FIERCE: Sixteen Authors of Fantasy

by Mercedes Lackey

  Whill listened intently, though he did not quite understand what Zerafin meant.

  “Close your eyes, Whill, and think of nothing. Focus on your breath and nothing more. You see how shallow and quick it is. I would like you to breathe as deeply as you can, slowly, ever so slowly. Now hold your breath there for a moment before letting it go, slowly, ever so slowly. That’s it. Breathe in, breathe out. Clear your mind. Straighten your back, raise your chest, and lower your shoulders. Relax the mind and body. Let yourself be at peace.”

  Whill did as he was told, and a feeling of great peace overcame him, freedom from his troubles, emotions, and responsibilities.

  “This is called earth pose,” Zerafin said. “We elves use this pose for reflection, to calm the mind and body and create unity throughout.”

  Zerafin said nothing more for some time as Whill continued to relax. After a time he spoke again. “Now slowly open your eyes, and come back to the garden.”

  Whill reluctantly obeyed. He opened his eyes to find Zerafin smiling at him.

  “How do you feel?”

  Whill thought for a moment. “I feel…refreshed, calm, and relaxed.”

  “Good. We will delve deeper into the many stances and meditation techniques of the elves in the future. For now I would like you to practice this stance daily, for as long as suits you. Now. Close your eyes again.”

  Whill did so and waited further instruction. Moments passed, and then suddenly Zerafin slapped him across the face hard enough to make it hurt. Whill opened his eyes suddenly and broke his stance. “Why did you do that?”

  Zerafin laughed. “Why, indeed? Focus on your emotions now, Whill. How do you feel?”

  Whill put a hand to his cheek. “Angry, of course.”

  “But why are you angry? Did you decide to be angry?”

  “No, I did not decide to be angry. You slapped me and that made me angry!”

  “Ah. So I have the power over you to make you feel as I wish. By my actions, I can determine how you feel. Is that what you mean?”

  Whill knew Zerafin was getting at something, but did not quite know where he was going. Moments passed as they stared at one another. At last Whill proved the more impatient. “No, you do not have that power over me. I feel the way I wish to feel.”

  “Really?” asked Zerafin, and slapped Whill hard again. “So I did not just change your attitude, your emotions? Do you feel no different now?”

  Whill was fuming, his nostrils flared, his fists clenched. He could not deny what Zerafin implied. “Alright, yes, you made me mad. So what? Anyone would be angry after being slapped.”

  “Would they, now?” He leaned back onto one elbow. “Now I ask you, did I make you upset, or did you decide to be upset when I struck you?”

  Whill thought for a moment. “You made me upset.”

  “Wrong, my friend, wrong. You, or the world around you, have taught your brain through your life experience that you must become angry when someone slaps you. You are reacting to the world around you through a set list of responses you have chosen for yourself. You are no more in control than a sailor in a storm. And with the power you now possess, and the power you will soon gain, that simply will not do.”

  Whill realized Zerafin made perfect sense, and he could not help but feel a little embarrassed. He decided to test the elf’s theory. He pretended to be pondering, then quickly brought his hand up to slap Zerafin. But the elf proved the quicker and stopped Whill’s hand inches short of its destination.

  Zerafin laughed. “When you can do that, I will have no more to teach you.”

  Roakore sat in his room upon a couch that was too soft, answering the questions of a boy who was too curious. He was glad to hear a knock upon the door. “Come in, me friend, please do!”

  Whill peered in. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything.”

  “No, no, do come in an’ sit down a bit. We were just chattin’ is all.”

  “Roakore was just telling me how the dwarves use the dirt and stone from the tunnels they dig. I always wondered where it went.”

  “A good question indeed,” Whill agreed. “Roakore, would you mind if Tarren and I had a word?”

  Roakore stood. “No, not a bit. Was ’bout to get a breath o’ fresh air, anyhow, need to stretch the legs a bit. I ain’t used to being cooped up like this.”

  Tarren gave Roakore a confused look. “But haven’t you lived most of your life in caves?”

