The village of Ballinkeld overlooking Grisalt Wharf was only a mile or so up on the bluff. Orlla tromped up the rutted road, and sauntered over the stone bridge, enjoying the warm, evening breeze that whipped her hair up around her and promised to banish the remnants of the mainland cold from her bones. She pushed open the heavy oak door to her home, stepped inside and headed down the dreary hallway. No lanterns flickered in greeting, but there was little need. Her father scarcely knew if it was night or day. Orlla leaned her bow upright in an alcove by the open kitchen door and called out, “Father?”
“Who goes there?” a thin voice quavered from the shadows.
“It’s Orlla, Father.” She crossed the room, knelt on the reed-covered, earthen floor in front of him and took both of his rough hands in hers.
His unfocused eyes searched her face, thatched brows twitching in confusion as he sought an anchor point, some clue that would peg her face to a memory, assuring him she wasn’t a stranger.
Orlla smiled patiently at him, giving him time to process her return from the mainland. The chiseled lines of his handsome features were those of a much younger man, but his mind wandered in cobwebbed parts far from the present.
After several exasperated sighs, he blurted out, “Do I know you?”
Orlla flinched at the tinge of desperation in his voice. “Of course you do, Father,” she soothed. “I’m your daughter.”
He blinked furiously, his smooth, olive-skinned face screwed up in concentration. “My daughter … yes, she left many years ago.”
Orlla squeezed his hands gently. She had barely been gone three days, but it was fruitless to argue the point and confuse him any further. It was the same conversation they had every time she returned from her monthly pilgrimage to the mainland to fortify the runes. “And now I’m back. I’ll make us some barley tea.”
After checking Samten’s room to confirm he had not yet come home, Orlla busied herself lighting the fire and hanging up the cast-iron kettle to boil. She sat on a stool next to her father as they sipped their tea and she recounted her latest adventures from the mainland—even going so far as to tell him about the wounded Pegonian soldier, knowing he wouldn’t remember the story long enough to repeat it.
When darkness fell, she tucked her father into bed before retiring to her own small room at the back of the house. She kicked off her boots and flopped down on her straw pallet. There was still no sign of Samten, but she was too weary to worry about him anymore tonight. Tomorrow the aggravation would begin all over again.
Orlla rose before dawn, dressed in her gray training tunic and baldric, and made her way to the kitchen to light the wood stove. Her last few weeks at the Conservatory would focus on reviewing self-defense and weaponry skills, and she was looking forward to the break from her more taxing academic classes.
She halted in the doorway, her brain snapping wide awake at the jarring sight of a figure in a Pegonian cloak asleep in her father’s chair.
Chapter 2
Orlla stood nailed to the floor, the thunder of her pulse filling her ears, as the sleeping figure’s chest rose and fell beneath the heavy cloak. Had the Pegonian soldier followed her after all? She quickly dismissed the ridiculous notion that a badly wounded man had somehow managed to traverse the treacherous pass through the Angladior mountains and single-handedly navigate across the straits. Instead, she set about assessing the intruder more logically as her Keeper training kicked in. Silently, she padded over the earthen floor, her fingers instinctively locking around the hilt of her dagger.
Keeping enough distance to dodge away if the stranger should awaken, she quietly unsheathed her weapon. With the tip of the blade, and a seamless flick of her wrist, she flipped back the intruder’s hood and peered down at him, his mouth slung wide as intermittent snores rippled through his lips.
Samten!
Ramming her dagger back into its scabbard, an all too familiar frustration usurped her fear. She leaned over and jabbed her brother awake. “Samten! Get up! It’s time to dress for dawn training.”
He groaned and pulled the thick Pegonian cloak back over his head. “Barhus doesn’t care if I’m late.”
With a decisive tug, Orlla whipped the cloak off his curled form. “Maybe, but the other mentors take note. And you need three recommendations to graduate.” She held the cloak up and inspected it more closely. “Where did you get this?”
Samten peered up at her through half-slit eyes dancing with illicit mirth. He rummaged behind his back and thrust a silver chalice aloft with a triumphant flourish. “Same place I found this.”
