The elves traded looks but none spoke to this.
“We shall delve into those implications later,” the queen said. “For now, let us begin. Behind you there is a large stone. Can you try to lift it for us?”
Whill looked at the stone, and with a lazy raising of his hand, he caused the stone to rise from the floor slowly. He let it float there and turned toward the elves. A few scribbled upon leaf parchment with feathered quill. Others nodded, and still a few remained motionless.
“You may lower it now,” said a tall elf with short, spiky black hair and a robe similar to Zerafin’s. His dark skin told Whill that the elf spent most of his days in the sun, but then Whill remembered that many elves could change their appearance with but a thought. With elves, appearance meant far less than it might for dwarves or humans.
“I am called Arngil Enlar. I am a master in the art of Krundar.”
“Greetings, Arngil,” said Whill politely.
“Greetings. I am interested to see the extent of your abilities in my school of knowledge. Can you cause the flame to touch the stone?”
Whill looked at the fire. He remembered that he had sent it back at Eadon once before learning of Avriel’s fate. He lifted a hand to the flame, and as his hand moved in the direction of the stone, so too did the flame until it engulfed the boulder.
“And the water, can you cause it to extinguish the fire?”
Before the elf had finished speaking Whill had turned and caused the water to rise up like a serpent and engulf the lantern, putting out the fire.
“And wind, I assume that you can control that as well?” asked Arngil.
Whill thought for a moment, unsure. “I do not know; I have never tried.”
“Please do,” said the elf.
Whill turned to the leafed curtains at the entrance of the pyramid. He extended his consciousness outward and beyond. Concentrating upon the unseen currents of air outside, he summoned them to him. Nothing happened at first, but then slowly a breeze entered the room. The curtains wavered gently as Whill’s hold on the air currents became stronger. Suddenly they blew inward and a gale gusted through the room, scattering papers and sending Whill’s hair dancing.
“Thank you, that will be enough!” said Arngil over the torrent.
Whill released the wind and faced the counsel of masters once again. Arngil said no more and took his seat. Whill could not tell from his face whether the elf was pleased or not.
Another elf stood. She was scantily clad in leaves much like Azzeal wore, and her green hair seemed to be intermingled with red and yellow moss. Whill assumed she was a Ralliad, or druid, like his friend.
“Greetings, Whill, it is a pleasure and indeed an honor to meet you. I am called Flouren En Fen, and I am Ralliad.”
“Greetings, Flouren En Fen.”
“Are you able to change form, be it animal or plant?”
“No,” Whill admitted. “I have no skills in the school of Ralliad.”
“Hmm.” She hummed to herself. “Would you mind trying here for us today?”
“I will try,” said Whill, unsure of what it was he should try, or even how to begin.
“We will start simply, then, with a test used for initiates.” She pointed at a small pot that was set apart from the other items. Within the pot Whill could see a small seedling that had recently sprouted from the earth around it.
“Try to make the plant grow,” she said with all seriousness.
Whill made his way to the pot slowly and squatted next to it. He put his hand over it but then self-consciously withdrew it. “I don’t even know where to begin.”
“That is understandable, as you have not studied the science needed to understand the process,” said Flouren.
“Should I just will it to grow?” he asked.
“If you wish; this is not a lesson but a test,” Flouren replied.
With a sigh Whill slowly extended his hand over the pot and closed his eyes. With his mind-sight he looked at the seedling and its small roots within the dirt. He wondered how he could possibly make it grow; plants needed water and light, after all. Without sun and water it is impossible. But aren’t those things just forms of energy? If I can give the seedling the energy it needs to grow in a form that it can use, perhaps it will work.
Abandoning mind-sight he looked up to see everyone patiently watching and waiting. How long he had been studying the plant he did not know.
“Take your time,” said Flouren patiently.
Whill nodded a thankful affirmation and resumed his pondering. With mind-sight once again he looked deeper into the small sprout. He saw the bright life force surrounding it, and the minute webbed tendrils of dancing light that swirled throughout. The seedling was tiny, but the closer Whill looked, the more intricate it became; it seemed there was no end to how far he could see into it. He quickly realized that this task was well beyond him. If he had time to learn its systems he would be able to do it, he was sure. But that was not the point of the tests, he remembered; he was being tested on raw ability.
Accepting that he could not figure out how it worked in such a short time, he stood from the pot and sighed. “This task is beyond my current knowledge,” he told the group.
Flouren smiled at his words. “If I am not mistaken, you have not begun to try, you have only examined it. Did you know how to move stone from study? Or fire, for that matter?”
“No,” Whill answered truthfully.
“Then please try to make the plant grow. Your abilities seem to be hampered not by lack of knowledge.”
Whill wondered if he had just been insulted, however politely. He redoubled his focus and stared intently at the sprout. He willed the thing to grow, pictured the result he intended, and called upon Adromida. His palm face down, he directed his energy and will into the soil and sprout.