  Roakore could only give a weak laugh at being caught in his contradiction. “Right, then, ye two talk. I’ll be about.” With relief, he left the room, closing the door behind him.

  Tarren began to speak but Whill silenced him with a raised hand. Whill got control of his emotions before facing the boy, and then took a deep, long breath. Before he could speak, Tarren asked, “What is it, Whill?” His demeanor had changed. His face was flushed, his eyes haunted. “Is it my family? Please, what is it?”

  “Yes, Tarren, it is. It seems that when the pirates took you, a fight must have broken out, you see. Word has come from Eldalon…”

  Tarren shook his head. “No, no, no, please say it’s not true, please, no. I saw the smoke, I saw the fire—when they were rushing me off to the docks, I knew something bad had happened, but I thought—I hoped—”

  His shoulders shuddered as silent sobs racked his body. Tears began to slowly fall from his nose. Whill leaned closer and spoke softly. “Cirrosa’s men killed your family, Tarren. None survived the fire. I’m sorry. Oh, dear boy, I’m so sorry.”

  Tarren looked up at Whill with eyes that pierced his heart. “You can save them. You can use your powers. Bring them back, Whill, please, bring them back!”

  Whill pulled Tarren to himself and held the sobbing boy as his own tears fell. He rocked Tarren as his muffled voice pleaded, “Bring them back, bring them back.”

  Whill pulled away and held him firm. “I cannot, Tarren, no one can. My powers are limited to the living, not the dead.”

  “But that baby! You brought the baby back! You did!”

  Whill shook his head. “The baby had only just begun to pass. Her spirit still held to this earth. That is why I could help her.”

  Tarren was left unable to speak.

  Avriel sat in her room in a meditative stance. She had extended her consciousness outside of herself, and had witnessed the exchange between Whill and Tarren. She withdrew to give them privacy during this moment and slowly opened her teary eyes and returned her attention to herself. She had been witness for more than six hundred years to the cruelty and pain life so often dealt, yet it had not hardened her to the point of apathy. She brought her knees to her chest and hugged them. “The poor boy.”

  The morning sun slowly rose, its rays spreading across the world and finding their way to Whill’s closed eyes. He awoke to find Tarren leaning against the thick stone balcony rail, silently overlooking the courtyard. Whill sat up but did not stand. He didn’t know how to approach the lad. Tarren sat like a statue, unmoving, seemingly lifeless, and Whill knew only too well the pain the boy felt, if not as deeply.

  Whill found his words at last and went out onto the balcony. Despite the early hour, the courtyard below was bustling with activity. Soldiers marched past in groups of four, while others sparred or practiced at the archery range. Though there were countless things to see below, Whill could see that Tarren focused on nothing before him. He simply stared forward, unmoving, distant.

  Whill spoke softly, choosing his words carefully. “Tarren. I’m sorry about your family. I could say that I feel somewhat responsible for it all, for merely coming into your life. But Abram, I am afraid, would prove one way or another that I am not. These things happen, he would say. They cannot be changed, and they cannot be altered. I do beg to differ.” He looked into Tarren’s distant eyes. When he did not look back, Whill gently grabbed his shoulders. “Tarren I was not strong enough to see. I did not know. If I had, I would have stopped it all from happening—know that I would. But believe me when I s
ay—no, I vow—that no ill fate shall befall you again. So long as I am here and able to stop it, nothing will happen to you. I swear on my life.”

  At last Tarren met his gaze. “I miss them.”

  Whill fought a lump in his throat. “I know you do, lad. Of course you do. But take heart in the time you had together. Honor and remember them always, and you will have gained their approval forevermore.”

  Tarren hugged Whill but this time did not sob. “What will become of me now? Now that my family is gone?”

  How ironic life was, Whill thought. How often the parts we play are changed, whether we are ready or not. Seldom could one pinpoint when and how one’s life changed, when one had to step up and take on the unknown. But Whill knew at that moment that this was one of those times.

