Second Son (The Minstrel's Song Book 2)

by Jenelle Leanne Schmidt

  “You see truly,” Brant said. “But your vision is clouded as well.”

  The forest rustled. “How so?”

  “If you hold knowledge, it is your duty to pass it on to others, holding these memories back only hurts others more.”

  “You do not truly understand, for you have only been in this land a short time, we can tell. We have become what we are to survive. The myth-folk have left us, taking so much of the magic with them, and we barely remember our own name,” the forest replied sadly. “We remember, yes, but we have forgotten as well. Even the nymphs have forgotten how to dance. They remain locked away… and we cannot remind those who do not want to remember. We must cling selfishly to our knowledge, lest we too forget and drift quietly into the realm of the forgotten.”

  “Forgive me, I spoke without understanding, but I see now.”

  “You have a question?” the forest changed the subject suddenly as such entities are prone to do.

  “I am looking for the one they call the Sorceress, does she live here?”

  The forest rustled as if trying to determine whether or not to answer his question, finally the voice came again, “No, she lives Beyond.”

  “Beyond?”

  “Beyond our borders. There is a cove Beyond. You will find the Keeper there. It has been long since one of you spoke to us, we are deeply grateful. You may travel here without fear, and you are always welcome.”

  “Thank you,” Brant said, bowing slightly.

  The trees rustled in embarrassed pleasure, but the voice remained silent, and the forest did not speak again. Brant would have liked to remain, there was much the forest could teach him, but his quest pulled him on. As he stepped out from the protection of the trees, Brant found himself on the outskirts of a violent storm. The sky above him was dark and the wind whipped his cloak wildly. Rain spattered against him and in seconds he was soaked through. Setting his chin, Brant strode through the storm. The rain poured down his face, making it difficult to see. Lightning crackled near him and thunder rumbled deafeningly across the sky. He struggled on doggedly. When he had gone no more than a hundred paces the storm ceased. It was as though he had stepped out from beneath a waterfall. Brant turned around and saw that the storm was still raging on behind him. He had passed through it and was now standing on the other side.

  “The storm is a barrier, it has to be,” he muttered to himself in wonder, understanding at last. “I wonder if the sorceress…” he trailed off and turned back to the open, grassy plain, ready to finish his journey.

  He had not taken three steps when the plain suddenly disappeared and he found himself standing on the edge of a great precipice. A dark and angry sea foamed and swirled fifty paces below him and sharp, dagger-like rocks seemed to stretch up from the sea as though they were reaching for him. A moment of dizziness flooded through Brant’s consciousness and he stumbled backwards a step in fear. He stared down at the sea that had not been there a moment before.

  “This is an illusion,” he realized. Calling upon the magic in his Oath he spoke, “Truth.”

  As soon as the familiar word left his mouth he felt a strange tingling sensation on his neck and realized that he was countering more than just a simple illusion. This was the work of great magic. Both precipice and ocean faded away. Now he stood before a swirling gray mist. The mist was so thick it was opaque. He stuck out a hand to touch the mist and found nothing substantial to stop him from continuing on. Brant hesitated for the briefest of instants, wishing he could see the other side of this barrier. He envisioned the cliff and the drop once more, but decided that whoever had put up this wall had gone to great lengths to keep people out. No one would waste such magical energy just to disguise a sheer drop off.

  He stepped through the wall and immediately found himself on the other side; the ground was covered in pure white sand. Above him the sky was sapphire blue and the Dragon’s Eye blazed brightly overhead, bathing him in waves of golden warmth. Within seconds he found that he was completely dry. This side of the barrier shimmered with many different colors, like the surface of a bubble. The colors reminded him of sea-spray reflecting the light of the Dragon’s Eye into brief rainbows.

  “Welcome,” the quiet, musical voice jerked Brant around and nearly caused him to trip and fall.

  A woman, dressed in a white gown that shimmered and sparkled like the pearl-colored sand beneath his feet greeted him. She was barefoot and her white-blond hair fell about her shoulders in soft waves. Her mint-green eyes pierced his heart and he felt ashamed to be standing in her presence.

  “I-I am looking for…”

  “For the fabled sorceress of the sands? The enchantress that makes these shores her home and casts evil spells upon unsuspecting passersby?” the woman laughed. “Yes, I know. You have found her.”

  “My lady,” Brant said in awe. “I had thought there to be truth behind the rumors. Forgive me.”

  “Curiosity is not evil. Believe me; had I not wanted you to come here, you would not be here. I have more than illusions to protect me. You came to learn, and I am here to teach.”

  “Learn what?”

  “Whatever I care to teach you, Boy.”

  Brant bristled a bit at this; she had no right to call him ‘Boy’ when he was a fully grown man and probably older than her. He studied her, but could not guess her age. Though she appeared young, her eyes were deep wells of wisdom. Her lips curved upwards as she guessed at his thoughts.

  “There is much you do not understand as of yet. I will start at the beginning, and soon you will understand. For one, I am not a sorceress. I am Calyssia, daughter of Scelwhyn.”

