Kingdoms and the Elves of the Reaches: Omnibus Page 2

  The shaman paused to suck in the heavy air, and then wheeled his hands in a great circle. Just then, shadows swept through the skies blocking the fires of the heavens and the ground beneath Vilmos’ feet shook violently. “This place is called Under-Earth and you, Vilmos, are the second. The first was taken from me before I could reach her.”

  Vilmos was puzzled. Were the stories true? Dare he ask the question that was on his tongue?

  The shaman sighed. “My kingdom and people were taken away so many years past I cannot recall the day.”

  “Your kingdom?”

  The shaman grabbed Vilmos’ hand, the grip numbing as he drew a jagged blade from a scabbard at his belt. As he spoke, he dug the blade into Vilmos’ palm. “Elves, gnomes and humans are all very real. I will come for you, Vilmos. When I do, the dreams end and the journey begins. Remember the faces and forget not that the fourth can blow across the mountaintops. Remember there was another before you and that they reached her before I did. Now return to your affairs. Listen to the one who will lead you to me.”

  The shaman paused. The shadows directly overhead now blocked out all light from the fire-streaked skies. As a great hand reached down from the heavens to grab them, the shaman hurled a brilliant green orb at Vilmos and spoke a single word, “Awaken.”

  Vilmos blinked and found he was leaning over the water basin beside his bed, water and blood dripping from his upturned hands. He shook his head, blinked again. In the other room, he heard his mother calling him.

  The aroma of fresh-baked black bread and honey cakes pungent in the air about the kitchen, mixing with the growling of his stomach, made him aware of an enormous hunger. The night had been unbearably long and he had not eaten since supper of the previous day.

  “Late again. You’ll sleep your life away. Already an hour past first light,” said his mother. She stood in front of the hearth. The words were not meant to be harsh, nor were they taken thus. They were a standard greeting.

  “I know mother, I am sorry,” replied Vilmos, tossing gnarled hair to one side surreptitiously, hair that should have been combed. He started to hurry away.

  “Vilmos, where are you going?” Lillath asked. “Must I always remind you of your lessons? Someday you will fill your father’s position. Someday you will be Counselor of Tabborrath Village. Now, recite the lore of the peoples.”

  “Mother, do I have to?”

  Lillath didn’t say anything, she just stared.

  “Can I use the book?”

  “From memory.”

  “The tale of the Four Peoples is the lore of four kingdoms,” Vilmos began, beaming with Lillath’s smile upon him. “Small in number, strong of will, united they stood against powerful kingdoms of the North. Four vast kingdoms would conquer the Four Peoples, but the will of the Four Peoples was too strong. Lycya, mightiest of the kingdoms, was swallowed by barren desert. North Reach and the clans over-mountain were consumed by the twenty-year snow. Queen of Elves and all her people were washed into West Deep by the three-year rain. Only the Alder’s kingdom, once the smallest kingdom of the North, survives.

  “To survive, the Alder’s kingdom formed an alliance with the Four Peoples. Their Graces, King Alexas of Yug, King Jarom of Vostok, King Peter of Zapad and his Royal Majesty, King Charles of Sever, are the wardens of the Four Peoples. The four wardens maintain the alliance and protect the Four Peoples.”

  Lillath maintained her smile. “Well, yes,” she said, “that is the lore of the four kingdoms and thus the tale of Four Peoples. But it is not the lore of the Four Peoples. You need to take great care in your listening. Listening is the counselor’s greatest skill. Each tale, each bit of lore, tells a lesson. Relate the lesson through the lore; it is the way of the counselor. Choose the wrong tale, give the wrong advice. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, mother.”

  “Now tell me the correct tale and guess the lesson.”

  Nervously, Vilmos played his tongue against his cheek. “From memory?”

  “You may use the book if need be, at times even your father reads from the book.”

