As the five gazed upon the dying embers of the fire, Ailin turned to Aland and asked him for a tune. He smiled and pulled a small lute from his pack.
*
From a distance, Ailin perhaps could be mistaken for a boy. Maybe because she was tall and her hair was shorn short and unkempt, laid like hay scrunched up on top of her head. From a little closer she may be called plain, as she wore no embellishments or paint to her face that was the custom of many young ladies of court. But up close, if one cared to take notice, her slightly narrowed eyes, like the crescent of the moon, her nose perhaps slightly raised at the tip and curved lips could be spellbinding.
Sometimes she’d catch Aland staring at her. “What?” she’d ask him. But he’d never have an answer. He’d simply mumble an apology and look away, caught once again under the spell of the girl that he’d loved from the first moment he’d seen her.
Aland sat up and played a slow tune, and the notes and his voice drifted up through the glow of the fire and into the darkness of the night’s sky.
“When the nightingale sings,
The woods waxen green,
And the lush grass and blossoms spring,
In every valley and every meadow,
I shall give my heart to my love,
Take her in my hand,
And happiness and light fills my day and my night.”
“It’s a bit soppy,” complained Daylon; “don’t you have anything with a little more of a sense of ‘derring-do’ or adventure? Leo, you play the harp. Can you play the lute as well?” Leo nodded as a rather miffed Aland handed the instrument to him. He took it and stroked the wood gently as if feeling for the music inside the heart of the instrument.
“The instruments are a little different as you pluck the strings of a harp with both of your hands. He passed his fingers over the strings as if sensing for the range of sounds the lute could create.” He laid it flat on his lap and started playing.
Leo plucked at the strings; his fingers moved fast entwining themselves to form the note and then softening the strings to stop the buzzing as he moved to the next stream of notes. None around the fire had heard such complex melodies before. They just stared and listened.
Leo lost himself in the tune, and then just as abruptly as he’d started, he stopped, then looked at Aland apologetically and handed it back to him.
“It’s a nice instrument.”
Aland shook his head. “Now I know what it is capable of, I’m not sure I will be able to play it again.”
“You just need to practise,” smiled Leo. “I’ve always had a natural affinity for music right from a young age. I guess you could say I had an ear for it. Perfect pitch you may say. Ever since I picked up an old harp from the abandoned manor house. I clutched it to my chest all the way home and then tuned it myself simply by trial and error. It is an intimate and profound part of me that brings me joy. When I visited the other villages with my grandmother I would play.”
Leo chuckled. “I was quite a party turn. Someone could play any tune and I would be able to repeat it.” He smiled. “Just a knack I guess.”
*
As he drifted to sleep, Leo reflected on the fireside conversation. He’d not quite told the truth. Kept it to himself that he could see the notes dance in his mind. There was no skill or technique. Leo could simply remember each note and each song instantly like a whole picture painted on canvas in his head. In a flash with perfect clarity and detail. Same as in life, he’d close his eyes and listen to the hum of the world around him, the low humming of insects, the casual songs of the birds. Nature could create beautiful and mesmerising sonnets in his mind.
It was not always the case, though; the downside was that the world around him sometimes immersed him in sounds that would grate his teeth, like a blacksmith’s anvil. But Leo did not let it get to him; he let it go and drifted off into his dream world.
People would be amazed as he replayed a tune note for note. And he’d just shrug and casually brush it off. “I guess I was just born with it,” he’d say, and let it go. But there was more to it than that, and this he kept only to himself, well, except the one time.
Perhaps he’d been five or six years old, he did not remember. A local musician asked him what note he was playing, and he responded, “Blue,” simple as that. Not F sharp or B flat. Blue and orange. The musician was confused when he explained he saw colours when he played notes; he’d looked at him as if he was weird. He’d remembered the look and never mentioned it to anyone since.
Colours not seen through his eyes, like dancing sunspots blurring his vision, but simply filling his mind. A palette of musical colours overwhelming his senses that would rise and fall with the ebb and flow of the music.
It was a close, deep emotional association with something deeper within him, linking him to the oscillations of the world around him. A mind’s eye perhaps. A harp solo played delicately may simply dapple hues of purple water droplets on a still pool. A drum, thrusting out bright fluorescent starbursts searing across his mind. Fizzing bright at its core then softening into mellower hues to the edges of his consciousness. He could not explain it but it felt like a link to the harmonies of the world; something primal, something primitive, something more ancient.
Perhaps it was this that sparked Leo’s overactive imagination. It would be greatly influenced by things around him. A strike of a bell in the distance may instantly bring to mind a vivid picture of a boat marooned in the mist. He would feel the mist on his cheeks, taste the brine on his tongue and smell the salty seaweed in his nostrils. A swish of fabric may transport him to a meadow where he would lie, listening to the wind chasing through the curtsying grasses. He’d watch the clouds drift past above him and taste the earthiness of the grass stem that he gently sucked on.
A normal teenage boy with normal teenage problems – well, sort of.
