Wings of Light Special Edition

by Lloyd Baron

  She gapes at him. “Thirty suns. You should have been presented before me for a service award.” She shakes her head. “I am so sorry! Master Cubbit must have forgotten.”

  Elmo's face pales and his eyes widen. Fear crosses his features and his hands begin to shake. He opens his mouth to speak but closes it again without saying a word.

  “Master Elmo, what is wrong?” She reaches across the table again and takes his hands. It crosses her mind where his hands have been, but she pushes the thought away.

  The scullion sniffs back a tear and begins to tell his story. “I told Freden not to inform you of my thirty suns so that you wouldn’t become aware of me. I love my job and my life. Don’t get me wrong I have always wanted to serve my Queen and country in any way I could. Washing pots and pans wasn’t how I thought I would do it, but I grew to love these walls. I’m a selfish man, Ma’am. You see the role I have here allows me to spend time with my wife. I start before the sun is up and am home just after noon. I return when the sun begins to set and return home after only a short while saving the dirty pots for the morning. I am sorry, my Queen. I could have served you better.” He lowers his face, a single tear slipping down his cheek.

  “Oh,” she says after a short time. “You thought I would reward you by giving you a promotion and moving you out of the kitchen and thus more hours of working each day and seeing your wife less.” She ponders the situation for a brief moment before smiling warmly and squeezing his hands. “I want to see you in the royal hall in two days time so I can give you a well-earned service award. You will then become my new assistant of messages. It struck me this very morning that I need someone to send running on errands into the city. I have always relied on Master Cubbit to sort out those sorts of things for me, but speed is sometimes needed. It does mean more hours in the palace. In fact it means moving into the staff houses. It means bringing your wife to live here within the walls. The position will pay an extra five gold each sun.” She watches as his face lifts and confusion begins to drift into excitement. “Your role will be to take messages from me to places within the city. I will sometimes ask you to leave to venture outside the walls and travel to nearby towns and villages. You can take your wife with you on such occasions and I will pay for any expenses such as inn bills and food.

  “You’ll need a new wardrobe which I will provide, and a haircut. You will also have to calm down your tongue. If you want this then just say yes; if you do not then say no and I will not be offended. What will it be?”

  Elmo’s beaming smile is all she needs for an answer.

  “Fine then. Shall we eat?” She rings a small silver bell and trays of food appear, carried by the other kitchen staff. They have a moment of surprise when seeing Elmo, but they hide it well from the Queen. No doubt they will be gossiping about this back in the halls.

  The breakfast is a feast fit for ten and consists of two plates of bread, one loaf soft and one crusty; a pitcher of freshly squeezed apple juice; and a jug of boiling hot kaff, made from imported beans from the wetlands far to the north; bacon; sausages; eggs; cooked tomatoes; pudding made from the blood of cattle; another pitcher containing fresh milk; and a small jug of cream; fruit salad made with apples, pears, grapes and cherries; toast; butter; and jams; and to finish off the meal there is a small sponge cake.

  She takes a plate and fills it with food. Elmo stacks his plate high with bread and begins to spread a slice with strawberry jam, his eyes bulging at the sight of so much food.

  The letter in her pocket is weighing on her mind and as Elmo chats away she only hears half of his words. He seems to pick up on this and asks her what is on her mind. It is an odd situation—one she has never found herself in before. Here she is, sitting in one of her staff kitchens, eating breakfast with the scullion and contemplating telling him what could be state business. Finally she sighs and puts down her slice of crusty buttered bread and sits back.

  “Do you know of the Prophecy of Ages?”

  Elmo nods, his brow creasing.

  “Silly question really. The Prophecy is told to all children and is educated to most of the world. I need you to promise that what we discuss now will go no further.” She hates asking this from a kind and loyal man, yet at the same time she cannot risk it leaking to the public before she can speak to the Council.

  “You have my word, my Queen.” His face bursts with a mixture of nerves and pride.

