He saw faces in his dreams. Some were pale with cheek bones and brows lined with tiny horns like the demon that had taken him to the dark priests. Others were kind, inviting, and very human.
Then from somewhere within the darkness of his mind he heard screams of pain. Voices begged him to run and all the while blood ran bright and red around him.
“Find the strength of Uver,” said a voice filtering into his dream. “In Zadridos you will find the key to the City of the Sky and there you can right the wrongs of the past.”
Points of light entered into his eyes, spinning around in his consciousness, playing subtly in his subconscious. He saw bodies all around him, heard screams, then he saw black robes swaying back and forth, people running and the glimmer of a blade striking again and again.
Clearly now Vilmos saw swamp trolls and hill giants in the midst of it all. They were the ones attacking the human priests and their demon masters. For a moment he thought of Edward, Edward the troant who had died so that he could escape the hunter beasts, then something cold and heavy was thrust into his hands.
“Take this,” said the warrior with the brankened collar and iron bit in his mouth. “You must go now. You are home, free.”
Vilmos stared wild-eyed at the bloody scene. Was it real? Was this really happening? Or was he trapped in a horrible dream?
He closed his eyes, opened them. Nothing changed.
He bit down hard on his tongue. Blood and pain told him he was beyond dreams.
He started to run. The voice within told him strange things, gave him outlandish ideas. He could feel the wildness of the land play upon his mind.
Off in the distance he thought he saw movement. It was merely the wind rustling the leaves of a small stand of trees. Vilmos scrambled toward the trees. He felt safe as he lay down in their midst, as if he had reached an impenetrable sanctuary. The trees smelled fresh, not distinctive as pine or subdued as oak, thought Vilmos, perhaps hickory.
He propped his back up against a stout, stunted tree and gazed out into the darkness. His body was weary, so very tired. His struggle was almost at an end, or perhaps only at the beginning with the victor yet to be decided. As he closed his eyes a flood of visions came to him in the form of a dream. A dream that held a catching twist of realism.
Vilmos had not dreamed so fervently since Xith had been with him, but now there was no one to protect him or his soul. He was alone. The same dream had plagued his many sleepless nights in Tabborrath Village. Only now the dream seemed less strange, less frightening.
The dream carried him well into the night in what seemed an instant or an eternity depending on the moment. A shadow in his mind called out, Wake… Move… move… hurry! The bands of reality separated. The dream raced on. The wildness overtook him.
The voice cried out again. Move, wake, hurry! He lurched up. Just as he moved an arrow struck the tree where moments before his head had been.
He wasn’t nervous or frightened. He had known that was going to happen. He had witnessed the attack in his dream as clearly as if he had lived through it once already. He knew what he must do and so he acted. With a casual thought he enacted his magical shield.
With another flicker of thought he lit the area around the knoll until everything around him glowed with a dim, yellow hue. He saw the creatures in the trees preparing to pounce. He knew what they were. They were called wood trolls, nothing but nuisances. He loathed such lowly creatures.
These were the same beasts that had attacked him and Xith what seemed ages ago. Only this time the trolls were in greater numbers and armored, perhaps they had remembered him or perhaps they were coming to kill the boy while he slept. They were going to get a lot more than they had bargained for.
He tossed a simple thought into their minds, saying, “Come unto me, O’ my children!”
The voice was not his own, but that of one with great power. It was this same strange power that gnawed away at Vilmos’ consciousness. The same power the shaman wished to awaken. The same power that the shaman feared.
The wood trolls watched and waited. He struggled against the power growing within him. They made their attack, descending out of the trees in a pack.
In that instant Vilmos pitied them. In the next they were dead. Wiped out as one would swat bothersome bugs.
The power ate at his mind. It drove him to new heights of consciousness.
