Prince of Bryanae (Bryanae Series)

by Jeffrey Getzin

  The figure of her father approached. Or was it she who approached him? It mattered not. For now, she slid into her father’s arms after so long.

  Willow wept, and her dead father stroked her hair and hummed lullabies to her.

  It’s all over, he whispered. You’ve done all you could, and now it’s time to rest.

  Chapter 62

  Time no longer existed for Willow; for that matter, existence itself scarcely existed. Willow was, and that only nominally. The void in which she hid was complete and impervious. If anyone spoke to her, she did not hear it. If anyone touched her, she did not feel it. If she were hungry, she was unaware of it. Even if she were on fire, she wouldn’t know it.

  Time no longer existed for Willow, which made it impossible to determine when it was that she was no longer alone. It might have been a thousand years since she had taken refuge here; or it might only have been a fraction of a second.

  The arrival of the stranger should have set off all sorts of klaxons and alerts, but even within her void, Willow had established many barricades between herself and anything that would increase her hurt. His arrival was merely noted by some distant part of her mind, unrelated to her identity and thus to her vulnerabilities.

  His arrival was noted, and defenses were prepared.

  * * *

  The black man was nude. That was the first thing that he noticed. The second thing he noticed was that the void around him was part of him; that is, it knew his thoughts and feelings and reacted to them, and he knew much of the thoughts and feelings of the void about him.

  Tamlevar, for surely the black man was Tamlevar, fought to keep his sense of identity; fought to prevent the void that surrounded him from merging with him, absorbing him.

  The risk to Tamlevar, therefore, was great and he sensed it. And the void knew that he fought it, and it fought him back. And Tamlevar knew that he was being fought, and so on and so on, a snake eating its own tail.

  He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out, which was just as well. There was no one to whom to speak except the void around him, and the void already knew what he would have said.

  He looked around, saw blackness in all directions. Time was limited. His absorption into this void was inevitable. The only variable was time, and of course, time no longer existed. He had to hurry, but what did it mean to hurry here?

  Since all directions seemed equally devoid of anything of interest, Tamlevar set off in an arbitrary one, trusting the void to come to him rather than depending on his ability to go to it.

  The void reacted. It alternately tried to eject the foreign object and dissolve it, crashing and ebbing like waves against breakers. Each crash threatened to damage and destroy and eject; each ebb threatened to make Tamlevar himself part of the void.

  Tamlevar fought—my, how strong this foreign object was. Though the battle was of course a losing one, it was interesting to note how he resisted the inevitable. He plodded through the emptiness, with a single word being shouted again and again in his mind: “Willow.”

  Eventually—after a week, perhaps? or maybe just a moment—the void realized that this Tamlevar was too interesting, and thus too dangerous, to deal with this way. Another approach would be necessary to protect Willow.

  One instant Tamlevar was treading through the void, and then the next, he stepped off of brilliant green grass and onto the flat stone entranceway that led into the castle before him.

  Dazed and disoriented (as was intended), Tamlevar shook his head, struggling to hold onto his identity and his reality.

  “Willow!” His voice made sound now. “Willow, it’s Tamlevar.”

  His voice echoed throughout the enormous castle, whose portcullis barred his way.

  Tamlevar grinned. He was an old hand at portcullises.

  He stooped and tried to wrest the portcullis from the notch in the stone, but was dismayed to find it immovable.

  “I’m afraid that’s quite futile, Tamlevar,” said a man’s voice.

  The void sensed Tamlevar’s surprise. That was good. He was off-balance, and as long as he was off-balance, he was less of a threat.

  Tamlevar studied the figure before him. An elf, of course, and quite handsome at that. The word that leapt to Tamlevar’s shared mind was ‘silver,’ for the elf’s eyes were silver, as was his hair, and indeed, as was the trim on his black attire.

  There was such a presence around this elf, that Tamlevar was compelled to drop to one knee.

  “You are very brave to have come here,” the elf said, “but you must go. Willow does not want you here.”

  “Please, let me see her.”

