“We are artists,” Calla said proudly, “the people of Yochathain prize beauty above all else. Because of this, we do not travel much outside our own borders; it is believed that nothing in the outside world could ever match what we have here.”
Rhoyan could see why. A home as breathtaking as this would be hard to leave. Despite the magnificence surrounding them; however, Rhoyan found himself skeptical of such a pursuit. One could not harvest beauty; it could not be eaten or wrapped around one’s shoulders when the snows of Cold-Term came. He wondered how the people survived; he suspected it was by reaping the benefits of slaves who were forced to work so the prosperous might play. Rhoyan realized his thoughts might be a hasty and unfair judgment, but the memory of being taken captive was too powerful for him to dispel quite yet.
They found someone who, for a few copper coins, was able to direct them to the harbor as well as recommend a few names for them to look up if they wanted to ensure swift passage. Rhoyan thanked the man and they continued on their way. The harbor was a bustle of activity that made the marketplace seem as though it had been empty, and Rhoyan led his little group cautiously through the crowd towards a man who looked like he was in charge. He was standing on the deck of a large boat and barking orders at some sailors.
“Sir!” Rhoyan hailed the man. “We seek passage west and north; can you tell me if any of these boats are headed in that direction anytime soon?”
“West eh? Well, you’ve come to the right place. My boat is heading to Kallayohm tomorrow morning. Come aboard and we will talk business.”
Rhoyan, Dru, and Calla climbed up the rope ladder and boarded the huge vessel. The captain beamed at them from behind his black beard and led them into his cabin. He motioned for them to sit.
“The name’s Murry and this is my ship. Our business is mostly in trading, but I occasionally take passengers, if they can make it worth my while to allow them to travel with us. So, where are you headed?”
“Llycaelon,” Rhoyan said, “all three of us.”
“Llycaelon, eh?” the man rubbed his beard thoughtfully. “There aren’t many who dare venture into that dark land. Some don’t even believe it exists. That’s quite the trek, boy, what do you have to offer as payment?”
“We have no…” Rhoyan began in an apologetic tone, but Dru interrupted him by plopping a small pouch of gold onto the middle of the table.
“And two more like that when we safely reach Llycaelon’s shore,” Dru said.
Rhoyan stared at him in wonder, and Dru winked conspiratorially. The captain gazed at the bag thoughtfully, as though weighing it in his mind. After a moment he tentatively reached out and took the bag.
“I suppose that will do just fine, but I’m afraid I can only take you as far as Efoin-Ebedd. Rumor has it there are still people in that land who trade with the Dark Country, after that you’re on your own.”
Rhoyan made as though to object, but Dru gave him a dark look and Rhoyan sighed. “I suppose if that’s the best you can offer, but if that’s the case we can only pay you one extra bag of gold on arriving at Efoin-Ebedd.”
Captain Murry reluctantly nodded in agreement. “I’ll have to accept that as I cannot take you all the way to your destination. Very well then, you have yourselves a ship. We set sail tomorrow at dawn. But I warn you, when I tell you we set sail at dawn, I mean it. If you’re late, you’ll be left behind.”
After they left the docks, Rhoyan turned to Dru. “Where did you get that money?”
“You’re traveling with a thief, lad,” Dru chuckled, “don’t ask questions that you don’t want the answers to.”
“You stole that money,” Rhoyan said. It was not really a question, but more of an accusation.
“Don’t worry,” Dru said, “I took it from the Ramblers. Oh, don’t look so sour. That money got us a boat, and it will get us a place to stay tonight and a meal, and it will keep us out of trouble until we get home.”
“I still don’t like it. I don’t want to use stolen money. I’d rather work for food and shelter; I could have made a deal with the captain, he would have let us work off most of our passage, and it would have been honest.”
