Read an Excerpt

CHAPTER 1

21st Day of Sipar's Settling, Year 633

The between spat him out like chewed gristle.

Naked in the cold and dark, he dropped to his knees, shivering, sucking at precious air. Another Walk, more years added to a body already abused by too many trials and too many journeys through time.

He clutched his chronofor in stiff, frigid fingers and braced his other hand on the courtyard stone. Fear lifted his gaze, despite the droop of his shoulders, the leaden fatigue in his legs. Torches flickered in nearby sconces. Stars gleamed in a moonless sky. He saw no soldiers, no assassins. He heard not a sound.

Had he arrived too early? Too late?

He fought to his feet and turned an unsteady circle to get his bearings before heading to the next courtyard and the castle arsenal. No soldiers here, either. Panic rose within him like a spring tide. Within the armory he found a stained uniform in Hayncalde red, as well as a musket and ammunition. He didn't see any boots that would fit.

He pulled on the uniform and loaded the weapon. He took extra powder, paper, and bullets – habit born of years on the run. But he knew he wouldn't have a chance to use them. This night would end in one of two ways. In neither scenario would he get off a second shot.

As he left the armory, he noticed what he had missed earlier. A body lay in the grass a few paces off the stone path. A woman with a gaping wound across her neck, and a bib of blood glistening on her uniform. A few paces on, he spotted a second dead guard on the other side of the path. Both from Hayncalde, both killed with stealth. Not too early then, perhaps in the very teeth of time.

He hurried on to the hall, bare feet slapping on stone. Nearing the archway that led into the back corridor, he heard the first explosion rock the west gate. Voices rose in alarm and anger. Bells pealed from the castle towers. Moments now. He stole through shadow and candlelit passages, only pausing when he reached the door.

Another explosion, not so distant, but also not the one he awaited. Inside the hall, men shouted. A baby cried, and his heart folded in upon itself.

He gripped the musket, readied himself. One last explosion made the stone beneath him shudder and buck. His cue.

He kicked the door open, stepped through.

Bedlam. A haze of smoke. And the one he sought. He shouted the man's name and raised his weapon to fire.

26th Day of Kheraya's Waking, Year 647

The summons came the day before Tobias's fifteenth birthday.

His instructors had prepared him, telling him they thought it unlikely he would have to wait the full sixteen years. Yet, for word from the chancellor to come so soon – this exceeded even his expectations.

The herald found him in the lower courtyard, practicing his blade work before an appreciative audience of junior novitiates. He and a few of the other older boys and girls had long since graduated to training with steel blades. Sometimes the younger ones paused in their training to goggle at the blur of gleaming weapons, flinching with delight at the clang of steel on steel.

"Tobias Doljan," the herald called, halting their parries, drawing their gazes, silencing them all.

The arrival of heralds in the novitiates' world presaged either tragedy or opportunity: dark tidings from home, or advancement into the unknown. Rarely did they bring word of anything in between.

Before facing the messenger, Tobias bowed low to Mara, with whom he had been fencing. He knew the others watched him, but didn't spare them a glance. They thought him young still. Too young. He was the least experienced of those who had taken up honed blades. News from home then. That was what they would assume. He sensed their pity, their fear, and he wanted to laugh, confident they were wrong.

"You will come with me," the herald said. "The Lord Chancellor is waiting."

Sweat ran in rivulets down Tobias's face and neck, and darkened the tunic he wore beneath his mail. But one responded without delay to a summons from the chancellor; better he should arrive sweating and filthy than make the man wait. He handed his sword to Delvin, cast a quick grin Mara's way, and followed the herald out of the courtyard.

The chancellor's man said not a word as they walked, so Tobias held his tongue as well. They climbed the broad, open stairway to cross from the lower courtyard to the middle, passing ivy-covered walls of golden stone. Bowmen and guards with muskets patrolled the battlements of the palace's outer defenses, bare-headed and clad in uniforms of purple and black. It had been more than a century since this palace had been attacked by would-be conquerors, but other threats, some unique to a palace filled with Travelers, kept soldiers atop the ramparts.

Tobias and the herald made their way through the middle courtyard, entered the North Keep, and ascended the ancient, twisting stairway to the third level and the chancellor's quarters. The herald knocked once on the oaken door, and let himself into the chamber, leaving Tobias to wait in the corridor. Only a breath or two later, the man reemerged and told him to enter. Tobias stepped into the room, heard the door close behind him.

The chancellor sat behind a large desk, which was piled high with leather-bound volumes and sheaves of curled parchment. Portraits of past chancellors adorned the walls, and a woven rug, rich with browns and blues and golds, covered a portion of the stone floor. Half a dozen messenger pigeons, brown and white and gray, cooed in a wooden cage beside the open window. Otherwise the chamber again struck Tobias as sparse, as less impressive than the chancellor's quarters ought to be.

