The Redemption of Jarek
Announcing the latest release which ends the extended series, The Redemption of Jarek. This book went live on Amazon, Barnes and Noble, and Kobo on December 15, 2022.
You can follow this link to a selection of ebook and paperback retailers which carry this title.
[image error]The Redemption of Jarek is told in a three-part structure. Each part features a prologue written in present tense, while the book concludes with a similarly written epilogue. Here’s how it all begins.
Prologue
To Jarek, this seems like another day of lessons. He can’t foresee how badly he will miss such days. He can’t possibly hear the conversation his father is about to have, nor is he meant to.
His father Sergiy is watching from the aptly named Duke’s Seat, a sturdy bench shaded by a plain and functional canopy. Whether the lesson at hand involves riding horses, the basics of fighting or something else, Jarek might correctly guess that Sergiy watches with pride.
Jarek never pays much mind to the tall and slight figure who occasionally sits with Sergiy. He feels no reason to; his father has many discussions with people whom Jarek isn’t yet allowed to know.
The boy might feel different if he knew they were about to discuss his future.
Duke Sergiy’s left hand rests on his voluminous trousers; the index finger of that hand lightly taps as his thoughts race. He ceases this tapping as he looks to his advisor and speaks.
“Should I marry again, Eckard?”
Eckard’s eyes narrow subtly, as if he knows how his next question will be answered, yet it’s incumbent upon him to ask. “You’ve waited indisputably longer than the requisite time for a widower to grieve; none would hold it against you, my Duke. Have recent events made you feel lonelier?”
Sergiy looks back at Jarek, who had fallen on his rear the moment Sergiy looked away. The instructor helps the boy up. It resembles a harmless learning experience, whatever it is.
“Because my reputation requires me to take risks which, however small, could rob the boy of me just like his cousin was robbed of Victor.”
Eckard’s suspicions prove true. It’s not much of a guess, given the recent tragedy. The boy’s cousin Lenn lost his father, Victor; Sergiy was responsible for bearing ill tidings. Jarek somehow managed to deliver the bad news before Sergiy had the chance.
“And his cousin, at least, has a mother’s dress to bury his face in and soak up the tears. Someone to nurture his pain and grieve with him,” Eckard offers.
Sergiy shoots him a glare. “Would Lenn be better off alone? You almost sound dismissive.”
As if feeling the heat of the glare, Eckard straightens his posture. Sergiy wonders how comfortable the emigrant from Kensrik can be in high waisted trousers of such tight fit, particularly during one of the warmest days of the year. Eckard’s shirt, at least, has the loose and flowing sleeves one more often encounters in the kingdom of Wancyrik; the embroidered floral pattern lining his hunter green vest would be unusual to see in Kensrik.
No rule, however, obligates Eckard to completely abandon the style of another king’s court, even if that other king is reviled. Everyone knows where he is from, and nobody questions his present loyalties. Eckard avoids eye contact in deference while responding; he knows his place.
“It’s perfect for him, my Duke. In fact, it’s better for us if Lenn has that kind of support. Lenn should be free to become the kind of nurturing, compassionate man who serves his province well while never daring to seek the throne for himself. Because the man truly fit for kingship must be made of steel if this land is to reach its truest glory.”
Sergiy closes his eyes, leans back, and exhales sharply with contempt. In the distance, he hears wood striking against wood, training weapons, his son’s fighting lesson. Everything he does belongs to his hopes for Jarek, yet Eckard always has such cold ideas of what’s healthy for the boy.
He opens his eyes, looking once again at his son. Sergiy understands how cold life’s most important lessons can be.
Then he remarks: “You’re a bastard, Eckard.”
Eckard raises his eyebrows. “I understand, my Duke. It seems to be a common sentiment around here regarding my people.”
Sergiy curtly shakes his head. “That’s patently false and a transparent misdirect. Kensrikans are people like anybody else in the world; their rulers, the Kenderleys, often behave like bastards. You, in particular, are a tremendous bastard. It’s a useful trait, given your role, but it’s also what I loathe about you.”
Eckard allows himself to smile, reassuring Sergiy of having read him perfectly.
“This is why you hired me, no? Because I remind you of people who win, the most dominant people in the world. All I wish is for your noble family to claim the glory unfairly hoarded by House Kenderley. We both know well enough that Jarek has the best chance to achieve this. He may not yet be a man, but you’ve successfully refrained from coddling him to death.”
He sees Sergiy relax a little and follows suit before he continues.