  “Mother,” began Vilmos, looking into her eyes with much sincerity, “is it not time to—”

  “Run along,” she said. “Wood for the day’s fire.” There was a hint of mirth in her voice as she watched him wet his hands and settle his unruly hair.

  Vilmos briefly, but closely, studied his mother’s features as he did each morning. Offset by a touch of gray, dark black hair the color of a starless night sky fell to her waist. Her face, ripened with age in a pleasant way, was deep-set with eyes of hazel that seemed always to be calling out. This morning they said, Hurry along or you’ll be late.

  He looked like her, not like father, thought Vilmos each morning as he did this—a father who barely tolerated him. Harsh words chased through the boy’s mind. “Vilmos, why did you do that? I told you not to!” or “Vilmos, go to your room.” With an occasional, “I should send him away,” thrown in when his father thought Vilmos couldn’t hear.

  “He is only a boy,” Vilmos often heard in rebuke. “He will change in time. Give him more time.” There was a deep love between the two, mother and son.

  Wood for the hearth could be gathered easily from the brambles on the edge of the thick woods near the outskirts of the village and it was to this place that Vilmos started to go, but the outside air this morning was chillier than usual and it sent a shiver racing down Vilmos’ back. It carried with it sadness and a sudden flood of remembrance. In the back of his mind, Vilmos knew the real reason he watched his mother so closely. One day he would indeed be sent away, far away, because one day the dark priests would come for him.

  Vilmos returned to the house to collect his short cloak. As he ran through the kitchen he stopped beside his mother. Rising up on the tips of his toes, he gave her a single peck on her cheek. For an instant, a smile broke her tired face and fondly she touched hand to cheek.

  “That’s better,” Vilmos shouted to no one in particular as he ran outside, slipping the sleeves of his shielding cloak into place. He could endure the cold now, and in a way, the memory as well.

  “Hurry, breakfast!” shouted Lillath after him, while unconsciously raising a hand to her cheek once more where soft, young lips had touched. Vilmos looked back only for a moment to see this and to catch her eye. She added as he dashed away, “Remember to be careful… Remember what happened to the girl from Olex Village.”

  Guardedly, Seth walked beside Queen Mother. His mind carefully searched while his eyes scanned every shadow the two passed. As First of the Red, her safety was his responsibility. He was against remaining in Sanctuary, but Queen Mother wouldn’t speak of leaving.

  For reasons that escaped Seth, she wanted to use Sanctuary’s High Hall. Its crystalline walls were specially attuned to reflect the feelings of a particular host despite even the best efforts of a mental block or mind shield, and although that was a feat Queen Mother could have easily performed herself, she had said that she wished to conserve her will power. For what, she hadn’t said.

  Queen Mother, is it true, has he truly returned? Has Sathar survived the Dark Journey? Seth sent into her mind as he walked.

  Even now he joins forces with King Mark of West Reach and still others flock to his banner. It is as we most feared. The time has come… May Father and Mother watch over us…

  Will there be war?

  Queen Mother regarded Seth. I will miss you in my thoughts.

  The words caught Seth by surprise. He didn’t understand. The link between protector and queen was unbreakable. He was the watch warden of her body and of her mind. He felt her pain. He knew her anguish, her every anxiety. This was the link. My Queen, I don’t understand. If you break the link, how will I know if you come to harm? I must be able to find you at all times, no matter the circumstance.

  In time, you will Brother Seth. Even traditions that stem from ages past cannot remain forever. Soon it will be time to guard my own thoughts and my own being, jus
t as the first queen had to do. Centuries ago we abandoned our ancestral homes. We fled to this barren land out of fear. We have lived in fear of repeating the past and only succeeded in repeating it.

  Seth was confused and the emotions he cast along with his words showed it. But my queen, you mustn’t. You must direct your will to protect land and people.

  Shh, say no more. We are at High Hall.

  The two passed through the outer antechamber and entered High Hall. Seth remained at Queen Mother’s side. He was pleased to see Brother Ry’al seated behind Brother Samyuehl, First of the Blue Order.

