The Portal of Tears
A Magical Adventure for Readers of All Ages
Written in response to a request from his daughters, Deck Matthews weaves a story of adventure, family and friendship that transports readers of all ages to wondrous and magical new locations throughout the world of Varkas.
Latest Release
She'll Fight for her Family
Thirteen-year-old Trisha Banymor has little reason to worry about the Fey. It’s been more than six centuries since their dreaded Queen swept across the land in her campaign to destroy humankind. Now, the Fey are rarely seen. Most live apart from the rest of the world, locked behind the magical barrier known as the Shimmering.
But after Trisha’s mother, aunt, and younger cousin all fall ill with a sudden and inexplicable sickness, an unexpected messenger arrives to announce that Trisha is the only one who can save them. To do so, she’ll need to step through a magical portal and into the world beyond the Shimmering—the lands of the Fey.
Faced with the truth of an unexpected heritage, Trisha must find the courage to face herself and fight for her family. Accompanied by her best friend and her loyal protector, Trisha undertakes a dangerous quest filled with magical wonders, new allies, and a fearsome enemy bent on destroying everything she loves.
Hearth Day
The beast pounced with sudden ferocity. Trisha Banymor awoke from vague, half-remembered dreams to the sensation of something cold and wet slurping across her face. She turned away, holding her breath against the rank odour of salted pork and the musk of dog’s breath. Her eyes flickered open to find a blur of grey fur, brown eyes and a pink tongue accosting her with excited affection.
“Gah!” she cried at the small dog, raising her arms to fend off the slobbering assault. “All done, Wickens! I’m awake!”
She pushed the small dog aside. He whimpered in protest until he caught sight of a robin perched outside her window. He went bounding across the room, barking wildly. Trisha couldn’t help grinning.
“Crazy animal,” she muttered to herself.
“But an effective means of waking sleepy girls.”
Trisha turned toward her mother’s voice. Laya Banymor leaned against the open bedroom door, amusement touching her lips. She was a slight woman, thin and pale skinned, with hair so black it sometimes seemed to shine a dark blue in bright light. Trisha already stood taller than her mother, despite being just thirteen.
“Well, I’m awake now,” said Trisha, rubbing at one eye with the palm of her hand.
“And so you should be. You’re already late.”
“For what?” She glanced at the window, judging the time to be no later than the morning’s eighth chime. “Lessons don’t start until this afternoon.”
Her mother shook her head, coming to sit at the end of Trisha’s bed. “Don’t you remember what today is?”
Trisha scrunched her nose. “Today? What’s so special about… Marow’s Hearth Day!” At the thought of her cousin, she threw back her covers and leaped to her feet.
Laya smiled and nodded. “And the ceremony’s scheduled to begin at the Tower in just a few hours.”
“I have to get ready!” Trisha cried.
“And quickly,” Laya agreed. “Breakfast is almost finished. There’s quite the spread—the cook Aldar hired really outdid herself—but I don’t know how much will be left if you don’t hurry.”
“I’ll be right down,” Trisha promised.
“Good.” Laya stood and hugged her daughter warmly before departing.
Trisha rushed across the room. She threw open the old wardrobe and changed into a fresh slip. Then she donned her favourite dress—pale blue with silvery lace. A few dozen strokes of her brush chased away the worst of the tangles in her long, blond hair. When she was satisfied, she twisted several thick strands behind her head, fixing them in place with a coral comb.
Wickens bounded toward her, scampering around her feet, ready to play. Trisha smiled and bent down to lift the small dog into her arms. Scratching his drooping ear, she strode toward the window and threw open the heavy curtains.
She decided she could afford to linger for another minute.
The morning sun was already casting its brightness across the sprawling city of Lanamor. The Banymor family home was constructed on a natural rise, allowing her to look out over the multi-coloured buildings and across the vast waters of the Inner Sea. Squinting against the brightness, she found the red and white sails of the Sea Leopard, moored at its usual pier. She wondered if Lynn would be awake yet.
It seemed an unlikely thing. Trisha had visited her friend aboard the Sea Leopard and knew the crew to be a raucous sort. They knew their business well enough—Lynn’s mother, Gwendolyn Athana, was not one to tolerate incompetence on her ship—but Trisha had no trouble imagining the crew drinking and singing late into the night.
“Lynn will definitely still be sleeping,” she told Wickens, scratching him behind one floppy ear. Then she turned and made her way downstairs.
She paused only once, to glance at the portrait of her grandfather hanging over the stairs. The painting depicted a handsome man with silvering hair and a neatly trimmed beard that was exactly as she remembered it. The artist had even managed to capture the adventurous glint that had always filled his kindly grey eyes.
Cassius Sine had travelled extensively, and Trisha had always loved listening to him recount his journeys across the nine hearthdoms—of visiting the Sanctum in Taralius or the vast forests of the Aspenrun and the Eastweald. Once, he’d even ventured to the distant territories of the Karinth, far to the north. Those stories had always made the Realm of Relen-Kar seem a vast and wondrous place.
I miss you, Grandda, Trisha thought. I wish you were here for Marow, the way you were for me.
Her mother’s prediction proved true. By the time Trisha reached the dining room, breakfast was almost finished. Uncle Ustel cut into a crisp, blackened sausage, while Marow devoured a fluffy flatcake, all drenched in thick syrup. Wickens leaped from her arms and vanished beneath the table to hunt for scraps.
Trisha’s father, Navos, glanced at her over his mug of steaming chai. “About time,” he grumbled.
“Sorry.” Trisha flushed in embarrassment. “I overslept.”
