Want to read a rough draft of the first chapter of my first book?

A mock cover of a novel with a close up of a young woman dressed in an extravagant gown from an ancient time, with a flowing veil. The words on the cover say, "The Girl, Corianna - Chronicles of the Wraith: Book One By Ryan Bass"

Look at this mock up cover I made with MidJourney and GIMP. She’s a beaut.

CHAPTER 1

IT WAS SPRINGTIME, a bright, crisp morning. I wrote upon a cunningly made board in the enclosed wagon provided by the Centurio Ramedius, as best I could while traveling. We had just crossed a bridge of wood and stone, passing over one of the many tributaries to the great Edre river. The river was swollen with the runoff of melted snow from the mountains to the northeast. I had the window of the carriage open to smell the spring air and feel the fresh breeze on my face. Bouncing along the road was not nearly so rough as I had feared, but it was not either ideal. We were, I had just been told, only ten mille from my father’s home. The journey had not been long, as I had been found just a few days travel north of Dopangun.

The Centurio and his men had been exemplary in their treatment of me, and I appreciated the efficiency with which he ensured I was cleaned, clothed, and fed in Portus Sirpe before we set out for my father’s city. Ramedius had been properly dismayed at my appearance, I feel certain, though his traditional sense of propriety did not allow him to express it other than to have me treated with gentle kindness by the slaves in the bathhouse of Portus Sirpe. I felt quite warmly towards the man. I was inured to rough treatment after the decade of my ordeal, but the kindness was more than welcome.

Only four days ago, I was resting my cheek against the cool stone in the dry well, waiting. I had found the cool stone when I was first put in the well, nearly ten annum gone. A steady drip of relatively clean water kept the stone cooled in even the worst summer heat and licking the moisture from the stone allowed me to keep dehydration at bay. I had been filthy, for I was at the bottom of the well this time nearly a moon full of days and was wasting away from starvation. The horror on the face of the custodis soldier who descended into the pit, dangling from a linen rope, told me exactly how I must look.

Now, of course, I was dressed modestly in a long-sleeved tunic, properly belted, with loose-fitting pants to keep me warm and shoes on my feet. I could already feel myself filling out from the food that has constantly been offered to me. First Ramedius with his travel rations of raisins and dried mutton, and then from the lovely slaves in the Portus Sirpe bathhouse. I gorged myself on olives and cheese while the women oiled and scraped my body, scrubbed me in the hot room, oiled and scraped me again, then doused me in the cold room with frigid water.

I had read once that Dominicus, the first emperor, when asked by a foreign dignitary why he bathed every day, replied, “because I do not have time to bathe twice a day.”  I quite understood the sentiment. It was glorious to be clean. Eating was a thing I would have to become used to again. My jaw became tired of chewing long before my belly was satiated. I was, of course, surprised to be offered food in the bath itself. Generally, there is no eating in the process of bathing, one might eat before or after, in the dining rooms or in the library of the bathhouse, but never during the bathing itself. I am the exception, it seems.

I have no idea how much Ramedius paid to have me bathed in privacy, but he may very well have bought out the bathhouse for the day, just for me. I certainly never saw any but the slaves and the matron who was brought in to check me, just as Numeria had predicted. Unpleasant, that, but I understood. I had not been violated, not in the ten annum I have been gone, and I will be far more valuable to Father as a virgin. They did need to know, and the matron was not unkind. Still, as I have said… unpleasant.

My new tunic and pants were found for me there and adjusted while I ate, listening to music being played in a near room, piped in for only me. I slept a bit during the massaging of my muscles, and as I dozed, I felt a great relief. It was well begun; hunger and discomfort might be behind me for a time.

My hair was brushed, loosely braided, and piled atop my head with combs and pins. In my new clothes, with my hair coiffed properly as befits a young woman, I was presentable when I next was brought to the Centurio. He awaited me in the library, reading a book of poems on the glory of the empire’s war in the south. Ramedius examined me with a critical eye, finally giving me a grunt of approval and telling the matron to have food packed away for my travel with he and his custodis.

I was then introduced to this magnificent carriage, while the Centurio rides a-horse. He rides well, I note. I was alone among soldiers, though Ramedius had provided me a slave girl for propriety’s sake. She watched the plate of food so keenly that I urged her to help herself, but she had a healthy fear of Ramedius and would only take a single olive. She was not very lively conversation, but that was well for I was in no mood to talk.

