He had always preferred the back entrance to the fabled city because the guards were not as numerous and he was, more times than not, able to avoid their detection and surprise his family with his presence. His family. He was not family by blood, because he was not an Elf, let alone one with Royalty running through his veins; however, he had been raised by the Royal Family for the entirety of his life. His mother, the Elf Queen, would say only that he must have been formed by the stars themselves because his inner light shone so brightly she confused him for an Elf when she found him floating on a small, makeshift raft on the Trindonovorn River on her forty-fifth birthday. When pressed regarding further details of his finding, she would say only that it must have been fate, because she fell in love with him immediately, and subsequently insisted to the then King on raising him as the youngest of two sons.
Rendunial was three years his elder, and because of that, always excelled beyond Eriboth when they were both of an age to participate in similar activities as instructed by the decree of The King. Eriboth was given the exact same education as Rendunial. After all, if he was to be raised as a member of the royal family and as an elf, then he was indeed both, and his inclusion in all things Elvish was a mandate containing no elements of choice, including his success. At first, the distance between their respective skills was very large. Eriboth remembered, time and time again, being bested by his elder brother in all matters of his education. It seemed like years went by before the distance between their skill levels began to close. But close they did.
Eriboth spent hour after labored hour practicing all of the martial techniques, studying in all of the books, and perfecting his chosen art form, poetry. Rendunial was a gracious older brother and used to pity him because he was not an elf, but when Eriboth became his equal in combat with and without the sword, his pity turned to admiration leading to a bond of true friendship beyond the familial ties of brotherhood. For many years they were inseparable. They studied together and pushed each other through friendly competition resulting in both of their masteries in many forms of elven study. And though they were regarded as the next Thrisdial and Kligoron (the two greatest Elven Heroes in the Age of Kings), perhaps the greatest combination of their skills came when Eriboth put words to Rendunial's music. There existed not a single ear they could not enthrall when the synergy of their artistic talents was put to the intent of melding into what was perceived as the substance of the stars being manifest into an audible miracle. The eloquence of his poetic verse and the perfection of his brother's lute rendered all such listeners mute, for none dared to interrupt their act of divinity.
But that bond would be tried as the responsibilities of being first in line for kingship began to demand more and more of his older brother's time. It began subtly, with Rend missing their morning martial devotion only occasionally, but soon following, he was absent more times than not, as were the harmonious melodies that were once partnered with Eriboth's words. And when his succession was formally announced, years before their father, The King, would be diagnosed with the mysterious disease that would eventually lead to his death, Rend, his brother and friend, was gone entirely. After his father had passed, on the very eve of his brother's coronation celebration, Eriboth decided to leave his home to see the land and become the man he wanted to be.
The aging process of all Elves slowed significantly after their thirtieth birthday. And Eriboth had just turned thirty-four. It would not be too far off when he began displaying an age greater than the years of even his adoptive parents. Though he was never made to feel like anything but an elf, there was still a growing part of him that felt he did not entirely connect with everything that he was. He knew history, but it was elvish history. He knew combat, but it was elvish combat. He knew the arts, but it was the elvish arts. He knew aspects of all culture, but it was entirely elvish. He knew very little about man, and because of this, knew very little about the intricacies of his heritage. Ever since his thirty-third birthday and his Indri Primos, he felt a gravity to life outside the Great Green Forest. And when he was without the friendship he held with his elder brother influencing his decisions and actions, he could no longer deny this gravity was born of something greater than desire. It had become a need. For a time, he was able to stem the flow of this need, but when he witnessed his brother's rise to the pinnacle of elvish regality, he could deny it no longer. So, during the celebration feast following the coronation, when the music and revelry was at its peak, when all Elves were immersed within the jubilation of new found hope, Eriboth quietly took his leave of Meckthenial and all things elvish.
Though he saw most of the known world over his years of traveling and wandering, when he did return home, it would be for the Iglandonin. More often than not, he was forced to miss the yearly celebration because of the demands regarding the life he had built. However, when his attentions were not focused in the areas directly leading to his renown as a warrior and poet, he would make the long journey (and it did always seem like a long journey) as frequently as he could. This year, however, was a special Iglandonin. This year his presence and participation was formally requested by the Princess Glinovia, his Star Daughter. It was her thirty-third birthday, and her turn to speak in the ancient language of the Elves from atop the Sun Dais during her Indri Primos.