  “I shall claim you as my own, Tarren, as my ward. You have no family aside from those who perished, and therefore I have the right, as your recent guardian, to do so. You shall be named my ward, and shall be recognized by my remaining family who, I have just recently found out, is the royalty of Uthen-Arden and Eldalon.”

  Whill smiled as Tarren gave him the most puzzled look he had ever seen.

  Whill took the opportunity to speak with Abram and the king over breakfast. As planned, the meal was not served in the king’s grand dining room, which was under repair, but rather in Whill’s own room. The food was set on a small table on the balcony overlooking the bustling courtyard. Whill entered the room to find Abram and King Mathus already seated and waiting.

  “I am sorry for my tardiness, but I had pressing...issues to deal with,” said Whill as he took a seat at the circular table.

  “No need for apologies, Whill,” said Mathus. “How is the lad?”

  Whill shrugged. “As well as can be expected, I imagine.”

  “It is a tragedy indeed,” the king said. “His entire family…unspeakable.”

  Whill sat up and breathed deeply, trying to appear confident. “I have claimed him officially, to him and now to you, as my ward. It is my right as his last caregiver and I have taken it. I expect him to be welcomed into the Eldalon royal family, and that he will be treated as such.”

  Whill dared not meet Abram’s eyes and so instead he watched the king’s reaction. He was silent for a while. Finally he lifted his glass of orange juice, drank, put it down, and said, “So be it. I will have it seen to immediately. The boy Tarren is now your ward.”

  He took Whill’s hand. “I sincerely and openly welcome Tarren into our family, as I have you.”

  Whill finally looked at Abram, who only smiled and drank his milk. “And let it be known to your sons and whomever else holds stock in my claim: I want only the Uthen-Arden throne as my own, and look forward to the bond we shall share as nations.”

  Mathus raised his glass. “To the rightful king of Uthen-Arden, my grandson, Whill of Agora.”

  Since only ashes remained of Tarren’s family, and they were hundreds of miles away, oak ashes were provided for Tarren in their stead. Once the ashes were recovered from the destroyed inn, placed in an urn, and sent from Fendale, they would be given to Tarren. The funeral ceremony was held some miles outside of Kell-Torey, upon a hill of Tarren’s choosing. The king attended, as did Whill and the rest of the companions. It was a symbolic ritual in which Tarren could say goodbye, spread the ashes, and honor his fallen family.

  The spring had only just conquered this stretch of land, but the air was mild. Tarren opened the urn and spoke bravely.

  “Goodbye, Father. Goodbye, Mother. Farewell, Grandpa, Gram, sisters. I will honor and remember you always.” Tears welled in his eyes, but he went on. “I will be a man soon, and although you have already been avenged, I offer the promise that I will be a good man and fight for those who cannot. I will be just and true, that you may forever look down upon me with pride.”

  He fell to his knees as he opened the lid. The faint spring wind carried the ashes high into the air, though it should have been too weak to do so.

  Whill stepped forward and put a hand upon Tarren’s shoulder. “I say farewell also, and promise to hold Tarren to his oath. I swear upon the name of my father that I will do all I can to raise this boy to become a man you would be proud of. I hope I do not fail where you have succeeded.”

  His words rose up with the ashes into the noonday sun, and there disappeared.

  As the door closed behind King Mathus, Whill finally let out a sigh of relief. Abram sat down and lit his pipe.

  “You never fail to surprise and impress me, Whill.”

  “Trust me. I thought it out, and I know what it entails. It was the only honorable thing to do. And I like the lad.”

  “You did right. I am proud of your decision and the way you handled yourself this morning. And I may be a fool, but I feel as though I have gained a grandson myself.”

  Whill smiled. “You have, my friend.”

  Dinner that night was a solemn affair. Tarren stayed behind in his room, wanting to be alone. The remainder of the group ate with King Mathus and discussed the coming meeting, which was but a week away.

  Abram sat back in his usual after-dinner posture, pipe in hand, head back, and hand in his pocket. “What numbers do you think we can expect from our neighbors to the north, King Mathus?”

  Mathus took a small sip of wine. “Hmm. Maybe five thousand.”