  The elf shook his head in a manner that made it clear he was not enjoying this particular duty. “No. I’m afraid that’s impossible.”

  “I need to see her. I need to see her.”

  The elf put his hand upon Tamlevar’s shoulder, and it felt to Tamlevar like the touch of a god: benevolent, but powerful beyond dispute.

  Tamlevar grabbed the hand.

  “I’ll fight to see her,” he said, then looked in the elf’s eyes to gauge his reaction.

  There was no fear, of course, but there was sadness.

  “Of course you will,” he said. “But you know it would be futile. Do I really have to prove it to you?”

  After a moment, Tamlevar shook his head and released the elf’s hand.

  “Please,” he said. “Willow’s dying.”

  “She doesn’t care.”

  “I do.”

  The elf shook his head. “I’m afraid that doesn’t matter. Besides”—he pointed at Tamlevar—“you’re dying, too. You’d better go.”

  “No. I’m not leaving without her.”

  “You’ll die if you don’t.”

  “She’ll die if I do. What would you do if you were me?”

  The elf seemed taken aback, brought his hand to his chest. “Were I …? What a fascinating question, young man.” He stroked his bare chin, thinking on the subject. “You know, I don’t think I’d do any different from what you’re doing.”

  “You mean you’ll help me?”

  The elf shook his head.

  “I can’t.”

  “Please. I can’t let her die. It’s all my fault.”

  The elf smiled kindly. “No, but I agree that it’s partially your fault. I’m impressed that you’re wise enough to realize that.”

  Tamlevar’s eyes were red with tears, though of course, he had neither tears nor eyes here. Not really.

  “Please, I’ll do anything to save her.”

  “Even at the cost of your own life?”

  “Yes! I’ll sacrifice myself. Without question. Please, let me do so!”

  A smile broadened on the elf’s face. “You know, Waeh-Loh might just have a point about you. You’re a bit headstrong, like she says, and your loyalty has been known to waver, but I think you have a good heart.”

  “A lot of good it will do her. I let her down, hurt her when she was vulnerable, then stood by stupidly while horrible things were done to her.”

  The elf didn’t respond for a while, but instead continued to gaze at the still-kneeling Tamlevar.

  At length he said, “Willow loves you.”

  Tears that didn’t really exist streamed down Tamlevar’s face.

  “Tamlevar, I am Kral-Sus. I am Willow’s father. Or at least, I am how she imagines me.”

  He extended his hand to Tamlevar, who took it and rose to his feet.

  “Kral-Sus,” Tamlevar said, staring into the elf’s eyes. “Will you please help me save your daughter’s life?”

  The twinkle in Kral-Sus’s eyes was as mysterious as the void that suddenly surrounded the two men once again.

  “No,” Kral-Sus said. “But I’ll show her to you, and you can do the rest.”

  BOOK THREE

  Princess of Ignis Fatuus

  Chapter 63

  And then she was in the castle.

  “Waeh-Loh, pay attention!” Mar-Ra’s exasperated
voice snapped Waeh-Loh from her reverie. Waeh-Loh sat bolt upright in her tall wooden chair.

  She felt disoriented for a moment. She glanced around the stone room with all its shelves and the books and scrolls they housed. It felt somehow new to her.

  But that made no sense. She had been coming here for years.

  “Sorry,” Waeh-Loh muttered, her head still fuzzy. Outside, a cloud passed in front of the tower window, briefly blotting out the sun and leaving her in shadows. She blinked twice, her vision dimmed.

  “You don’t have to apologize to me,” Mar-Ra said, sitting cross-legged on the floor. She wore a colorful brocaded silk dress, hemmed at the ankles. “I thought you wanted to learn poetry for your father.”

  “I do,” Waeh-Loh protested. “It’s just that I didn’t realize poetry would be so … so …”

  “So what?”

  “So boring!”

  Mar-Ra’s overly-full lips pursed, and she tossed her hair as though she were royalty dismissing a peasant. “Hmph.”

