Bringing Big Brown to a halt, he dropped the leather traces and walked to the lip of the bank, looking down. “What is that?” He wondered.
It looked like the hilt of a sword.
Dropping over the rim, he crab-crawled down the dirt bank and slid into the mud, wetting his boots in the water at the stream’s edge. He seized the object and drew it forth, and immediately whistled in astonishment and admiration.
For it was indeed a sword.
Incredibly light and utterly unblemished, it appeared as if it could have been placed there but moments earlier. Clutching the prize, he scrabbled back to the top of the bank where he wiped it free of mud and muck on his trouser leg.
After admiring it for several moments, turning it back and forth so that it gleamed in the failing light of the sun, he went back to where he’d left Big Brown.
He held it up before the horse.
“Look here, big fella – I found me something!”
Unnoticed by Keegan, who was still admiring his prize, a light flickered into life deep inside the large eyes of the great horse. He was also gazing at the gleaming sword.
“Yes, indeed,” Big Brown said then, and his voice sounded deep and sonorous inside Keegan’s mind. “You have certainly found something, young man. Something, indeed. And I knew him once to whom it belonged.”
Keegan nearly dropped the sword in amazement. “Big Brown – you – talked!”
“I did,” the horse agreed. “And my name is not Big Brown – it is Jared.”
Keegan stared, speechless, for several moments. “Why have you never spoken before this?” He asked finally.
“There was no need. I understand you, and what you require of me, and there was no need for me to respond.” Jared went silent for a moment, then, “Also – for a time – I forgot how to speak,” he admitted, “until I looked upon that sword.”
Keegan stared at Jared, wide-eyed, for another minute, and then he looked back at the gleaming weapon. “Whose was it?” He asked.
“Lord Aram lost it in the current one night, when he and Thaniel attempted to cross by the light of the moon and stars,” Jared told him.
Keegan’s eyes flew wider. “Aram? Aram the ancient king? Aram – the Magnificent?”
Jared laughed, a low rumbling sound. “He was none of those things when he lost that sword – he was simply a lone warrior, trying to escape his many enemies.”
Keegan lowered the sword and gazed at the horse. “You knew him?”
“I did.”
“I know that your people are long-lived,” Keegan said. “But I did not know you lived as long as that. How old are you, Jared?”
“I have forgotten,” the horse admitted. “Eight or nine thousand years, I suppose.”
Keegan whistled his astonishment at this, and then asked,
“What was he like?”
“Lord Aram?” Jared laughed again. “Have you not read your histories?”
“Yes, and I know what is said of Aram the Magnificent. But you knew him, Jared. You can say what he was really like.”
“Well, I can tell you this,” Jared stated. “Whatever your history books say of him? I can assure you – he was more than that.”
The horse turned his gaze upon the sword. “You know, Keegan,” he said. “With a weapon like that in his hand, a man might go anywhere.”
Keegan also turned his eyes to the sword. Then he grinned and looked back at the horse. “You are right, sir,” he agreed. “And I will never be content as a farmer. Where shall we go?”
It is said that Jared and Keegan travelled far and wide; that they looked upon distant marvels, and solved great mysteries; that they embarked upon wondrous quests, and saw them faithfully to the end. It is even stated that they met and befriended a dragon.
The truth of this assertion is doubted by most, and fervently believed by others.
But theirs is a story that is told in full elsewhere.
The Wolves
After the Battle Before the Tower, most of the wolves, like Goreg and his band, went back into the wild to live out their lives away from the things of man. Some few others, like Leorg and Shingka, followed Gorfang’s lead and lived near or even among men, melding their lives with humans in ways both intangible and tangible. Over time, many of that folk, born of a race that required submission to a master, became utterly domesticated, even taking as their names those given to them by the men whom they served.
The wolf people that remained in the wild gradually became separate, and estranged, both from their domesticated kin and from the world of men at large.
Still, they remembered their history and their involvement in the momentous events of the days of Aram the Walking Flame. No one born among those denizens of the wild was ever given either of two names – Aram or Durlrang, for these names were too sacred to be bestowed upon any others that came after them. Durlrang, who was especially revered, and was named by his people as Anduram zhe Conraduam ne Formentius – He Who Ran With the Walking Flame – became known, over time, as the Father of His People. And for several generations after his death, there were those among that people who declared with solemn certainty that the great Lord Durlrang had once helped The Walking Flame to slay a dragon.
The Bears
Borlus, the first bear in thousands of years to gain and retain communion with a human – Lord Aram himself – stayed in the hills to the north, near the valley, for the duration of his life, along with his wife, Hilla. The rest of his kin, including his first-born son, who was named after the king, retired into the wild, away from direct contact with humans, and remained so forever.
They kept one legacy of the days of Borlus, however.
A singularly unimaginative race, they adopted and retained two names that were to remain in use among their kind until the end of time.
These names; Aram, meaning The Mighty – and Borlus, The Great Friend, were bestowed upon generation after generation of males born unto that people. There were times, in fact, when it seemed as if every male bear upon the face of the planet bore either the one name or the other.