Actually, not quite. Not quite at all. Not by a long shot. Perhaps his greatest secret was that he’d been having a recurring nightmare that scared the hell out of him. He’d find himself in the middle of nowhere on a windswept hill with dark clouds swirling above his head. In front of him, an arm’s length away, was a white staff planted into the ground. Beyond it a figure in a black cape, his face covered by a hood. The figure approaches him, moving erratically, perhaps like an insect scuttling over the earth. Leo can feel the terror and fear building up inside him as the figure gets closer and closer. Leo tries to reach for the staff, crying from the effort, but he can’t lift his arms, can’t grab the staff to protect himself. The figure stops directly in front of him and reaches out a grey contorted hand towards him; he hears a slight whisper, perhaps a hiss; he strains his ears but the word just escapes his reach. He tries to scream but he can’t make a sound…
Leo always wakes up at this moment and he may lie there for a few seconds, willing his arms to move as they flop paralysed beside him. Just as Leo panics, that there is a chance that this nightmare is real, that he’s powerless, perhaps his mind reconnects to his physical form and a finger twitches, or his arm flinches back to life.
In the back of his mind there is a small voice, one perhaps behind a trapdoor, a trapdoor hidden under a rug. A voice of hopelessness born from a sense of not being in control of its own life. Perhaps he should talk to someone about it. He knew it was important but he didn’t know whom to trust.
*
Windstrom’s Ambassador Martis’s entourage had made good headway. A week into their journey they had passed through the fertile farmlands that spread out from Ampheus. They continued unhindered skirting the Great Forest of Tarn and forded the River Symbel on the border of Terramis. Now they headed towards the rocky lowlands that marked the outer fringes of Windstrom’s control.
They had slipped into a comfortable routine, travelling for eight hours a day. An advance party would be sent ahead to set up camp and prepare meals. When the main body
of the retinue arrived, a meal was laid out for the riders and shelters erected. These responsibilities rotated amongst the guards such that nobody was burdened with more than his fair share of work. Spirits remained high, the sun was shining on their backs and landmarks on the horizon came and passed with a satisfying frequency. Scouts sent to roam farther afield had not detected any danger.
While Ambassador Martis knew that they should remain alert to any threat, his mind could not help but wander to thoughts of Celestina. He dreamed of seeing his wife and daughter once again and the joys of tending his garden. The closer he got, the more real his imaginings became, the more distance he felt from the reality of Gorath’s aggression and the perils to befall Ampheus.
Many of the Amphean guards had never been to Celestina before. Ambassador Martis took time at dinner to describe the magical city that had been the capital of Windstrom for many millennia:
The Ambassador would suck on his pipe, sending satisfyingly plump puffs of smoke in the air, its rich aromas drifting to those that sat around him. He leant back on his pillow and let his thoughts meander out loud.
“Celestina sits high on a lush green plateau, thick with flora and fauna the like of which is not seen in any other realm of the Ancient World. Pathways wind up the steep ridges that surround the plateau, passing under canopies of hanging plants that cling to the cliff faces or beneath the many waterfalls cascading from the plains above. The mist and spray from the waterfalls cast an abundance of tiny rainbows that shimmer against the cliff face behind.
“On the plateau, along the entrance to the city, flows a river so clear that it reflects the clouds in the sky. A crystal clear blue mirror image of Celestina is laid down like a carpet for those that approach the city.
“Celestina itself is crafted from the whitest marble, hewn from the foothills below the plateau. It is said that some of the white stones weighed so heavy that only the gods could lift them. So enamoured by the vision of beauty that Celestina would become, the gods descended from the stars. They stripped off their fine clothes and stood side by side with man, and hand in hand painstakingly crafted the marble city.
“Now tall, slim towers reach like fingers stretching for the sky, crystal white domes scatter along the skyline and glass atriums, where the city’s people gather, shimmer in the sun. At sunrise the city glows pink as the sun soaks in the morning light. In the evening, hues of orange, yellow and red reflect the sunset, such that you would believe the city is licked by golden flames.
“It is a tranquil place; waterfalls cascade from the buildings and tumble down streets, soothing the soul. Soft chimes tinkle in the breeze.
“Oh, how I can’t wait to lay my eyes upon her yet again. To sit on my favourite balcony, read a book, take pleasure in the aromatic fragrance of the flowers and listen to the gentle plucking of a harp.
“When Windstrom folk cast their eyes upon Celestina, it brings tears to their eyes and inspires them to love and beauty. No sonnet, no poem can ever capture the true beauty or purity of the city. It is part of us as you’ll see.”
*
To the south, the Ambassador of Aquamura, the Queen and the royal party were camped round a fire. After ten days travelling south, the nights had started to chill and the air was crisp. They huddled under their warm cloaks and the crackle and glow of the embers were welcome as the warmth of the flames glowed against their cheeks.
Ambassador Kelton was the first to break the silence. “It is difficult to sit here with clear skies and the stars dancing above us to believe that such a world also contains the evils that it does. I can’t tear my mind from the fact that Gorath must be closing upon Ampheus as we speak. My thoughts are with the King.”
