by Callie Kanno
The young woman gave him a funny look. “I do not believe I have ever met a Wielder quite like you.”
Idris felt his heart jolt, and not in a pleasant way. “Is that bad?”
She laughed merrily—a musical sound that sent warmth through Idris’s chest. “No. You just seem so young.”
“I am almost sixteen,” he said defensively. Although, the knowledge that he was still months away from his birthday made his ears grow hot.
“I just mean that most of the Wielders I have known are veterans,” she soothed.
“Oh,” Idris responded, feeling more foolish than ever.
“What is your name?” the kitchen maid inquired.
He was glad to change the subject. “Idris,” he blurted.
She gestured to herself with a graceful wave of her hand. “I am Lenora.”
Idris experienced a swooping sensation in his midsection. Even her name was beautiful. “Have you worked here long?”
Lenora smiled to herself, as if enjoying a private joke. “I used to come here as a child with my mother, so you could say that I have been working here for years. However, I began coming on my own once I came of age.”
“So…a year?” he ventured.
“Two,” she corrected.
Idris nodded, feeling a surge of relief. That meant she was only around a year and a half older than him.
“What did you do before becoming a Wielder?” Lenora inquired.
“I helped out on my family’s farm,” he answered.
Lenora’s expression was one of approval. “So you are accustomed to the hard work that comes with being a Wielder.”
Idris’s chest puffed out. “I suppose so,” he began, but feeling his partisan pressing against his back brought recent memories to mind. “In truth, it is a lot harder than I realized it would be,” he admitted.
Lenora paused her mixing to study his face. “I imagine that would be true,” she acknowledged.
Iona’s silent suffering washed over Idris’s mind, catching his breath. He placed a comforting hand on the shaft of the polearm, hoping that his weapon knew she wasn’t alone. After a moment, Idris went on in a lighter tone. “There are also those who hold my origins as a farmer against me.”
Lenora’s eyebrows went up. “Why? Farmers are vital to the success of a kingdom.”
Idris laughed, “You sound like my father.”
She shrugged. “Well, he is right.”
“It is uncommon for members of the Royal Guard to come from such a low position,” Idris explained.
“You are one of King Nikolas’s personal protectors?” Lenora asked.
Idris was surprised that she knew that. “Yes. Well, not exactly. I was assigned to protect Princess Zorina.”
Lenora looked up sharply. “Is she here?”
Idris wasn’t certain what to make of Lenora’s reaction. “No,” he answered slowly. “She is still at the Water Palace with the remaining Royal Guards.”
“Oh,” Lenora said in a soft voice. “I have never seen Princess Zorina. I wonder what she is like.”
Idris grinned thinking of his small charge. “I once thought that princesses were always prim and proper, but Zorina is not like that. She is just a normal little girl in a lot of ways.”
“Most members of royalty are more ordinary than people think,” Lenora agreed. “Just like some Wielders are farmers at heart.”
Idris chuckled. “I suppose everyone feels a little trapped by their position in life.”
Lenora’s face turned solemn as she continued baking. “Yes, they do.”
He stared at the stunning young woman in front of him, realizing that he must have said something wrong. He frantically searched his mind for something to help him recover. “I did not mean you, of course,” he stammered. “Being a kitchen maid can be so versatile. That is…you could work anywhere you wanted. Especially if you are good at it, which I am certain you are. You could travel anywhere in the world, and there would always be someone looking to hire a kitchen maid.”
There was a flicker of confusion on Lenora’s face before a slow smile spread across it. “I suppose you are right.”
“Of course I am,” Idris went on eagerly. “And think of all the interesting things you get to learn about—herbs, spices, baking, different types of game.”
Lenora laughed lightly. “Yes, it truly is interesting. That is one of my favorite things about it.”
Idris was just starting to feel confident again when the door leading to the hallway opened. Hildar stepped into the kitchen, jerking to a stop when she saw the two of them. Her eyes widened and she appeared to be momentarily speechless.
“Oh,” she said finally, “I did not know you were busy, Idris.”
“We were just talking,” he explained hastily. “It is my fault for distracting her.”
Hildar’s brow furrowed slightly. “Well…Cowan is looking for you. He wants us to begin our research.”
Idris nodded, calling over his shoulder as he walked away, “It was nice to meet you, Lenora.”
“And you, Idris,” she replied.
Hildar shut the door behind them, immediately grabbing Idris by the elbow. “What do you think you are doing?” she hissed. “You cannot talk to her like that.”
He felt a flash of anger and pulled his arm out of her grasp. “It is not as if we are better than her just because we are members of the Royal Guard.”
Hildar stared at him. “What are you talking about?”
Idris walked to the spiral staircase and began climbing. “Just because she is a kitchen maid does not mean she is below you, Hildar.”
He heard a soft groan behind him. A glance showed Hildar with her palm against her forehead. “Oh, you imbecile,” she said softly.
“What?” he asked her angrily.
She jabbed him in the back, venting her frustration. “That was no kitchen maid, idiot. That was Princess Lenora Varash, granddaughter of the king of Breen!”
Chapter Eleven: Mourning
Idris froze in his steps. “What?” he gasped.