In Elvish mythology, as expressed in numerous children's books, Dragons had played an essential role in all aspects of not just elvish culture, but all cultures of Avendia from its creation to molding its history through direct intervention. However, according to the myths, the Dragons had long since retreated from the physical world. Having been displeased with the condition of mortality and seeing no hope for its return to a graceful existence, they left the current reality they governed preferring the purity of a spiritual existence. Thus, their physical forms, as well as their ability to physically influence Avendia, were shed when they projected themselves into the Astral Plane. However, before they left, they gave one last boon to the race of Elves, the oldest of all races. According to the myths and stories written by the oldest and most celebrated elvish storytellers, The Dragon King, Lacorion, imparted unto them their spoken language. And while the Elves and all other races of Avendia spoke in the common tongue, the Indri Primos represented the historical significance of their ancient language. So, as tradition dictated, and Elves valued tradition as much as the air they breathed, a focus of the ceremony was to have the Primos recite in this ancient language. Regardless of the fantastic tales surrounding its formation, it was still hallowed as the central defining aspect of elvish superiority. As such, the Indri Primos was singular in its distinction. So when he received the formal invitation while he was spending time with High King Yahnaros as his personal body guard and royal court poet, it was an easy decision to give up all the benefits both positons held, in order to possess the freedom to make the journey once again.
When he was within perhaps five miles of the back gate to The City of Light, out of the corner of his much attuned eye, he caught a fleeting glimpse of a flash of bright yellow. He instinctively paused to glace in its direction, seeking to get a better observance while attempting to conceal his presence. Even though he was within the boundaries of the Elven Kingdom, his enemies were such that he had to maintain a constant state of awareness lest he be taken by surprise. Complacency was often times the root of demise for the warrior, especially a warrior with his reputation, admittedly well earned. As the Warrior Poet of Avendia, he frequently found himself participating in a duel to the death over the honor of this woman or that woman. Several Lords, merchants, tradesmen, and peasants had forfeited their lives to him because they could not let him walk away. How was he to blame if his natural talent exposed within some listeners emotional desires they had previously attempted to keep hidden? He was not acting upon anything that was not there, nor was he purposely manipulating women to lay with him when they did not desire it.
He always attempted to leave his current place of habitation befor
e events of a life and death nature ensued; however, there were always those times when he was either chased by Lords on horseback as he was fleeing, or confronted while he was yet still in his current dwelling place. Either way, his was the way to offer a truce to the confrontation, even going so far as self-banishment and payment of reparations, yet he found that the passions of the men of Avendia, most times, were stronger than their sense of business or desire for self-preservation.
The many times as he was challenged became the same number of times he emerged victorious. But they were also the times he deepened in his sorrow and longed for home. None had seen death like him. None could for none were as adept at dealing it out whether in single combat, or battles on the open field while at the command of an army. He killed, he won, and he wooed. That is who he had become, and all he would ever become. Therefore, when word of the Princess's invitation found his ear, there was no decision to be made. Going home would allow the burden he carried to be forgotten momentarily. A burden, in truth, he wished he was never meant to carry for it was growing with each passing year.
There it was again. Set vividly against the back drop of the lush and endless hues of green made famous by the Great Green Forest, he saw a flash of sun drenched yellow blink into existence only to become hidden as quickly as it was revealed. Stopping his progression toward the rear entrance to his childhood home, he began to silently walk in the direction of this deep yellow flash. Because of his time spent in nature, he had developed a rather keen appreciation for all of its splendors in regards to some of the most uncommonly seen birds. He found that they, apart for any other creatures, contained a brilliance of color that could stop the eye. So it was with anticipation that he might finally catch a glimpse of another of the rare birds of the Great Green Forest; the Yellow Star. A bird that had been able to avoid is appreciation thus far.
Seconds later, he saw it again blink into existence multiple times, except now, it was accompanied by several bright and clearly metallic flashes as they reflected the sunlight set at the perfect angle. Still closer he progressed, wondering what the Yellow Star could be holding in its small beak. The closer he approached, the more he realized he was not witnessing one or two yellow birds gathering materials to make their nest, but rather the patterned movements of a rehearsed martial form. The flashes of metal were not held in a beak, but gripped in two hands. And the yellow flashes were not produced by the brilliant yellow feathers of the Yellow Star, but instead the long and beautiful yellow locks of hair from a woman. The martial patterns he was able to see through the foliage were not those of elvish design, however. The steps were slightly too heavy and slightly too rushed. But regardless of their flaws, he was impressed with the speed and directional combinations of the flashes of yellow and metal now highlighting his field of green dominated vision.
When he was close enough to catch the full scope of what his eyes were longing to see, but still remained hidden from his object of observation, he was instantly amazed. Indeed, he was not watching an elf systematically progress through the series of static and dynamic forms of the elves martial techniques. He was instead watching a human female spin, whirl, twist, kick, and strike while wielding two smaller blades. Just as the leather of her blades were wrapped in alternating black and red strips, so too was her body clothed in an alternating red and black pattern of light leather armor. Amazingly, she was able to keep perfect balance admits the violently complex movement combinations while wearing a style of boot he had seen only in the ballrooms of the royalty in the southern lands. The heal of it must have been lifted nearly six total inches above the placement of her toes. He had seen many an experienced courtier and princess go spilling to the ground while attempting the simplest steps of the simplest dance; yet this woman was able to hold her balance perfectly while she danced the lethal dance of blades upon uneven ground. For that reason and that reason alone, she held his respect and wonder.