  Waeh-Loh winced. She had probably gone too far this time, calling Mar-Ra’s favorite subject boring. And if Mar-Ra was angry, she’d tell Waeh-Loh’s father, and that would make him sad. Nothing in the world was worse than making her father sad.

  “I’m sorry, Enlightened One,” Waeh-Loh said, using the most formal of her tutor’s titles. “It is not your fault, nor that of the subject matter, that I am unable to enjoy it. I’m sure it must be a failing of my own.”

  “Hmph,” Mar-Ra said, as though that needed repeating.

  For some reason, the word humph-back sprang into Waeh-Loh’s mind, and against her will, she pictured her beautiful tutor with a crooked spine and an enormous hump on her back. Waeh-Loh clamped her hand over her mouth to cover her giggling, but the damage had already been done.

  “And what is so funny, child?” Mar-Ra’s look was severe. It was one of those looks. Waeh-Loh realized that since she was already in trouble, she might as well go all the way.

  “I thought about how funny it would be if the only way you could read poetry was if you walked around like you were a humpback.”

  Mar-Ra rose to her feet and put her hands on her hips. “Really!”

  “Well, you asked!”

  “Humph!” said Mar-Ra, and Waeh-Loh broke out giggling again.

  “Really!” Her tutor’s face was turning bright red.

  Waeh-Loh knew she should keep her mouth shut but she couldn’t help herself.

  “You already said that!” she said, and fled the room, giggling.

  Mar-Ra pursued her to the top of the steps and shouted down at her: “This is why you’ll never amount to anything, Waeh-Loh. You’ll never be married and you’ll certainly never be a mother!”

  This was a low blow, and it froze little Waeh-Loh halfway down the spiraling staircase leading from the tower. Her smile fell from her like a drop of dew from a blade of grass. It was bad enough to say that to any elf, but to say it to one such as Waeh-Loh was particularly unkind. As many said when they thought her out of earshot: she was not a very pretty girl, nor very smart. Tears welled up in Waeh-Loh’s eyes, and that made her angry.

  “You mean I’ll end up like you?” she said before she could stop herself.

  “Why, you little snot! Hmph. Humph!”

  The tears were still flowing despite her minor victory. “I’m going to tell my father what you said!”

  “You do that, Waeh-Loh. And I’ll explain that even though his daughter is plainly too homely to land a husband, and too dim to make a good ruler, she is also too stubborn to avail herself of what little learning she might be able to absorb.”

  Mar-Ra’s volley struck dead-center, and Waeh-Loh began to sob. She shot a hateful glare up the stairs at her tutor, and then ran crying from the tower.

  * * *

  Ugly. Stupid. Stubborn.

  Everybody seemed to think of her in this way, though of course none would say it to her face. She was a princess, after all, and the only daughter of King Kral-Sus and his queen Tee-Ri. But people had a way of saying things without saying them, and they didn’t seem to care whether Waeh-Loh picked up on their derision just so long as it wasn’t overt.

  What made it worse was the way her mother dismissed Waeh-Loh’s complaints. They didn’t mean it, Waeh-Loh. You’re too sensitive, Waeh-Loh. Really, you ought to grow up and rise above all that.

  And Waeh-Loh tried, she really did. But no matter how she tried to learn singing, or poetry, or dance, or any other of the seemingly infinite number of arts she was expected to master, none of them were the slightest bit interesting or accessible to her.

  If only she could be left to her own devices. She had already decided what she wanted to be when she grew up: an animal doctor. She loved animals, and they loved her. She wanted to take the sick and injured ones and make them better. Why couldn’t people just let her be?

  Suddenly, Waeh-Loh realized what was next for today: fencing. Ugh! If there was one subject she hated more than even poetry, it was fencing. She was as clumsy as she was plain, as passive as she was dim. It was unlikely that Waeh-Loh would be a poet, but it was a certainty that she’d never be a warrior.

  Chapter 64

  She slipped through the dank corridors of the castle’s lower levels, sniffing the mildew and grimacing. Her slippers made squishing noises with each step. What she wouldn’t give to have the feel of grass beneath her bare feet instead.