“You don’t have to use it then,” Dru said, throwing his hands up in defeat, “I will. And you can pay for your meals ‘honestly’ and if you do a really good job, you might even convert this hardened thief to your honest ways. Truth to tell, though, I’m doing them a favor. These people need the money more than they need you to carry water to their kitchens or muck out their stables.”
Rhoyan glared at Dru and muttered something under his breath, but he made no more arguments. To ease the tension between them, Calla offered to show them around the city. The two men agreed to this and they spent the rest of the day admiring the sights. Calla, the only one of the group who had been to the city before, took great delight in showing the other two around. She pointed out the best places to set up shop and took them to see everything that was of interest. They found a place to stay for the night and enjoyed an unusually good meal, which Rhoyan felt uneasy eating, since it had been bought with the stolen money. After they ate, Calla took her two companions to her favorite spot in the city.
“This is the center,” Calla said by way of explanation.
The place she had led them to was breathtakingly beautiful. It was a hill in the center of the city. From the top, they could look down on the great stone buildings and see for miles in every direction. Around the hill was a great garden courtyard with a splendid stone walkway that led up and around the hill so that one could venture all throughout the gardens as one pleased. At various spots along the pathway there were stone benches and performers of all kinds gathered near them to demonstrate their talents for the people visiting the gardens. There were dancers and poets, singers and storytellers, jugglers and magicians and tumblers.
“Good sirs, and fair lady!” one of the brightly dressed performers called out to them. “I can see you are travelers who have come a long way. Would you perhaps like a story? I am the best minstrel in the world; I have sung before royalty and peasants and have been in several ballads myself. Perhaps you have heard of me? I am the great… no, no… the magnificent Kiernan Kane! Come, I will tell you a story. What would suit the three of you, I wonder? An adventure? Or perhaps a romance?” the man smiled at Calla.
Rhoyan felt a thrill, this minstrel demonstrated all the signs of an excellent story-teller. He decided to offer him a challenge. “There are many stories, sir; and I am a well-educated man, but perhaps you know a story I have not yet heard?”
The minstrel bowed grandly. “I enjoy a good challenge sir. I welcome it! Come, sit, and Kiernan Kane will entertain.”
The three of them sat on one of the small stone benches that ringed the performance area, and the minstrel stood before them. With a wave of his hand he suddenly produced three brightly colored balls and began tossing them in the air. As he threw them, the bright objects multiplied and he tossed them faster and faster until the pattern blurred faster than the eye could follow, and then, with a wave of his hand, all of the objects floated up into the air and vanished. The three travelers clapped appreciatively. Then the minstrel leaned forward and beckoned them closer. They strained to hear him as he whispered.
“A tale you shall hear, then, but let me think for a moment about which story might be best,” the minstrel spoke softly as he took out his mandolin. “Perhaps the tale of the second son who was destined to become a king?” A glint appeared in the minstrel’s eyes as his gaze fell on Rhoyan, a cunning glint that belied his carefree tone.
Dru laughed. “That’s an old tale, minstrel!” he exclaimed. “I’ve heard it ever since I was a child, though you do well to whisper it.”
“Ah, then it is as I thought, you are from Llycaelon,” the minstrel replied, a faint light appearing in his eyes.
Rhoyan stared hard at the minstrel. Kiernan Kane’s smile was vague and benign, but the look in his eyes made Rhoyan u
ncomfortable. He suddenly had the desire to jump up and run somewhere, anywhere, as long as it was far, far away. Instead he peered at the minstrel questioningly.
“I have not heard this story of the second son,” he said easily, “perhaps you will enlighten me.”
Dru stared at him. “How could you have not heard…?”
“Perhaps that is another story for another time,” the minstrel said suddenly, cutting Dru off. “I have changed my mind. Instead I shall tell you a story that none of you have heard before, for that is a greater challenge. Have any of you, per chance, heard the story of Lews the Shining, the first High King?”
