. Glancing over my shoulder at my house, tears sting and my
o Inose prickles with sadness. Half an hour ago, this was my everything. I didn’t know there was
goanything else out there for me.
Had I come here willingly and known that the Bastien I’d loved with all my heart would be there
vefor me when I returned, I wouldn’t hesitate to say goodbye to this place.
But as it stands, the only goodness in my life is this ranch. It’s duty that calls me back to Vyronas,
usbut I’ll be leaving my heart here and hope to be reunited with it soon.
an As my house and the majestic Tetons behind it fade, other things start to come into focus. A warm
itsbreeze, the smell of pressian flowers, and a small creek babbling cheerfully.
Although I was born and raised in Vyronas, having lived there for twenty years before being sent
to the First Dimension, I had forgotten how beautiful it is. For the last seven years, I’ve had the
chmajesty of the Tetons to inspire me. Valleys of prairie grass and sagebrush, gray, craggy, snow-capped
mountains, and skies so blue you could almost believe that no other color had the right to exist… it
atwas what I thought the most beautiful place in the world.
But it just can’t compare to the magic that infuses Vyronas, making everything sparkle with
rs.brilliance. Before me stretches rolling hills of verdant grass that would feel like velvet to walk upon
with bare feet. The stream is so clear, I can see the brightly colored pebbles that look like spilled
xtjewels and fish of vibrant oranges, yellows, and blues darting about.
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ähnlichen Verwüstungen, wie man sie hier täglich zu Dutzenden
sieht, vorzubeugen. Beim Europäer mit seiner weißen Haut ist das
Auffinden des Sandflohes übrigens weit leichter, als es den
Schwarzen gemacht wird, von deren Haut sich der dunkle Punkt
kaum abhebt. Die vier oder fünf Sandflöhe, die mich trotz steten
Tragens hoher, geschlossener Schnürschuhe bisher zu ihrem Sitz
auserkoren haben, hat mir der vielgewandte Knudsen
herausgehoben; ein Auswaschen der Höhlung mit Sublimat
erscheint mir dabei immer ganz angebracht. Die Neger haben ein
anderes Desinficiens, sie füllen die Öffnungen mit
Wurzelgeschabsel; in einem winzigen Makuadorf am Steilabhang
des Plateaus südlich von Newala sah ich eine Frau, die den Raum
unter den Nägeln prophylaktisch mit Wurzelpulver ausstopfte. Ob es
der Alten etwas nützen wird, wer weiß es.
Der Rest der vielen kleinen Hindernisse, die uns hier das Dasein
erschweren, wirkt mehr komisch als ernsthaft. In Ermangelung von
etwas anderem Rauchbaren greifen Knudsen und ich jetzt zu dem
Inhalt einer vom Inder in Lindi bezogenen Zigarrenkiste. Diese ist
sehr schön beklebt und aufgemacht, aber wehe dem Unglücklichen,
der sich, wie wir, mit ihrem Inhalt befaßt! Ob diese schwelenden
Giftnudeln Opium oder ein anderes Narkotikum enthalten, von uns
beiden weiß es niemand zu sagen, denn nach dem zehnten Zuge
sind wir beide „matt“; dreiviertel betäubt und hundeelend liegen dann
Wiking und Deutscher in sich zusammengesunken da. Langsam
erholt man sich — was geschieht? Nach einer halben Stunde greift
man doch wieder zu dem scheußlichen Kraut; so unstillbar ist hier in
den Tropen der Drang zum Rauchen!
Auch meine jetzigen Fieberanfälle sind kaum geeignet, noch
ernst genommen zu werden. Ich habe ihrer hier in Newala nicht
weniger als drei gehabt, aber alle mit unglaublich kurzem Verlauf.
Emsig fragend, schreibend und notierend quäle ich mich mit meinen
„Gelehrten“ herum, der starke Mittagskaffee hat die Lebensgeister
mächtig angeregt; das Gehirn arbeitet außerordentlich intensiv, so
daß die Arbeit rasch vorwärtsschreitet. Eine wohltuende Wärme
durchrieselt den ganzen Körper, macht jedoch mit einem Male einem
heftigen Kältegefühl Platz, das mich jetzt, beim wärmsten
Sonnenschein, nachmittags 3½ Uhr, bereits zwingt, den Überzieher
anzulegen. Jetzt arbeitet auch das Gehirn nicht mehr so scharf und
logisch, besonders bei syntaktischen Feststellungen des schwierigen
Imakuāni, der Sprache der Makua, an die ich mich zum Überfluß
auch noch herangewagt habe. Da halte ich es denn doch allmählich
für angezeigt, meine Temperatur zu messen, der Einfachheit halber
gleich im Sitzen und ruhig weiterarbeitend; 38,6° ist das Ergebnis!
Nun aber hinaus, meine Herren, heißt es im gleichen Augenblick!
Wenige Minuten später steht mein Bett in der Barasa; unmittelbar
darauf liege ich auch schon darin und beginne mich mit heißem
Zitronenwasser innerlich zu behandeln. Drei Stunden später zeigt
das Thermometer gegen 40°; ich lasse mich jetzt, beim Einsetzen
des Abendwindes, mitsamt meinem Bett ins Zelt zurücktragen —
würde ich meinen furchtbar schwitzenden Körper der eisigen
Abendtemperatur aussetzen, so könnte das meinen Tod bedeuten
—, liege dort noch eine kleine Weile und finde dann zu meiner
Beruhigung, daß das Fieber nicht mehr steigt, sondern anfängt
zurückzugehen. Das ist ungefähr 7½ Uhr; als ich kurz nach 8 Uhr
noch einmal messe, ist die Kurve zu meinem maßlosen Erstaunen
auf unter 37° heruntergegangen; mir ist absolut wohl; ich lese noch
ein paar Stunden und könnte sehr wohl rauchen, wenn ich etwas
Ordentliches hätte. Aber Inderzigarren? Pfui Teufel!