As for the first Borlus; he and the king retained their special friendship until the end of their days.
The Absence of Alvern
Alvern and Kipwing remained in close communion with both Aram the king and with Jame, the Hay of Lamont. As for Cree; having loved the queen from the beginning, she grew as close as a sister to Ka’en. As for the rest of that people, however, hawks, eagles, and other lords of the air; over time they became distant from the race of humans until eventually, except for those three special relationships, communion was lost.
As for Alvern, he came often to Regamun Mediar, both to report news from throughout the kingdom, and to simply commune with an old friend.
The time came when he did not come.
Days passed and became weeks, and then months.
Concerned, Aram summoned Kipwing.
“I have not heard from your grandfather in many days,” the king said to him. “Do you know where he may be found?”
Kipwing looked at him sharply. “Many days, my lord?”
“It has been several weeks since last I spoke with him,” Aram affirmed.
“But this is not like him,” Kipwing protested. “You are his nearest friend, Lord Aram. He would not stay away from you for so long without reason.”
These words intensified the concern in Aram’s heart. “Will you find him?”
“I will go and search for him at once, my lord – as will all my kin,” Kipwing replied, and spreading his wings, he lifted up and flew away.
Though eagles and hawks searched every known corner of the globe, Alvern was never found, nor was his body discovered. For Aram, it eventually became obvious that the great eagle had died in a manner and a place that prevented discovery of his remains, and consequently, certainty of his passing. But Alvern the great eagle was unquestionably gone, the last of his generation, and Aram mourned for the loss of an old and dear friend.<
br />
With Alvern’s kin, however, another legend arose to explain the ancient eagle’s absence.
It was said – and widely believed by the lords of the air – that he had flown to Kelven’s mountain, that he had climbed the winds up to the very top of that great height, and finding Kelven gone, had continued on, out among the stars, until he caught the very currents of eternity, and thence flew to his long home, having never experienced the darkened halls of death.
.
8. The Death of Ka’en
The winter of Ka’en’s seventy-third year of life was long, cold, and harsh. Storm after storm mounded up over the mountains to the north and marched down over the valley, dumping their icy burden. Ka’en was often ill during that winter; on more than one occasion Aram noticed that her face was as pale and white as the snow that piled up so prodigiously out upon the great porch. Worry over her deteriorating condition caused him to ignore all else and stay near her, spending his days and nights maintaining the fire in their bedroom and bringing her meals of which, day by day, she consumed less. Most nights he slept in the chair next to the bed, so that she could rest.
A doctor had been summoned to stay in the house where he could more closely watch over the health of the queen.
One morning Aram awoke to the brash sound of a breeze freshening determinedly out of the south. Upon hearing this welcome indication of a possible improvement in the weather, he rose stiffly, straightened his creaking bones and leaned over to check on Ka’en, who was still sleeping, albeit restlessly. Her breathing was hesitant, short, and shallow.
He went to the window and slid back the shutter just enough to peer outside. Gray clouds, ragged and low, scuttled out of the south, driven northward across the valley by the stiffening wind. Rain squalls spattered against the shutter. He put his hand forth and felt of the air. It was cool, but warmer than it had been in many weeks.
“What are you…doing…my love?”
Aram wheeled away from the window to see Ka’en looking at him; her head turned a bit his way, and the faded topaz centers of her eyes slid all the way into the corners, straining to see him. He went to her, moved the chair closer, sat down, and took her hand in his.
Her fingers were cold, like the crust on the snow beyond the window.
“Spring is coming,” he told her. “It’s warmer this morning.”
She smiled tiredly but did not reply.
“Are you alright?” He asked.
“I…am…fine.”
“But your hand is so cold,” he said, frowning, as he gently rubbed it between his hands in an attempt to restore warmth. “Do you feel like getting up? I’ll make kolfa.”
She shook her head, but the movement was so slight as to be nearly imperceptible. “No, my love,” she told him in frighteningly soft tones. “I will not…be…getting up today.”
Alarmed by those words, and by her paleness, her halting speech, and hesitant breathing, he persisted, willing her to be stronger. “Can you eat something?”
She watched him in silence for a long moment.
“Thank you…for my life,” she said then.
These words, delivered in quiet, low tones, sounded fearfully like a farewell. His frown deepened as dread abruptly took root in his heart. “What do you mean?”
She closed her eyes and smiled a thin, slight, soft smile. “It has been…a great…adventure.”
Holding her hand with his right, he put his left on the side of her face. That skin was terribly cool to the touch as well. He sucked in a fearful breath. “There is more life – more adventure – to be had,” he told her desperately.
She tried to shake her head once more, but failed. “Not for me, my love,” she replied.
Her eyes opened and looked into his.
“I love you,” she said.
Aram felt the cold hand of fear strengthen its hold on him. “Don’t leave me,” he pleaded. “I will call for the doctor.”
“No,” Ka’en told him, and for just a moment her soft voice was stronger and her lovely eyes shone. “He can do nothing for me now. I am going where you have already been, my love. I will await you there.”
“Stay with me, Ka’en, please.”
