by J. W. Webb
“We are watching you with interest,” the strange girl said. Then her lips twisted into a cat’s feral grin. Suddenly she looked cruel, spiteful. “Be careful in the woods. He is stalking you.”
“Who are you, child?” Corin managed before Tommo’s heavy footsteps distracted him. He squinted through the afternoon sun to see the blacksmith approach.
“What are you looking at?” Tommo enquired. He awarded the tree a quizzical glance. Corin pointed above, then swore under his breath. The branch was bare.
“I... nothing,” Corin struggled, doubting his senses. “The boy’s gone,” he said, stating the obvious just to change the subject. Corin wondered whether those field mushrooms he’d found yesterday were having an unwholesome effect on him. It wasn’t a good sign seeing strange girls in trees.
Tommo shrugged. “I wouldn’t have hung him,” he said eventually, “just wanted to scare the little shite.” Corin nodded. “Why not stay and sup some ale with us,” Tommo offered then. “Kyssa’s got a three day stew on the stove—turnips, coney, broth and all.”
“I thank you, but no,” responded Corin. He’d changed his mind after the fight. He desired solitude: time to think on his own. “I wish to watch the sun set on the ocean this very evening, take my leave in the taverns of Finnehalle. It’s seven miles away if I read that last marker correctly, though my memory makes the distance shorter.” Corin had a sudden notion. “There is a service you can do for me, Tommo, if you will,” Corin added.
“Name it.”
“My horse, Thunderhoof, is lame, or pretending to be. He’s covered many leagues over the last week and isn’t happy, doesn’t like the wet. Could you stable him and see to his needs? He’s a good old boy but gets a bit stiff sometimes.”
“Gladly,” responded Tommo, insisting once more Corin stay for some respite at least. “Finnehalle is only seven miles away, yes, and I’ve other steeds to lend you. Those rogues left shaggy mounts tied outside the north gate. They’ll not be using them again, nor do I expect that young cutpurse will return to reclaim his pony.”
Corin could not be persuaded. He made his excuses to the blacksmith and his wife, who joined them, insisting he wanted to walk the last few miles. It would clear his head, Corin told them. Tommo was nonplussed, but Kyssa gazed at him askance.
“You are a strange one, Corin.” She yielded a shrug. Corin, feeling awkward, didn’t respond. Instead he went to get the horse.
They waited in silence, both worn out by this troublesome day. Eventually Corin returned with Thunderhoof clomping noisily behind him. Then, just a few minutes later the longswordsman bade farewell to the blacksmith, his wife, and Thunder. Heart heavy, Corin took his leave from Polin’s Smithy. He vowed to return after a few days’ hard drinking. Thunderhoof didn’t notice Corin’s departure. He was already at his oats. Corin left lane and smithy behind. Time to go home. He wondered if Holly was still in town. He’d liked Holly——back then.
Chapter 2: The Dreaming
She is falling, gliding, sliding down through cold night air. Down and down. She has no fear, knows this to be another dream. Or rather the same dream in yet another guise. Down she falls encased by total blackness.
Things in that void call out to her. Dark things that hint at her ruin and try vainly to reach her. Again she is not afraid. Elanion watches over her—the Goddess of this green world, Ansu, protecting her child as She always has.
The dreamer relaxes as she glides, her pale arms outstretched and her face numbed by icy air. She sees a light, a tiny speck far below. It grows, a small distant globe rising up to meet her.
Ariane smiles. She feels the warmth of the Goddess cocooning her naked body. She is safe—nothing can hurt her now. The light expands, it reaches up, piercing the gloom, and embraces her with blinding clarity. Ariane gasps as her head fills with visions. Wild and giddy, her young mind struggles to make sense of what the Goddess is telling her.
The light takes shape. Its source is in front of her. Ariane no longer falls, instead she stands in an empty hall. Sconces flicker and faint shadows flee from the source of the light, its clarity penetrating every corner. The light, though dazzling, doesn’t stop her seeing. Ariane walks effortlessly toward its center, her royal vision enabling her to see through into the very heart.
And there it is, The Crown of Kings. Source of the light. The Tekara. Crystal and radiant, its mystical benevolence banishes darkness from the realm.