Wie ist so etwas denkbar? muß ich mich selbst als Laie fragen.
Das kann doch unmöglich Malaria sein; näher liegt die Vermutung,
daß diese rasch verlaufenden, hohen Fieberanfälle die Folge einer
zu intensiven Sonnenbestrahlung sind, eine Art Insolationsfieber
oder Sonnenstich. Wenn ich mein Fiebernotizbuch nachsehe, wird
mir dies immer wahrscheinlicher, denn regelmäßig treten diese
Anfälle im Anschluß an größere Strapazen und langen Aufenthalt in
praller Sonne ein. Für mich haben diese kurzen Unpäßlichkeiten
wenigstens das Gute, daß sie mich nur stundenweise von der Arbeit
abhalten, denn am nächsten Morgen bin ich regelmäßig wieder
vollkommen frisch und gesund.
Nicht so gut geht es leider meiner Perle von Koch und dem
Knaben Moritz; jener leidet an einer ungeheuren Hydrozele, die ihm
kaum erlaubt aufzustehen, Moritz aber hat Dunkelarrest wegen
seiner entzündeten Augen. Leider versteht Knudsens Koch, ein bis
vor wenig Wochen gänzlich unbeleckter Wilder von irgendwo aus
dem Busch, noch weniger als mein Omari. Folge: Nils Knudsen ist
selbst zum Koch avanciert. Er hat diese seine neue Tätigkeit
sogleich mit einer großen Tat begonnen; da wir nichts Ordentliches
mehr zu essen haben, hat er die vier von Matola erstandenen
Ferkel, hübsch säuberlich in einen großen Tragkorb gepackt, von
Chingulungulu heraufholen lassen und kaltblütig das größte von
ihnen gemordet. Den ersten Schweinebraten haben wir
leichtsinnigerweise doch Knudsens wildem Koch anvertraut; er war
infolgedessen ungenießbar; den Rest des Tieres haben dann wir zu
einem Gelee verarbeitet, das uns nach den langen Wochen der
Unterernährung herrlich mundet und von dem wir mittags und
abends geradezu fabelhafte Portionen vertilgen. Wenn nur nicht die
ewigen Teltower Rübchen dabei wären! O du gesegnete Stadt auf
märkischem Sande, wer hätte je geahnt, daß du so nachhaltig in die
Ernährung eines stillen, deutschen Gelehrten eingreifen würdest!
Dieser boshafte Dr. Jaeger! Er war ein Mann von Zeit und Muße; ihm
halste daher die Landeskundliche Kommission die Besorgung aller
Nahrungsmittel für seine und meine Expedition auf. Feierlich
überweist mir eines schönen Tages in Daressalam der mit der
Verpackung dieser Sachen betraute Handlungsbeflissene meinen
Anteil. Seitdem leide ich unter einer ständigen Rübenfurcht; ich habe
das Gericht an sich ganz gern, aber nur einmal im Jahre, ungern
häufiger. Doch wie ergeht es mir hier? Ich trete an die Kiste heran,
die gerade leergegessen werden muß; der Deckel fliegt hoch; ein
Griff hinein, eine Konservenbüchse kommt zum Vorschein; ein Blick
auf die Etikette: Teltower Rübchen. Puh! Die Dose verschwindet; ein
zweiter Griff; dasselbe Ergebnis; ein dritter, nichts anderes. Nach
langem Suchen erst kommt dann ein anderes Gemüse zutage; oder
auch nicht, denn diese anderen sind allmählich zu Ende gegangen,
nur die Teltower sind geblieben! „Denn helpt dat nich“, sage ich mit
Fritz Reuter; aber zehn Jahre lang esse ich zu Hause keine Teltower
mehr!
Bei all diesem kleinen Leid, das aber nun einmal dazu gehört, um
Afrika schmackhaft zu machen, gibt es wenigstens e i n erfreuliches
Moment: Nils Knudsen hat mit der Geschicklichkeit eines
Feinmechanikers meinen 9 × 12-Apparat wieder in Ordnung
gebracht oder ihn doch wenigstens so weit wieder hergestellt, daß
ich ihn mit einiger List gebrauchen kann. Wie der Mann ohne
Fingernägel mit dieser kniffligen Arbeit hat fertig werden können, bei
der er den ungemein komplizierten Momentverschluß nur mit Hilfe
eines plumpen Schraubenziehers auseinandernehmen und wieder
zusammensetzen mußte, ist mir noch heute schleierhaft, aber er hat
es geschafft. Der Mangel an Fingernägeln hingegen zeigt den guten
Nils von einer Seite, die mit seiner bei der Apparatreparatur
bewiesenen Intelligenz merkwürdig kontrastiert, die andererseits
allerdings auch aufs innigste mit seinem zehnjährigen
Hinterwäldlertum zusammenhängt. Wäscht er da eines Tages in
Lindi irgendeinen Köter. Dieser muß wohl eines schärferen
Reinigungsmittels bedürftig gewesen sein, denn Nils hat ein Gefäß
mitbekommen, dessen Inhalt stark und kräftig riecht. Gewissenhaft
nimmt unser Freund die Reinigung vor, wundert sich ein wenig, daß
sie dem Hunde sehr schlecht bekommt, ist dann aber sehr erstaunt
darüber, daß ihm seine eigenen zehn Fingernägel im Laufe weniger
Tage wegeitern. „Wie kann ich aber auch wissen, daß man
Karbolineum verdünnen muß“, knurrt er oftmals noch jetzt entrüstet,
wenn er seine schrecklich zugerichteten Fingerenden sorgenvoll
mustert!