The three travelers shook their heads and settled back in their seats. The minstrel strummed his mandolin absently, his fingers making the strings jangle sweetly. “'Twas a cloudy day,” he began quietly, “when Lewstor went searching for the Hand of Yorien. Perhaps you are familiar with the sad tale of Yorien?”
The three listeners nodded.
“Well, what you may not know, is that after the exiled king was set in the heavens, he was able to send one final message to Tellurae Aquaous. The Ramblers have a tale about it, I believe. He let a single star from his constellation fall, and where it touched the earth, a mighty volcano sprang forth.”
The minstrel’s voice turned soft as he wove the story together. His nimble fingers on the strings of the mandolin produced a haunting, mellifluous melody that wove around his voice, complementing the words of the tale.
Lewstor was but a young boy, merely a servant in a grand house. He was a good lad, pure of heart, and the people he served resented his goodness - it is always thus in the old tales. One cold night he was cast out of the house and sent to wander the streets in search of an exotic fruit the lady of the house had taken a fancy to. Lewstor knew the search was hopeless, for the fruit was not in season, but he stumbled on through the night, knowing he would be punished severely if he returned without achieving his goal. At length, tired beyond all thought and chilled to the bone, the boy sank down in a doorway and fell asleep.
While he slept, Lewstor dreamed. A great being all clad in brilliant light stood over him and asked him what he was doing.
“I am searching for an exotic fruit for Milady,” Lewstor explained. The being produced the fruit and held it out to the boy.
“I will help thee,” the being said, “but thou must repay me for this kindness.”
Lewstor’s heart leapt at the sight of the fruit and he quickly promised to do whatever the being asked of him, if only he could take the fruit.
“Come to me at twilight tomorrow,” the being said, “and I will give thee instructions.”
“But how will I find you? I don’t even know who you are!” Lewstor protested.
“You shall find it,” spoke the figure, then faded from sight.
Then Lewstor awoke, and might have believed it had all been but a dream except for the fruit that was still in his hand, and the knowledge in his mind of the place where he would meet the great being once more. He raced home and gave the fruit to his master.
He worked hard the next day, all the while impatiently waiting for the Dragon’s Eye to set. At long last he was free, and he followed the directions in his mind. He soon arrived at the place where a small stream connected to the river. Heart pounding frantically, he waited. A few moments after he arrived, the great being of light rose up from the water.
“Thou wilt seek out the hand of Yorien,” it commanded him. “The world is splitting apart, thou wilt bring it back together, thou wilt be King of all Tellurae Aquaous and thou wilt fight the darkness that threatens us all.”
Lewstor was sore afraid, but he answered boldly, “Where must I begin?”
The being regarded him solemnly. “On the shores of Emnolae, where the Hand of Yorien lies within a ring of cool flames.”
Lewstor’s heart fell, and he believed once more that he was being sent to his death. Nonetheless, he agreed and set out on his quest, knowing he could not go back on his word. The being from his dream had saved his life, and was now asking for it in payment. For many long months Lewstor was at sea, battling angry currents, storms, and sea monsters, until at last he reached the shores of Emnolae. He knew the Hand of Yorien lay within a ring of cool fire at the center of the island, and though he knew not what the riddle meant, he pressed onward. He battled his way to the heart of the land, discovering the answer to the riddle inside a volcano. At long last he gazed upon Yorien’s Hand, thus fulfilling his oath. He lifted his prize from its resting place, and though it seared his soul to do so, he looked full into its fiery depths. For long and long he stood there, until he knew all he needed to know. And then, Lewstor, much wiser and older, returned the star to its resting place and left. In time, it came to pass that Lewstor did indeed become Lews the Shining, first High King over all Tellurae Aquaous, and the wisdom he gleaned from looking into the depths of Yorien’s Hand helped him become one of the greatest kings of all. With its power he defeated Acintya, whose dark power threatened all the lands, and he ruled in peace for nigh on sixty years. It was he that built the palace of the High Kings near the heart of Emnolae.
