Under a Veil of Gods
Copyright © 2018 R. Anthony Giamusso
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without prior written permission of the publisher.
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Published by Indigo
an imprint of BHC Press
Library of Congress Control Number:
2017961406
Print edition ISBN:
978-1-947727-15-1
Visit the author at:
www.bhcpress.com
To my family and friends for their unconditional love and support; my fiancé, Kerriann Lynn, who has been by my side through this entire journey, inspiring me every day; Jackson and Tuckman for taking me on walks; my mentor, Kaylie Jones, for challenging me to become the best writer I can be; Laurie Loewenstein for policing my bad writing habits; Sam Chiarelli for the invaluable feedback and guidance; and my cohorts at Wilkes University for their collective wisdom, encouragement, and friendship. Thank you!
At a farmhouse between merging rivers, Montague La-Rose knotted the last rope that held together the bags he’d stacked on his wagon. The farmer twisted and pulled the jute twine tight in the morning sun as its waxing light peaked in the sky. He was five miles from the capital, already late to deliver the herbs and spices he’d promised the King of Illyrium.
It was odd enough to sleep past sunrise when he always woke at first light, especially on one of two most important days of the year. But the fact that he felt nauseous worried him. Many people throughout Illyrium had become sick and bedridden, and the cause was unknown. As winds changed to winter, Montague’s medicine became highly sought. This single shipment could save hundreds of lives. His crops included some of the rarest plants in the world of Naan, and his arrival at the capital was most anticipated.
The bags on top were double wrapped in oilcloth, reminding him just how important it was that he made it to the rendezvous. They were for the princess. He’d received word from the castle that the king’s daughter, Olivia Volpi, began to hallucinate. It was a symptom of the recent foodborne illness. She was one of the first infected. But since the royal family did not want it known that a member of their bloodline was sick her condition was kept from the public.
As the high noon bell tolled, he climbed to the seat of his wagon.
“Let’s go, Earl,” he said to his donkey. Montague wiggled the bolt that held the splinter bar to make sure it was secure. “We’re finally on our way, three kingdoms to visit. I know you like that Graleon hay.”
Twice a year Montague delivered a share’s worth of goods to the high, rich castles of the United Kingdoms of Naan: Grale, Mern, and Illyrium, the first city and capital of Men. He also made sure to share with the dirt-bottom street dwellers throughout each kingdom until he was left with a small supply he kept for himself. Because of the situation with the princess, the king had arranged an early delivery with Montague, nearly a month before schedule. He’d bunker down at the stables for a week or two before leaving for Grale. In total, his trip would take four weeks. He felt proud about making his contribution to the rest of society, but it was also payday for Montague. The profit had to last for eight months until the next harvest.
For the past six weeks Montague had been secretly providing the castle with various herbal concoctions that helped ease Olivia’s discomfort. He was trusted by the king so much that the royal family had fired their own private healer and left the medical decisions for Olivia’s case up to Montague.
Most, if not all herbs Montague grew, were known to have healing properties. Peasants who couldn’t afford medicinal attention praised him. Since his family’s land was the only successful place nutwood and pigroot would grow, both known to produce oils that fight the deadliest infections, it was his responsibility to provide a healthy supply of those in particular to the healers across three islands. Although he wasn’t considered a healer himself, he still played an important role in public healthcare.
A recurring dizziness came upon him. But the urge to heave was gone.
The journey to Illyrium would take an hour if he traveled north along the coast of the Noahl River. But if the shore was blocked by fallen rock from the Gory Hills he would be forced to cross at the shallows to the other side, adding at least a half hour to his arrival time. Earl refused to walk through water that came above his hooves without snacks to tempt him. If Montague could only afford a horse, things would be much easier. Luckily, the path lit by a golden, midday sun was smooth at the onset of the voyage. There were no rocks and the fallen trees had been cleared by the woodsmen as they did before every first frost. He was more grateful than ever for the men’s hard work. But unfortunately there was nothing the woodsmen could do about the scattered puddles of fly-infested mud that were leaking into low-lying areas of the path. The odor was pungent. And since Earl’s feet got wet, the donkey was slow to maneuver.
Suddenly, Montague heard a wheel snap as the wagon slammed down on one side. The displacement caused the stack of bags to shift, tearing the bonnet covering the herbs and hurling the
