The sun would be up soon. She wanted to see the brilliant blues, greens and reds that only an autumn sunrise could bring—and she wanted to share this splendor with Emel and Myrial.
The new day brought remembrance and hope. Remembrance of those lost and hope for tomorrow’s tomorrow. Adrina knew unequivocally as she watched the rising splendor that Galan’s sacrifice held a significance she didn’t completely understand but would come to know better than her own foolish attempt to make things right in the world.
The Kingdoms and the Elves of the Reaches IV
Keeper Martin’s Tales
BOOK FOUR
ROBERT STANEK
Table Of Contents
Book 4
CHAPTER ONE: THINGS REVEALED
CHAPTER TWO: MESSAGES & SHADOWS
CHAPTER THREE: SLIPPING AWAY
CHAPTER FOUR: BOUNDARIES
CHAPTER FIVE: STARK REALITY
CHAPTER SIX: GUIDING FOOLS
CHAPTER SEVEN: BLESSED SIGHT
CHAPTER EIGHT: A GENTLE MADNESS
CHAPTER NINE: KING’S DECREE
CHAPTER TEN: HIDDEN DOORWAYS
CHAPTER ELEVEN: DESTINATIONS REACHED
CHAPTER TWELVE: FINDING TRUTH
CHAPTER THIRTEEN: LOSING TOUCH
CHAPTER FOURTEEN: DRAGON KING
CHAPTER FIFTEEN: ENDGAME
CHAPTER SIXTEEN: RETURN TO IMTAL
Chapter One:
Things Revealed
It was an odd-looking tree perched atop a rocky crag. The roots, stretching over rocks and gravel to the rich black earth a hundred yards away, seemed to have a stranglehold over the land, and the trunk, all twisted and gnarled, spoke of the silent battle the tree was winning. Thick boughs stretched at odd angles to the heavens, seeming to taunt those that traveled below as their shadows lengthened with the waning of the day.
It was here at the base of the tree that the trail ended. Vilmos sank to his knees, studying the last of the tracks and catching his breath for the first time in what felt like days. The tracks didn’t seem to lead anywhere else. He turned around carefully, his eyes scanning. He saw no sign of backtracking.
He wiped the sweat from his brow, his thoughts coming into focus once more on the tree. The cold nights of late had robbed the mighty oaks of most of their leaves. With the cold winds blowing steadily from the north, it wouldn’t be long before the forest was blanketed in the thick snowy coat of winter.
Despite the panicked race through the forest, he knew exactly where he was. He had spent most of his days in this forest. He wasn’t about to get lost now, or ever. Besides, the tree was a landmark of sorts. The rangers called it the Warden. It marked the easternmost edge of the forest and, some would say, the boundary between Sever and Vostok.
He stood momentarily as he looked up at the tree. The great oak had been through hard times and definitely showed its age. Seeing what appeared to be a fresh marking on the thick roots that ran down the rocky crag, he bent over to take a closer look. That was when he saw the prints clearly. The heel print of a woodsman’s boot. The paw print of something he knew must be akin to a bear but just wasn’t right.
Sudden silence hit him like a wall. In the forest, silence often revealed more than sound. With sunset an hour away night sounds should have filled the air. The stillness told him something was wrong but he didn’t know what.
A tiny whisper in his mind asked if the quiet was the last thing he would hear. He put his back to the tree, feeling that somehow it was. The whisper called out to him, tormenting with realizations just out of his reach. If only he could grasp them, he would know what to do.
For a moment he heard the chatter of a squirrel marking her territory. An instant later he saw a shadow move behind a tree not far off. He unsheathed his sword, stood his ground. Minutes passed. He chastised himself for letting his mind play tricks on him. He had followed the trail to its end, found nothing. He must accept it and return home.
Home? The word echoed in his mind. What did the word really mean? What was it like to have a home, to have a place where one felt safe and secure? Where was his home?
As he questioned his reality, the woods around him began to bend and warp as if he were in a pool of liquid steel and the steel was being poured and shaped by unseen hands. Ripples formed on the surface of the air. As if a curtain, Vilmos reached out and parted the veil of the world. He awoke. Discovering he was lying face down in a pile of wet leaves, he whirled around to sit upright and spit out the clumps of dirt and leaves in his mouth. His eyes were wild, arms raised, fists poised ready to fight.
He looked around. He was in the forest but everything was different. But how?
The horse—where was it?—his world spun. Images that were too real to be a dream raced through his mind and all the while Xith’s voice foreshadowed his thoughts and filled his consciousness. The house, his house, his parent’s house—Vilmos couldn’t deny that the experience seemed real.
“How can I find you? Damn it!” he shouted in anger and frustration, though no one could hear.
He found the horse, galloped madly toward his home. He had to find out if someone, anyone, was there. He broke from the woods, pulling the reins sharply at the front porch. He didn’t see danger, yet in the back of his mind he heard Xith’s warning, “Don’t return to the house.” He didn’t heed the warning. He couldn’t stop his feet, which were in motion to the door.