But what became of Yorien’s Hand, you wonder? The star remains in the place where Lews first found it, waiting for the next courageous young adventurer to find its resting place. A thing of power and of beauty, it calls to all who long in their hearts for excitement and danger and heroic deeds: can you hear it? Can you hear it calling your name? Will you answer that call?
The minstrel finished his song and the crowd that had gathered as he spoke remained spellbound for a long moment. When the final strains of music had faded they began to shift and speak again; coins were thrown and the crowd moved on. The three travelers, however, remained.
“Well?” the minstrel asked, his bright blue eyes dancing merrily. “Have I won our little bet? Is it a tale you have never heard?”
Rhoyan dropped a few large coins into the small bucket at the man’s feet. “For your time, sir. Upon my honor, you won the bet after all.”
Calla and Dru each followed suit and the minstrel beamed. “Thank you kind travelers, I wish you a safe journey to wherever you are going and a strong wind to take you home again when your travels are finished.”
“Thank you for the story,” Calla said as she moved to follow Rhoyan and Dru out of the garden. Before she could leave, however, the minstrel laid a gentle hand on her arm.
“Beware,” he said quietly, “shadows lurk in your future if you continue down this path.”
“What?” Calla asked.
“He is not yet ready. You might help him reach his destiny, but yours will be cut short. Beware!”
Shaken, Calla stumbled backwards, staring into the minstrel’s face. He seemed a man transformed. Where before he had appeared blithe and carefree, now he became grave and earnest. His blue eyes were clear and penetrating as he stared through her into the depths of her soul. Terror clutched at her and she turned and fled, not from the minstrel, for she had no fear of him, but from his words.
Calla caught up with Dru and Rhoyan and the three made their way back to the inn where they had gotten rooms to spend the night. She did not speak of the minstrel or what he had said to her, though his words troubled her despite her best efforts to forget them. They ate another filling meal and retired to their beds. Dru and Rhoyan slept easily, knowing that tomorrow they would be leaving Yochathain; and as beautiful as the city of Chellayn was, they were ready to be on their way. Calla tossed and turned and eventually slipped into dark dreams.
The next morning, Calla was silent and thoughtful as they found their way back to the docks where their ship was waiting. She hesitated almost imperceptibly before boarding the ship, but after a final moment of indecision she climbed the ramp and set her feet defiantly upon the deck.
Rhoyan helped the sailors make ready for the open sea. He breathed deeply as he worked, enjoying the way his muscles strained as he helped hoist the sail. He
smelled the salty air once more and it made him think of home and of the caves down by the shore where he and Ky used to play. He remembered how they had always wanted to find treasure in those caves and his thoughts turned unbidden to the minstrel’s tale of Lews and Yorien’s Hand. He wondered if the story was true. He also found himself wondering about the story the minstrel had not told: the one about the second son. Dru claimed to have heard it before, and had seemed surprised at Rhoyan’s ignorance.
“What are you thinking about Rhoyan?” Dru asked, coming up to him once they were well away from the shores of Yochathain. “You’ve hardly spoken since we set sail.”
Rhoyan turned to him, fire gleaming in his dark eyes. “What’s the hurry to get home?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, we’re out here, beyond all boundaries, beyond the burden of responsibility and the chains of birth. We’re out in the world, why not attempt to see some of it before it’s too late and the chance has passed us by?”
“Rhoyan, what are you talking about? I thought you wanted to go home.”
“I do! Eventually.”
“Eventually? You were the one who arranged this whole trip, and now you’re saying you don’t want to go straight back to Llycaelon? Haven’t you spent the past several years traveling the world with your master? What more of the world do you want to see?”
Calla joined them and Dru turned to her. “I think Rhoyan is second-guessing our trip back to Llycaelon. Could you try to talk some sense into him?”
Calla stared curiously at Rhoyan. “What’s this all about, Roy?” She still had not gotten used to using his real name.
Second Son (The Minstrel's Song Book 2) Page 18