“If the worst were to happen, Jarek wouldn’t be alone. All your closest associates are warriors; strong men who provide an excellent example. Sure, marry again if you wish, but for the better reason of companionship.”
The duke curls the fingers of one hand into the palm of another and cracks a knuckle. He is not misdirected by further talk of companionship.
“But that’s what you hope to do, isn’t it? You wish to make my son just like you.”
Eckard dares look his duke in the eyes. “I will make him king of this land. But, as we have discussed, you must commit him to me. He can’t just run to you if he dislikes his lessons. He must be faced with no other choice but to become great. You can trust me with his life.”
Sergiy does not return the eye contact; not yet. He cracks another knuckle; now he seems to be staring at something much farther away than his boy.
“Like Victor trusted me with his own?” He asks.
Eckard frowns. “I believe it was Victor who insisted on placing himself in danger, some noble notion, as if he couldn’t ask his men to do exactly what he would expect of them under normal circumstances unless he too risked his life. I’ll take no silly risks with Jarek. And do you imagine any of my actions as a teacher could possibly be as dangerous as a battlefield?”
“Is my family not noble, Eckard? Were my cousin’s risks not compelled by such character?” Sergiy fires back while looking at him askance.
“If that were the case, one wonders what truly noble being ever survives long enough to take the throne—”
Sergiy cuts him off. “I have let you speak too freely. This noble notion that you’re mocking led Victor to save the Frontier wall, and everyone and everything it now protects. And he was the last member of this family whose actions earned my respect.”
Eckard looks down, clenching his jaw but listening obediently.
Sergiy feigns a smile for his gradually approaching son, but he quietly continues: “Never again malign Victor in my presence, nor within earshot of anyone who answers to me, or you’ll wish you only had to face a battlefield.”
“Yes, my Duke.”
Eckard knows how dangerous his statement was. He also knows that if he wishes to be trusted with Jarek’s life, Sergiy must be reassured of a fear that would keep Eckard in line. Sergiy knows the power of fear and wields it when he must. Eckard respects that about him. Eckard saw no such potential in Victor, nor would Victor have ever committed Lenn to him.
Once Jarek arrives, he is introduced to his new master.
For years after that, Jarek will consider this his worst day.
# # #
But this day, long after his father and Eckard have been laid on their respective funeral pyres; Duke Jarek knows of none in his life yet worse than this one.
Jarek’s forearms hardly feel spared by the leather bracers that adorn them, but the bruises from stopping blow after relentless blow are the least of his troubles. The middle of his gut carries a sore spot where he was kicked, but this was a lead leg kick; a quick stopper which rarely decides a fight. If only Jarek had not stepped into it.
He briefly feels more satisfied than hurt as he manages to land a counterblow. It’s nothing truly worth celebrating; it only further enrages his opponent, Duke Lenn.
Finally, Jarek gets close enough to grab his opponent’s arms and halts the exchange of punches, but this brief standing grapple only puts him within reach of heavy knee strikes. He abandons his grip on Lenn’s arms to guard against these attacks, for just one of them could fell him if landed cleanly; now all that spares Jarek from cracked ribs is the barrier he manages to form with bruised and tender arms.
He’s trapped for half a moment, which is half a moment too long; by the time he can break away, he’s sorrier for underestimating Lenn than he is for committing the crime which led to this fight. Brute force is a vague and unreliable teacher.
Once free, he staggers back from a final knee which loosely connects with his midsection. All those years of training find him yielding ground to someone he erringly viewed as soft. A stocky person like Lenn can be as difficult to push back as a sturdy wall, and Lenn is one furious wall.
But this wall walks, and legs can be tackled. Jarek makes the mistake of trying that. His punishment is to be struck in the head a few times before he can back away. His head aches badly enough that he misses the light hangover he took into this fight.
Jarek tries one more trick, distracting Lenn with words, but he will barely remember what was said once Lenn’s heavy hand crashes into the side of his jaw, rocking him to the ground. Tears fill his eyes, but not just because of the pain throughout his shuddering frame.
When he looks up at Lenn, he feels a terror he hasn’t known since childhood. For an instant, it’s not Lenn that he sees.
His tear-blurred vision sees Eckard.
Pathetic. Tears don’t place you on the throne, boy.
Failure will kill you.
You don’t look worthy.
Jarek has lost. He is left with no choice. He yields to Lenn’s terms.
But this is not to be the worst day in his life, nor the end of it.