Orlla's throat clenched as she fought a rising wave of panic. “You broke into the vault?”
Samten shrugged, tousled dark locks falling into his sleepy, clay-brown eyes. “A few of the other students dared me.” His lips twitched. “A man cannot refuse a chance to prove himself, for what man would he then aspire to be?”
Orlla gritted her teeth at the twisted rendition of the ancient quote carved over the entry to the Conservatory. Herein, Keeper, prove thyself the Keeper thou aspirest to be. Samten’s flippant admission that he had violated the Conservatory’s sacred space shook her to her innards. Only mentors were allowed inside the vault where everything of importance to the history of Efyllsseum, including their vast library of runes preserved from the era of the dragons, was housed. The plunder the vault contained had been retrieved from skirmishes with mainlanders over the years and was used strictly for training purposes—mostly to educate Keepers-in-training in the ways, dress, and weaponry of the mainlanders.
“You should have refused such a foolish dare,” Orlla fumed. “It could well have cost you your apprenticeship as a Keeper.”
Samten smirked at her, a sly set to his handsome jaw. “That’s kind of the point of a dare. There must be repercussions of a magnitude that make it interesting.”
“How did you get in?”
“I learned from my previous failures, and that’s all I have to say on the topic.” He closed his eyes and sank back in the chair, his mouth dropping open again.
“Get up and dress at once!” Orlla placed her hands on her hips. “You cannot be late again and bring more disgrace upon the house of Radmount.”
Samten rolled his eyes at her as he languidly pulled himself up out of the chair and stretched his limbs. “Unlike Radmount’s pride and joy, the ever-responsible, self-sacrificing Orlla who never risks an independent thought.” He flashed her a charming grin but his dark eyes radiated derision. “My sister, the perfect apprentice. Thank the Opal of Light the future of Efyllsseum is safe in her capable hands.” He affected an elaborate bow from the waist.
Orlla strove to keep her features composed as an image of the injured Pegonian soldier came to mind. She had taken a risk, and it had been disingenuous of her to hide what she had done from Akolom. She quashed the thought, reminding herself that the man was badly wounded and hardly posed a serious threat to Efyllsseum’s security. Restraint was a noble choice when the situation allowed for it.
Throwing Samten a look of pained exasperation, she replied tartly. “My life is not mine alone to live. I wish to be of service to my country one day. For that reason, I devote myself to my training—which is more than I can say for you with your litany of foolish pranks. The cloak and chalice must be returned to the vault before they are discovered missing. We will talk about how to resolve the matter tonight. Now, make haste and don your training attire!”
Samten strolled across to the larder and helped himself to a biscuit with a disgruntled sigh. “I have husbandry class this afternoon. I loathe memorizing harvest runes. I’d give my right hand to be a Protector rather than a Keeper.”
“Blessing the land with bounty is a high calling,” Orlla reminded him, before shooing him out of the kitchen. Her brow furrowed as she mulled over his words. Efyllsseum’s Protectors were the brawn to the Keepers’ brains. Tutored in military strategy and advanced weaponry skills at the Academy, located close by King Ferghell’s castl
e, they were famously disdainful of the Keepers’ dedication to the ancient craft of runes. For years, Samten had begged to be allowed to train as a Protector, but the red-blooded Academy was not welcoming of the bookish sons of Keepers, and King Ferghell himself encouraged a certain level of enmity between Protectors and Keepers—a balance of power that guaranteed him a long, uninterrupted reign as Efyllsseum’s monarch.
Orlla lit the stove and munched on a couple of hard-boiled eggs as she went about preparing her father’s breakfast. It would be at least another hour or two before he stirred, hunger waking him to another monotonous day of staring into the abyss of wherever it was that his mind wandered to.
When she was done tidying up the kitchen, she rolled up the Pegonian cloak and chalice inside a heavy woolen blanket and tucked it beneath her bed out of sight. It was unlikely anyone would stop by to look in on her father during the course of the day, but she couldn’t take any chances. She poked her head into Samten’s room to make sure he hadn’t fallen asleep again, and then fetched her bow and quiver, and exited the house.