Weit und breit haben wir die Umgegend durchschweift, seitdem
wir in Newala hausen; zunächst alter Gewohnheit gemäß, sodann
aber, weil der Akide Sefu mit der Zusammenstellung seines
Gelehrtenkollegiums durchaus nicht so rasch fertig geworden ist, wie
er sich zuerst anheischig gemacht hatte. Aber das schadet weiter
nicht, denn auch bloß von außen gesehen, sind Land und Leute
interessant genug.
Das Makondeplateau gleicht einer großen, rechtwinkligen, an
den Ecken abgerundeten Tafel; es ist, vom Indischen Ozean bis
Newala gemessen, etwa 120 Kilometer lang und im Mittel zwischen
dem Lukuledi und dem Rovuma gegen 80 Kilometer breit; es umfaßt
also gegen zwei Drittel der Fläche des Königreichs Sachsen. Nun ist
diese Fläche nicht horizontal, sondern von ihrem Südwestrande
flach, aber ganz gleichmäßig gegen den Ozean hin geneigt. Von der
Schwelle, auf der Newala liegt, kann man viele Meilen über den
Makondebusch nach Osten und Nordosten schauen, ohne einem
Hindernis zu begegnen; es ist ein grünes Meer, aus dem nur hie und
da dichte Rauchwolken in langer Erstreckung emporwirbeln und -
wallen, zum Zeichen dafür, daß auch hier Menschen wohnen und
daß sie ihre Feldkultur ganz nach der Weise so vieler anderer
Naturvölker vorwaltend auf die Verbrennung des
niedergeschlagenen Holzbestandes gründen. Dessen Asche ist
zugleich die einzige Düngung. Selbst am strahlend hellen Tropentag
ist so ein Brand ein großartiges Schauspiel.
Ungleich weniger wirkungsvoll ist der Eindruck, den gegenwärtig
die große Ebene vom Plateaurand aus erweckt. Sooft es mir meine
Zeit gestattet, unternehme ich den kleinen Ausflug an diesen Rand,
bald hierhin, bald dahin, stets in der stillen Hoffnung, endlich einmal
eine klare Luft mit weiter Aussicht vorzufinden; immer aber
vergebens: wohin man dort unten schaut, allerorten steigen
Rauchwolken hoch, der lebhafteste Beweis für die unausgesetzte
Tätigkeit des Waldbrennens; rauchig und dunstig ist auch die ganze
Luft. Schade drum, das Panorama von hier bis weit hinten an die
Madjedjeberge muß unter günstigeren Umständen wirklich großartig
sein. Jetzt haben photographische Aufnahmen eigentlich kaum einen
Zweck, die Profilzeichnung aber gibt nur einen sehr schwachen
Begriff der ganzen Szenerie.
Bei einem dieser Ausflüge habe ich mich absichtlich selbst
einmal am Makondebusch versucht. Der Plateaurand von heute ist
das Ergebnis einer ungeheuer tiefgreifenden Zerstörung durch
Erosion und Abrutschung; überall greifen kurze, aber Hunderte von
Metern tiefe Täler in die Makondeschichten ein. Eine Folge des
lockeren Gefüges dieser Formation ist es, daß nicht nur die
Seitenwände dieser Täler fast senkrecht abstürzen, sondern daß die
Täler auch mit einer ebenso steilen Rückwand enden; dergestalt ist
der Westrand des Makondeplateaus von lauter Talkesseln umsäumt.
Um von einer Seite eines solchen Kessels auf die andere zu
gelangen, habe ich mich eines Tages mit einem Dutzend meiner
Leute durch den Busch geschlagen. Es war eine sehr lichte Stelle,
mit mehr Gras als Buschwuchs; aber welche Mühe hat dieser Weg
von ein paar hundert Metern gekostet, und wie sahen wir alle
nachher aus! Die dünnen Kattunstoffe meiner Leute in Fetzen, sie
selbst aus hundert kleinen Wunden blutend; sogar unsere derben
Khakistoffe hatten den Dornen dieser Vegetationsformation nicht
standgehalten.

Negerpfad im Makondebusch. Gegend von Mahuta.

Meine seit langem gehegte Ansicht über die Entstehung dieses

Makondebusches hat sich immer mehr befestigt: er ist ohne Zweifel
kein Naturprodukt, sondern erst die Folge der menschlichen Kultur.