  “I’ve met you before!” he exclaimed.

  “Yes, I was wondering if you would remember. This is my home, the Pearl Cove, of which I am the Keeper.”

  She turned, motioning him to follow. “You must forgive me for calling you ‘Boy,’” she said. “But you seem so young to me. You see, I also am older than I look, you would never guess my age, but I am a wizardess, and we live much longer than humans. My years number two hundred and seventy-five.”

  If Brant had not been the son of a king, his jaw would have dropped open in astonishment; however, he merely glanced at the woman in faint surprise to see if she was serious.

  “Yes, it is true. But what about yourself? I cannot teach if I do not understand my student, and you, I think, are more than you seem as well. Start with your name, is it really Brant?”

  Brant looked at her for a long moment, trying to decide what would be safe to tell her. Finally he spoke, “My name is Brant, My Lady. I am from Llycaelon, the island that most people in Aom-igh refer to as the Dark Country.” Brant continued on, telling her everything about his past, his family, and his travels, until he came to the part where he was shipwrecked on Aom-igh and met Arnaud.

  When Brant had finished his tale, Calyssia remained silent for a time. He did not say anything more, but he wondered what she was thinking. Her face was an impenetrable mask and he could not read it.

  At length she spoke. “I see. You have learned much, and thus my job is made easier. I have decided what I shall teach you. I will teach you about Aom-igh, that you may better understand this place that you now call home. I will teach you as much as I can, but I fear my time is short, for you will not stay here long.”

  “What do you mean?” Brant asked. “I have been here but an hour, yet I feel as though I had been here all my life; if you will allow me, I will remain here in peace the rest of my days.”

  Calyssia shook her head; there was a decided twinkle in her eye. “No, even if I could allow it, yet you would not stay. Your path is guided by powers far greater than my own. When you have learned enough you will grow restless and you will leave. I will not stop you.”

  Brant made a noise as if to object, but Calyssia continued, not allowing him to speak, “Here is where you will stay.” She pointed to a small house and at Brant’s questioning look she explained, “P
earl Cove is not only my domain, but the domain of many others as well. They come here, seeking protection, seeking peace, seeking a home, a family, or just seeking to make their lives different; here they find what they seek. If the Cove lets them in, I let them stay, for as long as they wish.”

  ❖ ❖ ❖

  “Majesty, you are not going out riding now?” Ewan’s voice was filled with dubiousness.

  “Yes,” Arnaud replied.

  “But, Sire! The treaty with Roalthae needs signing, and you are supposed to have dinner with the Baron of…”

  Arnaud waved a hand impatiently. “It’s not even midday! Leave the signing for another hour, and I promise I’ll be back in time for dinner with his Baroncy of self-importance.”

  The tone of sarcasm in Arnaud’s voice seemed to stun the words out of poor Ewan, who waved his hands ineffectually.

  “Your Majesty!” Ewan finally gasped in true horror. “You should not make such comments!”

  “I am fed up with nobles of all kinds,” Arnaud said sharply, his patience wearing thin. “Let them work a single day in true poverty and then they can come complaining to me about what is or is not fair or how some marauder has made off with one of their head of cattle. Still, I suppose you’re right, Ewan” Arnaud relented, remembering his promise to Scelwhyn that he would try harder. “But that doesn’t mean that I’m not going riding before dinner.”

  “I will put the documents for the treaty in your room, Majesty. They do need to be signed by tomorrow.”

  Arnaud conveyed his thanks and strode off to the stables for the only true peace he could find as of late. His mount was ready and waiting for him, which normally would have annoyed him, as he liked to care for his horse himself, but today he was short on time and he determined to make sure the stable boy responsible got a bonus wage. He mounted up and sped away from the palace grounds. When he had first become king, his servants had not allowed him to go riding alone. He had been forced to take an armed guard with him everywhere. This had merely served to make Arnaud practice his weaponry even harder until he could best any of the knights in the realm except Garen. Once he had demonstrated his skill with a sword, no one raised any complaints when he went riding on his own, though Arnaud was positive some still wanted to. He had, however, made a semblance of peace with his servants. They did not treat him as though he would break, and he did not attempt to part with too many of the royal traditions.

  The forest behind the palace was his haven. It was old and filled with an aura of mystery and Arnaud loved it. Over the past several years he had done much exploring of the wood. He now knew many of its secret paths, streams, and clearings even better than he knew the palace. Every day he tried to explore a little further, find something he had not found before. Today, however, Arnaud was simply riding, relishing in his brief moments of freedom.

  “I’m not a proper king, am I?” he said as he rode. He had begun talking to his horse on his daily rides, reasoning that the horse was perhaps the only creature he really had to talk to, and it was just an added bonus that Phantom could not talk back.

  The horse shook its head with a snort and Arnaud patted his neck. “Glad to see you agree, that makes it unanimous. I am sorry for giving my staff such fits. But what do you think they expected? Raising a farmer to the throne, they really ought to have thought about it a bit more, you see…” Arnaud stopped mid-ramble for something out of the ordinary had caught his attention.