Until now.
A shadow has entered the hall. It splits, becomes two shadows. Two men. Intruders. Ariane knows this, having witnessed this outcome twice before. The smaller figure reaches out, grabs the crown, then drops it as the light burns his fingers.
The Tekara falls, impacts with the marble floor.
The dream shifts.
Ariane stands alone in a glade in a deep dark wood. Ahead are tall stones, their shadows long, sloping and narrow. Above her head a diadem of stars studs the night sky. Dark trees creak and stir as she steps forward and enters the glade.
The stones watch her approach. A granite ring, dark and silent. She enters that circle within a circle, turns to her left, following the spiral into the labyrinth’s heart. Ariane feels her heart beating with excitement, anticipation, and dread. Voices whisper to her from the beyond the stones.
Knowledge is power, they tell her. Power is corruption. Corruption is the world eater. Ariane ignores them, reaches the core, the very center. Ahead waits a well. Ariane steps silently forward, reaches out with both hands, eager for knowledge and power. But the well is stolen from her eyes by sudden mist. The mist deepens, clings to her face like damp, searching fingers. Ariane cries out at that touch, but her voice is muffled in the murk. Somewhere in the distance she hears the lonely strain of harpsong.
The dream shifts back.
The Tekara explodes as it greets the tiled floor of the hall, shatters into a hundred blazing sparks. Pain fills Ariane’s head as she feels those crystal daggers lancing deep into her skin. She falls, bleeding and broken. All around her the shadows dance and whirl like smoky wraiths. She is cold now, icy cold.
Ariane hears laughter and knows the realm is betrayed. Sorcery and corruption. Dream Ariane closes her eyes, lets the darkness consume her again…
***
“My Queen, it is time! The council is gathering in your throne room.” Ariane opened her eyes, the rough voice having jolted her back into consciousness. Outside the lofty towers and spires of Wynais, called by some the Silver City, sparkled with morning sunshine.
A cough. She turned her head, saw Roman Parrantios, her champion and trusted friend, leaning over her. Ariane blinked and grimaced as sharp pain lanced behind her eyes. She ignored it.
“I need to speak to Dazaleon. Go find him.”
“But the council?”
“Bugger the council, Roman. Go get me the High Priest!” Ariane watched bleary-eyed as Roman left her, his expression grim. He was a good man, but he was a soldier, tough, resilient and practical. Not one to share the Dreaming with.
Ariane checked the hour. It was still early despite Roman’s urgency. And it was her council, and they could bloody well wait until she was ready for them. Ariane had had Kelwyn’s responsibilities thrust upon her just six months past, after her father’s untimely death. She was still getting used to the governing process, and patience wasn’t her strong point.
She was only twenty two, slight of build and tomboy in shape and nature, with shoulder-length black hair and dark, piercing eyes. But Ariane was clever—she was sharp of tongue and didn’t suffer fools. She took after her father in that. Ariane took after her father in most things.
But not the Dreaming. Those dreams had always been her mother’s province. But her mother had died whilst birthing a stillborn eighteen years past. She’d loved the Queen, but the memory of her childhood was fading fast these days and along with it Queen Cailine’s gentle face.
Besides, Ariane was always her father’s girl. King Nogel had doted on his dau
ghter, always letting her accompany him on royal visits to Kelthaine, Morwella and Raleen —and even once the island, Crenna, a dangerous place infamous for piracy, dark sacrifices and insurrection.
When Ariane had asked to learn sword craft her father had indulged her. It was Roman who taught her back then: rapier, spear, knife, and bow; elbow, fist, palm, heel, and toe.
Ariane loved learning how to handle weapons. She was deft and moved like a dancer. The Queen was a fine horsewoman, too. Not for her the cozy courtesan life of other high-born ladies, like her cousin, Lady Shallan of Morwella.
But ruling her people was not so easy. She’d not been ready for such responsibility, but her father’s falling from his horse and breaking his neck during a hunt had thrust it on her. Ariane was abrupt at council, easily distracted and short tempered as a rule. That said, she was kind hearted and generous. But those were not necessarily the most useful characteristics in a ruler.
