The Mad Raven's Tale (The Accarian Chronicles Book 1) by Andrew Walbrown (the lemonade war series txt) 📗

rows of shelves, as far as I could see, like a field of crops stretching to the horizon. I was overwhelmed by the sheer magnitude of the library, books upon books, scrolls and maps as well. A man could spend his entire life in this library and still only read a quarter of the books here. How was I to find a specific book amongst this ocean of literature?

“I can see from your expression this is your first time here,” a scholar said to me, an elderly man with a serious face and dark eyes. His skin was pale like mine, clearly, he did not see the sun much either. “Tell me, what has brought you here?”

“I am looking for a book series,” I said to him, “I do not know its proper name, I have just been referring to it as The Accarian Chronicles. They are multiple volumes, at least five that I know, and I only possess books one, two, and five.”

“The Accarian Chronicles you say?” The old man said, his voice surprisingly strong for his age. “Unfortunately I can only be of minimal help,” he led me to one side of the library, down a long aisle. “If I have such a work here, it is most likely in this aisle. This section is dedicated to myths, legends, and history, both local and distant. Perhaps there? Best of luck to you.”

“My thanks.” I turned to face the man, but he was gone. He seemed to disappear into the shadows of the library without a sound.

I set off, scanning the shelves for anything that looked relevant. At about the halfway point of the aisle, I noticed portraits were hung on the wall behind me, paintings of the Counts and Countesses of Silverwater. Centuries worth of rulers who governed this southern city, stewards of the single largest wine exporter in the world, as well as one of the main ports connecting the other continents of the world with Qerus. The first portrait I saw was of Countess Zerana, the first countess. After her was her son, Count Ferran, then her grandson, Count Lorient. Before long I found myself examining the portraits, no longer paying any heed to the books. I was surprised that there was a painting for each count and countess, a long tradition that seemed to go unbroken.

Countless names passed through my mind until I saw one I noticed, one that took me by surprise. At first, I could not believe what I saw, but as I investigated the portrait I came to accept it. Towards the back of the library was a portrait of an old man, with milky white skin and dark eyes. He wore a purple robe with a silver crescent moon emblazoned on the shoulder. Although I had never seen this man in my life, and he had been dead for a very long time, I knew exactly who was in the portrait. It was Count Aldamar.

Count Aldamar had been real. I moved to the next portrait, the man looked exactly the same, only in a different setting. I used the sleeve of my tunic to wipe the plaque at the bottom of the frame, where the name “Count Aldamar II” had been engraved. I moved to the next, and then the one after it. Every successive count was the same man with the same expression and features, except for Count Aldamar IV. The fourth Aldamar had a silver scar across his neck, looking like he had been cut at some point between Aldamar III and Aldamar IV. I could not believe what I had just discovered, the excitement giving me such a jolt of energy. I practically started running through the library, my eyes fixated on the portraits. I ran until the picture finally changed, no longer of Count Aldamar, but instead to a woman named Countess Mercet.

I caught my breath and returned to the last portrait of Aldamar, which looked very much like all the others. He still had the silver scar across his neck, and he still wore the same purple robe. Using my sleeve again I revealed the name at the bottom and gasped when I read the words. Count Aldamar XXVII

“Count Aldamar the Twenty-Seventh,” I whispered. “But how?”

That was not the only question in my mind. If this was, indeed, the same man twenty-seven times over, then was the story of his vampirism true? I was inclined to believe Morganna was not the invention of some creative mind, now that I saw the scar across Count Aldamar IV through XXVII’s necks. And if all this was true, then how did Count Aldamar die? What killed him?

“I guess I will never know,” I muttered as I stared at the last portrait.

I turned my attention to one of the windows in the library and watched as a puffy white cloud slowly moved across the blue sky. I had come so far to see this library, to find answers to some of the questions I had been asking since I discovered The Accarian Chronicles. But this journey has only raised more questions, most of which will probably forever go unanswered. But there is one answer that, above all others, I desire to know:

Were Amantius and Ulam real?

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I grew up in West Virginia in a place called Point Pleasant, a small town nestled against the Ohio River a few hours away from everything. I could not be happier with where I was born and raised, because one of the greatest advantages of growing up in Appalachia was that I was surrounded by some of the best storytellers in the world. While kids in other parts of the country were at malls or at amusement parks, I grew up surrounded by people with vivid imaginations, armed with story-telling techniques passed down to them from their Scottish/Irish/Hungarian/German immigrant parents and grandparents. I grew up in the shadow of the Mothman, a legendary creature that terrorized the Point Pleasant area in the 1960s. There was also Cornstalk’s Curse, named after