Summer’s end had come upon the land of Kallendaros. The seasons were in their glory from the rich tones of summer’s life abounding to the subtle shades of autumn’s quiet grace, with softer colors and gentle, chill winds. The nights especially possessed a slight cut through the bones of the unready, sweeping through wooded glades or city streets with equal indifference. Now a starry host took the place of the storm clouds that dominated the skies of the south for weeks on end. The night was clear and calm, cold almost to the point where many of the people within the city had taken out their fur cloaks and long johns to wear. A canopy of stars gleamed like far off gems alight in the sky, and the gentle glow of their radiance spread across the Pearl Ocean like a silver stream poured out from on high. Eastport was a hub of activity, which made it easier than usual for someone who wanted to avoid notice. Dezra Bludfayne was one of that sort.
She prowled the narrow allies between the varying guild houses of good repute, resting between the great avenues which trafficked goods and cartloads of imported merchandise and the wharfs where the Corsairs and merchant vessels took port. Lights from lanterns, lamps and torches glowed like fragments of cast away stars in the hands of men as they pressed back the increasing gloom to continue their business. That was good news for Dezra. Busy men made for fat purses, and after her debacle in South Deep she had to make amends and save face before her peers in the Black Hand. The guild master Velecian of the Black Hand had been hard pressed since the increasing hostility between the Old South and the priesthood began to spread over the Thistlebrush, and Dezra found herself taking care to avoid the scads of soldiers or mercenaries that abounded in the port city.
She padded between mingling folk, slipping by them, barely brushing them as she pressed for a coin purse to pinch. She found her work was a little more distracting than usual, and it had not to do with her many choices, or the fine weather that graced the coastland. In her mind she was still trying to wrap around the idea that the young daredevil actually did the impossible! Justias Eventine had killed one of the Dragons! She was jaded from her youth, having spent so many rough years as a pickpocket. She thought she could read most folk like an open book. She had taken Justias for a young dreamer, full of hot courage until the travel and the danger made that heat go cold within him, and his blood would turn like water. Dezra had seen it a hundred times before, even among her own people. But the wyrm was slain, and all the peasant rumor pointed eager and befuddled fingers toward Justias.
A large regiment of Clerics were gathered at a far dock, and there were a pair of war Galleons, massive, barge-like sailing vessels that relied lightly on sails; primarily upon oars to reach their destination. They weren’t swift or graceful, but they could hold hundreds of soldiers and cargo enough for weeks of ocean travel. The Dragon standards blew on the feint ocean breeze, rolling and falling limp, emblazoned with the golden seal of the Dragon that mirrored the amulets the Clerics favored. Such favors would have been good for Dezra to pocket if it didn’t merit the death sentence for anyone captured with one. There was no place in the southlands to sell such gold, and even her cohorts shied from trying to filch them. There was no business there, only certain danger and imprisonment. That was a road she already traveled, and not one she wished to visit anew.
There were other, sweeter marks to be fleeced, and the smell of profit yet found lured her away from the lights and bustle of the docks and the merchant allies. Crouching to a near stoop, Dezra let herself go limp, walking with quiet purpose as she stalked the length of darker alleys. This was the part of Eastport she felt safest within, the shroud where the forgotten and the unwanted trailed off and society hardly took note. Dezra was one of the forgotten. With feline grace, the young woman came up behind a pair of men that were standing almost in silence, facing one another. Likely there was a shady dealing being taken care of, and money of loathsome origin was changing hands. Dezra made herself feel better about whom she stole from if she believed that they were scoundrels like her. Almost abstaining from breathing, Dezra came up right behind one of the men, hidden in the gloom of the uneven alley. There was a small but bulging coin purse hanging off of his belt, and all she had to do was untie the string that secured it to his person and make off before anyone was the wiser. His careless nature made her think this poor fellow was a newcomer to her bustling port. Welcome to Eastport, friend, Dezra mused as she reached out gingerly for her prize.
Then the man slumped to the ground in utter silence. The act was so startling that Dezra only stayed crouched there, perplexed. Confusion became fear when she saw the man this fellow had been speaking with. He stood tall, with pale skin and darkly clad in furs and a rich cloak. There was a sword at one hip, a small crossbow like the sort that the Clerics favored on the other, and it was loaded. But neither weapon caught her interest half so much as his eyes. They were golden in color and slashed down the center like moons of darkness. They gleamed with malice, and that glow radiated over his face. Dezra tried to scream, but the man dashed over the body of his confederate and snatched her by the throat, slamming her into a far wall in the dark of the alley. Dezra wrenched free a dagger from her belt, but a steely hand clamped down on her wrist so painfully that she gasped as the weapon fell from wringing fingers. Then the hand upon her throat squeezed until a blood haze grew over her eyes and she became dimly aware that she was going to die as she lived: forgotten.
Then the squeezing ceased, and that awful face was very close to hers, making her squirm in delirium and discomfort. He was…smelling her. “You know Marek Wargard, don’t you?” he asked in a husky whisper.
“I don’t know who you’re talking about,” Dezra answered in a strangled voice, half real and half conjured up for effect.
“You lie,” the man replied coolly, “I have the hunter’s senses. Your scent tells me that you’ve been near Marek Wargard. I have a score to settle with him, a loathing that burns within me; I long to share that flame with him. Him, Julias Darkmane, and everyone else that dares to cross my path. That path can include you, my dear, if you do not cooperate. Immediately.”
“What do you want with me?”
“Knowledge, and perhaps a guide, if you can get me close enough to strike at Marek.”
“What do you want with Marek?” Dezra asked softly.
“So you admit that you know him?” the stranger with the golden eyes smiled, and it was cruel.
“I have made his acquaintance,” Dezra answered quickly, already devising a new plot against this bizarre new foe. “He and I met at cross ends in our first meeting, and I nearly met my end at his hands. I ended up almost spending all my life in South Deep’s prisons because of him.”
“He seems to ruin many lives,” the dark man agreed.
“My name is Dezra Bludfayne,” she offered in a token act of friendship.
“Lead me to Marek Wargard and I will spare you, Dezra Bludfayne.”
“That would be the point where you introduce yourself,” Dezra broke in, making him smile again, this time with a hint of actual mirth.
“My name was Cray Valest before I was left for dead far in the north,” he told her. “Now I am a hunter, a wolf in man’s flesh. A was a servant of the priesthood, now I am a servant of the Bloody Wolf.”
“Tagazin?” Dezra’s tone was truly fearful as she spoke aloud the name of the Infernal Lord. Every thief, guild member or otherwise, knew that name. The Cult of the Wolf was his clergy, so to speak, and they lived for the violent end of all life. Even their own.
“I have told you more than enough,” Cray said coldly. “I will find Marek Wargard sooner or later, with or without your aid, woman. If you wish to save your skin and restrain me from finding out what you taste like,” he paused as Dezra shook with visible fear, “then you will aid me. Now.”