Wohin der Mensch hier oben auf dem Hochland noch nicht mit
Hacke und Axt gedrungen ist — ein halbwegs geübtes Auge sieht
dies ohne weiteres —, da steht auch heute noch ein wirklicher,
wunderschöner Hochwald, der den Vergleich mit unserem deutschen
Mischwald sehr wohl aufzunehmen vermag. Wo der Mensch aber
jemals seine Hütte gebaut und sein Feld beackert hat, da entsteht
hinterher dieser gräßliche Busch. Geht man auch nur ein paar
Stunden irgendwo auf dem Hochland die Barrabarra entlang, so hat
man vollauf Gelegenheit, diese Metamorphose in jeder Phase ihrer
Entwicklung zu verfolgen. Seitwärts tönt hallender Axthieb herüber,
nicht bloß von einer Stelle, sondern über einen ganzen Komplex
verteilt. Wenige Schritte weiter sieht der Wanderer, was vorgeht;
wohl meterhoch und höher liegt das niedergeschlagene Unterholz
geschichtet; zwischen ihm aber ragen als letzte Säulen alter Pracht
die Stämme des Hochwaldes. Doch auch sie gewähren ein Bild des
Jammers; der böse Makonde hat sie geringelt, d. h. er hat sie
ringsherum in breitem Bande der Rinde beraubt, so daß sie dem
Absterben verfallen sind; zudem hat er noch eine Reisigpyramide
um sie aufgebaut. Unverdrossen hacken Vater und Sohn, Mutter und
Schwiegersohn im Hintergrunde weiter; kaum daß das sonst so
neugierige Volk nach dem weißen Fremdling aufschaut. Und kommt
dieser Fremdling eine Woche später desselben Weges gezogen,
verschwunden ist das Reisig, verschwunden sind die Pyramiden;
eine dicke Aschenschicht lagert, wo vor kurzem noch grünender
Wald sich breitete. Die starken Bäume aber recken ihre noch immer
glimmenden, schwelenden Stämme und Äste in stummer Anklage
zum Himmel, oder aber sie sind bereits niedergebrochen, mehr oder
minder zu Asche verglüht und zeichnen sich dann als weißer
Streifen auf dunklem Grunde ab.
Das ist der Zerstörungsprozeß, den der Makonde in gleicher
Weise am jungfräulichen Urwalde wie auch an den Stellen seines
Heimatlandes vornimmt, wo er vor Jahren schon einmal geackert
hat, nur daß er im letztern Fall des Verbrennens der großen Bäume
überhoben ist. Diese gibt es in der sekundären Buschformation nicht
mehr.
In das gebrannte und mit der Hacke gelockerte Stück Waldland
sät der Eingeborene sein Getreide, pflanzt er sein Gemüse. Im
ganzen Lande hat er Beetkultur. Diese erfordert eine sorgsame
Pflege, die ihr der Neger auch zuteil werden läßt; Unkraut wird im
Süden Deutsch-Ostafrikas nicht geduldet. Mißernten kommen wohl
im trockneren Tiefland vor, auf dem niederschlagreicheren,
allmorgendlich taufeuchten Hochland sind sie ganz unbekannt.
Dessen glückliche Bewohner sind sogar in der angenehmen Lage,
die sonst so stolzen Yao und Makua von unten bei sich als Diener
und Knechte zu sehen. Hunger tut weh, und so ziehen es die
Angehörigen jener beiden Völkerschaften vor, einmal eine Zeitlang
da den Diener zu spielen, wo sie sonst zu herrschen gewohnt sind.
Jedoch der leichte sandige Boden ist bald erschöpft, er würde bei
einer nochmaligen Bestellung keine Ernte mehr ergeben. Dies weiß
der Eingeborene seit Jahrtausenden; längst hat er vorgearbeitet und
den Komplex nebenan mit Axt und Feuerbrand urbar gemacht. Auf
ihn siedelt er nunmehr mit seinen mannigfachen Kulturen über; das
alte Feld wird zur Brache. Doch nur ganz kurze Zeit liegt es wüst und
greulich anzusehen da, dann kommt Allmutter Natur und nimmt ihr
mißhandeltes Kind liebevoll in ihre Obhut; tausendfältig sprießt es
allerorten aus dem ausgesogenen Boden hervor, selbst die alten
Baumstrünke schlagen von neuem aus. Im nächsten Jahr ist der
Neuwuchs bereits mehr als kniehoch; rasch wuchert er in die Höhe;
nach wenigen Jahren schon ist er jener undurchdringliche,
schreckliche Busch, der erst wieder fällt, wenn der schwarze Herr
des Landes seinen Turnus beendigt hat und an die alte Stelle
zurückkehrt.
Mit diesem Busch sind die Makonde mit Leib und Seele
verwachsen, ja nach meinen Yaogewährsleuten bedeutet sogar ihr
Name nichts anderes als Buschvolk. Nach ihrer eigenen Tradition
sitzen die Makonde zwar schon seit langen, langen Zeiten hier oben,
aber zu meiner Überraschung legten sie doch eine sehr starke
Betonung auf eine ursprüngliche Einwanderung. Diese sei von
Südosten, von der Rovumamündung und von Mikindani her erfolgt;
der Anlaß dazu sei die ewige Beunruhigung ihrer friedlichen
Vorfahren durch die kriegerischen Schirasi der Küste und die
fortgesetzten Raubzüge der Sakalaven von Madagaskar herüber
gewesen; vor diesen hätten sich die Ur-Makonde auf das
unzugängliche Plateau zurückgezogen. Ich bin in der Völkerkunde
Afrikas auf Grund einer 20jährigen Beschäftigung mit ihr sehr wohl
bewandert, aber daß Bevölkerungsvorgänge in diesem so friedlich
und ruhig erscheinenden Erdteile sogar durch von außen kommende
Hochsee-Unternehmungen bedingt und veranlaßt worden seien, war
mir doch im ersten Augenblick etwas vollkommen Neues. Es wird
indessen schon seine Richtigkeit haben. Warum jedoch die
Makonde gerade im dicksten Busch und weit vom Plateaurand ab
wohnen müssen, und warum sie nicht an die rieselnden Quellen der
Niederung selbst zu dauerndem Wohnsitz herniedersteigen dürfen,
das lehrt aufs klarste ihre wunderhübsche Stammessage. Auch noch
manch anderes Lehrreiche steht darin.
