The Ring Of Truth

by B Cameron Lee

  “Curious,” his mother said. “Neither your father nor myself ever suspected there was any more magic left in it. We felt nothing from it. I wonder who had the skill to make a magic such as that and disguise it so thoroughly.”

  She took his head between her hands and pulled it down to kiss his forehead gently before whispering.

  “Maybe you will find the answer to life’s puzzle one day my son but right now, know that I love you dearly and always will.”

  For the next four years Kuiran’dal grew rapidly, his breadth being converted to height. He was now at least a head taller than the tallest M’Herindar, a giant of a boy. Unfortunately it also meant he was a little lonesome, as the rest of the children were dwarfed by him and any meaningful play was out of the question. Some spent time talking with him but he felt their pity. M’Herindar grew far more slowly than Man and to his peers, he was rushing into manhood so quickly they could not keep pace.

  Ch’ron expanded Kuiran’dal’s home pod for him to make a living space which better suited his size but the young man could only join in social gatherings outside, as he didn’t fit easily into any of the family pods and took up rather a lot of space when he tried. He handled his unique situation with calm composure and a ready smile. His early lessons in life had taught him to cope with how unusual he was in this society and his size didn’t deter the teachers from treating him as the youth he was.

  Kuiran’dal was still only fifteen years old after all.

  Weapons training was another thing altogether. He seemed born to it but would only ever train with his staff. It never left his side and became an extension of both his arms. Since he had shot up in height the staff no longer dwarfed him but to the M’Herindar it still looked like a small tree. More surprises were in stall for one and all. None of the edged weapons could make a mark on the wood and Kuiran’dal became very quick with his staff, sometimes outdoing his instructors.

  In desperation one day, after a particularly gruelling session with the lad, an instructor spelled the staff to slow it down. All he got for his troubles was the spell backfiring onto him and for the rest of the day the instructor walked, sat and talked extremely slowly. The staff itself was resistant to magic, in a way none could understand and it more than made up for Kuiran’dal’s total lack of M’Herindar magical ability.

  Being the Queen’s son, Kuiran’dal had the best instructors to train him and his expertise with the staff grew exponentially. By his sixteenth year none could best him. Even attacks with the bow were doomed to failure as the rapidly whirling staff knocked any arrow out of the air with ease before it could reach him. Privately, Jahron’dal expressed a slight unease to his wife.

  “What if he was planted among us by our enemies? None here can defeat him at weapons and our magic doesn’t seem to work on him while he carries that staff and it never leaves his side.”

  Vehrin’del smiled. “Husband, that thought is unworthy of you. Kuiran’dal’s heart is as large as the rest of him. He loves the M’Herindar as his own people and he loves and respects us as his parents. We can only return both that love and trust with an open heart or we are no better than Man.”

  Jahron’dal was chagrined, casting his eyes down in embarrassment for a moment before again meeting her gaze.

  “As usual, you are right my love. Fate will eventually reveal its purpose in the scheme of things.”

  During those formative teenage years, Sihron’del was Kuiran’dal’s best friend. She had been there when he was found and had taken him to heart as her brother. There was always a bond between them which only grew stronger over time. As part of his training she took him out on patrol with her and showed him the elements of wood craft. For a large youth he could move with quiet grace and when he ran, he was the wind. None could catch him. In her own way she loved her baby brother and vowed to protect him whenever possible.

  Fate had other ideas though and during Kuiran’dal’s eighteenth year Sihron’del was called to a meeting with the Wise Ones. She was gone for over two hours and when she returned from the meeting Sihron’del could barely contain her excitement but paradoxically was also a little subdued. She called for a family gathering which had to be held in Kuiran’dal’s pod, near the Queen’s residence, as no other would hold him comfortably. Sihron’del spoke to all of them.

  “I have to leave. The Wise Ones have commanded it. I must journey into the lands of Men and perform a task. I am not allowed to say what that task is and I could be gone for many years. I may not even survive it but the fate of many, even possibly that of the M’Herindar, is dependant on this task. I leave early in the morning as I have far to go.”

  Jahron’dal nodded. “As the Wise Ones command, so shall it be.” He was echoed by Vehrin’del but Kuiran’dal could not contain himself.