“Then we return to South Deep,” Dezra mumbled miserably, feeling a rare sting of guilt stab at her. Surely Marek could defend himself, even against a strange foe from the Cult of the Wolf. Cray stood erect, towering over her, his form hidden in the shadows of the night so that only his golden eyes shown with an eerie inner light.
“The sooner we depart, the better,” Cray urged her as he snatched her by the wrist. “I have been waiting for my vengeance too long, and I have bartered too much to rest on my laurels now.”
“You know there is a war brewing,” Dezra intoned as she was dragged down the alley away from the body of the fellow that she would never know.
“Is there?” Cray mused in good humor, “How splendid. The slaughter that rises shall appease my lord, and there will be no want for hunting.”
“If I may, who was that man in the alley with you?” Dezra questioned as they approached the main street that ran the length of Eastport, a clear path that would take wayfarers clear out of the city and along the highways to Cantlin or South Deep. Dezra was half inclined to give Cray the slip and run for her guild, but did she want the Black Hand embroiled in a battle against the Cult of the Wolf? If she were lucky, she would suffer mere exile. But Velecian wasn’t so benevolent.
“Are you wondering if that was the fate of a former ally?” Cray ventured a guess. “He was nothing to me but an informant, and then when he had no more use, he was a meal.”
“Name of the Oath,” Dezra mouthed. Here she was, bereft a weapon and barely returned to her livelihood after her first misadventure and she was going abroad against her own will a second time, back to the same city! Was the One God trying to tell her something? It was queer, seeing as how she didn’t believe in the One God. Believing or not, it seemed plain to Dezra Bludfayne that the One had plans for her.
***
The citadels of South Deep gleamed with ancient wonder at the rain’s parting. There was a solemn majesty ingrained somewhere deep within, unspoiled by the touch of men. It worked through stone and soil, wood and earth. Beyond the city the Kanaron Mountains filled with a misting haze that flickered with a bounty of shady grays and purple hues, all of them cast like long sheets rolling in silent jubilance against the mountainside. It was the end of summer’s passage, and such a day was the coronation of the king of the north to be held. With Agaen of the Valar came two of his fellows. They appeared from afar, having traveled abroad from Elisahr, the wild western lands north of the Nightshade Forest where few Humans dared to roam. They arrived just in time to aid Agaen in conducting the ritual of coronation. According to the old laws of the southern lands there must be three members of the Order to enact the ceremony.
Kendra watched the three members of the Order, sitting in solemn conversation in the courtyard below her bedroom window. There was a lovely veranda perched upon the room’s skirts through a thick oaken door and glass window. It was called a sliding glass door, a servant informed her upon first coming to the Castle of Lords. There were short benches of stone for gazing at the heavens and sills with budding flowers of rare and fragrant beauty abounding there. It was a place of forgetting. But Kendra wasn’t of a mind to forget anything, least of all in this dangerous hour. She felt like a novice among so many masters, men who had plied their craft, for good or ill, for a count of years longer than she had even lived. She felt like she and Justias were mere children caught by the ornery will of strict guardians.
Below, oblivious to her casual observation of them, the three members of the Order conversed in discreet respect. She half-expected one of them to summon mighty energies derived from other worldly sources, or something fantastic. There were so many stories about this majestic and ancient Order of seers that she never, in all her life, expected meeting one of their creed. But now three of them were gathered in the walls of South Deep and they were making Justias Eventine king of the north. Not that Kendra really understood what that meant. Didn’t a king need a castle? Or subjects and an army? Wasn’t there a law to lay down and a fortune to amass? She only shook her head and stepped back in from the windy summer’s day, closing the glass-door behind her. Her prayers turned to Justias, though she knew not what to pray exactly. But the One knew matters of the heart and mind, so she gave herself over to a prayer without word, sitting in humble silence while she spoke from her spirit, fearing for her dearest friend.
***
“The lord of South Deep will see you now, Lord Eventine,” Revnas, master of the First Ring, bade Justias as the youth waited outside the study chamber. The veteran warrior was tall and composed, garbed in fine clothing befitting a mighty lord. A sable cloak trailed past his knees and a tunic of silk draped lightly over strong shoulders. A circlet of silver crowned his head, keeping a full head of waving hair close behind his ears. The regal-looking swordmaster bowed to the young hunter, who bowed in return.
“You needn’t call me a lord, Sir Revnas.”
“You will be more than a mere lord in a matter of hours, Lord Eventine,” Revnas countered swiftly. “Lord Ravenlore will hear your plea for the removal of the Book of Prophets. I wonder,” Revnas pursed his lips and fixed Justias with a plain, shrewd stare, “How did you come to know about this sacred tome?”
“I think you are an intelligent man, Sir Revnas,” Justias replied just as swiftly to him. “Can you not venture a guess?”
“I can at that,” Revnas smiled warmly, stepping outside the door and sweeping an arm to bid Justias entry into the personal chambers of the city lord. As the young hunter stepped into the slight gloom and stagnant air of that inner room, he couldn’t help feel the sharp contrast from the last time he set foot within. He was younger in spirit then, begging the chance for a moment of glory from an old and wizened leader who saw a young fool for what he was. But that young fool had returned a conquering hero, and now half the southlands felt that Justias Eventine might single-handedly deliver them from the bondage of their enemies: the wyrms.
Did Lord Ravenlore truly hope or pray for his success? Justias wondered at that. Did he even think for an instant that success was a possibility? He could fathom an answer, regarding the means by which young Justias left South Deep. It was under the cover of secrecy and with no fanfare, no support. There was no acknowledgement that he was even gone. Had he died no one would have known, much less cared. Dark thoughts swam through his troubled mind as Justias entered the dim light of August’s chambers.
Sitting before the mantle of the fireplace were a pair of cushioned chairs and book shelves, adorned with all manner of oddities gained through generations of leadership and warfare. Lord Ravenlore sat there, with his attendant Petrian Alnaroth, personal chancellor to the ruling lord of the city. William was also there, along with Barlow. Justias was confused, but he endeavored not to let it show on his features as he approached the gathering at the sitting area.
“Justias! There you are!” August rose, and so did William and Barlow. Petrian, who had already been standing behind the chair August reclined against, gave the young hunter a curt bow, eyes lowered to the floor.
“Come and join the meeting, young lord!” the ruler of South Deep declared.
“Have I come at the wrong time?” Justias questioned, turning from William to Barlow, then to the City Lord.
“Not at all,” August answered, his face and voice all charm. “Your father and I were discussing a matter of incredible import to the southlands, one that I feel you might lend aid to, if you would be inclined to show your valor on behalf of the Old Nobility again.”
