A Man child? Warded with magic?
Sihron’del watched her mother from the corner of her eyes and saw the change wash over her. The sadness which had clung to Vehrin’del for many years now ebbed away. She stood tall and straight as the Queen she was, before bending again to raise the baby in her arms. It was an effort for her. Tears moistened her eyes as she gazed down into the child’s face.
“I don’t know why you were sent to me but I will care for you boy. As if you were my own.”
Looking up with a pleading expression on her face, she studied Jahron’dal briefly.
“If it’s alright with you my husband.”
Jahron’dal paused, pretending to look serious, before his face creased with a broad, heartfelt smile and his hands spread in mock surrender.
“Who am I to argue with the Wise Ones and whoever created this chest’s powerful binding spells, safeguarding the child within.”
For the first time in many years Sihron’del heard her mother laugh. A Queen’s laugh, with all the power of the M’Herindar behind it.
The clouds parted, the sun shone brightly and the seas calmed. The song of Ch’ron swelled in response, even this far from the deep forest. Her mother took her cloak from her pack and firmly swaddled the babe, all accomplished without putting him down, then turned to the other two.
“We had best get back to Al’hera,” she said, looking directly at Sihron’del. “Too long in the sun and we’ll fade.”
The smile following this remark lit her whole face with all its regal inner beauty.
The trip back was longer than the trip out. Jahron’dal carried the metal-bound chest, the child’s only legacy but, although it was surprisingly light, it was difficult for him to manage due to its awkward dimensions. He tried wrapping his cloak around the chest to carry it but one cloak was not enough so Sihron’del loaned him her cloak to add to his. Both cloaks were just barely sufficient to make a sling for the return journey but Jahron’dal carried the burden wearing his stoic face and did not complain.
Vehrin’del and Sihron’del took turns carrying the heavy baby. They had to rest often. Feeding the infant was no problem as Ch’ron directed them to special branches, grown from smooth barked trunks, which ended in a rounded teat shape and delivered a nutrient, flavoursome sap. The child wanted to feed often and Sihron’del was sure he grew on the trip home. Each day he seemed to be heavier than when they had started out.
The trio arrived back on the fifteenth day after they had left, tired but satisfied. The news spread quickly and crowds of M’Herindar gathered in the large clearing before Vehrin’del’s Tree home, to witness what the sea of the Rift had offered up. When most of those presently residing in Al’hera were assembled, Vehrin’del stood on the Speaker’s Mound in the centre of the clearing and in a quiet but happy voice she addressed the gathering of her people.
“The Wise Ones told us to journey to the coast. Why? They could not say. There we fought off a boatload of strange creatures chasing this chest which was floating on the Rift Sea.”
She pointed to the open chest at her feet. The crowd could feel the remnants of some magic in the chest. Not M’Herindar magic though.
“It was sealed and warded with magic. It only opened for me. Not Jahron’dal, not Sihron’del, just me. Inside was this babe. No, don’t laugh. Despite his size he is no more than two week’s old. He’s not M’Herindar but a Man child. The Wise Ones and I think he was meant for my care. As your Queen, I have a responsibility to you, my people. So I ask you. May I keep him and raise him as my own.”
Sihron’del was amazed. Her mother already loved the child dearly and he responded to her as he would to his own mother. Anyone looking at her mother’s face would realize the depth of affection she felt for the child, even after such a short time together but he was Man child and right here and now, Vehrin’del had to ask her people if she could keep him in the Darkwood.
Vehrin’del was truly a Queen, to put her subject’s wishes ahead of her own feelings.
Something else to learn and remember.
To Vehrin’del’s people, clustered around the mound, some childhood friends who had known her for nearly four hundred years, there were no doubts. Cries of agreement flooded from all sides, along with cheers and wishes of good health for herself and the child. Vehrin’del’s eyes filled with rare M’Herindar tears which escaped to run down her face as emotions she had held in check since finding the babe were released and overflowed. Where each tear landed, a small white flower sprang from the ground. Ch’ron subtly introduced a new refrain into the song of the Tree and the crowd stilled for a moment as the sounds wove through them, communicating the Tree’s directive.
‘This child has a purpose and all the M’Herindar are to aid him. Acceptance has been the first step of his journey.’
“What is his name?” came a shout from the crowd.
“Yes, what is his name?” Jahron’dal turned to ask Vehrin’del.
She stood for a moment with her head bowed, thinking, then with difficulty she struggled to hold the child up in front of the assembly and named him.
“Kuiran’dal.”
The crowd roared its approval. The name meant, ‘My Arm of Strength’ in the language of the M’Herindar.
Kuiran’dal grew rapidly over the next few years. It seemed to Sihron’del that every time she returned from a monthly stint of patrol duties with the Rangers, the child had grown immensely. There were not many children among the M’Herindar; birth rates were low at the best of times, so Kuiran’dal had only a few playmates his own age. They were not of his size though and one of the first lessons drummed into him was to be careful with his strength when dealing with those smaller than him.
It was a difficult thing for a young boy to remember in the rough and tumble of play and the striving to win those early games. The lesson was finally driven home to him when he was about five years of age after he grabbed Rohsin’del by the arm one day in play and heard and felt the crack of the bone as it broke.