  “Please, for this morning call me Narmada.” She almost laughs at the shock and dismay that crosses the man’s face. “You are going to be a friend, I can tell, and working for me personally. My title is very important and you must never forget who I am, yet my name is also important. Sometimes I forget who I am and need reminding. In private we will have a slightly relaxed approach to the way we talk. I will call you Elmo and you may call me Narmada. Only in private, mind. In the public eye, that is when there is more then you and I, I will call you Master Garren and you will address me as Your Majesty.”

  Elmo nods again, his expression becoming even more nervous, he dry washes his hands and bites his bottom lip. “I think I can manage that, Your Majesty,” he half smiles at his mistake and corrects himself. “Narmada.” He looks uncomfortable saying the word.

  She smiles warmly to try and reassure the man; maybe a joke will lighten the mood. “Of course you can talk to your wife about everything, I mean she is more a Queen in your life than I.”

  Elmo’s mouth drops open, and she regrets saying what she has said. She was not known for her sense of humor; for some reason trying to tell jokes just seems to make others uncomfortable. She smiles again and decides to begin her tale. “This morning I received a letter from Doeia Harbor. There was a dragon attack and much damage has been caused. It will be public knowledge soon and I plan on addressing the city before rumors can set in.” She weighs up his facial expression. It is oddly neutral. “Your first task as my messenger will be to take letters into the city and invite all the builders, carpenters and blacksmiths here to discuss the rebuilding. I fear it will be far too long before Doeia is rebuilt.”

  Elmo pushes back his chair and leaps to his feet. “I will begin right away, Your Majesty. I am ready for this task.” He bows again, rushing from the room before Narmada can speak.

  She sighs and puts a hand to her head. She has not even written the letters yet. Sometimes she treats the servants like friends as much as her daughter does.

  Zelosanther Bernhalt frowns down his long nose as he reads the letter the Queen had brought to his attention. He rereads it from start to finish before sliding it across the desk for the Queen to take. “I am stunned. A dragon attack so far from the mountains. We should send word to the Dark Clan that their magic does not seem to work after all. Perhaps it was they who sent the thing to the harbor.” The Dark Clan are a thorn in his side. They have been protected by the rulers of Atlant for hundreds of suns; a fragile protection. They stay well-hidden within their city deep in the woods to the east. Narmada has even had a Dark Clan advisor in the past which had almost caused a riot when the citizens found out. She removed him from the castle shortly after. As Supreme Chancellor of the Houses of Atlantia it is Zelosanther Bernhalt’s duty to see that the laws of the world are adhered too. Unfortunately the Dark Clan has caused no real trouble in the last five hundred suns and as such he cannot act upon them; he just really wishes he could.

  She continues. “Also, a letter arrived from my old friend King Garnock of Stone Hilt. A woman was asking after the Books of Prophecy and implied that his daughter was in danger of being The Last Princess. It is not the first time someone has asked to see the books. It is just that the woman in question threatened him and the children of his city and was seen burning a man to death. The letter says she did it with fire which came from her fingers. Some are calling her a witch-”

  “She could just be a Mage.”

  “—and others a Mage. But whatever she is, she can use magic. King Garnock fears for his lands and wants the books removed from
them.”

  This was an interesting twist to events. He is only slightly peeved that he was not told about this directly from King Garnock. He may not be a king himself, but the power of the three towers of Atlantia is far greater than a single royal house. “You have mages that work for you Narmada, and so do I. They are not so rare that one could be active without knowledge of them. Although how they would have been missed is anyone’s guess.” He laces his fingers together behind his head and rocks back on his chair. Narmada’s mouth tightens slightly. He pays no heed. She is not his Queen. Mages were born now and again, but they were always found; it was hard to hide someone whose eyes and hair became as white as snow. However the feeble power of these mages was nothing to fear. Most could not even light a candle with the talent they had. There were those who were not affected by the change, however. Healers outwardly show no sign of being any different; the same goes for the men who can play Gye-shin, yet they are of no danger to anyone. Both healers and Gye-shin players are treated almost as kings and queens, and command respect. However, mages are different. In the old world it was said that they could bring whole cities to their knees with the power they possessed.