Queen Laila nodded. “Perhaps, Ambassador, we should have stayed and fought alongside my husband. But I suspect there are greater forces beyond our control that will influence our destinies; and to an extent we are all pawns in a bigger game. I sense that whatever happens at Ampheus it will be but one of a number of ordeals that the people of the Four Realms will face in time. There is much more at play here than we can imagine. We do not have a crystal ball to glimpse the Dark Lord’s motives. Perhaps if Aron finds Saturnus, more will become clearer.”
The Queen continued, “Alas, at the moment we must place faith in our own decisions. We hope that in defending all that is good in this world, we are doing what is right.” She stopped.
“Let us join hands, let us take a moment to offer prayers for King Armanar and our friends and families at Ampheus. I hope they remain strong and safe and hold firm until help comes to their aid. If anyone can defend Terramis and its people it is King Armanar, or he will lay down his life trying.”
With that she lowered her head, stood and headed to her tent. Rolden watched her go, overwhelmed by admiration for his Queen.
*
The countryside around Ampheus as far as the eye could see was covered by thick forests, often inhabited by poachers, bandits and dangerous wild animals such as wolves and boars. Dotted around the forests were the manors and villages of the noblemen and noblewomen of Terramis. Each would have a large manor, perhaps a place of worship, and then a scattering of dwellings for the farmers and servants supporting their lord.
Life was relatively quiet and content. It was in this environment that the young Laila grew up. One of long summers, hours playing outside, accompanying her father as he did his rounds of the estate. She was the daughter of a nobleman of a larger and well-run estate. Her father was a well-respected lord, fair and generous to all who supported the estate. No plate was ever empty while her father was in charge. But life would never be that simple, that fortunate.
Her father was an able diplomat and was often summoned to support Terramis’s efforts to build treaties and trading agreements with the other realms and empires to the south of the Aquamuran Sea. He spent extended periods away from the estate. In his absence her mother was often sickening and unable to fill her role as lady of the manor. She to a large part relied on the bailiff to run the estate.
He was a lazy and spiteful man, mismanaging the land. He granted favours to those that would buy him a drink or cross his palms with a few coins. Slowly and surely the estate fell into disrepair and could no longer sustain the families that it had supported in the past. Friends and loyal servants were forced to leave and seek a living elsewhere.
To the young Laila, it was a tough and miserable time to watch the joyful world of her younger childhood fade away. Young girls of nobility would normally be sent to the households of wealthier ladies or convents to be educated in the ways of a lady. In her young teens she would have been expected to enter society. But with her mother frail, she willingly attended to her needs, and with her father distant, high society was a world away and seemingly not for this young girl.
At the age of fourteen she received news that her father had passed away, fallen sick to an ailment that took him quickly with a fever. He was buried in a foreign land and not under the grand sturdy oak that dominated the hill in the middle of the estate where he’d sat in the sun and read stories to his young daughter as she curled up in his lap. Within weeks the will of her mother had failed her. Some said she died of a broken heart, never having been able to say goodbye to the man she loved. The young Laila cried for days, comforted by the servants of the household that had known her from a child.
Then on the fourth day she dressed, went to the stables for her horse and took a ride around the estate. She saw the fields left fallow, the unkempt fences and hedgerows, blocked ditches, thatched roofs and walls of the farmers’ cottages falling into disrepair. She kicked her spurs into the horse’s hindquarters, galloped to the local tavern in rage and demanded that the bailiff address her. As he staggered from the inn adjusting his clothes, she whipped him with her riding crop so fiercely that red welts burst onto his face and forearms. She cast him out from the manor and forbade him to step foot in the villag
e again.
The lady of the manor was back. She would fulfil her father’s legacy. She threw her pain and grief into the running of the manor. She managed the estate’s finances, including the collection of rents, supervised farming and settled all disputes. Three years later the estate was in rude health once again, the harvest was due and it looked as if the crops would be abundant this year.
*
Laila cast her eyes over the golden crops that the peasants were slowly cutting with their scythes and gathering into bales. She thought her father would have been pleased and proud of her. Inside she felt the ache of her parents’ loss, and a brief cloud passed over her face. But her thoughts were thankfully interrupted.
One of the three soldiers the estate maintained cantered towards her and pulled on the reins as his stallion drew to a halt. “Laila, it looks like we may have a problem. I think I spotted bandits to the north. Perhaps ten of them. Could be they are planning to raid the estate.”
She cast her eyes in his direction and nodded. “Stephen, fetch Judd and gather everyone at the manor house. Have Herry ride to the castle and notify the Royal Guard that we may have intruders.”
Laila had three soldiers at the manor. All retired royal guards looking for an easier life for them and their families. They were more than capable, but perhaps more suited to breaking up a squabble at the village rather than facing down a group of bandits nowadays.
An hour or so later she stood by the door of the manor house looking out across the fields and the last of the harvest. She sensed the wind getting up. A quick glance up to the skies and she saw the clouds closing in and made a decision. She grabbed a couple of farmers. “Let’s get the last of the bales in before the skies open up and drench the crop.”
They headed to the field, gathered the last of the wheat and loaded it onto the farm cart pulled by an ox. As the cart moved, the wheel caught in a rut and shattered a wooden wheel spoke. Laila cursed under her breath and looked up at the skies once more.
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