The Healer was called and by the next day Rohsin’del’s arm was as good as new but she remembered the pain and stayed away from Kuiran’dal for many weeks, despite his deeply sorrowful remorse. From that moment on, Kuiran’dal faced up to the responsibilities of his formidable strength and never harmed another M’Herindar.
After a few months without further incidents, the other children drifted back to play with Kuiran’dal. None could resist his easy, cheeky smile or his total disregard for his own welfare. He fell out of trees retrieving kites for other children, he tumbled into a deep pool in the stream that ran through the centre of Al’hera and luckily discovered he could float. Once he impaled his own leg on a longknife. A knife he shouldn’t have been playing with. Yet another job for the Healers, who had to remove the longknife from his thick limb and repair the damage.
That particular episode traumatised the young lad and turned him away from edged weapons for life. He didn’t like the feel of the metal of the longknife from the moment it had been in his body. In fact he loathed it.
Metal was wrong. Particularly iron.
Too cold and loathsome.
He immediately lost all interest in longknives and shortswords and from then on it was all he could do to carry an extremely small utility knife on his belt.
At the age of six his lessons started; history, law, language and magic. He excelled at all except magic. He had none and couldn’t understand what was meant by drawing Earthmagic from Ch’ron. He felt nothing when he touched the Tree apart from the bark of Ch’ron himself.
By now Kuiran’dal was nearly as tall as children twice his age, broader than any of them and good naturedly accepted being the butt of many jokes. However, it hurt when he was teased about his lack of magic and about his eyes. All the M’Herindar children had large coloured eyes with no whites but Kuiran’dal had Man eyes. He accepted the teasing with the equanimity that typified his approach to life but it wore at him and after yet another long year o
f lessons with not a glimmer of a spell, he could bear it no longer.
“Mother, why can’t I perform even the simplest of spells?” he asked Vehrin’del one day when they were alone together. “And why am I different from the other children?”
Vehrin’del sighed, she had known this day would come but had hoped it would be a lot further into the future, when Kuiran’dal was older and more able to handle the truth. She would have to tell him though, it was his right. Taking him by the hand she led him deep into her private chambers and showed him the chest which they had brought from the Rift Sea when Kuiran’dal was found.
“You came to me when there was no hope of me ever having another child, delivered to the shore of the Rift in this chest. You were surrounded by magic and you were protected by it but it was a strange magic which nurtured you and yes, still remains a part of you. It doesn’t allow the flow of energy from Ch’ron and from the land on which we live. It’s something different, apart, and I hope you find it one day.”
Vehrin’del cupped Kuiran’dal’s cheek and gazed fondly into his eyes.
“The Wise Ones have only glimpsed your destiny and no one else among the M’Herindar has any idea what it is. You are a very special person and very important. All things happen for a reason. Maybe we don’t know what you are or where you came from but it doesn’t change the fact I love you with all my heart and you’ll always be my son. You can do things none of the M’Herindar can do. That will have to be your magic for now. Don’t fret my son, magic is not everything.”
Kuiran’dal was fascinated with the chest, running his hands over its surface and looking inside at the red cushioning.
“There’s something I must do with this chest but I know not what,” he murmured as his hands continued to run over its surface. “Maybe it will become clearer in time.”
Vehrin’del smiled to herself; her son was practical and accepted his difference with equanimity.
He would fare well.
By the time Kuiran’dal reached eleven years of age he was nearly as large as any adult of the M’Herindar and almost as strong. The Wise Ones recommended he be trained with weapons but Kuiran’dal would have none of it, defying the edict with all the considerable perseverance and stubbornness he could muster.
He learned how to communicate with Ch’ron and took to going off alone among the trunks of Tree to converse with him in private. Surprisingly, not even Sihron’del, a favourite of Ch’ron’s, could get the ancient entity to divulge the topic of these long talks with Kuiran’dal.
A mystery.
Sihron’del herself, as one of the Rangers, had taken to volunteering for double patrols. She enjoyed the freedom of patrolling and the chance to escape to the boundaries of her existence. It took her away from the suitors who were becoming more irritating as the years passed. Her mother was no help and often seemed to encourage them, despite Sihron’del’s distaste. Some would-be suitors travelled from distant parts of the Darkwood just to see her. Sitting and talking with her somewhere quiet after Vehrin’del had given them her permission.
A simple ‘No’, never seemed to be good enough for many of them.
They always found an excuse to return and pay court to her all over again, bringing more extravagant gifts each time. She gave them all back. Sihron’del enjoyed the attention in some ways but she wasn’t ready to settle into being a wife and bearing children yet. If she could put off the inevitable union, Sihron’del knew her life would be far richer and more fulfilling than being happily married could ever offer.
She thirsted for adventure, just as in the old legends, concerning the time when Man first arrived in the land. Many was the time she caught herself gazing out over the world of Man from under the forest’s edge, wondering what it was like out there, especially with no Tree and people sometimes hostile to the M’Herindar. She found herself longing to go and find out but she couldn’t just leave.