„Die Geburtslandschaft des Stammes, mit Namen Mahuta, ist auf
der Südseite des Plateaus zum Rovuma hin gelegen; dort aber
stand nur dichter Busch. Aus diesem Busch hervor ging ein Mensch,
der sich niemals wusch und schor, der nur wenig aß und trank. Der
ging aus und machte ein Menschenbildnis aus dem Holze eines
Savannenbaumes, nahm es mit sich in seine Buschwohnung und
stellte es dort aufrecht hin. Während der Nacht erwachte das Bildnis
zum Leben, und es war ein Weib. Daraufhin gingen sie zusammen
hinunter zu den Wassern des Rovuma, um sich zu waschen. Hier
gebar das Weib ein Kind, welches jedoch nicht lebend zur Welt kam.
Sie verließen das Land und zogen über die Hochländer bis in das Tal
des Mbemkuru, wo sie sich niederließen. Dort gebar das Weib
abermals ein Kind, das wiederum tot zur Welt kam. Daraufhin
kehrten sie in die hochgelegene Buschlandschaft Mahuta zurück,
und dort wurde das dritte Kind geboren, welches nach der Geburt
am Leben und gesund blieb. Mit der Zeit zeugten sie noch viele,
viele Kinder und hießen sich Wamatanda. Diese bildeten die
Stammfamilie der Makonde, auch Wamakonde genannt, d. h.
Urbewohner. Der Stammvater, der Buschmensch, aber gab seinen
Kindern das Gesetz, daß sie ihre Toten aufrecht begraben sollen
zum Andenken an die erste Mutter, die aus Holz geschnitzt und
aufrecht stehend zum Leben erwacht sei; ferner warnte er seine
Kinder, in die Täler und an die großen Wässer zu ziehen, denn dort
wohne die Krankheit und der Tod. Als Regel solle gelten, daß
mindestens eine Stunde Weges sei von der Hütte bis zum
Wasserplatze; dann würden ihre Kinder gedeihen und von
Krankheiten verschont bleiben.“
 Die Urmutter.
Holzskulptur eines
Makondekünstlers.
 Die Erklärung des Namens Makonde lautet bei meinen
Gewährsleuten etwas anders als bei Pater Adams, dessen kleinem,
aber inhaltreichem Büchlein: „Lindi und sein Hinterland“ ich diese
Stammessage der Makonde entnehme. Aber sonst stimmt mein
Befund genau mit dem sachlichen Inhalt dieser Stammessage
überein. Waschen? Hapana, gibt es nicht. Wozu auch? Zudem ist
das Wasser spärlich und reicht kaum zum Kochen und Trinken; von
den anderen tut es ja auch keiner; warum soll also gerade ich so
unangenehm auffallen? Scheren aber ist bei dem kurzen,
krauswolligen Haarwuchs kaum vonnöten; also auch dieser
Vorschrift des Urahnen ist leicht zu folgen. Damit aber hört das, was
uns lächerlich dünkt, auf. Von einer Reihe hiesiger Künstler habe ich
eine ziemlich große Anzahl stattlicher, 40 bis 60 Zentimeter hoher
Holzskulpturen erworben, die allesamt Frauen aus der großen
Völkergruppe der Mavia, Makonde und Wamatambwe darstellen; die
Figuren sind merkwürdig gut gearbeitet und geben den Frauentypus
vortrefflich wieder, vor allem auch die später noch zu schildernde
Verschönerung des Körpers mit Ziernarben. Über Zweck und
Bedeutung ihrer Werke befragt, wußten die Künstler nichts
Plausibles anzugeben, oder aber, was ich heute für wahrscheinlicher
halte, sie wollten nicht. Also:

Was man sich nicht erklären kann,

Das sieht man als ’nen Fetisch an.

Ehrlich gestanden, ich habe diesen ins Ethnographische

variierten alten Vers beim Empfang jener Figuren laut in den
sonnendurchglühten Tropentag hinausgesprochen, aber ich habe
wohlweislich nicht danach gehandelt. Einstweilen mußte ich mich mit
der kargen Angabe eines der Künstler begnügen, die Figuren gäben
lediglich das „nembo“ wieder, die Körperverunstaltung durch Lippen-
und Ohrscheiben und Ziernarben. Mit der Adamsschen Sage jedoch
rücken diese Figuren ohne weiteres in ein anderes Licht, sie sind
doch mehr als zwecklose Kostümpuppen, ja man darf dreist
annehmen, daß sie, wenn auch der Mehrzahl der heutigen Makonde
unbewußt, Darstellungen jener Urmutter sind. Diesmal wäre der alte
Vers also doch angebracht gewesen, denn die Urmutter gehört
ebenso in den Kreis des hiesigen Eingeborenenkultus wie die Ahnen
überhaupt.