But at that moment, though she still looked up at him, her eyes were no longer focused on his face. Her gaze seemed to be fixed upon a point somewhere beyond him. “Look, Aram – do you see?” She said, and there was a weak, faint tremor of excitement in her tone. “There are flowers…blooming above the snowbank, just there. Let’s go to them.”
Then her eyes closed and she did not speak again. An instant later, her chill hand lost its feeble grip on his.
Taking both her hands in his, he tried desperately to rub warmth back into them, calling sharply for the doctor. Naetan came to the door, took one look, and then shouted down the hall.
“Doctor – come quick!”
In the end, Aram did not allow the surgeon or anyone else to touch her, for she was gone and he knew it. He bent down and laid his head upon her breast. He did not weep, he did not speak; no sound came from him. Unwilling to intrude upon his grief, Naetan and the surgeon stood back.
Quietly, Naetan wept.
The morning seemed to grow suddenly dark as the silence of unbearable loss and sorrow gathered and thickened in the room.
Outside, the world turned inexorably toward the coming of spring, but Ka’en’s spirit would not walk abroad beneath the cheerful sun of that gentler season; she would never feel its warmth.
She would remain behind, with the winter.
9. The Death of Aram
Aram spoke very little to anyone in the days that followed Ka’en’s passing, nor did he eat much. Other than to give directions that, once her body was prepared for burial, and those that wished to see her had done so; Ka’en was to be placed into the earth of the old orchard near the bodies of Florm and Ashal. Other than that, he refused any and all communication. Room was to be left beside her for Aram himself, whenever his own time would come. After burial, a tomb was to be raised over her.
On the day of her internment, Aram stood at the head of the crowd, but he said nothing while Maelee, Ania, Naetan, Margra-eth and others tearfully extolled the well-known virtues of his absent queen and their mother. When all was over, he continued to stand with his head down and his eyes closed as the crowd slowly dissipated. No one dared disturb his thoughts.
When all had gone, he lifted his head and gazed long at the newly turned mound of earth. Then he went into the city and shut the door to his room.
Later that evening, Naetan went to check on his father. Quietly entering the room, he found Aram standing at the window, gazing down over the valley. A grayish-black bag was suspended from one hand. The king turned toward him and held up the bag.
It contained the remaining monarchs he had brought out of Rigar Pyrannis so long ago. Aram’s memory told him that there should have been forty-four of the golden discs, but there were two less than that. Somewhere, sometime back along the course of his life, he must have parted with them, but he could not recall the instance. It mattered not – there were more than enough to meet his current need.
He shook the bag as he met his son’s gaze. “These are mine,” he stated fiercely.
Naetan shrugged and smiled. “They are all of them yours, my lord,” he replied.
Aram stared at him for a moment without returning the smile, and then lowered the bag, shaking his head. “No,” he said. “Your mother was right about that. The gold – all of it – belongs to the people.” He lifted the bag once more. “Except for these. These are mine.”
“What do you mean to do with them, my lord?” Naetan inquired.
Aram answered that with a question of his own. “What do you name men that create likenesses of living people from stone?”
“Men that make likenesses –?” Naetan frowned. “Sculptors?”
The king’s features quivered with impatience. “Is that what they are called – those that can create the likeness
of a person out of stone? Sculptors?”
“Yes, father.”
Aram drew in a deep breath and looked closely at his son. “Can you find one of these men that saw the queen in her life? Someone that knew her, saw her, and can create her likeness in stone?”
Naetan nodded his comprehension of his father’s desire. “I will send word throughout the kingdom at once.”
Aram shook the bag. “Tell him that I will make him rich.”
Naetan hesitated and then nodded. “I will ask him to state a fair price for his labor, my lord.” He held up his hands to prevent Aram’s retort. “Fear not, my lord – I will find the very best sculptor in all the land, one who knew my mother in her life. And he will be paid handsomely.”
Aram shook the bag again. “With my gold,” he insisted.
Naetan nodded again and then turned to go and execute his father’s desire. “As you will, my lord.”
At the door, he hesitated and looked back. “You should come to supper, father. You have eaten nothing of which I am aware. It has been a most difficult time, and you must rebuild your strength.”
In reply, Aram’s face grew dark with sadness. “Rebuild my strength? To what end?”
Naetan frowned, both at the words and the tone with which they were delivered. “To the end that you might keep your health, my lord. My mother has gone to her long home; I do not wish to lose my father also.”
“Why should I not go there as well?” Aram stated angrily. “There is no point in me being here when she is there.”
Naetan’s frown deepened and he turned away from the door and back into the room to face his father. “But there is a point, my lord,” he argued. “More than that – there is a reason. You are our king. You are my father. We need you to be here.”
Aram’s expression of sadness strengthened upon his gray and grizzled face. “I am not needed here,” he insisted, shaking his head. “I am not a king, my son. I was never a king. I am just a man who – once upon a time – was good with a sword.” He paused and frowned down at the floor. “No,” he admitted, “even that is untrue. It was the Sword that was good – I simply wielded it for a time.”
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