A layer of orange gauze burnished the dusky dawn. The occasional creak of a farmer’s cart headed to market was the only sound that broke the silence as Orlla made her way along the mostly deserted village streets to the Keeper Conservatory. Samten would have to run the entire way to make it on time to dawn training if he didn’t leave soon, but she had done all she could to spur him on.
Her heart softened when she remembered how captivated she had been with her mischievous, dark-haired brother when she had first set eyes on him. Bitterly disappointed to learn that the snowy streak in her hair held no magical powers, he had contented himself with playing harmless pranks to tease her—weaving white ribbons into her horse’s mane to match her hair, even dying a section of her horse’s mane white. Always one to crave adventure and excitement, he was constantly rousing their father’s ire for one caper or another. Orlla’s fondness for his roguish antics had soured over the years as the repercussions grew weightier and Samten began to spurn the academic life of a Keeper.
Before long, the Conservatory’s quarried walls loomed in front of her, dawn spilling cherried shafts of light over the gray stone. She quickened her pace, surprised to see Akolom waiting for her outside the stout, wooden door. His expression revealed nothing, but he tapped his foot impatiently as she approached. She raised her brows questioningly. “Is everything all right?”
“I received a royal writ early this morning.” Akolom’s ordinarily composed voice was tinged with excitement. “You will not be training at the Conservatory today after all. King Ferghell has requested your presence at the royal castle in Tansk.”
Orlla’s eyes widened. It was unheard of for the king to invite a Keeper-in-training to the castle. What could he possibly want with her? Outside of his court advisors, he mingled strictly with mentors, conferring with them from time to time on matters of state. Even public appearances by the king were rare. She had only ever seen King Ferghell on the opening day of Solfest, marking the first day of summer, and when he gave his annual address to the kingdom on the last day of the year. A tall man with a meticulously-shaped and oiled black goatee, overarching eyebrows and a booming voice, the king had ruled Efyllsseum for over two hundred years.
“What does the king want with me?” Orlla asked.
Akolom’s intelligent eyes appraised her for a long moment. “You are the most promising Keeper to emerge from the Conservatory in over a century—already proficient in runes which master mentors struggle for decades to grasp. The king wishes to meet such an accomplished scholar.”
Orlla gaped at him, flabbergasted. Did the king view her as a potential master mentor, a future advisor to the court? A ripple of excitement went through her.
Akolom gestured to the hitching rail under the eaves of the Conservatory, where two horses were saddled and waiting. “We must leave at once. We are expected at the castle for luncheon.”
A frown traversed Orlla’s brow as she digested the implications of this sudden change in schedule. She had intended to keep a close eye on Samten during dawn training to make sure he didn’t step out of line. Now, she would be forced to leave him to his own devices and hope he had the sense not to draw any more unwelcome attention to himself by boasting about his most recent exploits. She hadn’t yet figured out how they were going to return the cloak and chalice to the vault before someone discovered they were missing, but she would have to relegate that to the list of things to worry about later.
“Did you speak to Barhus about Samten?” she asked.
“Yes,” Akolom responded, an unmistakable catch in his voice.
“And?” Orlla prompted, a knot of dread tightening in her stomach.
Akolom spread his hands in a gesture of helplessness. “Barhus maintains he hasn’t set eyes on Samten in three days. He didn’t show up for any of his classes while we were gone.”
Orlla drove her fingernails into her clenched fists. The situation was even more dire than she had thought. Samten was precariously close to being thrown out of the Conservatory. She would make it a priority to sit down and have a serious talk with him tonight. He could not be allowed to destroy his future in so frivolous a manner. She would redouble her efforts to counsel him to change his ways before it was too late. “He will attend training today,” she said, willing calm into her voice. “I made sure he was up before I left.”
“Then you have done all you can,” Akolom replied, resignedly. “Come, we cannot keep the king waiting.”
He untied a black mare, patted its withers, and led it over to Orlla. She swung herself up into the saddle and adjusted the reins while she waited for Akolom to mount up. Despite his explanation that the king wanted to meet the Conservatory’s most accomplished scholar, a nagging feeling told her something larger was afoot and that there was more to the king’s invitation.