“Well, never mind that,” her father said. “Best get something to eat. There’s plenty of fruit, some sausages and a few slices of raisin bread. Marow’s already polishing off the last of the flatcakes.”
Her cousin grinned. “Well, it is my Hearth Day,” he boasted.
Trisha stuck out her tongue as she grabbed a plate and started to fill it with the few remains of the morning meal. “And you’ll be reminding us all day, I’m sure.”
“Come now, Honeylocks.” Uncle Ustel laughed. It was a nickname of his own devising. He’d always thought it clever. Trisha only found it irritating. “Were you any different on your Hearth Day?”
“Probably not,” she admitted, loading up her plate with several cubes of some yellow melon dusted with fine sugar. She thought back to the day when she’d been the one standing before the Sacred Hearth with trembling knees, speaking the Recitation. She’d tried to mask her fear with feigned excitement. “I was a bit of a brat, wasn’t I?”
“Insufferable,” Ustel replied with his customary grin.
Trisha only shook her head, taking a seat between her uncle and her father. The Banymor brothers were as different from each other as a fox and a lion. Ustel was small and wiry, with carefully combed brown hair and neatly trimmed muttonchops. He was wry and talkative, a natural storyteller who entertained the family with his seemingly endless collection of outlandish stories. Most of those stories centred on the hearthdom of Barden, where the brothers had been born and raised. By contrast, Navos was quiet and subdued. With his tall, heavy frame, his long, blond hair and matching beard, he could be an imposing presence.
Despite their differences, her father and uncle were as close as brothers could be. After moving south, to the hearthdom of Weylar, they’d started working for an aged wagon-maker in Lanamor before buying up his business. They’d even gone so far as to marry twin sisters: Trisha’s own mother and her Aunt Dina. Now, the whole family lived together in the modest house that had belonged to Trisha’s grandfather.
“What was it like?” Marow asked of Trisha. “The Hearth Ceremony, I mean.”
She shrugged, popping a piece of melon into her mouth. Its flesh was sweet like honey, but there was a slight bitterness to the aftertaste. “There’s really not much to it,” Trisha said. “Just a bunch of monks gathered up in the Tower of Knowledge. There’s some chanting, and then the Arch Kadir invites you forward to speak the Recitation. You have it memorized, right?”
“Of course!”
“Then you have nothing to worry about. Besides, you already know the Arch Kadir, right? He was friends with Grandda.”
“I know that. But what about… you know… the fever?”
“Oh,” said Trisha, taking another bite of fruit before pushing the rest aside. The aftertaste really was too bitter. “I guess you remember how sick I was?”
Marow nodded. “Did it hurt?”
“Not too bad,” Trisha lied.
She could see the worry in her cousin’s eyes and wanted to reassure him. The truth was that the week she’d suffered through the Burning Fever had been the worst period of her life. At one moment, she’d felt as though all her body was aflame; the next, she’d been as cold as if she’d been dropped in a drift of fresh snow. All the while, something had been burning away at the core of her being, in the place that would eventually become her Soulblaze—the reservoir from which she drew her own Cinderborn magic.
“I got plenty of iced cream, though,” she told her cousin in an effort to distract him. His expression brightened. “And Father bought me a new doll.”
“That I haven’t seen you play with in months,” Navos put in.
Trisha smirked. “I’m thirteen now, Father.”
“And so very mature.”
“I suppose that sounds okay,” said Marow. He sounded a little less scared.
“You’ll be just fine,” said Ustel. “Remember, you’re a Banymor, my boy! We might be living in Weylar, but our family’s from the mountains of Barden. You’ve got too much iron in your blood to give root to a little fear.”
“Besides,” said Trisha, “you might not even get the fever at all. Not everyone becomes Hearthborn, you know.”
“Well, I will!” Marow countered.
“I’m just saying it’s possible.”
“The Nine chose you,” he said. “I can’t see why—”
“The Nine won’t be choosing anybody if we don’t get moving.” Aunt Dina strolled into the room.
She was only slightly taller than her sister, with a longer nose and a fuller face. Otherwise, the twins were nearly identical. Their voices sounded so much alike that, with both families sharing the same house, it had caused no end of confusion over the years.
“Wipe your chin, Marow.”
“Yes, Mother,” he mumbled, raising a napkin to his face.
“Aldar has the horses hitched,” said Dina. “and our driver’s arrived.” She scowled at her husband. “I’m really not sure why you asked Corin.”
“Come now, dearest,” Ustel replied. “Marow wants Aldar at the ceremony. Someone else needs to stay with the carriage.”
“I understand that part,” said Dina. “I just don’t know why you had to pick him. He’s a vagrant.”
“He’s a friend. You know how we served together back in Barden. He’s a good man…”
Dina glared.
“Well, most of the time,” Ustel amended.
“He’s a foul-mouthed lout,” Dina snapped. “Now hurry up, the lot of you. We don’t want to be late.”
As she stormed from the room, Ustel turned to his brother and grinned. “You know, I think she’s finally starting to warm to Corin. The last time he was in town, she used much more colourful language.”
Navos chuckled, rolled his eyes, and drained the last of his chai with a single swallow.
Trisha rose from her own chair and walked over to where Marow still sat, picking at the last few pieces of his breakfast. She placed one hand on his small shoulder and bent down to whisper in his ear. “You’ll be fine, Mar. I’ll be right there through the whole ceremony, and for as long as you need me afterward. And just imagine the adventures we’ll have when we both have a Soulblaze.”
He offered a smile in response, but Trisha could read the thoughts in his eyes. He wasn’t just fretting over the Burning Fever. He was thinking about what would happen if he never recovered.