“Is that what I was doing in the Blight?” Justias wondered acidly. “I don’t recall departing the city under the flag and fanfare of the people, or the ruling Houses.”
“How dare you address South Deep’s lord in such a manner!” Petrian scolded Justias in a high-pitched, outraged tone. The older man was thin and keen, with a piercing gaze and subtle hands. His clothes were fine and he bore the standards of both his House and the House of Ravenlore, to whom his whole family was sworn to serve generation to generation. But for all of that he wore nothing, not clothing or jewelry, that outshined the city lord. He was but a reflection of his master’s glory, so no eye strayed for long from August by comparison.
“It is well, Petrian,” August disarmed his livid chancellor with a raised hand, not even deeming to look back at the man. “Lord Eventine was raised in the northlands, in the wilds, and does not heed the etiquette of the Old South.”
“I know how to be polite well enough, my lord,” Justias replied sternly. “I was only stating an observance that I noted of late, one that I might have spoken with you about before you beg any great favors from me.”
“I told you that aiding you directly, which I did anyhow at great peril to the city, would have been a danger to the pact that stands between the priesthood and the Old Nobility. I gave you rations, directions, and information, did I not?”
“Directions are a rather vague way of putting the matter,” Barlow interjected.
“The south is an old land, and two centuries of wild growth in the region near this place now called the Blight vastly changes things. There are no Rangers to hire to investigate that area, not from Holst. They won’t come from Myrodia to lend aid. The hunters from the Nightshade Forest are busy contending with the many wolves that prowl outside their backdoors.”
“Your father was just learning all about the stories concerning you,” Petrian told him, his change in mood and tactic drastic. “You are rather a folk hero in the eyes of the people in the Thistlebrush. It has been many years since a hero has walked the land.”
“Not since the days of Samuel Harper, if I recall,” Barlow added pointedly.
“You are a student of history, I see,” August nodded in approval.
“Samuel Harper was a warrior of great renown, and his sword, Adamant, was legendary in his hands. He has been dead a hundred years or more, has he not?”
“The death of his son weighed heavily upon him, and he took to the grave shortly thereafter,” Petrian informed him, and there was the glean of challenge in those mirror-like eyes. Barlow recognized his desire for battle, but did not concede, only smiling and thanking the man for his answer.
“My lord,” Justias said, “I have come to you seeking the Book of Prophets.”
“I know you have,” August answered sourly. “No king of the south could be crowned without the passages written by the prophets of yore, as directed by the One God. The kings of the south heard those grand words spoken many times. But the tome is old, the language ancient. Has the Order sent one who can decipher the language of the olden scholars? The very tongue of the Eldritch?”
“They are the Valarym,” Justias declared, though he wasn’t certain what prompted him to address August in such a fashion. “You know better than I what the Order knows and what they do not.”
“A sound answer,” August tsked, giving the young man a begrudging smirk.
“I offer you my services, such as they are, for the use of your treasure,” Justias told him.
“My son!” William rose from his seat hurriedly. “We have only been reunited! I don’t know if I can bear the prospect of you placing your life in danger so soon after I’ve at last found you!”
“My life is mine to risk, father,” Justias corrected him, though with a sad smile, letting William know that such risks were not what the young man wished, but the cruel reality of seeing ends accomplished. William nodded stiffly, proudly, and sat back down without a word.
“As it stands, young Dragon slayer, I do have a task for you,” August began as he motioned for Justias to take a seat beside him in the council circle. “There is a ray of hope returned to South Deep, and to my heart of late. Your father has brought in his company a turncoat of the priesthood, and the remaining survivor of the ill-fated campaign my son led to Lake Purt in hopes of truce. The Clerics fostered false hope in me that they might yield Cantlin City back to the rightful noble House that governed for the last three hundred years. But there is a plot being woven here, and I feel that my son, Uriel, might be a key to discern what the plot may be.”
“I thought that your esteemed son was slain in the north, my lord,” Justias said.
“As did I, to my sorrow,” August admitted, and there was deep anguish etched upon that proud face, contorting the lines of avarice. “But the defector revealed in his recovery that the ambush was led by Julias Darkmane, Zealot of Gildaryss. He captured Uriel and brought him to Cantlin City to be a captive of the Prison of Red Glass.”
“That was where he wished to cast me when his tortures in Greywalk failed to yield him my broken spirit,” William added thoughtfully. “Julias described that horrid place, and if it is so terrible, I fear greatly for the fate of your son there, my lord.”
“You wish for me to attempt to free Uriel from this prison?” Justias asked.
“You are the hero of the southlands,” August emphasized. “Who better to liberate the heir to the ruling House of South Deep? I will supply you with whatever provisions you desire, and support from my soldiers. I shall also place my approval upon this task openly, before the Old Nobility and the Council of Magistrates. Furthermore,” August said more slowly, more slyly, “This is the toll I will extract for the permission to use the Book of Prophets, young Lord Eventine. You have the glory of the Order at your beck and call it would seem. Surely they can lend aid in so perilous a venture?”
“What you ask is criminal, my lord!” Barlow declared vehemently, his face aghast at the notion of what Lord Ravenlore suggested. “I can sympathize with your plight, as I have a daughter that I love more than my own life, but you cannot risk Justias simply because your bloodline might be severed. There is no knowing that Uriel even lives!”
“There is not,” Petrian told them, quickly speaking on behalf of his lord, who he could clearly see was quite crestfallen, “But we know the mind of our enemy, you understand. Aram of Gildaryss, and Julias Darkmane are methodical foes. If they have taken Uriel alive to be put in the Temple of Red Glass, then they are sure to have ensured his safety until that time.”
“I can attest to that much,” William added, though reluctantly. “When I was mistreated by my jailors Julias has his Gorgon warrior, Korid, slay the man responsible to show the others what he thought of the treatment. Julias, in a perverse sort of manner, is a man of honor.”
“Don’t use that word in regard to him, father. He left our village a ruin; all of the people buried in a single grave dug out by an old man. He killed Karan. I don’t see any honor in him.”
“You look at the deeds, not the man,” Petrian answered diplomatically. “This is warfare, my brave young friend. Both sides of this conflict have wrought many deeds that innocents may find to be questionable. But does that make them so? Innocents do not have to look toward victory the way captains and lords see it, and therefore are free of the sufferance of command. Julias Darkmane is following the orders of the Dragons, just as Uriel followed the orders of the city lord, and those beneath Uriel followed his orders.”
“I didn’t come to argue politics,” Justias said curtly. “I need the Book of Prophets for the Order.”
“You believe that you are the man the ancient prophets foretold of, Lord Eventine?” August wondered skeptically. The lord had struck the nail on the head, and Justias knew it. The question lingered in the air of his study like a tangible force, as if they might reach out and snatch it free.