When they reached the main road that snaked north to Tansk, they alternated the horses between walking and trotting until King Ferghell’s castle came into view around midday; a pigeon-gray fortress with towering turrets nestled between thickly-forested rolling hills overlooking the bustling town.
Akolom thrust his hand into his travel sack and pulled out a crystal lens. He peered through it studiously and then slipped it back into his sack with a satisfied humph. “It’s market day so the drawbridge is down. Thank the Opal of Light we won’t be delayed at that foul-smelling moat.”
They kicked their horses into a canter and followed the road as it meandered through the foothills toward Tansk, before they were forced to slow their pace and merge with the menagerie of heavily-laden carts and wagons wending their way to the city. In a short space of time, they passed under the portcullis and began ascending the steep, cobblestone street that led to the castle’s main entrance. Bustling bakeries, fishmongers, leather makers, cobblers, taverns, and stalls fought for the townspeople’s coin, breezy merchants shouting out their wares in a chaotic chorus. A town crier bedecked in black breeches, knee-high leather boots and a handsome embroidered coat marched down the street ringing a hand bell and reminding marketgoers to be peaceable and civil.
As they drew closer to the castle, Orlla’s eyes widened at the imposing sight of the thick, stone walls towering upward in chiseled precision. The arched entry was a masterpiece of carved masonry depicting the history of Efyllsseum and an ornamented relief of the Opal of Light glowing in the center of a volcano embellished with gold leaf. Embroidered pennants in saturated colors fluttered from the gables overhead. At the courtyard gate, a stable boy appeared from the shadows to relieve them of their horses.
Two sentries from the guard house escorted Akolom and Orlla across the courtyard to the roughhewn front steps leading up to the castle’s massive timbered entry doors, reinforced with iron studs. One of the red-caped sentries hammered on the gargoyle door knocker, the plume on his helm rippling in the breeze. The spy-latch opened, and a short, hairy arm shot through, gesturing brusquely with a grabbing motion.<
br />
Akolom pulled out the writ he had received that morning and handed it over with a flourish. “The king is expecting us,” he announced with an air of dampened authority.
The door swung wide and a ruddy, bald-headed servant with a veined nose and a hairy wart on his left cheek greeted them, nodding stiffly as he indicated to them to step inside. The sentries stomped their halberds and retreated down the steps to the guard house.
Akolom and Orlla followed the impassive servant down a long, imposing corridor hung with lavish tapestries depicting many of the dark and light dragon legends that Orlla had devoured when she first came to Efyllsseum. Embroidered dragons with outstretched talons and gleaming scales spread their massive wings over teeming battlefields, their serpent-like tails scattering the soldiers below like straw figures. Twisting bolts of flame from the creatures’ giant jaws incinerated those unlucky enough to find themselves trapped.
Orlla longed to spend more time studying the detail in the scenes and admiring the work of the artisans who had so skillfully woven the colored threads to create these masterpieces, but the wooden-faced servant was on an overly-zealous mission to deliver them to the king forthwith.
He finally came to a halt in a high-ceilinged hallway outside intricately-carved double walnut doors embossed with the king’s coat of arms. Adopting a mask of deference, the servant knocked firmly with a metal-headed stick and then swung the doors open with aplomb.
“Your Highness, Akolom the master mentor, and his protégé, Orlla of the house of Radmount.”
Orlla’s eyes swept the expansive throne room hung with wrought-iron candelabras and oversized mirrors. Ornately clad courtiers vied for position around the jewel-encrusted throne, and King Ferghell’s elite black-masked Protectors lined the walls, meticulously spaced apart. Their helms and gauntlets were inscribed with crossed swords inside an oval denoting the Opal of Light, a sacred sigil that only the king’s personal Protectors were allowed to bear. A cold shiver ran through Orlla. Silent and unmoving as statues, she had no doubt that they could put a knife through her heart before she snapped her fingers if they chose to. She had seen their expert weaponry skills in action at live demonstrations at Solfest. They were unparalleled when it came to knife-handling and swordsmanship. Keepers trained for defense, Protectors for war.
Opal of Light: An epic dragon fantasy (The Keeper Chronicles Book 1) Page 2