Auf die Vorgeschichte des Volkes bezieht sich in der
Stammessage unzweifelhaft zunächst der Hinweis auf den Abstieg
von Mahuta hinunter zu den Wassern des Rovuma, sodann der
andere auf die Wanderung über die Hochländer bis in das Tal des
Mbemkuru; beide Wanderungen des Urelternpaares bedeuten in
Wirklichkeit wohl Wanderungen des Volkes selbst. Der Abstieg in
das nahe, an seinen Rändern außerordentlich fruchtbare und
wildreiche Rovumatal ist ohne weiteres verständlich; doch auch das
Überschreiten der Lukuledisenke, der Aufstieg zum Rondoplateau
und der erneute Abstieg zum Mbemkuru liegen durchaus innerhalb
des Bereichs der Wahrscheinlichkeit, denn alle diese Gebiete weisen
genau dieselben Naturbedingungen auf wie der äußerste Süden.
Nun kommt aber etwas gerade für unser „bakterielles“ Zeitalter
höchst Interessantes. Die Ur-Makonde sind in den sumpfigen
Flußniederungen ihres Lebens nicht froh geworden, Krankheiten
waren bei ihnen an der Tagesordnung, und viele starben; erst
nachdem sie wieder nach Mahuta in die Heimat zurückgekehrt
waren, besserte sich der Gesundheitszustand des Volkes. Wir sehen
im Neger gern und mit Vorliebe den naturfremden und
naturfürchtigen Dümmling, dem alles Ungemach von bösen Geistern
und Naturgewalten herrührt. Viel richtiger wird es sein, hier
anzunehmen, daß die Leute malariadurchseuchte und malariafreie
Gebiete sehr bald haben unterscheiden lernen. Diese Erkenntnis
schlägt sich dann nieder in der Warnung des Urvaters, nicht wieder
in die Täler und an die großen Wässer zu ziehen, denn dort wohne
die Krankheit und der Tod. Um aber auch gleichzeitig vor den bösen
Mavia auf der Südseite des Rovuma gesichert zu sein, wird noch
bestimmt, daß jede Siedelung um einen Minimalabstand von jenem
Steilrand abliegen solle. So wohnen sie heute noch.
Sie wohnen so auch ganz gut, jedenfalls besser und geschützter
als die Makua, die modernen Eindringlinge des Südens, die hier auf
dem Westrande des Plateaus in ziemlich breiter Zone Fuß gefaßt
haben. Von der Stattlichkeit der Yaohäuser unten in der Ebene und
besonders in Massassi, Susa und Chingulungulu hat weder die
Behausung der Makua, noch die der Makonde etwas an sich. Jumbe
Chauro, ein an der Barrabarra nach Mahuta unweit Newala
gelegener Makondeweiler, ist von allen mir bisher bekannten
Siedelungen des Stammes noch der bei weitem stattlichste; seine
Hütten sind auch recht geräumig. Doch wie ruppig ist ihre bauliche
Ausführung gegenüber den fast eleganten Palästen der
Elefantenjäger in der Ebene! Das Dach ist noch verwahrloster, als es
in der Trockenzeit hier überall Usus ist; an den Wänden nur hie und
da die kümmerlichen Anfänge oder die kläglichen Reste eines
Lehmbewurfs; das Innere aber eine wahre Hundehütte; Schmutz,
Staub und Unordnung überall; von Zimmereinteilung ist nur in
wenigen Hütten etwas zu merken, und dann ist sie auch nur durch
ganz liederlich zusammengeflickte Bambuswände hergestellt.
Nur in einem habe ich hier einen Fortschritt feststellen können, in
der Methode des Hausverschlusses. Diese ist im ganzen Süden bei
aller Einfachheit sinnreich; die Tür besteht stets aus derben Stangen
von Bambus oder Holz, die mit dem uns schon bekannten
Bindemittel des Baumbastes an zwei Querriegel gebunden werden;
auch die Drehung um den einen Türpfosten erfolgt in zwei Schleifen,
und zwar nach innen. Will der Bewohner sein Haus verlassen, so
nimmt er zwei derbe Stangen her, oberarmdick und etwa 1,5 Meter
lang. Die eine lehnt er von innen schräg gegen die Mitte der Tür, so
daß sie einen Winkel von 60 bis 75 Grad mit dem Erdboden bildet;
dann nimmt er die andere Stange, dreht sie horizontal und drückt sie
mit aller Kraft auf die erste Stange hernieder. Dabei helfen ihm zwei
andere kräftige Pfeiler, die in einigem Abstand einwärts von den
Türpfosten stehen; sie sind das Widerlager für die Horizontalstange.
Der Verschluß ist absolut sicher; nur läßt er sich natürlich nicht bei
beiden Haustüren, der Vorder- und Hintertür, ausführen. Denn wie
sollte der Besitzer sonst in das Haus hineingelangen? Ich bin aber
einstweilen noch nicht über den Hintertürverschluß unterrichtet.
 Der allgemein übliche Türverschluß.