He ran through the house, searching everywhere, but he found nothing and no one. He burst into his own room, collapsed onto his old bed. As he closed his eyes he thought he heard someone crying out “No! No, you mustn’t—the fourth wind comes!”
He strained to listen to the voice. It faded in and out. “I warned you,” the voice admonished, “I warned you.”
His eyes flew open. He jumped out of bed, ran as fast as he could from the house. There was danger now. He sensed it; didn’t know how. He only knew it was with him. He tripped, stumbled down the porch stairs. He ran into the forest alone along the tangled path. Never looked back.
In stop-start fashion, Princess Adrina recounted the story, meshing together Seth’s words as best as she could recall. When she finished, Father Jacob didn’t say anything; it was clear that he was beyond words. It seemed he could hear the warrior elf’s unvoiced whisper repeating what Adrina had said. She took my place. She thought she owed me her life for saving hers and for that she gave her soul for my life… Her spirit will never rest in the Father’s house now. It will never rest… She gave up eternity for me.
Heavy footfalls against the hard stone floor caused Father Jacob and Princess Adrina to turn. At first Adrina thought she heard the tapping of a staff muddled amidst the echoes of the footsteps. Martin or Emel, she thought, only Emel signified trouble. She had been avoiding him since the incident on the wall. Jumping had been foolish—yes—yet taking Emel and Myrial to the tower to watch the sunrise had been even more foolish. Some things just couldn’t be undone and what happened that morning was one of them.
Snapping from her reverie she turned, saw the tall, broad-shouldered figure racing toward her. She stretched her arms out happily in greeting. “My Lord, Prince Valam!” she exclaimed, wrapping her arms around him, pushing her lips firmly against his cheek.
“Adrina!” shouted Prince Valam as he playfully kissed her and swept her off the ground, carrying her up in his arms to his towering height. He stared into the green of her eyes for a time, admiring the way the light reflected back. His mother Queen Alexandria had had the same eyes—eyes that seamed to beguile, eyes that others had told him were haunting.
Adrina pointed to the ground. She wanted to be put down. Valam’s chainmail shirt was rough and cold and the hilt of his sword pressed into her side. “I didn’t expect you home until the spring. Is something wrong?”
“Nothing like you may be thinking. It is just…” Valam paused. He turned to the open stone windows, stared down into the gardens in the inner courtyard. Creating the palace gardens had been
a life’s work—his mother’s life’s work. He was pleased to see that flowers still bloomed in great shades of blue, red, and yellow this late into the year. “I was lonesome. After Isador arrived I could do nothing but think of home and you. Later I received a message from father. I was worried. I needed time away as well. The city is restored, the garrison is at full company, all looks to be in order. Chancellor Van’te is perfectly capable of handling affairs for a time.”
“How is the old scoundrel?” asked Father Jacob.
“As feisty as ever I’m afraid.” Valam’s response sparked a round of laughter. Before Yi, there had been Van’te. He had served their family for forty years. Valam and Adrina regarded the old chancellor as one of the family. When Valam had reached the proper age, Van’te had offered to help with South Province until the prince was ready to handle affairs on his own—grooming an heir to the throne was no easy task.
Adrina could still picture Valam setting off, his pride and hope showing in his expression and a far-off look in his deep brown eyes. He had been so worried. Adrina had been a girl then. She was a young woman now.
“Adrina,” said Valam impatiently. He had so much to do. He had not even visited his father yet.
“Sorry, daydreaming. It seems a lifetime since I last saw you, yet it is mere weeks since the attacks on Quashan’.” She eyed Valam, and asked while brushing long strands of black hair behind her ear, “Did you really return because you were lonesome?”
“Yes and no. I came to learn more about Seth and Galan. The pursuits of the elves seem to be moving nowhere and I owe a debt—”
Adrina pressed a finger to his lips. She considered telling him of Galan but didn’t. Fortunately, Father Jacob was wise enough to know when to change the subject. “So tell us the other reason you returned,” Jacob pried as he straightened the belt of his white-trimmed robe, the robe that was a symbol of his office as the king’s First Minister, “obviously your thoughts are elsewhere.”
Valam’s eyes darted to the open window and the gardens. “Nothing gets passed you, does it?”
“Not much, young sire.” Father Jacob thought to himself that the young prince looked more like his father each time he saw him, especially in the set of his face. He knew then as he had believed for some time that Valam would make a fine king when the time came.
Adrina followed Valam’s eyes to the gardens below, though her attention was drawn away for a different reason. She was sure she had seen a handful of field commanders crossing the inner courtyard with King’s Knight Captain Brodst. Unofficial word in the palace was that the armies of the bandit kings were on the move. The recent garrison activity certainly supported this notion.
“To tell the truth—” Valam stopped, looked at Adrina. “To tell the truth… It’s about Chancellor Yi.”
“Oh,” stated Father Jacob knowingly, the wrinkles on his forehead suddenly becoming great deep lines of worry.
“Go on,” prodded Adrina, displeasure in her tone.
“He sent me a personal communiqué… Nothing more…”
“And you came running all the way from the south?” snapped Adrina.
“Well,” pleaded Valam.