Once he allowed his eyes to avert their attention and analysis from her beautiful footwork, they were next drawn to the deep flashes of yellow that produced his initial notice. Her hair, brilliant and blonde, long and full, flowed as if it was part of the intricate martial maneuvers. At one time, wild and straight, and at another, flowing and demure, he was forced to stand in wonderment at its completeness to hold him captive. All but mesmerized by her poetic whole, he was beginning to instinctively devise a plan to compel her to stop so he could witness her in what would be, all the splendor of stillness. So intent was her devotion to her current endeavor, she had not noticed him and his increased breathing. He decided that boldness was the only avenue of action that would produce the respect necessary to hold this woman's attentions even if but for a moment. And judging by her obvious prowess in battle, a fleeting poem would accomplish no such response. She had obviously heard words before, and words without the backing of her respect would hold no promise of her continued interest. Yes, boldness needed to be harnessed this day. And such hat he was, boldness was a quality he would never find lacking.
Stepping into the clearing, a dangerous thing to do when a warrior was in training, and drawing his sword, yet even a more dangerous thing, he spoke by projecting his voice enough to gain her concentration, "There is a better way."
He waited for her to finish her current combination, thinking she would stop her twists and spins upon its completion, but when she did not, he wondered if she had purposely ignored his well-founded conclusion. In truth, there was a better way for her to step, strike, spin, parry, defend, advance, and all other movements produced by her current form. While her techniques within were perfected beyond debate, he was certain her form was not created explicitly for and from her. It did not seem to reflect her passion, size, compassion, beauty, and most importantly, expressive intent of her existence. According to the Elves, and their ancient form, The Way of Stars, there was only one single form for everyone to be trained in. However, long ago, he deviated from this training and instead practiced what he called The Way of Expression. His training was founded upon the premise of allowing the individual student to reveal the form that had already presented itself at the moment of their life when intent and true identity was created. It was his utter focus upon who he was, and the intent of his will, that allowed him to seamlessly advance within his specific form, and the sole purpose for his success. Engaging in the highest level of his consciousness resulting in the subconscious connection to his identity, regardless of his mortal state of mind, he was, and nothing more. When immersed within its fluid movements, he no longer fought, he became. He no longer acted or reacted, he dictated as a force of his intent.
And that is where her flaw laid open for him to see. She was trying to perfect an alien form. She was focused upon the movements, performing them as a root memory based upon hours and hours of repetition, correction, and repetition again. In essence, she was attempting to become someone else during the battle instead of seeking to become her intent within the battle itself. While beautiful in her lethal demeanor, he could tell she was held back from becoming what he perceived as identity personified because of her binding to that which was not the expressive authenticity of her own intentional basis for movements. There was no doubt she was a warrior and possessed a power of persona equal to perhaps even his. He could tell that from her near perfection of another's intent, but she had now become bound to it and believed it was hers. She was trapped, and he sought to free her.
He took another step, bringing him closer to her sphere of influence and spoke, again with the projection of his poetic voice, "There IS a better way."
Abruptly, she completed her final complex movement combination and squared her shoulders toward him, "Yes, you said that. Though I have not found one to make good on their claims regarding ways and means. And by the look of how lazily you grasp your sword, you will be no different."
"In regards to the grasp of my sword, I need not grasp anything firmly when there is no fear of losing it, My Lady," he hesitated
before addressing her by the formal title as it was both an insult to hesitate as well as an insult by its evocation. She was indeed a warrior, and would detest the title.
"Indeed, My Lord" she offered the same hesitation to his title before she continued, "but the absence of fear, when it is warranted, is often mistaken for courage instead of seeing it as the expression of stupidity."
He inclined his head slightly as his left eyebrow raised. He stood considering her profound beauty for a moment, and then presented his weapon the way elvish students do before they engage in a competitive training session, "If My Lady would be so kind to do me the honor of her superior skills in the purpose of instruction, I would be considered forever in her debt." Upon completion of his request, he slashed his sword in a downward motion from left to right to finish the formal request. He assumed his martial stance by choosing to reflect one of the styles he learned while training with the Effortless Blades of the Eastern Desert.
"Very well. Defend yourself." She advance quickly, but was clearly holding back. He reflected her slowed speed by sloppily deflecting her slowed, advancing strikes, while portraying a less skilled warrior. He feigned a slip and misstep drawing her attention to her advantage. She responded by increasing her speed slightly believing she was on the verge of ending the instruction.
Convergence (The Dragon Within Saga Book 1) Page 14