Das ist also der Universalverschluß. Derjenige der Makonde von
Jumbe Chauro ist viel feiner, gediegener und origineller. Auch hier ist
in bezug auf die Tür alles wie sonst, nur steht an ihrer Innenseite ein
einzelner Pfahl etwa 15 Zentimeter von der Türkante ab frei im
Hüttenraum; in der Hüttenwand aber befindet sich an dieser Stelle
ein Loch, gerade groß genug, um den Arm hindurch zu stecken. Der
Tag ist heiß gewesen, nun aber will es Abend werden; still und
verlassen liegt das Makondedörfchen im dichten Busch verborgen
da. Es ist vollständig menschenleer, denn die ganze
Einwohnerschaft ist zu Schmaus und scharfem Umtrunk ins
Nachbardorf geladen. Jetzt nahen sich schlürfende Schritte, der
Hausvater und die Seinen kehren zurück; sie sind zum nicht
geringen Trost für alle diejenigen Blaßgesichter, die aller
Abstinenzbewegung zum Trotz noch immer gern ihr Gläschen Bier
genehmigen, in keiner anderen Verfassung, als man sich nach einer
schweren Sitzung auch bei uns befindet. Nur singt der Makonde
nicht; Africa non cantat; in dieser Beziehung wird er also nie ein
guter Deutscher werden! Jetzt kommt das Knifflige. Der Negerpapa
hat natürlich die Pflicht, das Haus zu öffnen. O ihr Göttinger
Semester, wie klar steht ihr wieder vor meiner Seele mit eurem
unermeßlichen Hausschlüssel, für den kein Schneider die Taschen
groß genug machen konnte, für dessen Last selbst die hintere
Hosenschnalle eigens verstärkt werden mußte! Größer als du,
unerläßliches Requisit froher Scholarenzeit, ist das Format auch
kaum, das der alte Neger aus irgendeinem Versteck zum Vorschein
bringt, nur Gestalt und Material sind anders als am Leinestrand.
Eisen ist eine plebejische Erfindung fremder, hergelaufener Völker,
der Makonde bleibt nach wie vor beim Holz; und wirklich geschickt
findet er sich damit ab: der Schlüssel ist ein etwa 30 Zentimeter
langer, etwas geschweift gearbeiteter Stab mit abgesetztem Griff;
der Bart hat drei derbe Zapfen, die gleich lang sind und in ein und
derselben Ebene liegen. Etwas unsicher — auch wieder à la
Göttingen — sucht Papa das Schlüsselloch, pardon, das Loch in der
Wand. Das hat er vermöge seiner Größe bald entdeckt. Mit nicht
unberechtigtem Stolz wagt er einen schüchternen Blick nach hinten,
wo Mama, den unvermeidlichen Sprößling im Rückentuch, geduldig
— sie ist ja heute mitschuldig — der Lösung des Problems harrt.
Diese ist wirklich nicht ganz leicht, die Pombe war gut und der Tag
war heiß; merkbar zittert die sonst so ruhige schwarze Hand, als der
alte Herr beginnt, die Öffnung für den Schlüssel zu suchen. Schon
hebt sich, einem Entenschnabel gleich, die siebenzentimetrige
Lippenscheibe der holden Gattin zu scharfer Aufmunterung, da ist
das große Werk endlich gelungen, das feine, rechteckige Loch in
dem freistehenden Pfeiler ist gefunden; rack, rack, rack, ein
dreimaliges rasches Heben und Senken des Schlüssels, schon zieht
er einen langen Riegel hinter sich her und quer durch den Pfeiler
hindurch. Dieser Riegel hatte mit seinem kolbenförmigen freien Ende
sich fest gegen die Innenseite der Tür gestemmt, sie dadurch
hermetisch verschließend; jetzt ist der kluge Neger gekommen, hat
mit seinem Schlüssel im Innern jenes Pfeilers in senkrechten Nuten
laufende Klötzchen gehoben und hat damit den Verschluß gelöst;
leicht und frei gleitet der Riegel zurück.

Türverschluß bei den Makonde von Jumbe Chauro.

Mit nicht geringem Selbstbewußtsein hat mir erst ein Hausvater
diese größte Erfindung des Hochlandes an Ort und Stelle
vordemonstriert, und dann ein anderer; beide Male habe ich ein
bewunderndes „Msuri sana, sehr schön!“ ausgerufen und den
Wunsch geäußert, diese Wunderdinge mit nach dem fernen Uleia zu
nehmen, um dort den Wasungu zu zeigen, was für tüchtige Kerle die
Makonde seien. Noch bin ich keine fünf Minuten in meinen Windfang
von Newala zurückgekehrt, da keucht es auch schon heran; im
selben Augenblick senken sich zwei stattliche Bäume vor meinen
Augen nieder, und feierlich, wie nach siegreicher Belagerung,
überreichen mir zwei stark schwitzende Gestalten die Schlüssel zum
Tor der gefallenen Feste. Zum Schlüssel gehört auch das Schloß,
hatten die beiden Kommandanten ganz logisch gedacht; ein Griff
nach der Axt, krachend fliegt das scharfe, dem trocknen, zähen
Tropenholz gegenüber jedoch zu weiche Eisen in die Basis des
schloßtragenden Pfeilers hinein. Den Pfahl aus dem Boden
auszugraben und ihn dergestalt intakt herbeizuschaffen, das war
den beiden Intelligenzen nicht eingefallen. So liegen die Stücke halb
zertrümmert vor mir, und statt einer Belobigung bekommen die
beiden Besitzer noch Schelte.
 Auf der Suche nach dem Schlüsselloch.
