“Open the window to your soul. You will see. Look,” said the presence.
Compelled to do as told Vilmos looked inside himself. He saw the door to his soul and he opened it. Beyond, in the shadows, he saw himself, lying in his bed, in his father’s house.
“What do you see?” the other asked.
“N-nothing!”
“What do you see?” commanded the voice.
“I see myself, I see myself!” Vilmos paused. His voice filled with surprise as he continued, “but how, I don’t understand?”
“That is what the experience is. Your body remains on the physical plane and your spirit searches beyond. You were truly flying. You really were the lone eagle flying over a valley of your own creation.” The ominous voice seemed to close in on Vilmos. “You are a master of non-corporeal stasis, yet do not forget that all things have mirrors on the physical plane.”
“How is this possible?” the skeptic in Vilmos inquired.
“Think, before you speak. Look within, you know it is possible.” The tone of the voice became sinister. “As is everything.”
“I am afraid. I want to go home—I want to go home now.”
“But Vilmos you are home. This is your home. This is the sanctuary you alone created,” the voice rang with heavy truths.
“No, I want to go home,” insisted Vilmos, “I am afraid.”
“Well you should be Vilmos, you should be very afraid.” Vilmos pictured black eyes drawing up before him. “This experience leaves your physical self completely without defense. It is open to attack from any force or forces that wish to enter it. Any spirit can enter your body while your own spirit travels. And there it can grow and thrive!”
Vilmos jumped back, his face drawn and pale with shock. Bewildered eyes looked out. His body shivered beyond control. Everything within him told him to run away, to hide, though he could not. It was then that he recognized the voice, though vaguely. It was then his panic grew to despair and he feared for his very soul.
“It is you! This is what I was trying to remember.”
“Yes it is,” said the voice with mocking overtones.
Gripped with fear, Vilmos stood unable to move. He looked out over the valley that had once seemed peaceful, only now regaining the point as he fought to focus his mind. He felt alone, very alone, though he knew he wasn’t. He cocked his head, left and right, forward and back, searching. But his search was in vain because he truly was alone. There was no one else with him.
Waiting to hear the voice again and ensure he wasn’t just daydreaming, Vilmos remained absolutely still. Only his own gasping breaths broke the silence, nothing more.
“Where are you? Show yourself,” Vilmos called out. The only answer Vilmos received was the sound of wind rushing over the point and the returning echoes of his voice as it faded away and blended into the wind.
The vale was empty; the ridge, empty.
“Looking for me?” came a voice from behind him.
Startled, Vilmos jumped. His heart pumped faster and faster. Breathing became taxing. It seemed he could not grasp any air. He spun around, faltering and falling to the hard, rocky surface of the vantage point. He pulled himself to his feet, and shook defiant fists in the air.
“I will not hurt you,” said the now charismatic voice from behind him.
Vilmos spun around again. “Where are you? Show yourself.”
“I am here.”
“But how? A moment ago, I was alone,” said Vilmos as he turned to look in the direction of the voice.
“A moment ago, I was not here,” said the venerable man who now stood in plain view in front of Vilmos. He was by far the oldest man Vilmos had ever seen. His appearance was one of such frailty and weakness that Vilmos imagined a heavy wind lifting him from his feet and casting him about in the air like a feather.
The aged man leaned his weight against his long, misshaped, walking stick, edging poised lips closer to Vilmos’ ear. “Do not let the body fool you boy,” he whispered, “I will not blow away in the wind.”
Just then a cold, harsh wind started to rip across the point. With each passing second, it increased in force until it was a gale of great strength. Very soon, Vilmos found he could no longer stand in its face. He crouched to his knees and then to his belly. The old man did not so much as twitch.“Please stop it!” screamed Vilmos.
“I cannot. Only you may stop it.”
Not wanting to fall from the ledge to his death, Vilmos huddled close to the ground trying to maintain his grip with desperate fingers. “I don’t know how to stop it. Let me go. I want to go.”
“Then surely you shall perish.” The man spoke sternly, his voice lacking any hint of remorse.
Vilmos trembled. “Do you mean die?”
“As surely as you were born.”
Truth in the other’s words stung Vilmos, similar to the dirt in his eyes. He knew without a doubt that he would indeed perish if he failed to stop the wind.
Wind whipped at him. Dust stung his face and blew into his eyes. And while Vilmos could barely see through this dust and dirt, he felt he had to see the old one again. Gazing through stinging dirt proved a difficult task accomplished only with shielding hands. To Vilmos’ dismay, the man stood straight and tall, tall as the twisted staff he carried. He faced the wind and his stance still did not vary.
Suddenly the man did not appear so aged to Vilmos. In fact, somehow he seemed different, as if Vilmos saw another standing there in the old man’s place. “I do not deny that you have powers beyond my grasp,” began Vilmos, “but I don’t understand the point of the test. I don’t know what to do.”