“Did you not see the jewelry?” Hildar snapped, pointing a finger at her own face.
He frowned. “Do you mean the chain connecting the earring and the nose ring? What about it?”
“Do they teach you nothing on the farm?” Hildar exploded. “That jewelry is the equivalent of her wearing a crown here in Breen.”
“Why would a farmer need to know something like that?” Idris demanded.
“To keep you from making idiotic mistakes like this one,” she shot back, pushing past him to climb up the stairs.
Idris wanted to defend himself, but his mind was too absorbed with recalling what had been said. Had he offended the princess? Had he said anything foolish? Idris shook his head angrily. Of course he had appeared to be a fool. He had treated her like a kitchen maid.
Lenora hadn’t seemed offended. If anything, she had acted amused. Idris groaned, feeling even more mortified. What a simpleton she must think him.
“Cowan is waiting for us,” Hildar called down to him, not slowing her step.
Idris, Iona said softly, I would like to go see my sister, please.
His eyes widened slightly, but he nodded right away. “Of course.”
He hastened to catch up to Hildar, setting aside his personal feelings with some difficulty. “I have something I need to do first,” he told her. “Please tell Captain Cowan I will join you as soon as I can.”
Hildar made an exasperated sound. “I am not your messenger, Idris.”
He passed her, taking the stairs two at a time. “Please,” he called to her as he hurried onward.
Idris wasn’t able to maintain his hurried pace for more than a couple of floors. The glass case that held Iona’s sister was at the very top of the tower, which was quite a climb for anyone. He kept going, though, moving steadily upward.
He reached the top floor from the opposite side of the tower than the day before, so he had to weave his way through
stands of books and display cases. Idris couldn’t help studying everything he passed with interest. He had never seen so many books in one location before. Some of the tomes were as large as his entire upper body, sitting on stands so the reader would not have to move them. Others looked more like pamphlets, with no protective cover over the pages.
The items in the glass cases were even more interesting. Some held weapons or pieces of armor, which looked familiar to Idris. They were the type of items of power that he was accustomed to seeing. Others, however, didn’t appear to be used for fighting. Idris wondered what purpose they were meant to serve. There were wearable items, such as jewelry and circlets, but there were a number of items that couldn’t be worn by the person wielding them. There were ornate boxes, shards of colored crystal, small figurines, engraved spheres, and other items that Idris couldn’t identify.
“Hildar is right,” he commented, mostly to himself. “It does not seem right that all these things should be kept here, unused.”
Iona didn’t answer him. He could tell that her thoughts were focused elsewhere. Idris didn’t try to engage her in conversation. He made his way to the window where the breastplate was displayed in silence.
Once again, Idris was struck by how dull the piece of armor seemed. Even with its gold and jewels, the breastplate looked dim. He shook his head sadly. “I never thought it would be so clear when the life of an item of power is extinguished.”
Yes, Iona agreed. It is apparent to any eye that Ismene is no more. I should have seen it right away.
“It is understandable that you still hoped she was there,” Idris defended.
I suppose.
They stood in silence for several moments before Idris spoke again. “What was your sister like?”
Iona considered his question. It is said that an item forged from a magical creature gains some of that creature’s personality. Marlais once said that speaking to me was like conversing with Calaris again.
“I did not know that,” Idris said, raising his eyebrows.
I suppose my sisters and I were all different aspects of Calaris’s personality, Iona mused. We were similar to each other, but by no means the same.
“That makes sense,” he nodded.
Ismene was the least outspoken of my sisters, but the most stubborn by far.
Idris chuckled. “I do not envy her master.”
He sensed that Iona would be smiling sadly, if she’d had a face. Yes, Tarak and Ismene did not always get along. Sometimes Ismene would simply refuse to respond, leaving Tarak to resolve the conflict between them on his own.
“I can relate to that,” Idris said wryly.
To a lesser degree, perhaps, Iona allowed.
“Not that much lesser,” he muttered.
Iona sighed. You still hold on to the delusion that you are persecuted in some way. Please trust me when I assure you that you are not.
Idris knew that arguing would do no good, so he kept his retort to himself. Iona went on, as if she couldn’t sense exactly what he was thinking.
Tarak and Ismene developed a very close bond over time. All of us did, really. Any member of that group of warriors could use myself or any of my sisters without issue.
“Really?” Idris blurted.
It did not happen often, Iona explained, but it was possible.
“What were they like?” Idris urged. “Everyone in that group.”
Marlais was the leader, the partisan said. It was he that was entrusted with the task of destroying dark items of power.
Idris nodded. He had already known that much.
Amitola was Marlais’s oldest friend and most trusted companion. He relied on her to take command whenever he was away. Lyndham and Tarak were fellow soldiers that were trained in the same military group as Marlais. Gavril was a stranger that saved Marlais’s life when he was a young man. They became friends after that incident.
Idris gave a heavy sigh. “You really are terrible at telling stories. You gave the minimum amount of information, without truly answering my question.”
What do you want to know? Iona demanded with a raised voice.
“What were they like?” Idris repeated.