  He stopped, reigning Phantom in. He listened, hoping to hear the strange noise again. After a moment, he did. It came floating to his ears on the breeze.

  “Do you hear that?” he whispered to the horse. “It is our mystery singer again. Remember? We heard her singing about a week ago; we must find her this time though. Come on!”

  He turned his horse in the direction of the singing, determined to find the source of such haunting music. He had caught its notes on more than one occasion, wafting to his ears on the breeze, but had never discovered the musician herself. He thought briefly that it might be a trap, though of what kind he could not guess, but he cast the thought away even as it occurred to him. If such danger existed one of his servants would surely have warned him of it; they had certainly warned him of everything else, from low hanging branches to poison vines.

  Arnaud followed the strange melody through the forest, riding deeper and deeper into the woods. He finally came to what appeared to be the source of the singing. There was a copse of weeping willows that Arnaud suddenly remembered coming across quite by accident some time ago. The willows ringed a clear pool that was fed by a stream that branched off of the Farrendell River.

  Arnaud dismounted and crept to the willow trees. He peered around a great trunk. There was the pool he remembered. Next to the pond was an old, weathered stone bench. It was comfortable, he could attest to that, having sat upon it when he first found this spot. However, it was not the pool or the bench that drew Arnaud’s attention this day, it was the singer.

  She was sitting on a little patch of grass near the pond. The spot where she sat was lit by a direct ray of sunlight that reflected off her softly curling golden hair. A small breeze floated about her, causing wisps of her hair to swirl around her face. She was dressed plainly and wearing a crown of daisies in her hair. She was weaving more daisies together and singing merrily, unaware of her silent audience.

  The song she was singing was slow and haunting and it sent chills through Arnaud. He recognized the song, it was old and one of his favorites, but hearing her sing it was like hearing the song for the first time.

  The song was based on a story about the Wryllewyrn, a mythical forest, and a nymph named Rahnieal. Rahnieal had been born to a water nymph who had fallen in love with a mortal. Alas, it was forbidden for a nymph to love a human, and even moreso in this story as Rahnieal’s mother had been the daughter of the River Queen. As often happens in such tales it was Rahnieal who bore the punishment. She was a creature of both forest and river, and thus was not allowed to leave the Wryllewyrn, though the Farrendell River called to her and she longed to swim away with it. The story had a happy ending, though this song in particular did not mention it. At long last, a prince ventured into the Wryllewyrn to free the fair Rahnieal from the curse that lay upon her. He journeyed far across the land until he came to the great cave of a dragon who challenged him with a riddle. The prince solved the riddle and the dragon gave him a spell that would allow Rahnieal to choose between a mortal human life or the life of a water nymph. The prince returned to the Wryllewyrn and gave the spell to Rahnieal, the true love of his heart. When she discovered what he had gone through for her, and the freedom he had given her when he could have bound her to himself without her consent, she recognized the purity of his love and chose to leave both forest and river to be at his side where she remained until the end of her days.

  Arnaud had always loved the story of Rahnieal and now he allowed himself to become enchanted by the melody once again. The girl’s voice echoed off the pond and filled the circle of willows with its low, eerie melody. Arnaud closed his eyes, content just to listen and be carried away on the wings of the mournful music.

  The Silver Wood

  (Also called "The River Queen’s Daughter")

  Lilting land

  oh

  silver woods

  the

  gentle breezes

  through them floods.

  The high lissome branches softly grow,

  lost and lonely rivers flow

  land of enchantment sweetly glides

  crystal stars speckle dark skies.

  Lady White

  Oh

  Lady White

  your face shines

  with

  silver light.

  Your name be called

  Rahnieal

  Daughter Queen

  of

  Farrendell.

  Your eyes hold truth and seek the souls

  of all who dare to meet your gaze. />
  Myst and magic

  land of dreams

  That

  never ends

  And

  never sleeps

  We

  mourn to leave

  And

  long to return

  To

  Silver Woods

  Fair

  Wryllewyrn.

  The last note wavered in the air, rising in strength and then drifting away slowly. Arnaud opened his eyes as the song faded. He stepped hesitantly through the border of trees.

  “Thank you, that was beautiful,” he said, his voice full of undisguised admiration.

  “Do you make a habit of creeping up on people?” the young woman stared up at him in surprised mirth, her dark blue eyes widening at the sight of him.

  “I’m sorry,” Arnaud said quickly, feeling as though he was intruding. “I heard you singing… it was beautiful. Silver Wood has always been one of my favorites.”

  “Mine too,” the girl said quietly, smiling now.

  Arnaud suddenly peered at her face more closely. Recognition dawned. “We danced at the celebration!”

  The girl laughed in delight. “You remember me!”

  Arnaud flushed bright red and stared down at the toes of his boots. “Uh…” he stammered, finding the words suddenly difficult to say, “f-forgive me, but… I never did catch your name.”

  She stared at him for a moment, as though trying to determine if he was joking. She seemed to decide he was in earnest and flashed him a look filled with uncontained merriment.