I looked out the window, at the passing fields. It was late afternoon, and the men and women were working in the vineyard, lifting the vines with stakes and twine, planting the cover crops that would protect the soil while the grapes grow to fullness. In autumn, these same farmers and their slaves would harvest those fruit, their backs bent under the weight of what would be wine for my family.

My family. Soon, I would see them again. I did not know what to think about that. I was bewildered on how to navigate the upcoming reunion. I desperately did not want to cry, but I would.

Enough of that. This was a journal, I suppose, of what had happened to me. It must be filled with memories, not of fretting about what lay ahead. I had no fears that what I wrote here would be read. Ramedius’s officer’s honor would not have permitted him to read it, and Allona, the slave girl, could not read. I could safely put my memories to paper.

My first memory of my life was of a rude boy.

He fights the other boys, and he is the best. I watch from my perch on the nursery desk, wishing they would invite me to come out and fight. Irgaltreda rocks in her chair, asleep with a scroll dangling from a limp hand. Baby Caia also sleeps. I am supposed to be in my bed, but the thwack of the practice sticks draws me to the window.

The rude boy stands in the center. He usually does. I almost think he is the teacher in a class, but no, he is only eight or nine annum old. Older, and certainly almost grown to me, but even I knew the difference between him and a grown up. I dangle my feet out the window and watch another boy step into the center with the rude boy. They raise their sticks and I clasp my hands tightly under my nap-dress. Thwack! Thak-thwack! The two step apart, and the other boy wipes sweat from his face. The rude boy makes a comment, smiling. I scoot closer, trying to hear what insult the rude boy makes this time, but I cannot make it out.

Whatever he said, the other boy does not like it. He comes at the rude boy, swinging wildly, but the rude boy stands steadily and blocks the blows one by one with his stick. Every so often, he darts his stick at the other boy’s chest or calf, just touching him before crossing sticks again. Even though the boy is rude, I like him. I see how good he is, and it makes me feel smart that I can see it.

Finally, the other boy seems to tire. The rude boy steps back, smiling. Somehow, I catch his eye, in the window above the courtyard. He tips his sword at me, his smile widening. The other boy suddenly tenses, and I can clearly see that he is ready for one more desperate attack. I lean forward and raise my arms suddenly to point, and I see the rude boy’s eyes widen in alarm.

I helped! I think triumphantly, and the world lurches. Still, I see the rude boy’s lunging run, and the other boy’s strike take him full across the face. Even as I am aware that I am falling, I cannot help but be outraged at the foul. My nap-dress flies up around my head, and I cannot see any more.

I never touch the ground. Thin, wiry arms snatch me out of the air, and hold me. My nap-dress falls away from my face, and I realize the rude boy has caught me. He has a nasty split across his cheeks and nose, and frankly looks quite frightening with all the blood on his face. His forehead is pale.

I push away from him, standing on my own. He is bleeding quite badly and has gone white. He blinks at me.

“What is your name, girl?” He asks.

“Corianna Madiniera,” I say proudly. My father is magistrate of Dopangun. His parents almost certainly work for my father. I have watched the rude boy play at swords for weeks. I can hardly believe we are speaking.

He smiles gently, charmingly despite his wound and the blood.

“Corn Maiden?”  He chuckles as his friends gather behind him, their eyes wide, approaching almost reverently. “That’s a silly name for a little girl, don’t you think so?” His eyes wander a bit, and he stumbles.

I burst into tears. I do not know why, but I am suddenly furious at the rude boy. He ruined it. He made fun. He IS a rude boy.

He looks at me stupidly for a moment, as I cry. Then I think he might cry himself. He looks like he might try to come towards me, but his eyes roll, showing the white part only, and he falls backwards into his friends’ arms.

I became aware of Centurio Ramedius, his horse close to the side of the carriage, watching me write. I glanced up to the sky and allowed my gaze to roam idly across the clouds while I affected chewing on the pen nib, as some do. The weather was perfect, cool but sunny; billowing clouds chased one another across an azure field. I enjoyed the sensation of the sun on my face for a moment, then started, looking quickly at Ramedius as though I had just noticed him.

“Centurio, I beg your indulgence, I- “

“Not at all, girl,” he growled. Ramedius was an old soldier: craggy face and scarred hands. His voice rough from decades of bellowing orders to his men, he nevertheless found a soft tone to give to me, “Would my custodis worked so assiduously at their reports. Writing it down can help if you want to remember.”

I smiled tremulously. Ramedius was a good man.

“I- I have always liked to write. If you don’t-“ I made a motion as though to put the stylus away.

He held up his hands, placating. I aborted the move, blinking owlishly at him.

“No, no. Keep on with your writing, girl. Please. Don’t let me disturb you.”