Die Makuahütten sind in der Umgebung von Newala besonders
kümmerlich; in ihrer mehr als liederlichen Bauart erinnern sie mich
lebhaft an die Interimsbauten der Makua von Hatia; und dabei haben
die hiesigen Vertreter des Stammes durchaus keinen Krieg
mitgemacht. Es muß also wohl angeborene Faulheit sein, oder aber
das Fehlen einer straffen Häuptlingshand. Selbst die Barasa von
Mlipa, eine kleine Stunde südöstlich von Newala, nimmt an dieser
allgemeinen Verwahrlosung teil; während sonst die öffentlichen
Bauten hierzulande stets der Gegenstand einiger Sorgfalt sind, läuft
sie sichtlich Gefahr, vom ersten besten kräftigen Oststurm
umgewirbelt zu werden. Von einigem Reiz in dem ganzen weiten
Siedelungsdistrikt ist lediglich das Grab des verstorbenen Häuptlings
Mlipa selbst. Ich habe es in den ersten Vormittagsstunden einmal
besucht, wo noch brauende Nebel mit der durchbrechenden Sonne
kämpften; da sah der kreisrund angelegte Hain haushoher
Euphorbien, die nebst einem zerbrochenen Tongefäß allein noch von
der Ruhestätte des alten Negerkönigs zeugen, fast weihevoll aus.
Auch meine sonst so materiell und realistisch veranlagten Träger
mochten so etwas fühlen, denn sie sangen heute nicht ihre
gewohnten Schelmenlieder, sondern feierlich klang es, als wir von
dannen zogen, in den dichten, grünen Makondebusch hinein und
über ihn hinaus weithin den Steilabhang hinunter:
 Lied anhören
MusicXML-Datei herunterladen
 „Wir werden schon ankommen mit dem großen Herrn; wir stehen
in der Reihe und haben keine Angst, unser Essen und unser Geld
vom Serkal, der Regierung, zu bekommen. Wir sind nicht ängstlich;
wir gehen zusammen mit dem großen Herrn, dem Löwen, zur Küste
und kehren zurück.“
In bezug auf den Habitus der verschiedenen Stämme hier auf
dem Westrande des Plateaus komme ich zu keinem anderen
Ergebnis als dem bereits in der Ebene gewonnenen: es ist für einen
Nichtanthropologen unmöglich, es dem einzelnen direkt anzusehen,
welches Stammes er sei. Ich glaube aber, auch für den
Anthropologen von Fach möchte diese Unterscheidung schwer sein,
selbst auf Grund der peinlichsten Untersuchung; die ganze große
Völkergesellschaft hier im Osten des Erdteils, zwischen dem großen
zentralafrikanischen Graben, dem Tanganyika und dem Nyassa im
Westen und dem Indischen Ozean im Osten, ist nun einmal eng
miteinander verwandt; manche ihrer Sprachen unterscheiden sich
nur dialektisch; die Stämme werden zweifellos dieselbe
Schädelbildung und denselben Knochenbau besitzen; von
auffallenden äußeren Stammesunterschieden kann da unmöglich die
Rede sein.
Und selbst wenn sie beständen, hätte ich keine Zeit und Muße,
mich mit ihnen zu befassen, denn welch ungeheure Fülle von
ethnographischen Erscheinungen allein ist es, die Tag für Tag auf
mich einstürmt, die gesehen oder gehört, in beiden Fällen aber
begriffen, aufgezeichnet und niedergeschrieben sein will. Fast
könnte ich es als ein Glück bezeichnen, daß wenigstens einzelne
Forschungsgebiete durch äußere Umstände brachgelegt worden
sind. Da ist vor allem das Gebiet der Eisentechnik. Afrika gilt sonst
als ein Erdteil, wo der Eisenstein sozusagen auf der Straße liegt und
wo es verwunderlich erscheinen möchte, wenn seine Bewohner
nicht zur Verhüttung des überall anstehenden Materials gelangt
wären; tatsächlich reicht ja auch die Kenntnis des Eisenschmelzens
vom Nordrand bis zu den Kaffern.
Hier zwischen Rovuma und Lukuledi liegen die Verhältnisse nicht
so günstig. Raseneisenstein oder eine andere Eisenverbindung ist,
wie die Makonde erzählen, ihnen nicht bekannt; sie und ihre Vettern,
die Wamatambwe, sind demgemäß nicht bis zur Technik des
Eisenschmelzens fortgeschritten, sondern haben seit jeher ihre
Eisengeräte von den Nachbarstämmen kaufen müssen. Aber auch
den Bewohnern des Tieflandes ist es nicht leicht gemacht worden.
Nur ein einziger Fundi, ein alter Mann am Huwe, jenem
steilwandigen Granitklotz, der sich einsam mitten aus der weiten,
grünen Einöde zwischen Massassi und Chingulungulu erhebt und
dessen zackiges, wild zerklüftetes Haupt den Wanderer überall
grüßt, steht im Ruf, als letzter der Lebenden noch die Kunst des
Eisenschmelzens zu bewahren. Schon von Massassi aus wollte ich
den Mann in seiner Tätigkeit studieren; doch da hieß es: er ist aus
Angst vor dem Aufstand über den Rovuma gegangen; er kommt
indes bald wieder. Seitdem habe ich immer wieder gefragt: Ist er
denn nun endlich da, der Fundi? „Bado“, hieß es dann urecht
afrikanisch.

Gelbgießer beim Schmelzen des Messings.

Einen gelinden Trost hat mir dafür ein Gelbgießer gewährt, den
ich im Walde von Akundonde erwischte. Der Mann ist der Liebling