“I don’t know anything about the prophets of old,” Justias admitted, “What little I thought that I knew concerning Immanuel is slowly turning out to be lies, or half-truths. That is part of the reason why I want the Valarym to read the Book. They will tell me the truth.”
“Will they?” August countered craftily, “Or will they simply tell you their truth?”
“Does it matter either way? I’m going to be used in some fashion, it seems. I may as well elect the origin of it, if I have the power to do so.”
That shot told, and Justias was a little pleased to see August recoil in a fixed expression that might have been guilt. But that was quickly gone, and the city lord paced the room, away from crackling flames and cushioned chairs, with all sets of eyes on him. “There is no need to debate the matter, my young friend. You want the Book of Prophets, and I want to know if my son can be saved from the clutches of the Dragon Clerics.”
“Then we have a deal,” Justias told him. “But what if I invade this prison and find that the turncoat has told you lies, my lord?”
“Phillip didn’t lie, Justias,” William broke in. “He is an honest and heavy hearted young man who has become disillusioned with the priesthood, like our mutual friend, Marek.”
“If he has lied, he shall pay dearly for it,” August retorted as if he failed to hear William’s insistence that the young soldier was speaking truth.
“But then you will have opened yourself to a counter from the priesthood, would you not? Your son seemed to ride and fight under the pretense that they were rebels, giving terrorist attacks upon the Dragon Clerics.”
“The Council of Magistrates labors with the heavy task of what transpired at Lake Purt, as do we here in the Castle of Lords. Both sides of this conflict are very tired, young Lord Eventine. They seek an end. They seek peace, either through truce or through the tunnel of warfare, whichever seems more expedient. This longstanding vie for dominance without action is wearing the entire south away like stone when the waves come rolling in. We are being eroded, and the only party that benefits from this chaos would be the wyrms. They care not if we are all corpses for the vultures to pick clean.”
“They are a mutual enemy,” Justias agreed. “I have not abandoned my quest to rid the southlands of the Dragon lords.”
“Then I fear the northlands will have a king for a precious short time,” August replied shortly as he ended his walk near a grand tapestry that depicted battles of old. A slender window cast a shaft of shifting daylight into the chambers, a slim reminder that beyond the confines of this thick stoned room lay sky and sun and summer. He took the tapestry from the wall and revealed a storage chest made of stout iron.
“I suppose many said the same when I was seeking Brackaelyk’s life.”
“Brackaelyk was a pup compared to the wyrms who have elected their mouthpieces within the Council,” Petrian informed Justias while August labored to open the sealed chest, which was stiff from age and lack of use. It was apparent that the Book of Prophets had not been looked upon by mortal eyes for many years. “The wyrm Gildaryss, and her cohorts are well aged, ancient as the kingdom they razed so many years ago, or older. It is said that Gildaryss herself was alive when the First Age of Andurun came collapsing to its end, bringing ruin to the whole realm.”
“Here it is!” August declared, bringing over the contents of the iron chest for all to see. The Book of Prophets was bound in a silken cloth, sealed away from sight and knowedge, with a binding of wood-like material that Justias had never seen before. There were no words upon the smooth surface of this thick tome but there didn’t have to be. The Book itself did not actually appear as important as its name implied, but the mind judged differently when regarding it. Justias felt something above himself was possessed within those old and weathered pages. All of the men circled about, each one gazing as if for the first time at the old tome, watching in a state of suspended reverence. If the Order’s beliefs were upright and what Agaen told him was true then it only stood to reason, as the words within were nothing less than the words of the One God, the White King, Lord of Glory. As for that, Justias supposed then that it boiled down to a matter of faith; what each man felt about those words and their speaker in his own heart.
“I never in my life believed I would gaze upon the Book of Prophets,” Barlow mused as he ran a tender finger over the ancient, unmarked surface. “How many prophets gave their words to the writing of this tome?”
“Dozens, I suppose,” August replied offhandedly. “I can’t recall the names of the men who were blessed with wisdom by the One God, and declared His word to the people of the southlands. But the most ancient of the writings, that is, the first several chapters of its sources, speak of a land apart from Kallendaros.”
“The motherland,” William said reverently, “I’ve only heard it mentioned in tales and songs. Is there such a place, where Humans once hailed from?”
“If you believe the tome,” Petrian added on behalf of his lord, clearly pleased that the conversation was fast entering an area where he held so much dominion. One of the tasks of the lord’s council was to learn the ancient laws and decrees of the old prophets. Petrian hailed from a long line of men who spent the whole of their lives learning the law, and like his forefathers, he knew it by the letter.
“Are you saying that you don’t believe the tome?” Justias questioned the noble.
“The first books of the tome are hard to decipher, even for a linguist of my caliber,” Petrian answered plainly, huffing. “They speak of our origins in a dreary land called Aeros, translated in the Elvish language as ‘beginning’. The language of the Elves is said to be the closest to the language of Creation as Humans can recall.”
“What became of the motherland?” William wondered aloud.
“Aeros was wrought with wars,” Petrian told them in his practiced speaking tone, “The Humans were tribal, and they settled on cursed ground where a long lived and cursed race once built mighty kingdoms. We, or our forefathers, inherited that curse as we settled there and worshipped that old metropolis and the inhabitants once held within as gods.”
“Like the Clerics now worship the Dragons,” Justias elicited the comparison.
“I suppose you can say that,” Petrian admitted without much enthusiasm. He was clearly more interested in the goings-on of a dead and bygone era than the present crisis that engulfed friend and foe. “We sacrificed to these false gods, and our king was given a vision by the One God, becoming the first prophet. He chronicled his tales within the ancient tome. His name was Rada.”
“What became of him? Does it say?” Barlow inquired.
“Of course,” Petrian replied. “They had settled there for nearly one thousand years, in the land of the dead giants they worshipped. Rada received his vision at the height of his rule, and he became a seer of the One God, converting many to the New Faith, as they named it long ago. This new deity, though He was the true Creator, was a foreigner to them, and many noble Houses were dubious to follow Him, no matter the command of their king. His son inherited his lofty task after Rada’s passing, not to mention the warning the One God left him.”
“What manner of warning?”
“That Rada had three generations of their lives to prove to the people that they were blaspheming the One’s glory by worshipping falsely, and if they had not turned from their ways then the One would inflict a terrible calamity upon them.”
Petrian continued, “Rada’s son, Humas, was a valiant man that inherited a fractured rulership, as many nobles were against Rada’s turn of heart in forsaking the gods of their elders. Humas was a warrior and a prophet, and he converted many to the New Faith, while defending his charges from enemies that arose all around him, foes from within his own House. They would not yield to the New Faith, though Humas, like Rada, was clearly blessed with divine influence unlike anything the pagan religion of their elders could boast of. When they spoke or acted, men yielded to them because they in turn, yielded to the providence of the One God.”