Could she?
In the centre of the village, in the open space on top of the Speaker’s Mound, a new slim tree trunk started to sprout, its leaves unlike any tree which had grown in the forest before. Kuiran’dal was wont to sit in front of it and watch it grow. Early morning until late in the evening he was found sitting cross legged gazing at it. Even during periods of rain he was still in the same place, observing the growth of this strange new sapling.
The M’Herindar were openly puzzled by this train of events, something which had never occurred before in living memory. The Speaker’s Mound had always been clear of growth, Ch’ron kept it that way. Yet here was a small tree growing from it and Kuiran’dal seemed to have expected it to happen.
The days passed and the sapling grew straight and true, only a few leaves at the top to catch the sparse filtered light. The trunk was of a uniform thickness from the ground to the start of the first few leaves of its crown. None of the M’Herindar could understand why it grew there and when it died, leaves curling and browning, they were doubly puzzled. Young trees didn’t die, Ch’ron would not allow it. Above all, they could not understand why Kuiran’dal still sat and watched it, even in its death.
The weapons instructors were still pressuring him to take up a weapon but all Kuiran’dal did was ask them to wait a little longer and returned to observing the dead tree as the days passed one by one. The instructors shook their heads; either Kuiran’dal was ailing or this was Man behaviour.
Two weeks after the sapling died, the leaves at its crown fell off. Kuiran’dal rose from his vigil, stretched and stood silently before the sapling, considering. None among the M’Herindar knew he had private communion with Ch’ron. Word quickly passed from mouth to mouth and even Vehrin’del had time to join the assembling throng to see her son standing stock still an arms length from the dead trunk of this gift from the Tree. He seemed to retreat into himself, a solid boy in his twelfth year who was as large and broad as any of the men around him.
A hush fell over the crowd as Kuiran’dal breathed deeply and leaned forward to grasp the trunk just above the ground where a node could be seen. He strained his muscles and took a deep breath before applying a twisting pressure to the dead sapling as he pushed back. The strain on his body was immense but he just kept exerting more and more pressure. With a loud crack, the trunk broke cleanly through and Kuiran’dal straightened with a sigh before moving his hands up the length of the smooth trunk until one mighty hand lay each side of the upper node just below the twigs which had borne the foliage. Gripping tightly, he drew breath then once more exerted those mighty muscles. His shirt ripped open straight down the back as his shoulder muscles bunched in competition with the wood. The assembly gasped in amazement at the breadth of knotted shoulders on display. There was another tremendous crack and the top end of the sapling parted company from the bottom. Kuiran’dal now had a straight and even shaft of wood which was almost one and a half times his height. Feeling his mother’s gaze on him, he looked over at her and smiled a slightly exhausted smile as he spoke, loudly enough for the crowd to hear.
“Ch’ron does not like metal weapons with edges either; not even the silver ones. This is a present from him and he has told me what to do with it. I must seal the ends so its strength and the magic Ch’ron placed in it remain within.”
Kuiran’dal walked over to his mother and stood close to her, lowering his voice as he spoke privately to Vehrin’del.
“I understand something now which will clear up a mystery. Will you take me to the chest again please?”
“Certainly my son, Ch’ron is benefactor to us all. If he has told you what to do, you must do it. Come.”
She led the way, the crowd parting silently before their Queen and her son. As they passed by, voices rose in discussion of the events which had unfolded over the last month, culminating in the display of strength exhibited by Kuiran’dal. The sapling went with Kuiran’dal, even into the depths of his mother’s private chamber and before long they were standing in front of the chest. He laid the wooden shaft down before it and gra
sped the hasp of one of the odd coloured metal straps which bound the dark wood. Once again he prepared to heave but at his touch, the metal parted company from the chest with ease, flowing away from the wood. He grasped the other strap and it too came away from the chest. His mother was astounded and stepped back from the wooden box.
“Jahron’dal and I both checked the chest for residual magic and there was none. It had none of the energy of magic or spells left in it. What have you done?” his mother asked. “I could have sworn those straps were bonded to the wood.”
“It is no good asking me about magic,” Kuiran’dal replied. “I have none but Ch’ron explained what was necessary so I’m doing as he suggested.”
Next, Kuiran’dal picked up his staff and one of the metal straps, draping it over the open end of the wood. The metal writhed and smoke rose as the shiny strap wound itself around the bottom handspan of the pole until in a short while it had smoothly sealed the end. The pole and metal were one. The same thing was repeated at the other end and Kuiran’dal stood up, proudly holding the finished job in front of him.
“It is called a staff. Ch’ron grew a very special wood for it. One he has never attempted to grow before. As it grew, Ch’ron took life force from me to put in the wood. It will be with me until I die. We are one, this staff and me and now I’m ready to be trained to fight. This will be my weapon. It has no cutting edge but no cutting edge can ever harm it. Thank you mother for keeping the chest for me. It was indeed a valuable legacy.”
A slight noise made them turn to face the chest which was slowly crumbling before their eyes. In a matter of moments it had become a pile of dust on the floor which then vanished in swirling vapour as if it had never existed.
The Ring Of Truth Page 15