“I HAVE ARRIVED!” he cried out into the night, “GATHER UNTO ME, O’ MY CHILDREN. I AM THE FUTURE. I AM THE PAST. I AM THE PRESENT. I AM CREATED OUT OF THAT WHICH YOU FEAR MOST. I AM CREATED FROM YOURSELVES AND NOTHING SHALL STAND IN MY WAY!”
“No!” a voice cried out in his thoughts. “N-o-o!” the voice continued, filled with dread. “Control, you must find control!”
Control was a meaningless word. He did not care. The voice like the word was a meaningless echo in the corner of his mind. The strength of life eternal was within him. He bathed in it. It was magnificent.
“Stop!” the voice said.
A surge of pain ran through his head. His world went dark. The voices remained. They hovered all around him. They spoke words Vilmos couldn’t understand in a sing-song ancient tongue.
All fell silent. Vilmos felt isolated, alone, or so he thought until a voice intruded upon his solitude again, the voice.
Vilmos, remember control! it said.
Something inside snapped. Recognition came and with it a moment of remembrance. The voice was Xith’s. Yet there was something else that raked at the edges of his consciousness, gnawing, crying out to be released from the blackness that surrounded it. It demanded that Vilmos forget all else.
He could not stand it anymore. His head felt like it was about to explode. He had to get away, to escape, to get beyond anyone’s grasp. He ran. He ran as far and as fast as he could. His path took him north to the hill country and it was the shadow walker who commented on the irony of his escape into the hills named after the once great bandit lord and oppressor of Oshio, especially since Vilmos’ past self had been the one to plunge the blade into Lyudr’s heart.
The caravan train was a moving city with a life of its own; wagons, horses, people, and pack animals made their way along the rough trail. Their movements were overseen by the masters, who in turn were watched by the caravanmaster himself.
As the master at arms Emel had his place in the moving city. Not only was he responsible for protecting the caravan from bandits, thieves, and things that went bump in the night, he was also the keeper of the peace. The kingdom guardsmen in his company spent as much of their time keeping order as they did seeing to the caravan’s defense.
Quarrels and infighting were part of the daily routine. Men who didn’t have anything to do as they rode along the trail would sometimes argue to pass the time. They’d argue over the ridiculous and everyone had something different to argue over. Hired blades would argue over who was the strongest, who could draw their blade the fastest, who could take the hardest punch and so on. Liners and carts would argue over who had set up or taken down the master’s tent the fastest, who could pack the most on a single mule, who could ride the best.
As liners and carts were the last line of defense in the caravan, they’d also argue over issues of strength and combat with the hired blades and guardsmen. Those types of arguments didn’t end well. One of the liners or carts usually ended up with a serious wound that made performing duties impossible, and that upset the caravanmaster. It was a tribute to Emel’s diligence that no one had been killed yet—at least as a result of infighting.
They had lost a young cart on their second day. After failing to lead a pack mule out of mud hole by pulling, the youngster decided to go behind the animal and push. Stepping behind any beast of burden is a mistake, and trying to push the mule from behind cost the young cart his life. When the mule kicked it landed a blow on the side of the cart’s head. The lethal blow knocked the young man back over ten feet. The spot where he fell, just off to the side of the main road, became h
is final resting place.
The coachman responsible for the young cart’s apprenticeship received five lashes with the whip. At the time Emel had thought caravan justice harsh and indiscriminate. Coachmen couldn’t watch their charges at all times—there were too many of them.
He came to realize that caravan justice sometimes wasn’t harsh enough. The coachman had received five lashes. The youngster in his charge had received a death sentence. When a second young cart in the same coachman’s care died beneath an overturned wagon, carts, liners, and blades joined together as a mob.
Emel faced this mob now. His hired blades were hesitant to come to his aid. Only the small band of guardsmen he hand picked in Imtal stood between him, the negligent coachman, and the angry mob.
Traveling with the caravan was a troupe of ridesmen. They were expert riders and tricksters all. As he watched the troupe turned in formation, coming straight toward the line of guardsman. As the closed the distance between them the ridesmen stood in their saddles, held their reins high as if giving a performance.