“What became of them?” Justias asked, genuinely interested in Petrian’s telling of the tale. The history of his very people was being poured out to him, and Justias found himself, the mighty Dragon Slayer, astounded by the long reach of the Human arm through the annals of time, empowered by the invisible, invincible arm of the One God. “Did they succeed?”
“The simple fact that we’re now sharing this story upon alien ground, in a kingdom that is merely a shadow of the glory that was Eltresse, the kingdom of Rada’s power, testifies an ill end. Rada died of very old age, and Humas succeeded him well into his manhood. Humas’ son, Ragnarok, was more a warrior than a diplomat or prophet. When Humas died in pitched battle with the enemies of the throne, Ragnarok took the throne, ushering in the third generation of kingship. All of Human destiny rested on this hardened warrior’s shoulders.”
Petrian paused to wait for the eager eyes to prompt him onward before he resumed his speech, “Ragnarok was said to be the greatest Human warrior ever to tread the soil of Andurun, in the First Age or this present age. But his rule was ruthless; many fled from Eltressian knights as they became a symbol of tyranny and slaughter. At the end, Eltresse was utterly divided: There were those loyal through greed or fear to the king, while the nobles now only saw the One God as a villainous deity glimpsed through Ragnarok’s butchery. A battle erupted on the field of Elltaross or Kingsfield, south of the capitol, and during the pinnacle of this massive skirmish the calamity the One God predicted would come to the people struck. The earth opened and swallowed most of the armies on both sides, including Ragnarok himself. Then all Andurun labored under the wrath of the Cataclysm, which ended and began so many things.”
“Name of the Oath…” William breathed out slowly, face drained, “The end of the First Age…”
“According to the scribes and prophets of Eltresse, yes,” Petrian agreed, though with a little less awe than the old hunter.
“Eltresse was a ruin, then?” Barlow inquired, his own mind far away on the fields of glory with the One God as He spoke before Rada, His first servant among the Humans.
“Aeros is a ruin, if the Book of Prophets is to be taken at its word. The whole land inherited a vile curse, from Eltresse and from the metropolis that preceded our own kingdom afar, across the Pearl Ocean.”
“Who dwelt there, Master Petrian?” Justias asked.
“Giants,” the old councilor shrugged. “Scholars of Telaine believed the Dorim Hayn, the Forgers of the Realm, once lived there. Once they were great in favor with the One God, but their pride gave them over to downfall. I only know a small bit of lore regarding their people, and they are long since gone from Andurun now.”
“Very good,” August intoned as he closed the Book before them, slamming it so that it resounded through the relative quiet of the study chambers, shattering the veil of conspiring silence cloaking them. “We are in agreement, then? My son’s welfare for the loan of the southland’s most valued relic?”
“I can’t guarantee Uriel’s life, my lord,” Justias argued pointedly. “All I can vow is that I will do my utmost to release him from the bondage he currently suffers.”
“I suppose that is all I can ask of you,” August muttered.
Revnas strode forward out of the front of the chamber where he had remained silent the whole time, and if the man thought anything about what they had been discussing it did not show. He bowed before August stiffly.
“Arys Wyngood desires an audience with the city lord, as is his appointed time, my lord.”
“See him in, Revnas,” August answered.
Arys was in haggard condition from the battle at the lake, and the lasting physical and emotional ramifications clearly preyed upon him still. He was gaunt and pale, but there was a resolute strength within those haunted eyes, and he held himself erect, standing proudly before his ruler and lord. He swept a long bow of respect before August.
“My lord, thank you for seeing me. Am I interrupting?”
“Not at all, Master Wyngood. This is Justias Eventine, famous wyrm slayer and soon to be king of the north, champion of the Order.”
“You have my respect, my lord,” Arys told him shortly. “Your father helped me return to South Deep and warn my people of the dangers the priesthood is mounting against us. I wish you the blessing of the One in your efforts.”
“We’ll need that, to be sure,” Barlow mouthed sullenly. The northman did not relish the idea of the prison. Justias had only managed to defeat Brackaelyk. Was it not enough to reveal to the southland army that the Dragons were not invincible? Must his blood be spilt on their account?
Justias snatched the Book out of August’s hands, tucking the old and heavy volume beneath an arm. “I will aid you, as I vowed, but I will need to know all that you can tell me concerning Cantlin and the prison where your son is held. But know this: I have sworn that I won’t spill any blood but the blood of the wyrms.”
“Sworn to whom?” the city lord queried, “To the One?”
“To myself,” Justias returned stubbornly, and if there was any energy adrift in that chamber, it turned sour when his words polluted it, and the tome he carried felt perhaps a trifle heavier.
“Revnas can apprise you of anything you wish to know about the city, or that abysmal prison,” August waved a hand to the swordmaster who was nearby, hands folded before him. He might have been a statue behind their gathering for all any of them could tell, save that his chest rose and fell in slow measure. Revnas nodded slightly, the circlet he wore glistening in the firelight.
“I would like to storm the Temple with you, my lord,” Arys added abruptly, making them turn to look at him.
“Arys, no!” William declared, “You’ve only just finished healing! You’ll die if you go after my son!”
“Then I will die serving my people and my lord,” Arys retorted proudly. “Lord Ravenlore is the finest commander I have ever known, and I failed to save him from danger and capture. I will give my life to repay the debt I owe his father, South Deep’s keeper.”
“You do your family name proud, Master Wyngood,” August told him, a slow smile spreading over his face. “It would be good to have a man of the southern nobles with the party. It may be that the One will grant us good fortune.”
“Your soldier was nearly killed in that ambush, my lord,” Revnas objected in a quiet and stony voice. “He has not spent enough time away from the field or battle to recover his wits and wisdom, as the old laws of warfare decree concerning any man that suffers such awful defeat. Grant him leave for the winter and then young Master Wyngood can rejoin our campaign.”
“I will not!” Arys declared.
“If I gave him his leave he could simply offer himself as a free sword to young Lord Eventine,” August observed coolly, much to Revnas’ ire. The stoic older captain did not display his disdain at August’s deplorable method of circumventing the law, but something in his eyes altered, Justias perceived.
“That is what I shall certainly do,” Arys added earnestly, missing Revnas’ dark look and August’s smug grin.
“Then you must make haste and be ready for the coronation, my young friend,” August said to Justias. “The Order is going to need that tome, and you will be crowned king of the northlands by the fullness of the moon tonight. It is the passage from summer into autumn, if I recall.”
“What has the measure of the moon to do with it?” Justias asked.
“The prophets were specific about the subject,” August remarked offhandedly. “It was a law given down by the One God from ancient times, when the southern kingdom was first established. Even before the mighty castle of Telaine came to be.”
