Read the Prologue of The Canticle Kingdom

The Canticle Kingdom begins with two German craftsmen, a mysterious music box, and a connection between worlds that neither history nor magic can fully contain. The prologue moves from prewar Germany into an enchanted kingdom where an unexplained illness threatens a queen and the stability of her realm.

Originally published January 1, 2010. Substantially revised and expanded July 2026.

Prologue

Idar-Oberstein, Germany, 1939

The lights in the workshop glowed brightly, even though the shop had been closed for hours. From the clock near the door, a single chime echoed, signaling the early hour. Though the candles had nearly burned themselves into puddles, the two brothers huddled over the workbench remained as wide-awake as ever.

With a tool in each hand, each brother worked frantically over his piece, eyes glistening with excitement like children opening a long-awaited present. Several more minutes passed in the flickering candlelight, with only the scraping of metal on wood to break the silence.

All at once, the taller man—muscular, dark-haired, and wearing a bristly beard—dropped his tools and gave his brother a hearty pound on the back. His brother, of leaner build and fairer complexion, with a smooth, boyish face, grinned broadly in return. Then, slowly, one after the other, they let their tools drop to the table, clattering with satisfied finality.

Beginning with a low chuckle, their mirth became contagious and swelled until both brothers bellowed with triumphant laughter.

“It is finished, Jorgen! Our masterpiece!”

Jorgen nodded jovially. “Right, my brother. All except one thing.”

The older brother picked up their handiwork and etched the familiar inscription on the underside with his ancient tool:

J und K Müller
Frankfurt, Deutschland

Setting their masterpiece on the table, they sat and admired it, the product of many painstaking hours of labor. For years, the brothers had earned a living with their woodwork, but this piece was something much more special than their usual fare.

“Well, my brother,” muttered Jorgen, “I think we should turn in for the night. We can give it a test run in the morning. We would not want to disturb the others.”

They finally blew out the pitiful candles and retired to their respective rooms. For a long while afterward, the darkened interior of the shop remained still and silent. A chill winter wind rustled the shutters, whistling and howling like a band of ghouls.

Long after they had gone to bed, a quiet creak sounded, and a shadow slunk down the stairwell, taking each step individually. As the form reached the bottom of the stairs, it dared to move a little faster, emboldened by the nearness of its prize. With carefully measured steps, the figure reached the table and brooded over it.

“You are mine,” it whispered.

Frankfurt, Germany, 1940

A heavily bearded man sighed as he entered the bank, carrying a tightly wrapped bundle beneath his arm. It had been a long, difficult month of travel, and his muscles ached from the strain. He had gone north to a Nazi rally in Berlin, south to the University of Zürich in Switzerland, and east to Vienna to attend several concerts. By his estimation, he had sampled the best and brightest the German-speaking world had to offer and had departed with everything he had come to obtain.

He smiled and hummed a jaunty waltz as he stepped to the first teller window he saw. The teller looked up with little interest and droned, “Welcome to the First Bank of Frankfurt. How can I help you?”

The bearded man glanced furtively from side to side, making certain no one else was watching. He lifted the bundle and placed it in front of the teller.

“I would like to place this in my special safe-deposit box. Here are the papers confirming my account number and identity.”

The teller took the papers and examined them slowly, his eyes lingering on each line as though scrutinizing every letter for mistakes. Finally satisfied, he returned the documents and grunted. “Yes, yes, everything seems to be in order. Right this way, please.”

The teller led the man down a dimly lit corridor, stopping at the end of the hallway before a heavy metal door. He removed a key ring from his pocket, rifled through the assortment, and selected the correct key. The door swung open to reveal a completely empty gray room.

The teller ushered the bearded man inside. “Take as long as you like. I will escort you out when you are finished.”

The bearded man nodded and closed the door behind him. The teller stood outside and waited as the minutes quickly accumulated into more than an hour. He tapped his foot impatiently, wondering what could possibly be taking so long.

After another twenty minutes had elapsed, he finally lost patience and rapped sharply on the door. “Sir, is everything all right in there?”

He received no response.

Suspicious, he knocked again. When no one answered, he reinserted the key and opened the door.

The teller gasped. The bearded man was gone. Only his strange rectangular parcel remained in the center of the floor, still wrapped tightly in dark cloth.

Sweat broke out across the teller’s brow. Should he report this? Was the man attempting to steal something from the bank? Frantically, he tapped the floors and walls, searching for an alternate route of escape. His search revealed nothing.

He glanced down at the package and made his decision. He would remove the evidence and forget the incident.

Hastily, he snatched up the parcel, clumsily fumbling with the wrappings. He took one look at the object inside and bit his lip in confusion. Why had the man gone to such trouble to protect this?

His questions remaining unanswered, he stuffed the package beneath his arm, exited the room, and locked the door. He returned to his window, concealing the parcel in the shadows at his feet.

Perhaps today was not such a bad day after all. The package might come in handy. At the very least, it would fetch a good price.

The Canticle Kingdom

The chamber window burst open, flooding the room with icy air and eerie shadows. Lightning flared beyond the open window as the shutters clattered against the wall.

The frail woman shot upright in bed, clutching her chest as though her heart threatened to abandon its life-sustaining labor.

“Your Majesty!” cried Rufus, the man at her side. “You must remain calm. You are safe here.”

The queen’s breathing slowed, and she gradually reclined onto her back. From the corner, Camilla, the queen’s calico cat, jumped onto the bed and nestled beside her. Camilla was the queen’s favorite companion, and the two were rarely seen apart. The cat had been Rufus’s only ally during these midnight vigils.

“Thank you, Rufus. I know I am safe. My sleep was troubled enough without these storms.”

Rufus nodded solemnly and removed a small vial of reddish-brown liquid from the nightstand. “Here, Your Majesty,” he whispered, lifting the vial to her pale lips. “Drink this. It may not help as much as it once did, but at least it will do something.”

Her lips trembling, the queen slowly sipped the liquid until the vial was empty. With desperate anticipation, the young chamberlain studied her wrinkled face, searching for any sign of relief.

None came.

Nothing made sense. Only a week earlier, the queen had been the epitome of health: young, fair, energetic, and hopeful.

“My lady, I do not understand. Cornelius prepared the draught as he always has. He is the best there is. I do not know why—”

A feeble gesture from the queen silenced his speculation. For several seconds, only the fierce pounding of rain could be heard.

The queen opened her sunken eyes and began to speak, her voice scarcely audible. “I am afraid we must do what—”

A fit of coughing racked her fragile frame. Rufus placed a hand on her shoulder to steady her until it subsided.

“—what we have worked so hard to avoid all this time.”

Rufus’s expression darkened, his face lined with worry. “No, my lady. You will recover. You will remain…”

His words trailed into silence. He did not believe them himself.

Silence reigned for several moments before the queen continued.

“No, Rufus. Your faith is admirable. Your loyalty is unsurpassed. But it avails us nothing. I do not understand why this great change has gripped me so suddenly, but…” She gazed wistfully into the distance. “I can feel the life leaving me. I have tried in vain for too long to obtain something I cannot possess. In a matter of days, I will be gone, and there seems to be little else we can do to prevent it.”

Rufus’s eyes filled with tears. “But with that option, you will be lost forever.”

The queen closed her eyes in resignation. “I am afraid that cannot be avoided.”

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Continue into the Canticle Chronicles

The prologue introduces the handcrafted music box, the historical world surrounding its creation, and the endangered kingdom connected to its melody. The story continues with young heroes, ancient magic, musical mysteries, and the question of how these apparently separate worlds fit together.