She loved her country, though. Kelwyn—the second kingdom. Second in size to only Kelthaine, her northern neighbor, where the High King held court.
Or had done until last week.
A discreet cough at the door jolted her thoughts back to the immediate.
“Your Highness—”
“A moment, Dazaleon, if you please.” Ariane fussed her maids get her trousers and tunic as she slid into her small clothes. She liked to dress practical at councils. They went on forever, and Ariane found court uncomfortable enough without being laden down by jewelry and fine lace. It was a point of discussion among her maid servants, though none dared speak their thoughts in her presence.
Ariane grabbed the doeskin trousers from a maid and hoisted them up her legs. She donned the green-suede tunic and girded it with a broad leather belt. Finally she stepped into short black boots of worn expensive leather.
That will suffice.
“You may enter.” Another maid opened the door, allowing the tall figure outside to approach her.
Dazaleon, High Priest of Wynais, Kelwyn’s royal city and Ariane’s birthplace, was an impressive figure. Robed in Goddess green, he stood almost seven feet tall and broad at shoulder, his long hair snow white and thick, and his lined features nut brown around penetrating blue eyes.
Dazaleon looked to be a man of sixty, but he’d already seen his seventy fifth summer. The Goddess gave him power, they said. Strength in body and in mind. He was the young Queen’s mentor, spiritual advisor, and closest confidante. But more importantly, Dazaleon was the only one who knew about the Dreaming.
Dazaleon loomed over her, his heavy brows knotted with concern. He was garbed for council, his high-priest robes immaculate emerald and the long rod of office clutched in his left fist. He shifted, fingered the rod, and waited for his Queen to speak.
“I dreamt of the crown again, Dazaleon.” Ariane seated herself by the bed and bid her High Priest do the same. Stiffly he joined her, folding his long body into a chair. At her curt wave the maids scurried from the room.
“I guessed it were so, Highness. The third time, is it not?”
“The third time this week, yes.”
“The same dream—the Tekara shattering.”
“The same, yet subtly different.”
“Tell me.”
And she did.
***
An hour later Ariane sat at her throne at council whilst her court buzzed and fidgeted across the throne room. Gossip spread flame-fast throughout that airy hall, fed by hinting whispers. Rumors were afoot, the whisperers said, dire portents warning of war and darkest sorcery. Something bad had happened in the north. The Queen knew about it, Dazaleon too—and Roman. Perhaps a few others also.
The Queen raised her left hand and the court fell silent. All eyes were on Ariane and the High Priest standing tall behind her. They shuffled and waited: her nobles, notaries, priests, surgeons, steel-clad officers, silk-wrapped merchants, and other men and women of account. They numbered over fifty, each one known for their discretion and loyalty, thus trusted by the Queen. Most gathered were garbed in expensive cloth. The colors were bright, saving the priests, who wore green and the soldiers dun brown. As one they waited, their expressions tense and their manner unsure.
Eventually the Queen spoke. Despite her awkwardness, Ariane braved a confident voice, easily reaching the double doorways where the two helmeted guards stood silent with halberds crossed. Like the nobles gathered inside, these guards loved their Queen, though they were concerned she’d taken too much upon herself. King Nogel had ruled with compassion and strength. Everyone loved him, and the realm feared little whilst he was alive. Ariane had his metal in her veins, but she was so young, had not expected to have this responsibility for many years. How would she cope?
“You have heard rumors, this I know,” Ariane said. “Events are unravelling fast up in Kelthaine. There is no way to say this easily, my people. High King Kelsalion is dead.” There followed shocked gasps and startled looks. Everyone wanted to speak, but none dared utter a sound.
“Yes, it’s true, our overlord is dead. Murdered, apparently, by Permian assassins. It happened late last week. We received word via pigeon only three days hence.”
“Permian assassins my arse!” Roman Parrantios stood facing his Queen. The champion’s bearded jaw was set resolute. “This is that bastard Caswallon’s handiwork.”
“I concur with our respected champion’s opinion,” Ariane told the court. Then turning to Roman, she added, “I don’t, however, appreciate the interruption.” Roman muttered an apology.