He gigged his horse and moved toward the front of the line. I tucked a stray hair behind my ear and pondered. I leaned over the board.

The last memory I have of my life is of a dinner.

Father is telling the story of how Stephanaius caught me when I fell out of the nursery window.

The rude boy stands at attention, wearing the leather armor of the custodis, his face impassive but puckered by the angry pink scar scrawling across his nose and cheeks. Father is showing off for visiting emissaries of the emperor. Still, he must love the story, he tells it at every chance he has. I think the rude boy, Stephanaius, has grown as tired of it as I have. He looks much more grown up in his armor, but he is only ten. I glare at his back from my hiding place.

Father’s house has air piped in from a nearby valley. He is proud of the system of ducts and has shown it to me many times. They are excellent places to hide and watch. I lie on my stomach, chin on my arms, and watch the dinner. Once again, I am supposed to be abed.

They talk and they talk. The clink of utensils against plates punctuates the murmur of conversation. Stephanaius is back in his place, lined against the wall with the rest of the custodis. I cannot see him well, and nothing remotely interesting is happening. I am comfortable, the cool air rushing along my body is soothing. I rest my eyes for a moment.

I open my eyes suddenly, sweating, and afraid. The low buzz of the dining hall is unchanged, but the hair on my arms stands on end. I try to locate the source of my unease. My father is talking to one of the emperor’s emissaries, laughing. It is not his real laugh. I can tell, even at not quite seven annum, that he does not particularly care for his guests. A woman’s barked laughter makes me jump, harsh against the rumble of conversation. A whining quality of her laugh seems to continue, and I feel a sharp tingling pain at the base of my skull.

A dropped glass, and the hum of talk subsides. My father rubs at his neck, and I realize that the whine is a real thing, that the guests in the dining hall are feeling it too. His generous brows draw together in a sudden concern. I do not know if he hears the sound, but he can tell that something is wrong.

A voice, hollow and grating, fills the dinner hall. After the first syllable, I cover my ears.

“Procius Pibiriran Essamius… Viculius Cegetasus Miderius…” Father looks to the emissaries of the emperor who look around themselves, perhaps for the source of the voice. It is clear to me that these are their names. Cegetasus might be a cousin, I think incongruously. The voice rasps to life once more.

“You are stains upon Danar…. Your crimes cry out for justice…” The two men blanch, and benches are pushed suddenly back from tables, as the guests begin to clamber for the exits to the hall.

A bright light shines from the ceiling of the dining hall, a bursting of stars in my eyes. I shield them, but peek over my forearm in time to see her descend through the marble into the hall. A gaunt spirit, shrouded in tattered white linens, her fingers talons and her eyes shining, lowers slowly to stand on a table. Her face is a withered skull, featureless, light spilling from the sockets, and as she touches there, bobbing like a feather on the surface of the table, her linen wrap billows around her.

A loud ripping sound distracts me from her awful specter, and I turn toward the dais where my father and his guests stand behind their unfinished meals. One of the men has soiled himself, the ripping sound that of him vacating his bowels. I stifle a horrified giggle. My father trembles but lifts his chin toward the apparition defiantly.

“My lady Wraith…” he fumbles, but recovers shakily, “My lady Wraith, I do not presume to question your judgement. I do not. However, mistakes can be made, yes?”

As he speaks, the Wraith moves slowly but inexorably forward.

Father speaks on, his face white and hands trembling, “A mistake surely in this case, my lady, these are emissaries of Antunius Audactor, of our emperor. Surely- “ the boom of her hollow voice cuts him off.

Trinalda Serenius ves Madiniera… No mistake…” She continues forward, pushing off the edge of one table and floating in a smooth arc to the next table, never slowing her advance on the dais. “Sellers of flesh… Look to the children in this city… In this citadel… Even now, they are being taken from their beds… to be sold in the slave markets of Shelshazzar… By these… emissaries.. of your emperor.” Finally, the claw nails of her feet drag across the top of the magistrate’s table, and she looks down on my father. He turns his face and squints to look at her out of the corner of his eye. I press my face against the wicker grill of the air duct, trying to get a better look.

Pibiriran and cousin Cegetasus babble incoherently on their knees. Lady Wraith spreads her arms, as though to embrace my father, but a dark mist springs from her hands and envelopes the two emissaries. They fall in near unison to the floor.

