Whill looked at him and then the wine. “I am like this wine,” he realized.
“And the wine is like you. But like the wine, you can and will change. But enough of that. You did not come here to speak of wine, did you?”
Whill looked around the cottage again. Warmth filled him and joined in the wine lifting his spirits. “I have come here for training. I seek enlightenment.”
“No, you do not. You wish for a way to stop feeling as you do. You wish for the nightmares to stop. You wish for your mind to stop torturing you. This I cannot help you with, for it is simply a choice.”
Whill did not speak but listened, waiting for the help he sought. But the Watcher spoke no more. He simply waited and drank his wine.
“Where do I begin?” asked Whill.
“You have already begun. You are here.”
“What next then?” Whill asked patiently.
“Next you must let go. When you can do that, you will be free.”
“Let go of what?”
“Everything.”
Whill breathed a sigh of frustration. “How? Don’t you care about anything? How can your advice in this war be to let go?”
“The question is why,” said the Watcher with a smirk.
“Why, then?”
“Because that is the only way. If the people of Keye let go, there would be peace. I seek peace, therefore I let go, and I know peace. This war you speak of, I know it not. I am not at war, and no one is at war with me.”
“Eadon is at war with you,” Whill countered.
The Watcher suddenly cocked his head and listened. Whill listened and waited also, but heard nothing. After a time the Watcher spoke.
“Avriel has caught a silver trout.” He smiled and closed his eyes. “She is a good one for you; it is good that you have found one another.”
“Yes, she is…she is dear to me. When I had thought her dead…”
“There!” the Watcher shouted so abruptly that Whill jumped in his seat. “That is the source of your problem.”
“What is?”
“Your insistence on reliving old pains and worries. Do you like it?”
Whill shook his head, confused. “Do I like what?”
“Pain,” said the Watcher.
Whill thought about it and shook his head. “Of course not.”
The Watcher pointed to the pot. “If you would, the stew needs stirring and I am old.”
Whill got to his feet and complied. His mouth watered as he smelled the small pot of stew.
The Watcher went on. “If you did not like pain you would not relive it. Of course you do. You believe that your pain defines you, as do most, but it does not. Nothing defines you because you need not be defined. Giving things names does not make them real. All that you need to know about yourself is that you are. That is the only truth. All else is simply making sounds to recognize a thing.”
Whill thought about it for a moment. “I simply am.”
The Watcher nodded and smiled. “You simply are.”
“I am not Whill.”
“You are not Whill, you are you, that which is. You believe that you can only exist as Whill, and therefore the captain believes he is the ship. But you are not your body, nor your brain. You are nothing and everything, the darkness and the light. Which one you choose to express is up to you.”
Whill understood clearly, saw it all laid out before him, but quickly it was gone. He grasped at the glimpse as one would try and fall asleep to the same pleasant dream.
“I had it…but it left me.”
This time the Watcher shook his head. “It cannot leave you, it is you. You still think that you are your mind.”
Whill sat back heavily and slumped, resting his head in his hands. “I am insane,” he sighed.
The Watcher laughed. “Of course you are, the mind is insane. See the spirit that you are, and you shall find sanity.”
Whill lifted his head and the Watcher laid a strong hand upon it. Whill’s body convulsed and went rigid as waves of energy neither pleasant nor painful coursed through his body. He soon found himself floating in a sea of dancing light. Explosions of energy boomed here and there, and lightning rode weaving currents from one explosion to another. A humming permeated from all directions as the dancing light flew like shooting stars. The Watcher floated next to Whill. Oddly, he still held his wine.
“Where are we?” Whill asked.
“We are in the cottage, but we are experiencing the inner workings of your brain.”
“My brain!” Whill gasped.
“Yes. Quite busy, isn’t it? I wish to show you something.”
Back at the cottage, the Watcher pinched Whill hard on the tender underarm. A writhing ball of light shot up through the web of energy flow and lit a faraway part of the ocean of light.
“Ow!” Whill said aloud. Inwardly he was awed. “Do it again.” He laughed; again the pain manifested itself as dancing light.