“I will leave for Cantlin at my nearest convenience,” Justias said to the city lord before taking his leave along with William and Barlow, who would be attending him as family. Justias longed for Kendra to be there as well, but she was not blood, though she and Barlow were close as father and daughter. Justias also felt a closeness with her that made his heart stir with a strong longing and he was only understanding what that stirring meant. He suppressed it, knowing that its proper place had not yet come.
“The One give you His blessing, Lord Eventine,” August Ravenlore raised a hand in a saluting farewell, as it was custom from one great noble to another in days long forgotten. “When next we speak we shall be equals.”
***
The night of the coronation was a grand moment, caught in the stillness of summer’s ending. There was a canopy of stars the likes of which hardly any man, no matter the age, could recall being witness to. It was as if the celestial bodies were in stark wonder over the matter of a new king being crowned among the Human race after so many years of lords, nobles, Houses and Clerics. They glittered with the new moon, a husk of dark splendor, hanging in silent testimony against the canvas of black that spanned the length of creation. South Deep was a small toy cast off by an infant’s hand by comparison to that grandeur, but every home, every guild house, every shop or Inn or guard house had their lanterns, candles and torches blazing, flaming with a fire that nearly matched the running gossip. Justias waited in a small sitting chamber, having just been groomed and dressed by the most skilled tailors the city had to offer. Every inch of him was youthful splendor. He had a cape of fine silk, a tunic of soft doe skin and matching thigh-length boots. His gloves buckled at the wrist with fanciful tassels and a belt lined with sapphire girded his waist. A finely wrought long sword sat against his hip, sheathed in a scabbard embroidered with silver trim. Marek and Kendra sat with him in the room, all three listless and flitting with a brook of emotion.
“You look like a fine king,” Marek told him honestly. “The fact being that I’ve never seen a living king before really doesn’t do you any discredit at all.”
“Thank you, Marek,” Justias snapped. “You really aid in making my nerves settle.”
“Pay him no heed,” Kendra told him, shooting the warrior a stern look of reproach that made him raise his hands to silently protest innocence. “He’s just jealous.”
“Jealous? He’s going to lord over a land that is barren, save for farmers, hunters and a walled city where the local rulers want him dead, along with us! Oh, I’m simply writhing with envy, you can be sure! I thought I had poor luck!”
“People are in need of a symbol,” Justias told Marek, blurting it out without thought. “The Clerics serve without fault because the Dragons are a symbol. Look at the bloody medallions they always sport. We have the One God, but so many seem to have forgotten Him in our rush to either serve our new gods or attack them. No one has stopped to ask of the One what He wishes us to do.”
Marek was taken aback. He had been fingering a picture of some rolling fields hanging on a wall beside a small stained glass window, but Justias’ words fell heavily over him and he turned to face the hunter. “Don’t tell me that you’ve become a convert as well?”
“I can’t say,” Justias answered.
“How do you think it’s come to this point, Justias?” Kendra asked, standing from the lounging chair where she had been playing a game of cards by herself. “Who guided you here, and who gave you this chance to make a symbol in a land sorely in need of one? Don’t you think that if you give something back to the One God, others may follow suit, and we might recall our Creator?”
“Wonderful,” Marek threw his hands in the air at the exchange. “The old reverend washed out both of your heads. Listen! You need to discover the truth for yourself, not be led by the nose when someone tells you what something is about!”
“Sometimes things aren’t just found, or taken up, Marek,” Kendra argued. “Faith is one of them.”
“All I know is that I can advance my designs against the Dragons by taking this road, Kendra,” Justias answered her. “I can’t commit to anything beyond that.”
The door of the room flung open, startling the three of them. Beyond the door was a procession of men, all clad in shining mail armor and sable cloaks, the standards and banners of many noble Houses showing in the lantern light. Revnas, Grant, Aran Wintermane, and several others were present, all of them appearing lordly and mighty in battle attire.
“Agaen wishes us to inform his majesty that the Order awaits you in the gardens, sire,” Revnas bowed deeply, sweeping a strong arm for Justias to follow them. Justias snatched Kendra’s hand in his and went out with her together, she trailing just behind him, as he walked forward to become the first king of the northlands. He couldn’t help but wonder if he would not be the only king of the north once the war against the Dragons was finished. The breaking of the old covenant gave them over to Dragon attacks once again after more than two centuries. Could Kallendaros receive another assault and refrain from withering beneath its power?
“You yield to the Order?” Justias asked of the master of the First Ring.
“What man who esteems wisdom does not? They are nothing, if not the embodiment of wisdom upon the face of the realm, sire.”
“Then let us go,” Justias said at length. Revnas fell in place beside another, brawny fellow Justias had never seen before. A line of knights and lords gathered at either side of he and Kendra, while Marek fell in behind them, at least until the ceremony had come and the remainder of the walk was for Justias and his kin.
The joining hall led them from the waiting room where the tailors attended him and across a striking red carpet rolled out for him, with blazing, sweet-smelling torches kindled on either wall. They rained tiny tears of yellow flame to the floor that fizzled out upon the bare stone, the flashing gleam dancing like rough water against the stained glass windows between every torch sconce. Justias’ heart felt like it might have been trying to creep out of his throat right then as a pair of well groomed guards opened twin doors of polished oak before them. They pulled them apart at the last so the fragrant smell of night wafted in and made the torches mad for want of it. The pair of soldiers snapped to attention and clasped their hands to their chest in rigid salute as the procession of lords, knights and nobles marched by them. Justias couldn’t help but wonder if there had been such a fine gathering, or such a terrific cause for splendor, in any number of years in these men’s lives. They were a bitter brood, the southlanders. War was their lifeblood; sternness and vigilance ever their fast allies day or night. To that end they were not different than other nights. Guards lined every high wall with sword and spear, shield and longbow at the ready in case celebration gave way to conflict.
Outside the hall, along the cobblestone walks of the castle gardens, gathered a good many people to bear witness to the entire proceeding. According to the Order of the Valar and the Book of Prophets there must be four hundred witnesses present, not accounting for the men and women partaking in the ceremony itself. They filled every off-hand walk of the gardens and all the greens where they might not trample bud or flower for as far as the eye could see, and their eager eyes glimmered like mirrors of captured starlight. Braziers of marble lined the perimeter of the walk, and stoic looking soldiers clad in similar array to the guards who threw open the twin doors awaited the line of knights to approach. They bore spears that waved the banner of South Deep upon the night winds in one hand, and kindled torches in the other, which they used to ignite the braziers they were posted beside. There were twelve braziers of marble, as there were twelve lords leading the new king to his moment of coronation, discounting Kendra and Marek. Each ignited in splendid flare as livid fire kissed their oily surface and the flames leapt at the joy of fresh life, spitting heat and smoke into the windy, chill evening sky.