Iona’s words sped through Idris’s mind with a hint of a growl. Gavril enjoyed anything that made him laugh, no matter how juvenile. Amitola was slow to trust her fellow humans, but was fiercely loyal to her friends. Lyndham was an idealist and took disappointment too hard. Tarak was protective, to a fault.
Idris couldn’t help but chuckle. “Thank you for that.”
Did that answer your question? Iona quipped.
“Well enough, I suppose,” he replied.
What does it matter what they were like? Iona asked coldly. They are all dead now.
Her tone gave Idris pause. “I am certain they would be glad to be remembered by someone who knew them as well as you did,” he answered gently.
The silence between them was laden with emotion. Idris could feel a wave of pain and loneliness swirling around Iona. He wished there was something he could do to comfort her. “Perhaps we can try to find your other sisters,” he suggested.
That will not bring Ismene back, she said morosely.
“I know,” acknowledged Idris, “but at least you would not be mourning alone.”
Iona mulled over the idea for a few moments. It would not be an easy task. They could be anywhere in the world.
“Is there any way you could sense them?” asked Idris.
Not unless we were close to each other, Iona replied. It would also depend on if they were dormant or serving a new master.
Idris felt his heart drop. “Well…we could still try.”
They both knew that their chances of success were small. Iona seemed to appreciate the gesture nonetheless. Yes, we could try, she agreed.
“Shall we go join the others?” he asked his partisan.
I suppose we should, was her reluctant reply.
Idris hesitated. “Now that we know where to find Ismene, we could come back and visit again,” he offered.
I would like that, Iona admitted.
“And if we do find one of your sisters,” he added, “we can bring her to visit Ismene, too.”
Ismene was dear to all of us, Iona said quietly. She always protected us. Always.
Idris nodded, but said nothing. He knew that words meant little at a time of such sorrow. Instead, he imaged himself putting his arm around the human-version of Iona. He hoped that she would feel it through the connection of their minds.
You are a very sympathetic person, farmer, Iona observed. Marlais would have liked you, I think.
Idris experienced a glow of warmth in his chest at her simple statement. It was the most sincere compliment that Iona could’ve given. “Thank you,” he murmured.
Together they walked away from the glass display case, making their way to the stairs. They had a lot of work ahead of them, but Idris was glad that they had taken the time to see Ismene once more. It was uncertain when they’d be able to come back, and Idris knew that Iona needed that sense of closure.
As the breastplate disappeared from sight, he felt the barest whisper brush across his mind.
Goodbye, sister.
Chapter Twelve: The Secrets of Forgers
Hildar and Aherin were already immersed in research when Idris joined them. Captain Cowan walked over so he could repeat his instructions to the latecomer. “Sit here,” he ordered gruffly, pointing to a desk next to one of the windows.
Idris did as he was told. He unbuckled the holder that strapped his weapon to his back and propped the partisan up against the wall. Then he waited for Cowan to speak.
“The Forgers were a very secretive group of people,” the grizzled soldier began. “The knowledge we have gathered about them is limited. We know that they were part-giant, which is what gave them their abilities. We know that they preferred to live in seclusion. Everything else I have heard has yet to be proven.”
Idris nodded to indicate th
at he was following what Cowan said. The captain gestured to Idris’s peers. “Aherin is reading through the history of the giants, looking for any mention of the Forgers. Hildar is reading a collection of journals written by those who have wielded items of power. I am reading through the history of the wars surrounding the dark items that were created.”
Cowan set a large book down in front of Idris. Its leather cover was worn and faded, but it was still in good overall condition. Idris opened up to a random page, looking at the aged parchment with interest. The handwriting looked formal and archaic, making it difficult for Idris to read.
“This is an account written by a Forger,” Cowan explained. “It is unlikely that the author will directly state where Forgers can be found, but you are to look for any clues that might help us find them. Make a note of any locations mentioned, no matter the reason.”
“Yes, sir,” Idris answered.
Cowan walked back to the book he had been reading, leaving Idris to muddle through on his own. The young man struggled through the first several words, but it slowly grew easier as he learned to recognize each stylized letter.
I am Didrika, daughter of Senta, daughter of Hedda. To my people these names have meaning, but perhaps that meaning shall be lost with the years. I shall give reference, should these writings fall into the hands of strangers.
My grandmother was the first of the giants to form an alliance with humankind. She was small for a giant—merely eight feet tall—and considered weak among her people. She was cast out from the society of other giants, left to fend for herself. In the midst of a harsh winter, Hedda almost perished. She was taken in and cared for by a kind human, who later fell in love with her. That human was my grandfather.
It may surprise you, reader, that a human and a giant could peacefully coexist. However, I attest that it is possible. My grandfather and grandmother were devoted to each other for as long as they lived. My grandfather was able to withstand my grandmother’s bouts of violent temper, and my grandmother learned to become more gentle than her innate tendencies. Such things are possible with love.
Idris paused for a moment to rest from the intense concentration it took to read such unfamiliar writing. He rubbed his eyes, taking a deep breath. As he did so, this new information turned over in his mind. All of the stories he had heard about giants told of their ruthlessness and cruelty. It was astounding that there was a giant so different from her peers.