“Drink your wine,” bade the Watcher and Whill complied, though he saw not the glass. Instead he watched as his sense of taste was manifested into a blazing light show.
The Watcher released him and they returned to the room. Whill blinked repeatedly and looked around, panting. “That was amazing!”
“Indeed. More amazing still is that, like the pain in your arm, your mental pain is nothing more than dancing light. If it dances enough along the same webs, trails are created. Then it can more easily travel again down the same path. This is why certain thoughts inevitably lead to the same conclusion, be they memories, beliefs, or thoughts. You must break the cycles within your mind if you wish to obtain the enlightenment you seek. For enlightenment is not a state of mind, it is the absence of mind.”
Whill nodded in understanding. “I must give up my identity.”
“You must embrace your identity. You simply are.”
Whill understood. But he could not commit, could not let go. “Then I should forget that I alone may be able to stop Eadon? Is that what you are telling me? I just, what, grow a garden and daydream all day?”
The Watcher refilled both of their glasses and drank. “You do need food,” he said matter-of-factly.
Whill was not amused. The Watcher chuckled. “You have been told by everyone that you are the Whill of Agora, the savior, the chosen one. Let me ask you. Do you feel like the legend you are supposed to be?”
“No!”
“Do you want the great power you possess?”
“No!”
The Watcher smiled. “Perhaps that is why you have it.”
For the first time, the Watcher looked at the sword Adromida at Whill’s hip, and his eyes went wide for a moment. His voice dropped and slowed. “The greatest power ever given…the greatest gift of all. And its twin, the greatest power taken, the greatest curse of all. They are the essence of existence, you know. Created to ensure that none could attain both, lest they become like a god.”
Whill was startled. “You know of the legend?”
“I have heard it whispered in the rivers of time, yes.”
“Kellallea said that Eadon’s true goal is to attain both blades, and to ascend to the heavens.”
“Indeed.” The elf nodded.
“And you would do nothing to stop him?”
“It is not my place,” said the Watcher.
“No.” Whill nodded. “It seems that it is mine.”
Whill drank down the last of his wine and stared at the mantel of his childhood. A pang of sadness threatened to rob him of breath as he thought of Teera and the girls. He had not seen the woman who raised him in too many years. How he longed for this all to be real, for his beloved aunt to come through the threshold, busy as a bee as always. She had taught Whill everything he knew about non-magical healing. He imagined what it would be like to be there with her now, to show her how he had learned to heal.
He watched the fire lazily and daydreamed of roaming the countryside, curing disease and saving the dying. He could give people a second c
hance at life. Among the many powers he had discovered, healing was the most intriguing. He found no thrill in dealing out pain and death, though neither did he feel any remorse when killing the draggard, dark elves, or even the opposing gladiators. He thought of the rage that burned within him during battle, anger born of his torture. His mind was broken, he realized, and no amount of well-wishing was going to fix it.
“I see many things,” said The Watcher suddenly with a flourish of the hands. “I see the past, solid, unchanging, always warning. I see the present, what is as it is in the moment. And I see the future, an eternal river of endless possibilities. I watch decisions alter the future, I see that which could have been, that which would have been, and that which can be. Eternal possibility lies before you, Whill. There are a thousand futures in which you fail, and as many in which you succeed.”
“Well, then tell me what I did right in the futures where I succeeded,” Whill blurted with frustration.
“If I began to meddle in the flow of time, a million new futures would play out before my mind. I would be likely to miss dinner to such a bother.”
To that Whill sighed. The Watcher patted his leg with a strong hand. “There is no one way, no easy answer. Your life is for you to dictate, not I or the elders, nor a prophecy or a dark lord. You alone must choose your path. I only offer a way to not suffer while you travel upon your chosen path. I offer peace.”
Whill smiled at the elf. “Thank you.” He stood and fetched two bowls from where he knew them to be and two spoons as well. He scooped up helpings for himself and the Watcher. They drank and they supped, and the Watcher offered up what he thought to be the secret to happiness.