When the braziers at last ended so too did the procession of lords who filed off to either side of Justias, along with Marek and Kendra. She gave Justias’ hand one last encouraging squeeze before she slipped away from him. Barlow and William, clad in silken and soft leather garb, waited for him. They wore circlets of silver on their brows that were dotted with sapphire, hands folded before them patiently. From this point on, according to the Book of Prophets, there must be three present to coronate a king. Breathing deeply and trying not to feel as faint as he must have looked by that point, Justias strode between his uncle and his father. They spun on their heels so that, side by side, they marched the last length of walk to the middle of the gardens.
A tall and delicate fountain was raised in the heart of the castle gardens of South Deep long ago, its statue the portrayal of Circe, one of the Eldritch of the One God. She was a mighty warrior in the armies of Heaven and gifted with a spirit of nurturing. It had long ago become custom for the folk of the southlands to erect a statue of the Maiden Circe in green regions such as vineyards or gardens of fruit and flowers, so that she might be inclined to visit her gentleness upon them. It was to her that Justias’ eyes drifted at the last, for she towered above the gathering of the Order at the basin of the fountain, where a podium sat and the Book of Prophets lay out before them. Streams of water trailed down her flowing robes, folded wings and sword carved for battle. The starlight focused on her so that she fairly glowed, wreathed in water as she was. The fountain water caught in her curved wings and pooled there, dribbling out of small divots carved into the edges so a cascade of tiny rivers flowed into the pool below. The basin of the fountain was more than a dozen feet wide, about two feet deep at the lip, with water lilies and lily pads floating freely within. All around the skirts of the fountain gathered more of the witnesses to the ceremony and Justias tore his sight from them and focused on the Order of the Valar before him, particularly Agaen.
The eldest Valar was smiling kindly at Justias. The youth didn’t know how he knew that Agaen was older than the other two, just a feeling the man resonated with. There was age untold on that face, etched in deep, care-worn lines that drew a map of years and decades slipped by, forgotten by so many races. A tingling sense of strength gripped Justias, bringing him a feeling of calm that engulfed the dread sense of fear in the pit of his stomach, and he almost fell at the flight of it. Agaen nodded slightly, indicating that it was time.
The moon, dark and ominous, hung directly overhead. It was so large that night that small children might have gone to their rooftops in an effort to capture it in their hands if they could reach far enough. Such was the wonder of youth.
At last he was standing before the podium and the Order of the Valar. All three of the men gathered were men of strength and wisdom. Revnas’ words were true indeed, and when one looked upon the Valar they could not help but see the ancient mind and heart that burned to serve the One God within. Words weren’t even needed. Justias bent to a knee before them, kneeling as if he would be knighted, and his uncle and father followed suit. Years ago, before the terror of the Tithing and the branding in the north villages was truly known to him, Justias would have given his all to be in such a position, receiving such glory. But now it was awkward and heavy, too cumbersome for his hands to hold it all, if he could hope to hold any of it. He hung his head, letting the weight of the moment simply take hold.
The first member of the Order, to Agaen’s right, placed a hand on Justias’ left shoulder and spoke in a loud voice, but the language was not of the Common tongue. “May the rule of the king be graced with many years!” he suddenly cried in the Common tongue, “May his rule and throne never fail!” He did not withdraw his hand, but Justias didn’t mind. It supplied comfort, a connection to something real and the young hunter was silently grateful.
The second member of the Order, to Agaen’s left, placed a hand on Justias’ right shoulder and spoke like the first member, the language identical but the words differing. They carried power in them and resounded like claps of thunder through the expense of the garden, so that all could easily hear them. Such silence had come over the procession from people and surroundings it felt as if time and nature stopped, lending ear to what the Order was decreeing in their presence. Justias’ heart beat so hard that sweat began falling from his brow. Beside him he could hear William praying for his son, and for some reason Justias felt ashamed. The Valar then cried out, “Glory be to the king anointed this day! Long may his rule endure!” Again, he did not withdraw his hand, and knew that soon it would be time for Agaen himself to place hands upon him.
At last Justias looked up. Agaen stood directly before him, draped in a garment that was heavy and shimmering, replete with symbols that were embroidered into the seams and lace of it. It was a robe of a mediator, worn by ministers during the Day of Alms at week’s end, but it was different at the same time. Before him was a slender crown of shimmering gold, adorned with leafs and flowers of ruby, sparkling like nettles of jeweled flame. Never did the youth envision so lovely a headpiece, and he felt tears moisten his eyes. Was he truly worth any of this? Agaen raised the crown overhead. So the entire gathering might bear witness, he raised it to the heavens to present it aloft. As he held it there for all eyes to fall upon he spoke with words more thunderous still. The language was identical, yet they were increasing in might and Justias began to feel glad that he didn’t know what they were saying after all. “Bear witness heaven and earth!” Agaen commanded, his voice filled with authority, “Let thy covenant stand! Let thy people rejoice! This day a king hath been given to us!” With that, the crown fell. He placed it gently on Justias’ head so that it rested over his sweat matted hair and nestled against the lobes of his ears.
“Justias Eventine, king of the north; your kingdom awaits you to claim it!” Agaen began as he stepped back and his fellows removed their hands from him. “Rise from your knees and be seen! Arise, King Eventine!”
Justias stood among the assembly and, like a wave, every knee bowed before him. It was almost more than he could bear, and the entire instant carried with it a dream-like quality. Every witness dropped to a knee and most of them even bowed their heads or averted their gaze as if they didn’t wish to match stares with the newly established king. Revnas, Aran, Grant and the other lords were all bowed low, knees beneath them and palms to the ground as they hailed King Eventine. Justias looked back dizzily and saw that even Agaen and his brethren were kneeling, eyes turned to the ground so they did not look at him. Despite that, Justias felt the gnawing certainty that someone was still looking at him, though there was no one else to see, for even the men on the battlements were kneeling. Those closest to him were shedding tears of joy, including his father and Justias resisted the urge to bring William to his feet and hug him fiercely. There, on his knees praying to the One, was a better man than he.
Desperately he stared daggers at Agaen, not knowing what to do. Why was no one standing? What the devil was he supposed to do? The elder Valar barely looked up at the youth and snapped his head a little, indicating a rising gesture, then averted his gaze once more. Justias cleared his throat and spoke in a husky voice, as if he were just recovering from losing it, “You may rise!”
It was the first command given by the king of the north. All the procession rose in unison and looked at the new king as if he were their own. There were tears and smiles, prayers of thanks and clasped hands held in reverence.
“People of the Old South!” Agaen declared aloud, standing to Justias’ right side and raising his arms in the air with hands outspread, “People of the Old South! Hail the new king of the north! Hail your ally, neighbor and friend! Hail him!”
“Hail to the king!” they cried jubilantly, and it was like a torrent being loosed from behind a dike. Their shouts were tumultuous, rolling like breaking waves over the castle gardens, filling the night sky to bursting with joy. “Hail the king of the north! Hail to the first king of the One God!”