  “I’ll come too sister, to protect you. You know I can.”

  Sihron’del regarded him sorrowfully for a moment.

  “No Kuiran’dal, your fate is yet to be scryed. The Wise Ones have plans for you also but not at this time. I must go alone.”

  Vehrin’del looked from one to the other of her children.

  “Not both of you,” she whispered sadly.

  “I’m afraid so mother. That’s what it means to have special children. I’ll say goodbye now, as I leave before first light.”

  With that Sihron’del kissed each of them on the forehead then bid them goodnight, her cheeks wet with tears.

  At first light, as she tried to slip out, her mother stood at the entrance to her bower and stopped Sihron’del briefly.

  “I’ve something for you. Wear it on your person always and if you are ever in deadly trouble, take it off and whisper ‘home’ to it. It will return to me quickly, unseen by anyone.”

  Vehrin’del reached up and unclipped an unusual butterfly hair clasp from her long silvering blond hair. It was small but exquisitely made in silver with turquoise wings. As she handed it to her daughter, the wings fluttered briefly.

  “It’s just getting to know you. Wear it always in your hair, where it will appear to any observer as a simple leather hair tie. Farewell my firstborn. I will expect you to return to Ch’ron’s care eventually.”

  Tears formed in her almond shaped eyes as she bent forward and kissed her daughter on the forehead. Energy surged into Sihron’del through the kiss and her eyes widened in astonishment.

  Her mother smiled. “Did you never suspect there was more to being a Queen than just being in charge? Think on it as you travel, you are the next Queen of the M’Herindar. Please make sure you come back to us.”

  With that, Vehrin’del stood aside as Sihron’del picked up her bow and travelling pack, quiver attached and watched as her daughter slipped off through the trees to visit the Wise Ones before she left the Darkwood.

  Kuiran’dal felt lonely now that Sihron’del had gone on her mission. He had lots of friends but not a special someone to talk to. He often thought about his sister but they heard no news from her as time passed. The Wise Ones assured the family that Sihron’del was in no danger and had started her foreseen task with diligence.

  Both Kuiran’dal’s parents loved him dearly and Vehrin’del was truly an endless source of support and encouragement. He was M’Herindar but he was different and felt a little out of place.

  Over the next three years, until just before his twenty first birthday, his education continued. He was taught the speech of Man at the request of the Wise Ones and became fluent in that tongue as well as being able to write it, the goose quill engulfed delicately in his huge hand as the beautiful flowing script leapt across the parchment. It was a continual surprise to his tutors that those hands, able to spin his staff with such power, could still accomplish such delicate tasks.

  Talk ran among some M’Herindar in the Darkwood about the Queen’s son and soon Kuiran’dal’s education was broadened even further. Some of the more adventuresome young women, wondering at his size and reputed gentleness came to court the reserved young man. He was b
ut human and unlike the M’Herindar, could not escape the glamours which these young women employed. Not that he minded. His knowledge grew in other ways and sometimes there were arguments over who would share his time. As Kuiran’dal matured he realised his new found popularity with the older girls was a physical thing rather than a meeting of minds and feelings. Sihron’del’s absence was a hole in his life and he found it hard to cope with the reality of being different.

  His solution was to volunteer for extended patrol duty at the edge of Ch’ron, the Darkwood as Man knew it, operating as a trainee Ranger. It wasn’t long before he was appointed a Ranger in his own right and sent out on patrol by himself. A few times he thwarted Men trying to enter Ch’ron’s boundaries but did not kill them, rather rendering them unconscious with a tap to the head from his staff before carrying them out onto the grassy plains of Barsoom. Those Men did not return.

  Two days before he turned twenty one he was summoned to meet the Wise Ones and returned a few hours later, light of step. He went directly to speak with his parents.

  “It appears my destiny has caught up with me. Now is the time for me to venture from the protection of Ch’ron and travel to the world of Man. I have an appointment in one week, early in the day, many leagues from here. You are not to worry mother, for I will return eventually”.

  Kuiran’dal looked over to his father who nodded.

  “As the Wise Ones will,” they both replied in unison, formally and with much feeling.

  Kuiran’dal grinned and leaning forward enveloped them both in a huge hug, one arm around his mother, the other around his father.

