Leisha’s eyes widened. “That is fine craftsmanship,” she decided after a few moments of inspection. “Equal, at least, to my husband’s. Where did you get it?”
“Me husband had it made for me before he fled his duties,” Perrin replied, holding the glimmering blade high above her head. “The smiths of me city be having no equal.”
Leisha shook her head, “Glord is a good man, and he is handy with a blade. But you are a queen and a mother, not a warrior. The road is dangerous, my dear. You must abandon this plan.”
Perrin shrugged, “I be leaving with the sun of a new day. I ain’t for words, so I be asking ye to speak me message to me people in me stead. They be your people now.”
“Of course,” Leisha took the queen’s hand. “I fear for you, but I see you will not be swayed. A fire like that once burned in my belly. I will do as you wish. The people will know you have been called to the trail with great purpose, and I will mind their safety in your absence.”
“Ye would be minding it in me presence,” Perrin quickly replied, “ye and the queen of Druindahl.”
Leisha nodded, bit her lower lip, and asked, “Where will your search take you?”
“First, I be speaking with Cialia and learning everything she might be knowing about me enemies. She be wise and knowing much of what the rest of us don’t. She can also be learning me on how I might be finding that Lake and them Dragons what might be telling me more. Me journey beyond that will be depending on what I be learning from them.”
“You should rest, my dear,” Leisha took Perrin by the shoulders and then added, “And I will prepare words for our people.”
epilogue
the sleeping dragon
In a small room at the top of a tower stretching farther up into the sky than any other structure made by men on Ouloos, the baby, Geillan, prince of Havenstahl, slept; his small form hovering between four obelisks. The obelisks—clear crystal glowing with perfect, white light from within—formed a perfect square. Like a creeping voyeur examining the object of his devotion, a clean, bold-looking, old man observed him intently. The old man, of course, was no man at all. A contemporary of Brerto, Kaldumahn, Moshat, and even the scattered Kallum, Ijilv was one of five gods tasked with maintaining balance on Ouloos.
“What a precious gem you are, little Geillan,” Ijilv spoke soothingly to the sleeping child. “Such a little thing and look at all of the drama you have caused. They all search for you in vain.”
Ijilv’s eyes closed as his staff pulsated with blazing, white light. The obelisks surrounding Geillan’s sleeping form mimicked the perfect, white emanations of the staff while the circular, stone room began to flash; at one moment the blackest dark and the next brighter than any natural light. The transitions were slow at first, like a beacon to sailors cresting great waves in the darkest hours of night. Gradually the pulsations increased until the time between dark and dark, and light and light was so minute it was barely perceptible. At once, the room appeared in total darkness and in total light, both conditions seeming to exist side by side at the same time rather than at alternating intervals; dark and light in equal parts running down the same path.
The god’s eyes remained closed as he walked to the northernmost point of the circular room. A prang basin filled with water hovered there, exactly four feet from the stone floor. Ijilv plunged both of his hands into the water and rubbed them vigorously against each other. Then he cupped them together, gathering water in between them, and said, “From the cleansing water’s life comes the soul, ever yearning to return and wash off the filth of the physical.” After the last word left his lips, he lifted both hands above his head. The water rained back down onto him.
After three deep breaths, he moved along the wall to the east. There he found fire burning in a basin matching the one housing the water exactly, save its contents. No fuel existed in this basin, only flame burning of its own volition. Ijilv performed the same exercise he had with the basin of water; plunging his hands—this time into flame—and rubbing them vigorously against one another. Finally, he cupped them together and said, “The fire is light. At once nurturer and destroyer, conquering darkness while consuming life.” Again he lifted both hands quickly into the air, showering dancing flames over his hair and face.
Ijilv drew three more deep breaths and then skirted the wall to the southernmost point of the room. A basin matching the other two hovered there. It was filled with dirt, simple, fine granules of dirt. The god plunged his hands in and rubbed them together. Finally cupping them, he said, “Ouloos, the fertile soil from whence all growing things come. The power to sustain the physical while the soul matures and feeds lives within you.” Dirt flew up and around him as he raised his hands, showering him in the fresh soil.
Finally, he continued to the west. The basin hovering there appeared empty. Still, Ijilv performed the same exercise he had completed with the other three basins. Once his hands were cupped, he said, “Nothing is ever empty as air fills in the voids, breathing over the land, fueling fires, and rippling waves into the waters.” Again, he raised his hands above his head.
Once Ijilv’s hands stretched toward the ceiling of the circular room, a brisk wind began swirling around the walls. The god moved toward the center next to the square of flashing obelisks surrounding Geillan. The four basins remained motionless as the wind slowly gained intensity. The elements those basins contained did not, however. As the air spun faster and faster around the room, the other three elements mingled together with it until they were not discernable from each other; each of them giving up their individuality to merge into one force. Finally, when none of the four could be recognized among them, Ijilv’s eyes snapped open and saw everything.
The ceiling of the room shifted from the cold stone that formed it into something fluid and flickering. The scenes playing out upon it flashed as quickly as the dark gave way to light and the light gave way to dark. Nothing was invisible to Ijilv as he watched everything on Ouloos happen all at once. For him, things didn’t move quite so quickly. Each scene played to him as if he were part of it. As he moved through these scenes, little bits of Kallum sparkled to him; sometimes in the air, sometimes in the dirt, sometimes in the fire, and sometimes in the water. Each time he happened upon a piece of the scattered god, he snatched it out of the scene and consumed it—little pieces of Kallum feeding him, strengthening him, and preparing him for what was to come.
The End
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
E. Michael Mettille is the pen name of Mike Reynolds. Mike Reynolds is the author of Lake of Dragons and Hell and the Hunger. Mike has also written numerous short stories and poems. He has spent the last twenty years in direct marketing, print, and communication. Mike is fascinated by history, belief systems, the human condition and how all of those things work together to define who we are as a people. The world is a wonder and, based on the history of us, it is a wonder we have a world left to wonder about. Born and raised in Milwaukee, WI, he now lives in Los Angeles with his wife, Shelia.
Kallum's Fury (Lake of Dragons Book 2) Page 36