Chapter 5
A Dark Road
The dwarven search parties came back with the same report as before: they’d found no sign of any gate or portal or hidden tunnels that may have been used. It did something to silence Roakore’s growing dread. Still, it was with foreboding that he packed the last of his things and prepared to leave his kingdom once again. Nah’Zed did nothing to quell her king’s guilt; instead, she had quite the contrary effect. She reminded him that the world was at war, and his place was with his people. Roakore knew her to be right, and told her as much.
“But I be a creature o’ action, Nah’Zed,” he said. “I feel the call o’ the road.” He stood at Silverwind’s side, packing the last of his provisions. In his hands he clutched the book of Ky’Dren. He remembered Azzeal’s words and the elf’s tale of a mountain within Drindellia, the dwarven kingdom lost to time. An idea had sparked in his mind when he heard the tale, a grand idea of such epic proportions that if he accomplished it, he would be given a seat among the gods. He dreamt of travelling to that most ancient of Dwarven Mountains and reclaiming it for the dwarves, if it existed. The possibility drove him to leave Ro’Sar, to abandon his throne for the beaten path, and to find the answers that would prove true revelations to the dwarven culture. He was going to retrace the path of Ky’Dren.
Little was known of Ky’Dren’s early life. Dwarven history spoke only of the time after Ky’Dren appeared to the people and made his holy claims. Little if anything was ever said of where he came from. Roakore had ordered his clerics and historians to look into the matter, but without the great library within the Ky’Dren Mountains, little could be discovered of such matters. Therefore Roakore needed to have the precious book translated so that he might hear the tale from the dwarf himself, and he trusted none but Whill to do it.
Why Ky’Dren had never spoken of the lost dwarf home he did not know. Perhaps it was utterly destroyed and there was nothing to return to; perhaps the gods had told him to abandon the lost kingdom and start anew in Agora. But if the tale was true, and there was a lost mountain kingdom to return to, Roakore would be the one to attempt it. His mind raced with possibilities. He imagined the glory he would know. Not only would he be Roakore, king of Ro’Sar, who took back the fallen mountain, he would be Roakore, king of the ancient mountain of the dwarves. Wine and ale would overflow the mugs at the table of the kings, and the gods would cheer his health. He already had the high favor of the gods. In only a short year he had taken back his mountain, become king, and killed a dark elf, a draggard queen, and a black dragon. He could feel the power of the gods flow through him. He felt it in every strike, every blow. The power of the gods grew within him daily. He would ever be their weapon; his would be their right hand. He would lead his people to victory and salvation, or he would die trying.
Roakore stuffed the book in his belt and turned to the sulking Nah’Zed. “I be on a path that you would be approvin’ of if I could tell you o’ it. Trust your king, good dwarf, and know that I be takin’ your counsel to heart. You have been a royal brain o’ legend, and I be knowin’ you will remind me son o’ his duties in me absence.”
She blushed and was gladdened by his words. His son Ror’Den topped the great stair and entered Silverwind’s tower. He was a tall dwarf, taller than his father, and his eldest son by his first wife. Though Ror’Den was only twenty years old, his beard had grown to the floor and he had many scars to show for his part in the great reclamation. He was wise beyond his years and had a good mind for problem solving. His powers over stone had shown themselves early, and now he gave his father a good fight in the family tradition of stone wrestling. It was a game similar to tug-of-war, but rather than a rope, the dwarves mentally pulled or pushed boulders against each other’s minds.
“Me king.” Ror’Den slammed his chest and bowed so low that even though his beard was folded over thrice and bound in leather, it still brushed the floor.
Roakore approached his son with open arms. “Ah, me boy. Just the dwarf I be wantin’ to see. I am off to bring Tarren to the elf lands—me friend Whill awaits us there. You be in charge o’ me mountain till I return, and king if I don’t.”
“Then let us hope that I ain’t king any time soon,” said Ror’Den sincerely. “I am honored by your choice, Father, but I would join you in your travels if you would allow it. I would see the world beyond the mountain walls.”
“Bah, and I would have ye at me side, son, but for your value bein’ here, watchin’ over our mountain. That be a greater task than the road before me.”