He breathed deeply, drew his long sword. The negligent coachman took a step back, ensuring that Emel was in front of him.
In his mind’s eye Emel saw the gamble he must take. He must end this before things escalated—before the mob was allowed to draw blood. He didn’t like the coachman he protected. He had learned the man was a drunkard and a fool.
But he wasn’t going to let angry men have their way. The caravanmaster would mete out justice as needs be. Where was the caravanmaster? he wondered. The master wasn’t within eyesight.
Emel waited for the riders to come at the line. Each time they closed ranks, the riders circled out and away as if they were taunting the guards.
He waited. As one, the riders put their hands to the saddles and did handstands. Some of the angry shouts for blood turned to cheers. It was then that Emel realized what the ridemaster was doing. He was putting on a show, the show of his life—or at least the show of the coachman’s life.
He sheathed his sword, breathed a little easier. He turned back to take the coachman into custody but found the man was gone. He had slipped away and no one had seen him go—or so Emel thought.
As he looked around, he saw two men struggling near the tree line. One was trying to flee into the trees; the other was trying to keep him from doing so. Emel walked over to them as the ridesmen continued their show. By now the angry shouts for blood had all but faded away.
“I’ll take it from here,” Emel called out to the huntsman.
Huntsman Faylin Gerowin grinned sheepishly as he replied, “I thought as much.” He didn’t release his grip on the coachman though. He waited for Emel to secure the man’s hands, which Emel did with a thick rope. “Never trust one such as this, and never put your life in danger to save such. He’ll not thank you. Isn’t that so, Jossel?”
The coachman spit at Faylin.
Emel tripped the coachman, made sure the man fell on his backside. “Enough, or I’ll turn you back to the mob.”
Faylin said, “The masters aren’t partisan.”
“So you’ve said.”
“Ridemaster Hindell didn’t have to rouse his men to a diversion and I—”
Emel put a hand on Faylin’s shoulder. “Forgive me, I know. You didn’t have to help me save face and neither did the ridemaster. I am a great fool for thinking I could—”
“A man who guides fools is not himself a fool unless he lets himself become one. Do you think I achieved by luck and chance alone? Your father helped me no few times and I promised to look out for you as he looked out for me.”
Emel with Faylin’s help pulled Jossel to his feet. They started walking back to the road. “You know my father?”
“Most of the masters here are beholden to your father in one way or another. None more so than the caravanmaster.”
Emel opened the hold wagon, pushed Jossel up and in. After he locked the thick door, he turned back to Faylin. He studied the huntsman as if seeing past the man’s hawk-like eyes for the first time. “My father has his ghosts, does he not?”
“No more so than any man. You are very much like him, you know.”
Emel’s expression showed disagreement. The two were quiet for a time as they walked. The early afternoon sun came out from behind the clouds, bringing sudden, welcome warmth. “Does this business worry you?”
Faylin gestured at the air and the men returning to their duties as if to say don’t let any of it bother you. Before the two said anything further the caravanmaster called an official halt. It was close enough to the midday meal to warrant the stop. With any luck the sun would dry the road and harden the last of the mud holes before they started up again.
“Not this,” Emel said as he whistled to Ebony; the black stallion racing to him at his call.
“It is not my place to worry. Good advice to you, I think.”
“But we waited two days at the crossing of the East-West road for nothing and there’s been no explanation to any—”
“Nor will there be. Some things are best left unsaid. Our duty remains the same.”
“Beyond the Stygian Palisade, to Zapad and beyond.”
“Nothing’s changed, Emel, of this I’m sure. We will go to the ends of the earth, see what few Kingdomers have ever seen, and with luck we will live to tell our children about the greatest adventure of our lives.”