He had been in the chamber twice before: once the day he arrived on Trevynisle, uninitiated, confused, homesick; and a second time, three years ago, when he learned of his sister's death. The first instance, he barely remembered. The other haunted him still, not because he grieved for his lost sister, but rather because he couldn't call to mind an image of Yolli. She had been a squalling infant when he left Redcove, his village on Onyi; he recalled the sound of her more than anything else. He tried to mourn her, but it seemed her death had come from too great a distance to affect him as it should.

"Mister Doljan," Chancellor Shaan said, not bothering to look up from the yellowed parchment he held with thick fingers. "It seems I interrupted your sword play."

The man's trim beard sharpened features that might otherwise have been open and friendly. Silver blended with bronze to lighten what little hair he had remaining on his head.

"Yes, Lord Chancellor," Tobias said.

"Do you know why I had you summoned?"

"I assume it's because I've been called to a court."

The chancellor glanced his way, then laid the parchment atop one of the many piles and straightened. "You assume this? A lad your age?"

He held the man's gaze. "Yes, Lord Chancellor."

The chancellor eyed him, his expression resolving at last into a scowl. "You're brash. Royals don't like that, particularly in green Travelers new to their courts."

Tobias wished to ask if confidence was not a desirable trait in a court Traveler, but he sensed that challenging the chancellor on this point would be a mistake.

"I meant no offense," he said instead.

The chancellor stared at him still. Tobias wondered if he ought to drop his gaze, at least give the impression of feeling abashed. He did neither.

The chancellor reached for the parchment again. "You would not have been my first choice. You're young, and you have much yet to learn. Your teachers speak well of you; they see potential. Promise, though, is ..." He waved his hand, a vague gesture. "Had the petition been for any sort of Traveler, I would have chosen another. They want a Walker, however, and you're the only one I have."

Tobias stifled a smile; the chancellor already thought him arrogant. He wouldn't add gloating to his transgressions. But behind his calm demeanor, he rejoiced. They want a Walker. They want me.

"May I ask where I'll be going?"

"The petition comes from Mearlan IV, sovereign of Daerjen."

He had hoped for such a posting – all of them did. Not necessarily to Daerjen itself, but to a court of prestige and might, for only the most influential courts could afford Travelers, much less a Walker. This time, he couldn't quite mask his joy. He could barely stand still.

"Yes," the chancellor said. "You're fortunate. And so are we. The sovereign has paid handsomely for your services. You won't keep him waiting. You're to sail from Windhome tomorrow, with first light. I trust you can have your affairs in order by then."

"Yes, Lord Chancellor. I'll be ready." As soon as he spoke the words, though, he faltered.

"What is it?"

Tobias sensed impatience in the question, and didn't know how to answer. Even as his initial excitement lingered, fears and misgivings crowded in. Daerjen was at war with Oaqamar, the single greatest power between the oceans. In addition to his grand army and navy, Oaqamar's autarch was said to possess his own company of Walkers, Spanners, and Crossers, all of them schooled in the art of assassination. According to some, Oaqamar's Travelers had found a way to overcome the limitations that forced them to make their journeys naked and weaponless. Tobias sensed that Windhome's masters and mistresses had heard these rumors as well, but they refused to speak of them.

Whatever the truth, Tobias didn't doubt that the moment he reached Hayncalde – and perhaps before – his life would be in danger.

Yet this mortal fear paled next to concerns far less threatening, but still burdensome: he had lived in Windhome Palace for nearly his entire life, rarely venturing beyond these walls. He would know no one in Daerjen. Everything about the place would be unfamiliar.

The chancellor watched him, waiting, an eyebrow arched.

Tobias couldn't bring himself to give voice to his mounting apprehension. Instead, he seized on a trifle.

"I ... I have no chronofor. Shouldn't I have one before I sail?"

Another frown creased the man's forehead. "That expense will be borne by the sovereign. He has a Binder in his employ who is crafting one for you even now. I'm sure that soon after your arrival in Hayncalde, you'll be given a device." The chancellor held out a roll of parchment, tied with gold satin. The sealing wax, also gold, had been imprinted with the open hand symbol of the Travelers' palace. "Your letter of introduction," he said. "You'll present this to Sovereign Hayncalde upon your arrival in Daerjen. Naturally, our contract with the sovereign is explicit with regard to the protocols and limitations of Time Walking. Should he ask of you more than he should, you are to refuse him and send a message here with dispatch. Do you understand?"

Master Ojeyd had explained these restraints to him in anticipation of this day. He was not to be sent back more than a year – although even a Walk of that length sounded impossibly long. And he was not to be sent on Walks in excess of thirty days more than a few times in any given turn. Tobias needed to consult his notes again for the exact number. Such strictures were intended to protect Walkers like him, and also to mitigate the effect his kind might have on the course of history.

"Of course, Lord Chancellor. Master Ojeyd has prepared me well."

"Very good."

Again Tobias hesitated. Ought he to say something, to thank the chancellor? They hardly knew each other. Tobias was no more to the man than a single face among dozens. To him, the chancellor had always seemed as remote as starlight. In the end, he sketched a bow and crossed back to the door.