The dirt began to vibrate and shudder upon the floor. To Whill’s amazement, the seedling grew. The growth was slow and stopped for a moment when he lost focus from his surprise, but it grew all the same. He cleared his mind of expectation and emotion and willed the plant to grow once again. The pot shuddered and the dirt danced as water might on a hot skillet. The plant doubled and then tripled its size. A leaf and then two and three grew out from the main stem and Whill poured more energy into it. With his left hand he reached in the direction of the water he had used before, and from the bowl came a sphere of floating water the size of an apple. He directed the water to the plant, and when it hit the vibrating soil the plant shot up rapidly as if from a jester’s sleeve. Up it grew until it was two feet tall and covered in orange leaves and flowers. Whill stopped, his work done.
He marveled at his creation with a delighted smile. He then understood how easy it would be to get caught up in the thrill of creation, and forget the morals of natural boundaries as Eadon had. He also understood that he should not have such powers, for he had not learned the ways; somehow he simply did it. He knew that many of the elves must be jealous of him, as many of the dark elves had been.
Abram’s words came back to him then: “Power without wisdom is as a child with fire.” Whill realized then that he was like a child playing with fire. He backed away from the flower he had created as if it had spoken to him.
“Well done,” said Flouren, and many of the masters agreed. But the note of her voice had a begrudging quality, be it a faint one.
Whill looked from the flower to the seated masters, Zerafin and the queen. “I should not be able to do this,” he said quietly, as if to himself. Louder still he repeated, “I should not be able to do this. I have not studied the art; I do not even know how I did it.”
“We know, Whill,” said the queen. “This is the very thing we are attempting to understand. Please, there will be time for reflection later. For now the tests must continue.”
Whill nodded reluctant acceptance and closed his eyes to focus the mind. Another elf stood from his seat and with raised voice called out to someone unseen, “Bring in the volunteers!”
“I am called Libratus,” said the elf standing at the table. “I am master of the school of Arnarro.”
“Greetings,” said Whill with slight trepidation. He could see where this test was going and he didn’t like it.
“Are you ready to begin?” asked Libratus.
“I do not want these women to be pained for my sake. I can show you that I can heal on myself.”
“Please,” said Libratus. “This is the will of the masters. These women have volunteered on their own accord; it is an honor to them. Precautions have been taken, no pain will be felt.”
“You want to do this?” Whill asked the female elves.
“Yes!” said one.
“It is an honor, Whill…Whill of Agora,” said another.
The rest nodded in eager agreement. Whill sighed with resignation. “Very well.”
“Let us begin, then. Minrell, please step forward,” said Libratus.
The elf to the left of the group stepped forward. A dagger appeared from under her sleeve, and with it she cut a long line along the palm of her other hand. She did not flinch as the blood began to spill; she only looked at Whill happily.
Whill quickly stretched out his right hand, and from it, writhing blue tendrils of healing energy snaked the short distance through the air and surrounded her injured palm. The elf shuddered slightly in apparent ecstasy of the contact with one so clearly revered. He ended the healing and looked as they all did at the elf’s uninjured palm.
“Very good. And now, Drellen, if you would,” said Libratus.
A red-haired elf with bright green eyes stepped forward and without warning plunged her own dagger into her exposed thigh and yanked it upward, splitting it from above the knee to hip and exposing white bone.
“In the name of the gods!” Whill swore and watched horrified as blood spurted from an artery. He quickly extended a hand, and the healing tendrils surrounded and penetrated her gaping wound. After a time the gash was healed, and though the elf swooned from loss of blood, she was all right.
“That is enough of this test! Do you understand? I will not abide more of this lunacy,” Whill threatened.
Libratus bowed slightly, concern shadowing his brow. “We do not mean to offend. We only wish to know the extent of your abilities.”
“Then I shall set fire to myself and be made anew. I will not see more blood spilled.”
Libratus looked around as if estimating the other masters’ consensus. “Very well. We have seen enough for now.” He returned to his seat and the four female elves left the way they had come in. Whill saw disappointment in the eyes of those who had not gotten a turn, and he hid a small shudder at their fanatical mindset.
Next a gray-haired elf, ancient but strong-looking, stood. His lokata bore black and gray swirling patterns, and it hurt Whill’s eyes to stare at them too long. The elf had silver-and-black-streaked hair to match, sticking straight up from his head in long pointed spikes. A ring adorned each finger and he wore many bracelets on each wrist. From his lone silver necklace a large oval onyx pendant hung heavily, and within the stone fiery tones danced wildly.
“I am called Ornarell, master of the school of Zionar,” the elf said as he took long deliberate steps to the small stair and onto the sand. His eyes were almost unbearable to look at for too long, liquid smoke that seemed to churn the longer Whill stared, with a sudden piercing pinpoint of light that bore through Whill’s very being.
Ornarell’s eyes locked on his and Whill could not look away. He felt time slow and then detected a presence at the corners of his mind. Ornarell’s eyes flashed and settled in a scowl, his pointed silver eyebrows arching like rooftops.
Suddenly Whill was not in the pyramid. There were no elves and no sand nor light. Whill was nowhere. A light pierced the darkness and stung Whill’s senses—the light from Ornarell’s swirling eyes, now alive with white inner fire.
“I have brought you here so that you might understand the power to be gained down the path of the Zionar,” said the elf in a deep voice.