As they couldn’t wait until the Seventh day as was customary, a service was scheduled for the morning following the grim discovery of Father Tenuus’ death. Father Jacob conducted the service with a short remembrance spoken by Chancellor Yi at King Andrew’s request. Then Father Tenuus was laid to rest. Tears streamed down Adrina’s cheeks the entire time. She had never been kind to Father Tenuus. He annoyed her. She had always hated his invocations, regretted now that she had.
Accordingly, the departure was pushed back two days. Two of the longest days of Valam’s life. Waiting seemed to play out hard on him. He was one to move, to act, not to wait. During those ensuing days Seth and Adrina spent much of their time together, much more time than they ever had previously.
When the long-awaited moment finally came it was wrapped in a grey dawn, and overcast skies mixed with a light monotonous drizzle. Only King Andrew and a few others watched as the group departed, saying nothing more than a few goodbyes.
Adrina watched from the balcony above the garden, her heart filled with despair. She sulked all that day, skipping the evening meal, which somehow wasn’t the same without Father Tenuus to give the mealtime prayer. She spent that day wandering the garden or staring at it from the balcony, always alone, always wading through memories that ceaselessly flooded her thoughts.
Something had transpired between her and Seth those last few days. It seemed they were drawn together by an unseen force, and perhaps they were. The last remnants of the struggling girl in the young princess had ebbed. Odd feelings and unknown emotions had touched her mind. Thoughts she never would have had before.
Father Tenuus’s untimely death played heavily on her mind. Suddenly, the world had become a dark place with only one source of light.
She had been sitting on the edge of her bed, feeling desperately alone and crying when he had come to her. He had approached her without saying a word and embraced her. He had just held her and comforted her for a long, long time. She longed for him to be with her now even though she knew that it could not be. She wondered how he fared, knowing soon he would be leaving for East Reach. That he might never return.
The sounds of morning filtered in through a nearby window. The rains continued.
She went to the bath house, disrobed quickly. Myrial had just finished preparing her bath. The warm water felt so good as she descended into the bathing pool. Her thoughts slowed. For a brief time she slipped away from the cares of the world.
Some time later the call of a songbird roused her, but only for a moment. She took morning tea in the pool. Nibbled on toast as she soaked. Servants came and went
. Myrial watched her from across the room.
She stood from the waters and wrapped a soft robe around her as Myrial handed it to her. The call of the songbird came again as she stepped out of the pool. Her eyes wandered up to the window. Her thoughts drifted. She thought of Emel, Valam, and Seth. Wondered why the men in her life always went away.
As she wrapped her hair in a towel she turned about, looking for Myrial. Myrial was gone. In the place she had occupied moments before stood another. Her eyes went wide. She took in the tall, broad shouldered figure. “How?” she asked.
Valam put a finger to his lips, hurriedly escorted her from the bathing pool. “Not a word,” he whispered in her ear. Her heart skipped. He led her through her room, out through the secret door in the wall. Once in the back hallway, he stopped, threw his arms around her. “Speak in quiet tones,” he said in her ear. “These halls should be clear. Better to be safe.”
“Clear of what?” Adrina heard herself say. She was still trying to accept the fact that Valam was in Imtal, not on the road—and if he was in Imtal… “Seth? Is he—”
“Safe,” Valam said, “Don’t worry. Everything we’ve done these last few days has been for the benefit of the whisperers.”
“Whisperers?”
Valam put a hand to her mouth, said softly in her ear. “Everything will be clear soon. They are close to revealing themselves. You must play along. Remember, you know nothing.”
“Valam, you must tell me something more. I don’t understand what’s happening?”
“Revolution,” Valam muttered under his breath. “Revolution. If you don’t want our family to end as King Frederick II’s, you’ll do everything I say and ask no more questions.”
“Impossible,” Adrina replied, her voice becoming shrill.
“Possible, believe me.”
“And the plight of the elves?”
Valam held her at arm’s length. “How can you ask such a thing at a time like this? Seth has become like a brother to me. We will find a way to turn this around, to rally support, but first we must expose the chief whisperer. If we don’t there will be no kingdom.”
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