  Greetings, sent Seth to Ry’al, guiding the thought solely to Ry’al’s mind. Seth had not seen Ry’al since the two had been together under Samyuehl’s tutelage, a time during which Seth had learned a great deal—being of the Red Order meant that he had endured the seven teachings as a member of each order and the training with the Blue had been especially interesting.

  Just as Queen Mother took her place and sent her own greetings to the foremost six, each dressed in the appropriately colored robes of their order—Yellow, Brown, Blue, Black, White and Gray—Seth contemplated his long period of tutelage. He then turned to the long rows of cushioned pews to the left and right of the colorful six where the members of High Council sat. As all seemed to be in order, he took his place two paces behind Queen Mother.

  High Hall’s crystalline walls attuned to Queen Mother’s mood. Color spraying forth from the spot where the queen stood, covering the floor, walls and ceiling in a thousand shades of black and gray. When she was certain she had everyone’s attention, Queen Mother reached out her hand to the white satin-pillowed couch that dominated the center of the hall.

  The touch of her hand seemed to melt away the color and then as she levitated in the air above the couch, the white of the satin faded to gray.

  For a few moments before he settled behind the shields in his mind, Seth knew and felt Queen Mother’s every thought and emotion. She was reminding herself that she had been annoyed this morning and had been annoyed many times over many previous days, but not now. Now she needed to keep her mind clear and her thoughts focused. She needed to keep her emotions centered and directed.

  She chose her words carefully now and directed her thoughts outward. Greetings to wise council. Thank you for a speedy assembly…

  Those words were the last Seth heard before he entered the quiet solitude of his mind. His duty was to be present and not to listen in unless directed to. He had many other things to concern himself with besides squabbles amongst High Council or the First Brothers. Again, he feared for Queen Mother’s safety and wondered what would come of his fears.

  Within the folds of his mind, Seth was barely aware of the outside world. Time passed slowly. Then for a single instant, it was as if a breeze had entered his mind—a presence in his thoughts.

  Seth opened his eyes and turned to Queen Mother. She regarded him for a moment then dismissed him by saying, Go now, return to your studies.

  Seth stood his ground, the indignity he felt at the dismissal showing briefly on his face. Then he exited High Hall, speaking not a word.

  A time will come when you will know there are things greater than the self, Queen Mother whispered after him, things greater than our people, and then you will come to terms with the sacrifice I make, but for now return to your studies. You study the ways of Man for a reason. A time of great change comes, a time of change for all. The battle for East Reach is far off, but the battle to save all is already beginning… She paused momentarily then added, Call Brother Galan to my chambers.

  Chapter Two:

  The Winds of Change

  Evening found Adrina in the East wing of the palace. She had been wandering its quiet halls for the last few hours. Hunger had roused her to conscious concerns. She still hadn’t changed into a dinner gown and the evening meal was less than an hour away. She would have to hurry to meet it, and this she did with urgency. She didn’t want to be late, especially after avoiding her duties all day.

  Her chambers were on the upper level of the West wing and while Adrina could have gone down two flights of stairs to the ground level and crossed the gardens to the West wing, she decided to use the private royal access ways. Although this route was longer because she had to go through the North wing, she wouldn’t have to go up or down any stairs. And she didn’t want to stumble into Lady Isador before she changed into her gown—she didn’t want to stumble into Lady Isador at all, especially after avoiding her duties all day.

  Adrina ran full stride down dark corridors that she knew so well she could have closed her eyes and ran along. There was no fear of bumping into anyone, no one but her used them now, and she knew well ahead of time their every turn by the count of her strides. She turned a sharp corner and knew she was entering the North wing. A mostly straight stretch of hallway was ahead and then another sharp turn—the West wing.