“Vilmos, use that which you already know. Use the skills you possess. Use them now!” The man spoke powerfully.
Compelled by the enchantment of the voice, Vilmos made a vigorous attempt. He concentrated, trying to make the wind stop. He clasped his eyes tightly together, held his breath, clenched his fists so firmly that his fingernails dug into his palms. The wind did not desist; it continued to lash at him with increased vigor.Fearing for his very life, Vilmos tried again. He thought about the wind and wanting to stop it. In rebuke, the blast of the wind started to push him toward the edge of the cliff. Vilmos dug his fingers into the dirt trying desperately to hold on, grasping and clawing until his hands were bloody, but to no avail.
His fingers pulsated with pain. Vilmos screamed and pleaded desperately for assistance. He turned his head wildly back and forth, wary of the approaching drop. “I don’t want to die… please help me… how can you just stand there, help me! Please, I beg you.”
“Reach inside yourself for the power. It is there. The power lives within you. You have used it many times before, though you didn’t know why or exactly how. You are the power Vilmos. It yearns to be released from within you. Release it.”
“Please help me.” Vilmos sounded pathetic. “P-please.”
“Release the power Vilmos,” repeated the other, “let it go. I am giving you a reason to use your power. I give you your life! Do it now, quickly, or you will DIE!”
The voice was commanding again, Vilmos felt compelled to do as invoked. He had to prove he could stop the wind. Somewhere within was the key, a key that must be found. It had been so much easier before. He had never really tried to use the power. Previously it had just come to him when he needed it. He needed it now, and it wouldn’t come.
“Hurry, Vilmos. You must hurry!” spoke the man with a hint of anxiety in his voice.
In time, Vilmos found the object of his inward search. The strength was there.
Still unsure exactly how he was supposed to make the wind stop, Vilmos decided to let his mind drift. His thoughts wandered until he found a helpful clue. As he anticipated, the solution to his dilemma seemed to seep into his mind.
It had always been there.
“Quickly, Vilmos!” The man spoke frantically. “You must release the power now.”
A test of the power within forced the wind to flicker. Strength
flowed to Vilmos unbidden. He bathed in its caress; it felt so wonderful.
Magic isn’t evil; it is beautiful.
Vilmos knew what he had to do to make the wind cease. Now he would do it.
The man screamed, “Vil-mos, release the power, release it now before it is too late.” His anxiety increased with each passing second. “Hurry Vilmos. You must release the power now. Let it go, feel it flow.”
Vilmos perceived a peculiar scratching at the back of his mind, something loomed closer. Magic isn’t evil, he reminded himself, the words flowing to him again.
“Go on try it,” whispered the voice, “set it free.”
Vilmos shook his head to rid himself of the irritating scratching.
“I will, I will,” Vilmos said.
For an instant, Vilmos toyed with the wind. The gale stopped full, then started again with sudden vigor. Vilmos shook his head again to rid himself of the irritating scratching at the back of his mind.
Was it a whisper?
Seemingly as if simply acknowledging the whisper existed was enough, the voice came again. “No Vilmos,” it whispered.
Vilmos shook his head again, his concentration faltering. Irritated, the old man grabbed Vilmos about the shoulders and lifted him from the ground, shaking him violently.
“Do as you were told boy!” he screamed, his razor sharp finger nails pushing into Vilmos’ arms.
With untold power captivated in a crisp, clear voice, the newcomer spoke again. “It is a trick Vilmos. Look closely, see his true form. Evil comes in many shadings, but you can always see through it if your vision is clear and your mind is centered. Search its form. LOOK!”
The wind stopped dead; the old man released his grip. Vilmos fell to his knees.
“No Vilmos, it is not true. Release the power. Do not listen to foul lies. Release it now.”
Heeding the will of the voice, the power of magic within Vilmos soared. Torn between the two choices, unsure which to follow, who spoke the truth, or what to do, Vilmos clasped his hands to his head. His mind reeled with pain. He wanted to curl up into a ball and disappear.
Unchecked, the power within grew to a crescendo, reaching beyond Vilmos’ control. His wild eyes stared in disbelief as crazed thoughts continued to spin through his mind. He was the power, the master of all he surveyed; he would release the force within.
“Vilmos, in the name of Great-Father, I command you AWAKEN!” spoke a third voice with overwhelming sincerity and vast fear. In the haze of Vilmos’ consciousness, the voice was a distant untouchable shadow. The power within was so inviting and warm, he did not want to let it go.
The old one grew greedy and smiled an evil grimace. “YES, Vilmos, can you feel it? Yes. That’s a good boy. Now, USE it.”
Vilmos discerned and separated the perceived voices. The newest, the faint, distant one overridden with fear and heart wrenching pain, was feminine. The crisp, clear voice of the newcomer was calm and compelling. The voice of the old one demanded action.
“Are you the evil one?” Vilmos asked.