No judgement on you this day… Trinalda Serenius ves Madiniera… Begone from this place… lest my wrath fall upon you regardless…” The Wraith of Danar floats above the table, looking down on him, but face to face with my father for a heartbeat, then another. Then he turns without another word, and strides from the hall. Stephanaius separates himself from the far wall, eyes wide, and follows, sword drawn as he backs down the hallway behind my father. I had not even realized the rude boy had not run with the rest. Stupid boy, as well as rude, I think.

I sighed, wondering about Stephanaius. He was almost certainly still in the ranks of my father’s custodis. He would be nineteen or twenty annum, and if he were as skilled as I believed he was as a child, he had likely made quick advances in rank. It was possible he was a Principale by now, perhaps even Optio of a century of men. I tried to imagine what he might look like. The scar, of course, would make him easy to identify. The scar that he took for me. A line of custodis snaked along the edges of the road on either side of Ramedius’ magnificent, enclosed wagon, and I peered into their faces, trying to imagine Stephanaius marching among them.

He was not, of course. I had not spoken to any of the custodis under Ramedius’ command, but I had chanced to observe most of them over the last three days of travel. Twice we stopped at dusk at the mansio - waystations maintained by the Empire for just such purpose. As a Centurio in the legions, Ramedius was entitled to the use of the mansio just as a Senator or Magistrate would be. They were not luxuriously appointed, but they were clean and dry, and stocked with food. As the soldiers tramped in and out, I kept an eye on them. None were the rude boy. I would have been stunned if he were among them, like finding a diamond in the sand.

There were some who reminded me of him, though, as he looked last I saw him. Retreating from the dining hall, his face open with fear, drained and pale, looking even younger than ten annum, he still gripped his short sword and kept himself between the apparition and my father. I was myself too young to appreciate his incredible bravery then, but now I know just how hard that must have been. The youth of some of the custodis did not surprise me, they too looked afraid, but they held themselves as professional soldiers, and were treated well by the more seasoned fighters. Which is to say, they were spoken to roughly, but were only cuffed for laziness or inattention.

Ramedius apologized to me for having to share accommodation with the common soldiers, treating me as the young patrician lady he expected me to be. I assured him that I was not bothered by the necessity in the least, although I allowed a hint of fear to leak into my voice. It was not difficult to do. This entire affair, now that it was upon me, seemed quite improbable. It had been many annum since I had been faced with so many people looking at me, and I found that I did not like it at all.

It was an effort to speak above a whisper, with so many people’s attention on me, even though they confined themselves to glancing out of the corner of their eyes. I could still feel them looking, and a lump in my chest appeared, feeling as though I had swallowed grapeshot from one of my father’s cannons. I felt it less while riding, for the curtains of the carriage allowed me to shut them out, and Allona was hardly intimidating to me. In fact, it was she who put cool cloths on my forehead when the walls closed in, and I did not feel up to the task of being viewed or speaking with the Centurio.

One of the young custodis brought me a tray of food each night we stayed in a mansio, and I realized Ramedius was paying closer attention to me than I had thought. His instincts were right. The younger custodis reminded me of Stephanaius, and I did not feel so trapped with them as I did by the older soldiers. The grizzled Centurio continued to surprise me with his thoughtfulness, and I resolved to commend him to my father. Likely, his position is secure and unlikely to be advanced by a remote Magistrate’s approbation, but Ramedius surely deserved my father’s sponsorship.

Last night, there was no mansio available. Ramedius explained to me that not all the waystations had been built yet, the network was still being developed across the empire, but that the weather was nice, and we would camp under the stars. He assured me that a grand tent could feel as secure as stone walls when surrounded by his custodis, and I allowed that his men were certainly formidable. We visited as the men constructed the camp in what I considered to be an astonishingly short amount of time.

“Why do we not stay at one of the inns we passed earlier, or one that is surely ahead of us on the road, Centurio? I am not complaining, sir, I only wondered,” I ask in a faint voice, only half pretending to a timidity that I had decided was the best tactic to take with the officer.

“Not at all, girl. Inns along these roads are notoriously filled with pickpockets and cutthroats. No stain on your father’s competence, it is like this across the empire. And although we would have no fear of such trouble, the bedding in those places is home to every sort of bug that infests the body. I have no intention in delivering you to your home scratching and covered in bites. So, tonight we sleep among the stars. Tomorrow, with some luck, we will have you sleeping in your own bed in Dopangun.”

He meant it to be reassuring, but suddenly I was gripped by a panic. I could not do this. I had no idea how I ever thought I could.

Around us, the custodis laid out the encampment like a small city, radiating out from the central square, with straight avenues between the tents and even portable walls to surround the entire structure. When I did not respond, the Centurio withdrew politely. He gave no orders, none were necessary. To his men, the incredible feat of constructing the tent city was as mundane as preparing a meal or buckling armor.