"Mister Doljan."

Tobias halted.

"From this day forward, the world will see in you a reflection of this place: of the palace, of your fellow students, of your teachers, even of me. Your duty is to Daerjen, but you will always be a child of Trevynisle. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Lord Chancellor. I won't disappoint you."

"Good. Go with His glory and Her grace."

"Thank you, my lord. Blessings of the Two upon you and this palace."

The chancellor replied with a nod and a thin smile, but already he had set aside the petition from Daerjen and reached for another curled missive. Tobias let himself out of the chamber. Finding the corridor empty, he hurried back to the lower courtyard.

Long before he reached his fellow novitiates, he heard the sharp echoes of pistol fire. Apparently Mara, Delvin, and the others had set aside their blades and were now practicing marksmanship. Reaching the stairway to the courtyard, he saw that they did so under the critical eye of old Saffern, the palace weapons master, whose white hair shone like a beacon in the sunlight.

Seeing Tobias step into the ward, Saffern waved him over and held out a pistol to him, butt first.

"You are two rounds behind," the master said, his accent rounding the "o"s and rolling the "r"s.

"I know but I haven't–"

"You will shoot. One in the center and you can skip a second round." Saffern's dark eyes danced. "Three in the center, and you may go."

"Three out of how many?" Tobias asked, approaching the man and reaching for the pistol.

"Three in the center. Surely you don't need more than three shots to do this. You, who are in such a rush to leave us."

Tobias considered him. Did Saffern know?

"All right." He walked to the white line from which Delvin had been shooting.

"Back here, I think."

The master dug his heel into the ground five paces back from the line, and scraped a new line in the grass.

Tobias couldn't help but grin. As good as he was with a sword, he was better still with firearms. Saffern knew this as well.

He loaded the weapon: white powder from Aiyanth, a wad of firepaper, and a lead ball, also Aiyanthan, pushed down the barrel with the ramrod. After priming the pan with a touch more powder, he set his stance, full-cocked the pistol, aimed, and fired. The report echoed across the courtyard like thunder, and white smoke rode the wind up and over the east wall.

"Dead center," Mara said. Was that pride in her voice?

"Luck, I believe." Saffern walked three more paces from the target. "There is less luck back here."

Tobias smirked. Several of the older boys laughed, no doubt hoping Tobias would miss.

He reloaded, toed Saffern's new line, and squeezed the trigger.

The others quieted. Mara clapped, long hair aglow with sunlight.

"Center again," she said, her eyes finding Tobias's.

"Clearly we're still too close." Saffern walked off ten more paces. This time, none of the novitiates so much as snickered.

"That's too far," Mara said, adding belatedly, "master. I'm not even sure you could make that shot."

"I'm not the one who has to. Mister Doljan?"

Tobias joined Saffern at this newest line and squinted back toward the target. For all his skill with firearms, he had little confidence that he could make this shot. He loaded, took his stance, and fired. He didn't need to hear Mara say "Second ring," her voice flat, to know he had missed.

"Ah," Saffern said beside him. "A pity. I fear you'll be training with us today after all."

"No, master, I won't." He held out the pistol to Saffern, grip first, as he had been taught.

"We had an agreement."

He shook his head. "No, we didn't. I tried to tell you, I'm leaving the palace, and Trevynisle."

The weapons master didn't respond. He had known. It was Mara who asked, "Leaving for where?"

Saffern had yet to take the pistol. Tobias let the hand holding it drop to his side. "Hayncalde, in Daerjen."

"Mearlan's court?"

"Yes."

"Why you?" This from Nat, one of the older boys. His tone bristled with resentment. "You're no better than the rest of us, and you're younger than most."

"They want a Walker."

Which was really all that mattered, and Nat knew it. All of them did. They stared at him. Mara's expression had gone blank. Nat, Delvin, and Mara were Spanners, capable of Traveling dozens of leagues, or even more, in the time it might take Tobias to walk from one end of the courtyard to the other. Others among the novitiates were Crossers. They could pass through solid walls of wood and stone. But as the chancellor said, he was the lone Walker among them.

"I leave in the morning," he said to no one in particular. He held out the weapon to Saffern once more, but the weapons master shook his head.

"Take it. And ammunition as well. Your voyage will take you near disputed waters. You shouldn't sail unarmed."

Tobias bowed. "Thank you, master."

"Remember this final lesson, Mister Doljan. You're very good. But there's always room for improvement." He flashed a smile so fleeting that Tobias wondered if he'd imagined it. "The rest of you load your weapons," he said, showing his back to Tobias. "You all need practice, particularly with your stances. I see no one here who could have made even two of the shots Mister Doljan attempted."

The novitiates obeyed without delay.

Tobias lingered for a tencount, stunned at how quickly he had become an outsider. Only Mara continued to eye him, and when he looked her way, she turned and walked back toward the targets.

---

Excerpted from "Time's Children"
by .
Copyright © 2018 D B Jackson.
Excerpted by permission of Watkins Media Ltd.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

---