  “Five thousand!” Whill cried. “I’m sorry, Sire, but five thousand! Against the numbers we will face, that is but a small band.”

  The king frowned. “What do you know of the numbers we will face, Whill?”

  Whill glanced at Zerafin and Avriel. “I had a vision after the incident the other night.”

  King Mathus sat up in his chair and put his hands together. “Go on.”

  “I saw a great battle, possibly a hundred thousand Draggard, and thousands of Addakon’s soldiers. We were greatly outnumbered, good king, greatly. It was…it was a slaughter.”

  Mathus thought for a moment, then addressed Zerafin. “How well can such a vision be trusted?”

  “Such visions can be very reliable, depending upon the source,” the elf replied. Whill shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “We elves have many seers of the future, some vaguely correct, and others known to be right on all accounts down to the last detail. Given what I know about Whill, the fact that he has not been trained but exhibits many elven abilities already, I would not dismiss his vision lightly. But I would not embrace it, either.”

  Whill let out a sigh and sank back slightly. Zerafin noticed this small objection. “Whill is going through a change that few can fully understand, not even we elves. Our powers come to us at an early age and grow with us. Whill, on the other hand, has been thrown into this new world with little knowledge of what is happening to him and even less control. He is already dangerously powerful, and will only get stronger. With the right training he will flourish, but for now we can only speculate on whether these visions are real.”

  Abram addressed the king. “I, for one, give heed to Whill’s warning, if nothing else for the fact that it makes sense. A Draggard queen has these many long years festered within the mountains, laying her thousands of eggs.” Roakore spit on the floor at the mention of the queen Draggard. Abram went on. “I believe that if we do not bring a force to meet the army that awaits us, we will lose this battle.”

  The king raised his hands. “We shall talk of this no more. Save it for the meeting. I will take all that has been said and consider it over the next few days. When we meet with the king of Shierdon, we shall chose a path.” He stood, and the others followed suit. “And Whill, I want to be informed immediately if you have any more...visions.”

  “Yes, sir,” Whill said with a bow, and he and Abram headed towards their rooms.

  “He doesn’t believe me,” Whill said.

  “You must understand that this is all very new to Mathus. Yes, he knows of the elves and their many powers, but he is a practical thinker, not easily given to whims of fancy.”

  “I
know, I know. But we don’t have time for speculation! The wrong decision at the meeting will mean the deaths of all who venture forth in this war.”

  Abram stopped. “The vision was that bad, eh?”

  Whill nodded solemnly. Just then Roakore caught up. “Eh there. Rhunis has invited us all to see the many pubs within the city, an’ I fer one could use a few pints o’ Kell-Torey’s finest. What say ye meet us in an hour’s time in the courtyard?”

  Abram grinned. “I’ll be there, good dwarf.”

  “I could use a night out myself,” Whill concurred.

  Chapter XXIII

  Thugs, Brew, and Goodbye

  THE SUN HAD GONE DOWN beyond the walls of Kell-Torey. Whill, Abram, Zerafin, Avriel, Roakore, and Rhunis walked along the cobblestone streets of the great city. The streets were fairly quiet this time of night, as most of the shops were closed for the day. The few who did wonder the streets were the occasional beggar, soldiers, and the drunkards. Rhunis led the group to a small pub five minutes’ walk from the castle. Music spilled from the open doors, as did the sounds of many people talking. The Crooked Arrow, as it was named, was Whill’s kind of pub—small and not too crowded, with a long bar and pretty barmaids.

  Rhunis motioned for the group to enter before him. “This, my friends, was always my favorite pub when I was stationed within the city.”

  The Crooked Arrow looked like dozens of other pubs, with a long bar at the adjacent wall and many tables and chairs throughout. To the left was a small stage and dance floor where two fiddlers, a flute player, a man with many different-sized drums and other percussion instruments, and two female singers played an upbeat version of the old drinking song, “The Night I Gained a Cross-eyed Wife and Lost My Shoes.” Half the bar patrons sang, stomped, or clapped along with the tune. The atmosphere was pleasant, and laughter and song filled the air.