Kit, Kendra and Marek led the gathering toward him, and they swarmed near to look closer at the new king. Revnas snapped his soldiers to attention and they filed in a quick line to surround and defend the king of the northlands. Grant and Aran Wintermane were closest to him, standing before William and Marek, while Revnas and the rest of the swordmasters of the Rings of Learning held back the throbbing, pulsing crowd. The women in the crowd rained rose petals from wicker baskets they carried of all variety of colors. The drifting petals were caught by the wind, cast off by a hundred different hands, into a whirlwind of yellow and red, pink and white. Kendra threw her arms around the young hunter and hugged him, and she was joined by William, who caught them both in his embrace.
“It makes me wish that I had been the one to slay the wyrm,” Kit mouthed to Barlow as they stood side by side, watching the proceeding.
“So you could be crowned a queen?” Barlow wondered.
“If that was all it took to have a crown adorning one’s head then I wish I would have considered this moment,” Kit answered, though her tone was playful.
All at once there was a splendor of wind and movement over the heads of the procession, and a bevy of wings and forms descended from on high. Many soldiers cried out in dismay, having lowered their guard and now worrying that the Dragon lords themselves had fallen upon them in a moment of weakness. But the forms were too small to be wyrms, and they were feathered with riders atop them, though they lacked saddle or bridle. The aerial mounts turned out to be Phoenix, seven of them in all, all adorned with a rider save for one, which landed closest to the new king.
“Valiant Sun!” Justias yelled happily, dashing to the Phoenix as the crowd parted to give this bizarre visitor room to spread the golden wings that were his birthright. “What brings you here, my friend?”
“To hail the king of the north and see the prophecy fulfilled,” Valiant Sun offered, swooping low with a bowing gesture. His feathers glimmered with metallic splendor, all of them blackened bronze or gold or fiery platinum. They were brilliantly dark near the tips, burnished like they were tested by open flames. He stood erect again and his gem-like eyes glistened with intelligence. “I have seen both in the face of my young and brave friend, who did away with the evil wyrm that was a blight upon my race.”
“I am honored to have been an ally to so noble a people,” Justias replied, returning the bow politely.
There were gasps of wonder from behind them, and everyone turned to regard the rest of the clutch of Phoenix and the riders who came with them bareback. They were tall and lithe, with slender figures and graceful features, their skin dark and their hair long and black as rich soil. Their eyes held the green of the forest and their raiment was earth tones, richly fashioned for form and function. The tools and weapons adorned to their persons were supple and light to fit their uses with great ease, and when they walked the earth seemed eager to aid their treading, for they strode with gliding grace. There was a sextet of Elves among the people of South Deep. The ancient race of Sylvanri stood among the Humans, clad in majestic wonder and ancient glory, capes and cloaks billowing like wisping clouds against the night breeze. Their leader, a woman of sleek beauty and allure, approached the newly crowned king. She paused briefly to share words with Agaen and the other members of the Order, smiling and clasping his hands in a grip of friendship. Was there anywhere that this old traveler was not welcomed? Justias wondered with a hint of amusement as he shook his head.
The Elvish captain walked forward, clad in leather armor and long gloves that covered the whole of her arms, belted at the wrist and elbow, so the cuffs near the shoulders were a little loose and tapered. In one small fist she clutched a spear of unmatched craftsmanship. It was made of a silvery wood that was sleek and nearly metallic in appearance. The blade coursed with a red luster caught in every torchlight present, and it was curved and decorated with runes and glyphs of Elvish origin. The weapon was taller than she, measuring seven feet in length from the tip of the blade to its butt, and she freely offered it to the king.
“My name is Delsanora, of the kingdom of Solace, within the Celestial Plains of my native lands. I come on behalf of my people and my king to offer this gift to the newly crowned king of the northlands; long may his rule be.” She thrust the spear toward Justias and he tentatively snatched it from her. “This is the spear, Mitra. It is fashioned from Lorewood harvested from the eldred forests of my native soil, and forged with Eldain, or elder steel as your race better knows it. It is a stout weapon, and will serve you in the campaigns you will yet endure. It is a sign of friendship from my king to your people. He grants you his blessing, that you may endure and prosper to be victorious against your many enemies.”
“I stand in the debt of the king of Elves. I am at his service,” Justias answered in fitting form.
“We stand in your debt, young king,” Delsanora replied plainly. “You have done what even the greatest Elvish warriors or Bladeson have not dreamed of doing: you have challenged the wyrms of the deep realms and slain one in battle. Your renown has reached the ears of my king, and so Mitra has now reached your hands. You will find that Mitra’s edge is stout enough to pierce even Dragon hide. I will pray for you, young king of the northlands.”
“And I shall pray for your king’s rule. Long may it endure!” Justias said diplomatically. He rather hoped that was a sound response to her gracious gift. It seemed she liked it well enough for she flashed him a warm smile and bowed before him. Then she took her leave of the assembly, walking back to the Phoenix that bore her to the Thistlebrush.
“I depart, but it may chance that our paths will cross once more, King Eventine.”
“I will look forward to such a moment, my lady,” Justias called back to her.
With that, the clutch of Phoenix rose into the sky with a flurry of wings until they were aloft and soaring gracefully back to the ancient home of the Elves. All but Valiant Sun. The noble creature waited for Justias’ gaze to fall back upon him with a quizzical glance.
“Why did you bear no rider, Valiant Sun?”
“I have never bore a passenger in all the many years of my life, young King Eventine; save once. Not again until I allowed you to rest upon me that fated day so I might bring you back to this city and to safety. Nor shall I allow another to ride upon my wings as you have. But to you I offer my service in battle, as your ally and your steed. I will allow you to mount upon my back and I shall carry you into battle against the wyrms, you and the spear Mitra. Together we shall make the Dragons tremble.”
“I do not know what to say,” Justias said softly, staring intently at the magnificent creature that just gave away his freedom to him. He snickered softly in a bird-like call, warm and cheerful.
“You need not say anything, friend Justias. I offer this service freely, and gladly cast my lot in with you. Together shall we fight and find victory, or die well and meet in the life hereafter.”
The thunder of the people fell with a hammer’s force through the castle gardens. The assembly of four hundred roared with wonder and excitement. They had never bore witness to so much in so short a span of time. The wheels of fortune turned in favor of this bold young king who had been born with common blood flowing in his veins. The aristocracy of the southlands did not lull him into gentle complacency, and the fire of a warrior in full strength clung to him. Again the chant was taken up with energetic force.
“Hail to the king of the north!”
“Long live King Eventine, ruler of the northlands!”
“Long may his rule endure!”
And behind them all, unobserved, Agaen closed the Book of Prophets.
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