“This is no laughing matter!” Adrina shouted as she stormed off down the hall.
“That’s the Adrina I remember,” Prince Valam said to Father Jacob, “What is she so upset about anyway?”
Father Jacob told Valam what Adrina had omitted. He told the prince of the prophecy and of Galan’s death. As he spoke, he knew Valam experienced Great Kingdom’s darkest hour just as he had. Valam saw the soldiers marching, the riders swarming over the land, the city burning. He heard the hollow knocking on the walls, saw the great black wave of the other armies that followed the first. He heard the despair, felt the flames, saw the smoke that clouded the air.
Valam took a deep breath. His first thought was to chase after Adrina and apologize but Father Jacob’s hand on his shoulder told him to wait a moment. “What is it, Father Jacob? What is it that you aren’t telling me?”
Father Jacob fixed the collar of his robe. He stared intently at the prince for a moment before speaking. “Things don’t go well in council for the elves despite what was said to Queen Mother of East Reach. There is no popular support for this thing. It is only King Andrew’s promise that keeps the matter moving forward. The divide in the council is growing.”
“Divide? What do you mean?”
“Many go through the motions, acting is if in support, but they aren’t. Your father, my king, once held popular support and there would be none to oppose him within Great Kingdom. But times have changed. The memories of Queen Alexandria’s kindness are fading. Your father is not the man he once was.”
Valam’s eyes betrayed anger. “You speak treasonous words, dangerous words.”
Father Jacob took a step back from the towering prince. “I speak the truth—and the growing will of the people. Quashan’ and Alderan weren’t the only cities attacked. The attack in the south was coordinated with an attack in the north. There is evidence of growing unrest, new alliances, dark alliances. King Jarom will not rest until he sits on Imtal’s throne. He’ll do whatever it takes. That makes the Bandit Kings bold.”
“The Bandit Kings have ever been a thorn in our side. But I would not name them bold on the best of occasions.”
“Bold enough to steal into Imtal Palace and try to kidnap Adrina.”
“Kidnap? When did this … What would you have me do?”
“For now you must act is if you know nothing. The time will come for action. You will know it.” Father Jacob’s face suddenly showed his age. “Promise me? Nothing.”
Valam pressed his hands into Father Jacob’s then hurried down the hall in the direction Adrina had gone.
Vilmos ran as fast and as long as he could until finally breathless he staggered, fell to the ground exhausted. The portent clung to his mind. He had to get away, as far away as he possibly could. Panting and weary he stood. His legs shook. His every thought told him to run.
Desperate to move on he crawled until he mustered the strength to run. His chest hurt. His legs ached. His head throbbed with pain.
“Xith!” he screamed desperately. His words echoed out over the valley. “Where are you? What is this journey of awakening?”
He shrieked until his voice was hoarse. He had long since lost the ability to reason. His words were gibberish. His cries grew, his voice barely audible as his strength and determination waned.
When he could no longer run, he collapsed, pounded his fists into the ground. “Think clearly,” he begged of himself. “Think clearly.”
The throbbing pain of his bloodied knuckles brought clarity. He tried to calm himself, to push the nightmares of the world out of his mind. He tried to sort the real from the unreal.
Focus caused the world around him to coalesce and shimmer as if he stared out into a wading pool. Once more he could see the veil of the world. He reached out, parted the curtain between realities and found he was standing in a forest of ancient trees.
The odd-looking tree before him, perched atop a rocky crag, had roots that stretched over rocks and gravel to the rich black earth. The odd angles of the tree’s branches taunted him. He stared up into the sky, catching a glimpse of scarlet fires in the heavens. He knew instantly where he was—and, just as important, where he wasn’t.
The eerie glow from the tree spoke of its timeless power. A voice from far away in the past whispered to him, “The land called Ril Akh Arr,” and in that instant he knew that he had never left Under-Earth after Edward had died. Instead he had escaped from the hunter beast’s trap into the forest, succumbed to the enchantment of the trees—the tree. The tree that was nearly as old as Under-Earth itself. The tree that had survived the millennia as men and beasts came and went around it.
The Ever Tree sang to Vilmos. The rhapsody of the song was one of movement not of words. The tree’s branches twittered, leaves fluttered, as if blown by a breeze although the air
was still. Vilmos listened, enchanted.
A face appeared within the bark of the ancient tree. As the face became clear the words of the song became clear. The song told of the masters of the three realms—titans, dragons, elves, dwarves, and men—and a time when they had lived as one. Lyrics of happy times were short lived. Soon the tree sang of a terrible, dark war and epic battles under blood red skies.
The song went on. The images in the song took shape. Vilmos no longer heard but saw. He stood tall, staring out at the burning fields in the song. A strong southerly wind blew smoke from the fires into his eyes. He looked down the trench littered with the dead and dying. In either hand he held a great sword, downturned during a pause between attacks but ready for battle just the same.
In his line he was the only one that stood at the ready. The others around him were slumped and weary. It had been a long day; the night would be even longer. Odd though it was he knew a night in the trench wouldn’t bother him. He was lineborn and linesworn. The darkness didn’t frighten him as it did many of the others.
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