The Man From Cymene POD Print

Book 1 of The Narrative of Riven the Heretic
Part 1 of The Arcanian Chronicles

By Toni V. Sweeney

Trygare kan Ingan was a boy of sixteen when the Drune priest told his parents he was to be the father of kings.

Sent into the world on a short-legged hill pony, his father’s sword at his side, the young glynn dweller sets out to fulfill the prophesy.

Along the way, he’ll slay dragons and men, find love and lose it, and feel the horror of the Bloodsong coursing through his veins before the moment tragedy and scandal force him to flee Cymene for a foreign land where his true fate lies…

…to become the ancestor of the dynasty foretold to rule his planet for three thousand years.

Genre: Fantasy

Sensuality rating: 3

Cover Art by James Robinson

This book is available in the following formats:
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Author: Toni V. Sweeney

Chapter 1


“Today my son’s sixteen, Holy One.” The blacksmith pushed the boy forward so he stood before the Drune priest. “Please, gaze into the sacred waters, and tell me his future.”

Sixteen years? How swiftly they’ve passed. The priest studied the boy, who hadn’t spoken.

It seemed only weeks before that he was called to the blacksmith’s cottage to pray for the young wife bringing this child into the world. He still remembered it vividly, how Bêrit stayed outside in the smithy, banging away on a bit of red-hot iron from the forge, each strike of the hammer loud enough to drown out Agatha’s cries, until the moment he heard his son’s first squall and dropped both hammer and iron in the dirt to run to her side as fast as he could…

…and that screaming tiny creature was now this handsome, albeit slightly sullen-looking young giant, already as tall and muscular as his father, with the same russet hair and blue eyes. Trygare was pouting and Albin didn’t have to guess at the cause.

“I’ve taught him the skills of my trade and also those of the warrior, though my wife protested that.” Bêrit glanced sideways at Agatha.

Her lips tightened but she didn’t refute what he said. The villagers of Glynkillen had always been a peaceful lot.

“He’s man-grown now, so tell us which he should follow.”

“Please, Fæder,” Agatha echoed, dread and hope in her voice. “Tell us.”

Albin glanced at the woman standing behind her husband. He’d known Agatha all her life, pronouncing the blessing when she was born. He met Bêrit much later, on the day the weary young man rode into town on an equally exhausted horse, and asked permission to stay in Glynkillen. He’d watched him learn smithing from Agatha’s father, turned an approving eye on their courting, spoke the wedding vows making them husbandman and wife, and had seen Bêrit take over the forge when his father-under-the-law died.

The gods told him of Bêrit’s past. The clan-signs tattooed on his cheek told more, though the lad himself never spoke of any of it.

I want to leave that behind, Fæder. I want to begin anew, he’d said, so Albin didn’t pry. Instead, he encouraged the villagers to accept the newcomer and make him one of them, in spite of his odd accent and foreign appearance.

The gods told Albin other things, also. Now, he was going to have to repeat those, and break Agatha’s heart. Bêrit’s, too, perhaps, though he doubted the smith would show it. Warriors, even those abandoning the sword, never let their softer emotions be seen in public.

     Agatha was as small as her husband was tall, and though still young, definitely care-worn. To look at her, one would think she was exhausted from tending a dozen children, though he knew the boy was her only child. Allfather hadn’t seen fit to bless the smith and his wife with any other offspring. He was also aware young Trygare, like his father, was left-handed and therefore a mischief-maker and prone to trouble, so raising him may had been equal to rearing eleven others. 

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