  She slowed her gait to catch her breath; the line of light ahead was from the door to her chambers. She stopped outside the door and peeked in. Inside, attendants were waiting to help her with her gown but she didn’t see or hear Lady Isador. She paused a moment more to ensure the governess wasn’t waiting somewhere out of eyesight, then entered.

  The attendants fussed over her hair for a time and helped her put on the gown, but Adrina knew she couldn’t wait for them to finish properly. She rushed out of her room even just as they fully secured the ties of the gown around her waist and neck.

  She raced so fast down the broad central staircase that she nearly ran down the captain of the guard. She stumbled through a curtsy, and then rushed away.

  In the great hall, Andrew, her father, was seated on his kingly chair with its high raised back and stout, straight arms in the true fashion of his office. Catching the gleam in his eye as he looked upon her, Adrina sighed then sat. An attendant pushed her seat forward, and she nodded in response. She was not late, though only barely so.

  “Good evening, father,” Adrina said, while trying to hide the sudden smile that came to her lips. “I trust I am not late?”

  King Andrew swept his gaze around the enormous oblong table to the faces of the honored guests. “Only so, dear Adrina. Only so.”

  Adrina looked to the stone figurehead that was Chancellor Yi. He stood rigidly behind her father in his rightful place as the king’s principal adviser. The old chancellor did not move as he stood there, nor did he ever unless summoned. This was a strange thing since otherwise he was plagued with a habitual cold. A cold complete with runny nose, continuous sniffles and sneezing. A cold that he could turn off and on at will. To Adrina it was a warning sign of the deadening effect of the dreary, gray castle upon the senses, numbing everything away, leaving only the dead and the dying.

  She would watch him while she ate, as she often did, searching for that small, scarcely perceivable shift of muscle or limb that told her he was still alive and not quite dead like some of the courtiers who dined with them and might just as well have been made of the cold stones of the gray wall behind her—they cared just about as much.

  Her stomach rumbled. Adrina looked to the attendants waiting to ferry food to the tables, knowing that the prayer would come first and waiting for Father Tenuus to rise to his feet and clear his throat.

  Father Tenuus was the only member of the priesthood that lived in the palace. Others of the priesthood, like Father Jacob, first priest of Great-Father, had chambers tucked away in the East wing of the palace this was true, but mild times mandated a breaking with old traditions. Now only Father Tenuus remained. The others had long ago abandoned Imtal Palace.

  When the aged priest, given to habitual forgetfulness nearly to the point of annoyance, finally began the invocation, Adrina said her own silent prayer. She hoped he’d finish in record time. Her stomach rumbled again. She was hungry, very hungry.

  Adrina’s eyes wandered to the aged priest as he spoke. Long ago, she had stopped listening to the words he spoke, and so she figured it wasn�
��t necessary to bow her head or close her eyes either. She told herself she would relish the day when he passed on, and then she cursed herself for thinking it. It had been Father Tenuus who had placed the crown on her father’s head on coronation day. Father Tenuus who had joined her mother and father, Alexandria and Andrew, queen and king, in matrimony. And Father Tenuus who had brought her into the world.

  Adrina sighed. The prayer seemed finally over. She watched attendants descend upon the tables carrying plates overloaded with fresh baked breads, platters with golden brown game hens, decanters of wine and an array of steaming dishes carrying wonderful aromas. Her mouth watered. Yet, just when everyone thought Father Tenuus would say “amen,” he began to speak again.

  Adrina tucked a wayward strand of dark hair behind her ear and scowled. She looked around the table. Her father, apparently midway through a smile, frowned, yet made no comment. He never did.

  When Father Tenuus finally did finish, it was a mad dash to get food to the tables while it was still somewhat warm. Adrina watched in earnest as she was served. The rather pale looking man to her right, clothed in a purple velvet overcoat and blue silken shirt, turned a whiter shade of white as he raised a handkerchief to his puffy red nose. He was pretending to be aloof but Adrina knew inside he was probably seething because she was ignoring him.