“Of course, me king.”
Roakore slammed his fist to his chest and nodded. “Nah’Zed, let it be known that once again, Ror’Den be in charge in me absence.”
Nah’Zed scribbled furiously on her scroll, then suddenly ran up to Roakore and embraced him tightly. He got a raised eyebrow and smirk from his son. He patted his devoted royal brain on the back and hugged her. After nearly a minute he had to pry himself from her clutches. “All right, then, I ain’t on me deathbed. See to it things run smooth and I’ll be back afore you can say dragon shyte.”
“Yes, me king,” Nah’Zed sniffled. She and Ror’Den left their king and descended the stairs. No sooner had they left than Tarren came sprinting up, panting, a wide smile spread across his face.
“This is gonna be great! Hey, do I get those neat goggles like you got?”
Roakore tossed him a similar pair. “Can’t see nothing but wind tears without ’em.”
Tarren caught the goggles and put them on. “Holy—!”
Roakore laughed. “Heh, I told ye in Kell-Torey that I would get a silver hawk o’ me own.”
“Wow,” said Tarren as he stroked Silverwind’s feathers. “Is it scary?”
“Bah! I don’t know the meanin’ o’ that word.” Roakore helped Tarren up into the newly reconfigured saddle and strapped him in. He took his place in front of the lad and took hold of the reins.
“Ready, boy?” Roakore asked, but did not wait for the answer. He kicked Silverwind’s sides and snapped the reins. “Hyah!”
Silverwind ran to the ledge and leapt out into the air. Tarren laughed with joy and yelled gleefully, until they began to descend. A rush of wind hit them and his laughter was taken with his breath.
“Haha, boy, ain’t it great?”
> “Roakore, I…” Tarren gasped.
“Takes your breath away, don’t it!”
“I think I’m gonna…”
“You ain’t seen nothing yet! Bwahaha.” Roakore pulled left and banked so hard Tarren thought he might fall off.
“Stop…I can’t…” Tarren tried to warn the laughing dwarf but it was too late. His eyes and cheeks bulged and he threw up all over Roakore’s back.
Roakore howled. “Turn your blasted head next time, boy! Ah, all over me new cloak.”
Roakore landed at the base of the mountain where Lunara and Holdagozz were waiting with their horses. He leapt from Silverwind and threw his cloak to the ground in disgust. Tarren unbuckled himself, slid to the ground, and threw up again.
“How ye got anymore in ye, laddie?” Roakore asked. “That’s gotta be your whole breakfast on me back!”
Lunara and Holdagozz had deduced what happened and chuckled. Lunara went to Tarren, put a hand on his shoulder, and rubbed his back.
“What did you do with the lad, loop-de-loops?” asked Holdagozz.
“Bah, ye be knowin’ nothin’ o’ the art o’ flyin’,” Roakore grumbled. “Loop-de-loop, my arse. He got no stomach for it, I’m guessin’. Didn’t but turn sharp and I was wearin’ his food.”
“I’ll get used to it, Roakore, gimme another chance,” Tarren pleaded.
“Maybe when the smell o’ your puke wears off. Till then, you’ll be washin’ me clothes first thing when we make camp.”
“Don’t be so hard on the boy,” Lunara interjected.
“Bah. The world be hard, you be knowin’, hard as stone. Make somethin’ weak, it’ll stay weak. Bein’ too soft an’ easy with kids be the real abuse.”
A regiment of fifty dwarves on horseback came galloping out of the gate behind them. They rode atop miniature brown and white Thendora Plains horses, thusly named because they were half the size of their kin, the great Thendoran warhorses. Even a miniature horse came up to a man’s shoulders, and the smaller ones were perfectly built for carrying dwarves with their heavy weapons and armor. At Roakore’s orders, no flags or banners were flown, nothing to indicate that the dwarf king rode among them.
Whill of Agora: Epic Fantasy Bundle (Books 1-4): (Whill of Agora, A Quest of Kings, A Song of Swords, A Crown of War) (Legends of Agora) Page 73