  “I would also like to add that I have had dreams the last few nights which have frightened me into night sweats. They all are the same. I see my daughter fighting a man with twin swords, one of fire and one of ice. She dies on his blades.

  “Now I have received this letter from Doeia. They were attacked by a dragon which has ruined the city and will not function as a harbor for at least a sun. But as strange as that attack is, it is the name of some of the citizens which is the second piece of proof I believe to herald the start of the Prophecy.” She lifts the letter from the desk and reads the names aloud. He recognizes the meaning behind the list.

  “Three names beginning with the letter D,” he says. His voice has a slight quiver to it. “And a healer. I don’t know what to say, Narmada. If the Prophecy has truly begun then we are all facing doom. The gates of Gelast will open; the demons will flood into this world. It means a bloody end to everything.” His eyes scrunch up and he shudders. “What can be done?” He almost feels like smiling at his feigned breakdown; if the fear was not real, he would have done.

  Narmada gets up and moves around the table, placing a hand upon his shoulder. He flinches at her touch, coming back to his senses. “I know it looks dark. By the Creator I know it looks dark. However, I know more than most about the Prophecy. There is a huge piece missing from the book and it tells how to stop the gates from opening and how to stop the Six. There is hope.” She fixes her eyes on his as he turns in his chair. “We have to find these three men and the ones who travel with them, and we need to send them to find this missing piece.”

  “How are we going to find six people in this huge country?” So now the truth finally comes to the surface. Suns of trying to gain knowledge of the Prophecy blocked by ancient promises and blood magic, and here she is just sharing it openly. She squeezes his shoulder again yet cannot look into his eyes.

  “We won’t need to,” she says with a stern tone that belies the fear in her eyes. “They will find us.”

  18

  UNDER FIA'S GAZE

  “You will return to the palace!” Fia Sharphorn yells into Narinda’s face. “Your mother is waiting for you and she has had people searching all over the grounds for you.”

  She stares back at him, defiant. His words have sparked feelings of guilt, yet at the same time have angered her into stubbornness. She narrows her eyes and points a finger at him, prodding him in the chest. It is firm and well-built, sending a thrill of excitement through her with every touch. “It is my birthday,” she screams. “I can do what I like. I am not a prisoner!”

  The huge man knocks her hand away and folds his arms over his chest. He does not care about her station and has always acted as her equal. Sometimes she hates him acting like they are the same and at other times she feels closer to him than anyone else because of it. He makes her feel normal. However, she is a princess and he is a mountain man, hardly the same at all. So how dare he speak to her in this manner!

  She opens her mouth to continue but she is interrupted.

  “You are a petulant little child at times, Narinda, and I will not have you poking your stubby fingers at me.”

  A sharp intake of breath draws both sets of eyes to Bri, who waves his hands at them before hurrying away to his horses.

  “How dare you!” she bellows. “You raise your hand to a member of the royal family and call them spiteful names!”

  “Them,” he mocks, glancing around. “Not them, you!” He lifts a finger and stabs it into her ribs, knocking her backwards. He looks shocked at his action and softens his face, but she is incensed and lashes out at him with a swift kick to the shin. He flinches but does not display any sign that it had hurt. She glares at him but his calm features soften her slightly.

  “I am going for a ride. You may attend me if you wish.” She turns on her heel and flicks her hair as she heads over to her horse. Hurtle is a black Shalmist Mant with a white smudge on the end of her nose. Coming from the open plains of Shalmist, this breed is used for long-distance running. She has a fine-chiseled head, an arched neck with a long wavy mane and tail. She has strong sturdy legs which can carry her at great speeds. The mare nuzzles into her and she returns the affection by patting her behind the ear and down her back.