“There is worse news,” she continued. They waited. Even the guards looked apprehensive at the doors. “The Tekara—Kell’s crystal crown, which has protected his descendants and our four realms for millennia—is shattered. Broken beyond repair. I know this because for three nights the Royal Dreaming has visited upon me.”
“Treachery!” This from a young officer standing to Roman’s left. Fierce looking, tall, and hawkish, with long black braids spilling down the length of his back.
“It’s fucking Caswallon,” Roman again under his breath—he just couldn’t help himself.
“Sirs!” Ariane’s withering gaze silenced them both. “Hold your tongues else I’ll have them removed!” Roman raised his brows while the courtiers shifted nervously. She could do that. “You will have your piece. In the meanwhile, I will not be interrupted.” She gazed to her left, where the High Priest loomed imperious.
“As I said, the Dreaming came upon me—the Goddess Herself speaking nuances inside my head. Not once—three times. Star Bright Elanion would protect her children from the approaching storm.”
Ariane shifted on the throne. “High Priest Dazaleon understands these things far better than I do. As some of you may know his interpretations of the Queen’s—my dear mother’s—dream-fuelled visions gave her some solace before she died. Dazaleon is the wisest among us. His counsel is without flaw, and he alone can interpret the Dreaming. So I suggest you listen. (This last was aimed at Roman and the young officer beside him.)
Ariane motioned her mentor step forward. “Come, my lord, impart the wisdom of your knowledge.”
Dazaleon leaned heavy on his rod: a long, inch-thick length of ash capped by a globe of solid emerald almost four inches in diameter. The Staff of Elanion—it was this rod enabled Dazaleon speak directly with the Goddess, either in his temple or down by the lake. His heavy gaze swept the courtroom, commanding attention.
“All royal dreams are important,” he told them. “Dreams direct from the Goddess are rare indeed. In my entire life I have received only two. Our Highness has had three in three days.
“These dreams bring visions we call the Dreaming. During these visions the Goddess speaks to the dreamer. Not as I speak to you today but in subtler ways. Queen Ariane, though grasping a good deal herself, has given me the task of translating those dreams so all present may comprehend what the Goddess wishes.” He turned to the Queen, seated pale on her throne.
“Your Highness, tell us wh
at you saw.”
Ariane, feeling uncomfortable, kept it brief. “I fell through darkness. Then there was warmth and a light. The warmth I knew to be the Goddess cocooning me from harm. I knew I journeyed through the void—nothing else could be that dark. The light I recognized as coming from the Tekara, our holy Crown of Kings. I walked toward it. There were creeping shadows, but the light kept them at bay.” She turned to Dazaleon, who nodded and stepped forward again.
“Those shadows are our enemies, Your Highness, within and without. Skulkers and deceivers. Always they have tried to undermine the Tekara’s power.”
Ariane nodded. “Two of those shadows became people—I couldn’t see their faces, though one was taller than the other. The smaller one took the crown from its resting place…”
There was hushed silence in the courtroom, even Roman looked pale.
“That was Prince Tarin doing the bidding of Caswallon,” Dazaleon told them. “Long has Kelsalion’s mentor worked on that boy. Caswallon first got his claws on Tarin after the Queen’s death. Torn by grief, the High King was fast losing grip over the realm, and Caswallon saw his chance. Young and impressionable, the boy Prince was easily swayed by the high counsellor’s cunning.”
“Little prick,” muttered Roman under his breath again. “Needs something sharp shoving up his—”Ariane shot him the warning glance of a weary mother, part love, part exasperation.
“Prince Tarin dropped the crown. I...” Ariane exchanged looks with her High Priest. “The dream changed then: I stood in a wood—a sacred grove. Ahead were tall stones—a circle within a circle. I entered…saw a well…felt the Goddess calling me from inside it, so I reached out. But the well faded from view.”
“Our Queen speaks of Valen Durrannin—the Oracle of Elanion. It lies deep within the Forest of Dreams in a wild corner of northern Kelthaine.” Dazaleon’s long fingers drummed the huge emerald capping his staff. He looked uneasy. “Are there any present familiar with this forest?”