The instant disbelief entered his mind, the enchantment was lost. The energy within him dissipated. Vilmos looked dead into the old man’s eyes and understood the guise.
“You truly are the evil one,” said an amazed Vilmos. As he spoke, both strangers disappeared. The words reverberated in his thoughts.
With the releasing of the deadlocked gaze on the wall opposite his bed, the vision ended. Complete and utter confusion played across Vilmos’ face. The sepulchral dream had ended, though its images were still held in his mind’s eye. It had seemed so real, but how could it have been? He had never left his room; he would not have perished. It was only another daydream, a dreadful one.
He reflected upon what he had seen there and was deathly afraid, for normally when the dream ended the evil of the Dark One disappeared. This time the dream was different, Vilmos could recall shapes and images, even the form the evil one had taken.
It no longer seemed that the evil one was just part of a dream. He remembered the raging winds and the fear. It was then that an alarm of distress sounded within. Again there was a small part that he just couldn’t remember—he had seen something, but what was it?
The images became steadily less clear as he strained to focus on them. Pain in his hands caused all thoughts to drift away and when he looked down at them, opening and closing them with evident agony, he knew the pain had been real.
Physically and mentally drained of all its energy, his body was an empty shell with all its stamina gone. Vilmos wanted to sleep, yet he dared not close his eyes. The dream had been real, not imagined, he reminded himself.
Aghast, he curled up in the corner, fitting his small form into a tightly curled ball. The pain had been real, the dream been real, his mind repeated relentlessly.
Chapter Six:
Permission
A strong wind out of the northwest blew long strands of dark hair into Adrina’s eyes. Every now and again as she looked down into High King’s Square, she tucked the errant strands behind her ear. Sunset was near, and the square was bustling with activity. Merchants packing their wares onto pack animals, townsfolk haggling for last minute deals and the inevitable array of jugglers, musicians, fire-eaters and the like trying to earn a pittance for their supper.
Adrina disliked the busyness in the square; nevertheless, she stared down into it. She was waiting for Emel to return with news from Ridemaster Gabrylle and the square afforded the best vantage point to witness the return of the horsemen. She was worried. Emel should have returned to the palace an hour ago—at least that is when he had told her he would return when she had parted with him at the palace gates.
Briefly, Adrina cast uneasy eyes westward. The sun was already beginning to dip below the horizon, soon it would be dark. Just then she noticed the northerly wind and a smile crossed her lips.
“Change comes,” Adrina whispered.
As she turned back to stare down into the square, a distant sound came to her ears. It could be the clatter of hooves on cobbled stones.
She heard the sound again, though this time it seemed even more distant. Then trumpeters in the palace gate towers and at the city walls sounded off in response to the distant call and Adrina knew the far off call had to be that of a trumpet. Her eyes set with worry, she stared westward. Someone in the foothills, beyond the green fields that stretched out of view, was in trouble.
Trumpeters at the city walls sounded again—a cavalry call. Adrina knew the calls well—Emel had taught them to her—there was no mistaking the distinct call to arms. Imtal garrison riders would soon respond to the trumpeters’ summons. Adrina’s face flushed white. Emel was out there somewhere with Ridemaster Gabrylle and a group of unproven young guardsmen.
Her heart pounded in her ears, another call came from the city walls. A mounted guard was passing through the gates. Somewhere in the foothills a battle was surely taking place. Adrina had sudden grand visions of a full-scale invasion by the Bandit King of the North. Emel gallantly defending land and king. And the king’s cavalry charging into the fray.
She held her breath until the call ended, realizing only as the call to arms faded into the wind the true consequences of such a thing. “Please Great-Father not Emel. He may be brash at times, but he is brave and true as any. The truth is, I would miss him dearly.”
The silence that followed became unbearable and Adrina retreated to her room. For a long time, she stared out her window. The dusk sky slowly darkened and night arrived. The trumpeters made no further calls and Adrina eventually let sleep take her.
Adrina’s rest didn’t last long though and she stirred, unsure what had awoken her. She dipped her hands into the basin beside her bed and eased sleep from her eyes with the cool water. High overhead the light of a full moon was filtering in through her window, casting long shadows about the room.
An attendant was replacing the coals in her fireplace. “Sorry Your Highness,” she whispered. “I shouldn’
t have let the fire go out, but I wished not to disturb you. It looks to be a cold night and I was concerned.”
“Yes,” said Adrina, “summer is surely at an end.”
The attendant finished her work and as she departed she said, “Good night, Your Highness.”
Adrina nodded. She was watching the flames in the hearth slowly build.
Soon a low but cheerful fire began to fill her chamber with warmth. As Adrina bent down to put on her slippers, she noticed she was still dressed in her riding clothes. She changed into her nightclothes. Thankfully, Lady Isador hadn’t found her sleeping thus. She would never have heard the end of it. She could hear the old governess now, “Proper ladies do not sleep in their day clothes.”
Complete Kingdoms and the Elves of the Reaches Page 8