“Attempting to take over or delve into another’s mind is a crime among your people. Do you mean me harm? If so, let’s have at it. I have been a prisoner of the dark elves two seasons; you will not find my mind an easy fortress to conquer.”
“If I wanted to conquer your mind, you would now be my puppet. That is not my goal. I have brought you here to help you understand what others of less…restraint might attempt.” The elf’s voice hummed and he seemed to glide closer, the smoky storm of his eyes flashing with silver lightning.
“Where is here?” Whill demanded. “If it is not my mind, then whose?”
“I have not invaded your mind; no crime has been committed here” came Ornarell’s retort. He glided around Whill’s corporeal form, his gaze never leaving Whill’s as they turned in the darkness. “We are within the dream world. It can be made to be as elaborate as our own, but for these purposes, this will do.”
Stubbornly Whill followed the elf’s gaze, though the swirling silver fog made him disoriented and dizzy. He fought the sensation. He had not determined whether or not Ornarell had ill intent; he had not attacked, and Whill felt that he spoke the truth of the dream world—he had been here before many times, and had mistaken the familiar sensation for home, his own mind.
“And what is my test?” Whill asked. “To break free?”
“No, you could not break free if you tried,” said Ornarell matter-of-factly.
“Then I am a prisoner here in this dream world of yours?” Whill asked, slight anger creeping into his words.
“Would you like to leave?” asked the elf, still moving around Whill with storm-torn eyes.
“Do I need your permission?” Whill retorted, pressing the issue.
“Of course not. Simply wake up,” offered Ornarell.
Whill let his own stare bore into Ornarell’s. “My will is that of the world, my thoughts become reality. Or have you not seen the previous tests? What then do you think I could do here in the dream world?”
“What can you do? That remains to be seen,” said Ornarell coolly.
Whill closed his eyes and focused his will. He thought of the sun, and reached out to the ancient blade he knew still hung from his physical body. A rumbling arose in the eternal darkness of the conjured dream world, and with a deafening report, a sun was born far away. Giant waves spilled from the darkness and a mountain shimmered into existence. Next land and trees appeared and a blue sky above. Ornarell’s eyes no longer dominated the reality of the dream world. The two stood upon a cliff at the edge of the land. To Whill’s right the ocean crashed violently into the cliff, sending spray shooting high above their heads and turning to a drizzle that bathed them in seawater. Off in the distance but moving fast came a thunderhead. Thunder rolled across the land and the wind doubled as lightning battled within the rolling storm. Whill looked at Ornarell with a smirk. “Best take care. A storm is coming.”
The elf smiled and then burst out laughing; his sudden hysterics were slightly unsettling, as were his maniacal eyes and lightning-charged hair. “The youngest of babes can conjure within a dream! But all too often their conjured worlds turn on them,” he bellowed against the approaching storm. With his final word the monolithic thunderhead shimmered and changed into thousands of screeching dragons. They shifted from the storm’s previous heading and bore down upon Whill. Ornarell was somehow now far away, observing from a distant cliff as the dragons dove to devour Whill. Finding his blade at his side, Whill unsheathed it and drove it i
nto the ground. The earth heaved and rumbled and from the ocean came a serpent of such magnitude that it blocked out the sun and turned day into night. The shimmering green serpent opened its colossal mouth and devoured the dragons. It reared back and sunlight spilled onto the world for just a moment before it struck down from the clouds to devour Ornarell. The elf raised a hand as if to alter once again the corporeal form of the thunderhead-turned-serpent, and strike back at Whill.
Whill channeled massive amounts of energy and focused his entire being upon the diving green serpent. He could feel Ornarell’s attempt to alter the dream creature, but Whill would not allow it. Soon Ornarell had frantically spent his conjured power and his will faltered. The snake crashed into the cliff and the world shuddered.
Whill opened his eyes and watched as a screaming Ornarell fell backward into the bench of the masters. He realized that virtually no time had passed here within the pyramid; they had been within the dream world, and there time had no hold, reason no bearing. Many jumped as the Zionar master slammed into the bench with a cry. Libratus moved to help the other master up, but his hand was shoved away. Ornarell got to his feet and took three quick strides to stand before Whill. So close did he come that their noses nearly touched. The Zionar master scowled his pointed-eyebrow scowl.
“I have seen enough. He has convinced me of his prowess in the art.” Ornarell looked Whill over from head to toe. “Though I did not go very hard on him, he has passed my test…for now.”
Strangely, Whill decided that he liked the mysterious if slightly dark Zionar master. He had learned from Avriel during one of their frequent, hour-long talks that Zionars mainly used their powers of the mind on animals, and aside from druids, they were the best animal trainers in existence. They could control entire herds of cattle or packs of wolves, even insects. Anything with a brain was fair game for Zionars, with the exception of the sentient races.
Zerafin gave Whill a questioning look, but Whill only shrugged as Ornarell returned to his place among the masters.
Whill of Agora: Epic Fantasy Bundle (Books 1-4): (Whill of Agora, A Quest of Kings, A Song of Swords, A Crown of War) (Legends of Agora) Page 80