  Stupid fencing. What a waste of a time for an elf, especially an elven woman. Waeh-Loh may not have been the prettiest girl in the world, but sooner or later she’d find a man who’d find her pleasing. It was only a matter of time, after all. And once she was married, what possible need would she have for things like poetry and fencing? Those were games for the idle and she didn’t intend to end up idle like her mother, filling her day with meaningless activities.

  It was strange how little affection Tee-Ri seemed to feel for her. When you considered what an incredibly rare gift a child was to an elf, how nearly every elven woman prayed daily to conceive, you’d think that Tee-Ri would prize her daughter. It wasn’t that the Queen disliked Waeh-Loh. It was more that her daughter was just so darn … well, inconvenient. It seemed to Waeh-Loh that Tee-Ri always had something to do: her garden in the early morning, strolls in the mid, private lunches with friends at noon, lessons during the afternoon, swimming before dinner, private dinners with other friends (father was almost never invited), and then socializing in the evening. What place for a daughter in all of this?

  Waeh-Loh reached the end of the corridor leading to the fencing hall, then removed her slippers and left them alongside the others lined up along the wall by the door. She reached for the door knob then froze.

  Did she really want to have to deal with Mal today? Couldn’t she just pretend she was sick, or that she had forgotten, or something? If so, she could go out and play in the sunshine and dance in the grass for the rest of the afternoon instead of sweating and being bruised by Mal and the other students.

  It wasn’t fair. Waeh-Loh was the youngest in the class, and the only girl. You’d think they’d go easier on her, but instead they hit her harder than anyone else. Mal insisted on it.

  “Waeh-Loh is the only one among you worms who has noble blood,” Mal had lectured the class. “She comes from a long line of warriors, and unlike you riff-raff, I have the highest expectations of her. No one in this class will show her any kindness, mercy, or deference to her rank.” His grip had tightened on his own exquisite long sword. “If you do, you will have me to contend with, and I might teach you a thing or two I haven’t shown anyone else.”

  Not that the other students needed any incentive to harass her. She was used to the contempt others held for her social rank and low intelligence. She had been used to their sneers before they were students together in fencing class. But back then, they hadn’t had wooden swords.

  “… the key is to move in and to his left, like this … and this.” Master Mal was addressing the cl
ass, already in progress. The students were lined up in their padded practice uniforms as Mal demonstrated a move with one of them on the padded practice floor before them.

  She wanted to slip into class unobtrusively, but that was impossible. She’d need one of the practice uniforms, and they were hanging from a rack across the entire floor.

  She took a swallow and stepped into the practice room.

  “… So, as you see, with one step, I’ve moved behind my opponent, opening up his neck here, his ribs here, his thigh here, and his groin here. In addition, were I to take another step, I could pivot so as to be directly behind him, thereby opening his throat for a—ah, Your Highness!” Master Mal smiled at her, raising his long sword in a jovial salute. “I am so glad you finally freed up your schedule so that you could grace us with your presence.”

  Muffled laughter from the other students, their padded wire-frame helmets making them sound like honking geese. Waeh-Loh felt her face grow warm.

  “I’m sorry, Master Mal. I lost track of the time.”

  “Yes,” Master Mal said, his voice sardonic. “Must be rather rough, being the busy socialite.” Again, his jibe was rewarded with laughter from his toadying students.

  “I’m sorry,” she mumbled, and began to cross the mat towards the practice uniforms.

  Master Mal clicked his tongue, shaking his head. “No, no, no. You don’t need a practice uniform.”

  Waeh-Loh’s heart thudded one solid thump in her chest. “I don’t?”

  The other students laughed: honk honk honk.

  “Clearly not,” Master Mal said. He took the wooden practice sword from the student on whom he was demonstrating and tossed it to Waeh-Loh. She fumbled at it, but it slipped through her fingers and clattered to the floor.

  More honking from the geese. Waeh-Loh’s face burned.

  “That’ll be all, Sil-Then,” Master Mal said to the student in the demonstration, a frail boy with expressive eyes. Sil-Then returned to the sidelines to watch with the other students.