  She turns her attention to Fia who is attending his own horse, scrutinizing every hair and muscle of the beast. She cannot help another thrill racing through her veins. The man is a god made into flesh. He is well over six feet tall and has a massive well-built body. The muscles of his arms and chest bulge under the tight cloth of his tunic and as he turns he reveals the perfect mound that is his backside. She bites her lip and cocks her head to the side. He looks at her then and smiles, their fight already forgotten.

  His face is as beautiful as his body is fit. Dark brown eyes like bark of a tree rest within a face older than his twenty-three suns. Everything about his face is full and proud, full lips within a wide full face set into an angular jaw. His eyebrows are sharp, giving him an almost mean look until he smiles his wide, warm smile. His nose is wide and flat, beside which a scar runs down to its left.

  She thinks she fell in love with him the first time she saw him, but their lives would never allow them to be together. She is the princess of the greatest country in the world, and he is a man from the village of Ai’ver in the Mountains of Dray. She is educated in the ways of the aristocracy: how to walk and talk like a lady, and he is educated in the ways of hunting and killing. No better swordsman has she seen in the land, and he is the best protector she could dream to have in her service. But that is all he can ever be to her.

  He slips the saddle across Brimstone and lets Bri fasten it into place while he fixes the bridle. Once done, he takes up the reins and leads the horse outside. Narinda forces herself back to her senses and hurries to catch up.

  The city of Dalvistel is bustling with early morning activity. Carts and wagons full of all varieties of fruit and vegetables, cloth and dried meats fill the narrow roads leading from warehouses on Wheel Road to the centre of the North City trade market. Stalls and tables are carried from shops and houses and placed into shady spots ready for the stock to arrive. Wives with children help husbands and young and old work together to ready for the working day ahead.

  Fia keeps his distance from the Princess. Her heated temper had flared again when he would not let her ride out of the city’s gates, allowing her only an hour to travel the roads and parks. She had argued but knew that one word from him to the guards at the gate and they would lock them down. The frustration had lasted only a few minutes. Once out in the bright morning sunshine her mood had softened and she had calmed down.

  Dalvistel is a rapturously beautiful city, split into four quarters: the royal North City, the old South City, the elegant Wood Park and the posh Regents Way. North City, or “the Cart”
as it is called by some, has a series of roadways which, from Palace Hill, looks like a cartwheel. Wheel Road is a long circular road which surrounds Market Square and has six roads leading off it like spokes, hence the name. The north of the road has a large gate leading to the Palace, and to the west are the lords’ houses.

  East is Fountain Park, and to the south Wheel Road enters into Regents Way. Made on a grid system, Regents Way is home to the wealthy members of the city. The houses there are all four-story town houses that are whitewashed with blue slate roofs. The roads are also wider and free of market traffic as the residents have banned them. Any traders having to travel from South City to North City must use the surrounding roads and not enter the through roads.

  All along Birchwood Road to the south of Regents Way are the parks and woodlands. Once the boundary of the city itself the woods are now less dense and are more parkland then woodland. They cover as much ground as the residential area above and half that of South City below. The rest of the city is the poorer quarter and home to most of the citizens of Dalvistel. However, most of this area of the city is pristine and as beautiful as North City. Only the slum houses in Dagmare Lane let the city down, but even here there are flowers and cheery smiles all round.

  Fia snaps his eyes away as she turns to look at him. She has a way of twisting his insides so they churn over. He knows how she feels about him and he battles not to fall in love with her, fighting with himself not to lose his soul in her curves and sparkling eyes. Ultimately it is the knowledge that even if he did feel the same about her she would never allow them to be a public couple. He has grown up in the mountains and she, in the lap of luxury. When she was learning how to talk like a lady he was learning how to kill and skin rabbits. They could never be together and so he denied himself. He had won.

  He flicks his eyes back in her direction, and she smiles warmly at him, licking her lips before turning back in her saddle. His gut lurches and he grips the pommel of his saddle to steady himself. She does it purposely, he knows, yet it does not make it any easier to resist.