I stood in silence, shivering with an internal chill, and breathing until the feeling of dread subsided. It did not pass, but it did quiet within me so that I could act as though all was well. Another trick from Numeria. Eventually, I allowed Allona to lead me into the accommodation that had been prepared for me.

In the morning, on the road once more, Ramedius once again remarked that by the end of the day I would be home. His constant reassurance demonstrated to me that I had not been as successful at concealing my distress as I had hoped. Thankfully, I did not have to think of anything to say, as there was some sort of disturbance on the road ahead of us.

A caravan of merchants, foregoing a safer sea route for their cargo and taking to the much more expensive and capricious roads, was now facing the most predictable of obstacles, a gang of bandits. However, in the greatest turn of luck these merchants would ever see, they had been attacked just in front of a century of veteran troops. Ramedius’ men, bored with escort duty, relished the action of drubbing the bandit band, and tracking down those who ran. Even the merchants seemed to laugh with good humor at the bandits’ ill fortune, despite a few deaths among their number.

I used the time to collect my thoughts. Tonight, even after this small delay, I would likely sleep in my father’s house in Dopangun, the centurio had assured me. I would be seeing my mother and my sister, who was just a toddling infant when I was taken. I may see Stephanaius.

I was lost. I have been lost, and now I am found. No one will expect me to behave in a specific way, I am likely safe just reacting in the way I actually feel. Numeria had warned me against this very thing, telling me repeatedly that relying on my true feelings or my true self to hide was a lure, a way to lie to myself. She always stressed that when I show myself, then I am in the most danger. If I am afraid, I must not show fear. If I am unsure, I must seem confident. And most of all, if I am lonely, desperate for affection and love, I must always be impenetrable. I am unyielding stone, detached and unmoved. But Numeria is dead. I do not have to do this. I can live only for myself.

Ramedius mistook my expression, begging my pardon at the exuberance of his men, and suggesting I close the curtains of the carriage, lest the zestful application of the emperor’s justice offend my delicate sensibilities. When even the reminiscence of dissembling can cause such a fundamental misunderstanding of an expression, it is hard to fault Numeria’s teachings. People are, as she has shown me again and again, so predictable, and so very easily fooled. Most see what they wish to see. Almost none can see things as they truly are and remember what they see.

I could, in fact, do what was required. I was likely born for just such a thing, as Numeria delighted in telling me. Apparently, misdirection and emotional manipulation come quite naturally to me, and my body had molded itself effortlessly to the demands of Numeria’s athletic and endurance discipline. It was only that I did not want to. And, really, that was of minor importance in the grand scheme of things. I was a tool, a weapon in a century-old war. I would serve my purpose - or betray the promise I had made. A promise made to my kidnapper, under the most extreme duress.

Just like that, the bandits were under control – or dead – and the merchants had acquired a much stronger protective escort to Dopangun than they could have imagined. Though they slowed down our progress some, by mid-afternoon we would surely be in Dopangun. I reviewed the story in my mind. As always, as I was taught, start with the truth.

The emissaries of the old emperor, Antunius, had indeed been dealing in the slave markets of Shelshazzar, blinded by greed and the chance to advance themselves in rank and prosperity before the emperor. Using their positions as shield, the two traveled brazenly from town to town, snatching every child under ten annum they could grab off the streets, or in some cases, out of their beds. No scruples or fear of reprisal held them back.

Many times, over the last ten annum, I have wondered at what occurred the next day. My father had been told by the Lady Wraith that his guests, emissaries of the emperor, were involved in trafficking children. Child stealers who more likely than not, sold the children they took into horrific bondage to those who would use their bodies to satisfy sick desires. The story of their deaths at the hands of the Wraith of Danar must have set their men to frantic haste, making off with whatever children they could manage to take, in whatever direction each man thought likely to lose any pursuit, a hundred or more separate slavers to track down. And then, the next morning, they had discovered me gone. Father must have been frantic with worry. I can only speculate on how he and Mother felt, but I know what he did. He roused his custodis and set them to hunting slavers.

So that’s it! That’s Chapter One!

Corianna is moving right along in the rough draft stage, and so I thought I’d put this out there for you to take a look at. It’s rough, I know. Still and all, if you love it (I do) I hope you’ll keep an eye out for progress on the novel. I’ll post updates on Twitter and other social media, but if you want to sign up for updates in your email, drop your email address below in the ‘Stay In The Loop' section. Bye for now!