  “You both knew when you found me the day would come when I would have to leave. I will pass as a Man in the outside world, although I believe my size will be remarked on but inside, I am still M’Herindar. Your son. Remember that, my parents, and also remember you have my gratitude and thankfulness until my dying day for raising me the way you have. I love you both.”

  He released them and sat back with a mischievous twinkle in his eye.

  “As to the secret preparations for my twenty first birthday, I am sorry to ruin them. However, have it anyway. The young ones always enjoy a party.”

  His mother rose from where she was sitting.

  “Wait there for a moment, I have something for you.”

  She passed through to the inner rooms of her bower and returned shortly with a package wrapped in spider silk cloth.

  “This was mine but is now yours. It is a thing of magic, great magic.” She handed it to him and he received the package solemnly, slowly unwrapping it. Inside was a delicate embroidered belt, all over covered by a strange design wrought in tiny pearls which his eyes had difficulty following. His mother laughed in amusement.

  “You wonder what it is my son and also what its importance is? Don’t look so puzzled, your expression gave you away. That is a belt. On me that is. For you it will be an arm band. Here, allow me to tie it on.”

  She took the embroidered belt from his hands and tied it around his right arm above the bicep muscle. As the last lace was knotted, the arm band disappeared from view. Kuiran’dal reflexively reached up with his left hand and felt the space above his right bicep. His hand told him the new armband was there but his eyes told him it wasn’t.

  “This belt has been in our family for many generations. It once belonged to a very great healer. Whoever wears this belt always heals immediately from almost any illness or injury except when iron is still in the wound. Take it and use it wisely son. May the years fly by until your return.”

  Kuiran’dal swallowed around the lump in his throat. It was all he could do to kiss his mother and father on the forehead and retire with a bow of respect.

  He left early the next morning, staff clutched in his hand and a pack upon his back.

  Jogging to keep an appointment in time.

  8. An Ending.

  Chalc was tiring, apart from an hour’s rest early this morning, they had ridden non stop for a night and most of the day since Forbidden. Besides feeling exceedingly embarrassed and also annoyed with himself, Chalc was contrite. He was a trained Swordmaster; one who was supposed to have his wits about him at all times and be continually aware of everything in his immediate environment. He should have been prepared for a possible ambush in Forbidden. In spite of all his training he had ridden into the town’s square without identifying potential hazards. Yes, it had been a long time since he had been in action and used his martial arts skills but that was no excuse. How could he teach Arwhon to stay alive if he allowed himself to be trapped as they were in Forbidden? Swordmaster, hah! He needed to be more careful in the future or the adventure they were on would be very short-lived and he, Chalc, would be responsible for the death of a likeable but still naive young man.

  An odd tickling in his brain brought his thoughts back to the present, the sparsely used trail in the woods they were travelling, parallel to but a fair distance from the main road. Not that he wasn’t on guard, Chalc had the ability to be aware of his surroundings and think at the same time, just another one of the attributes a Swordmaster acquires during his training.

  “Sorry Darla, I was castigating myself for that unfortunate incident back in Forbidden.”

  The horse tossed her head and let him know it was not his fault. Speaking into his mind in a warm fuzzy way, more in pictures than in words, she informed him that the Black River seeress had already foreseen Reynaldo’s death in Forbidden and anyway, who was Chalc to think he could have changed events already witnessed beforehand.

  “Nothing is writ in stone Darla. The future is only real when it actually happens. Many threads starting from the present are woven together to make the future and by breaking even one, the whole pattern can alter. Tell me of Reynaldo if you will, I would like to know of him.”

  The warm fuzziness became hollow and Chalc could feel the pain of Darla’s recent loss as she picked up the tale of Reynaldo. Darla had first met him fifteen years ago when she was a two year old filly. Most of her cohort had already bonded with their chosen at the Great Gathering, held once a year when all the Tribes of Barsoom met at Horhenge, the great ring of standing stones at the centre of Barsoom, to renew their oath to the King and Queen.

  The most important part of the ritual of the Gathering, after the oath renewal, was to present all of the hopefuls from the seven Tribes of Barsoom to every available two year old horse at the Bonding. It wasn’t a structured affair. The young folk and some oldsters too, who had outlived their original Barsoomi mount for one reason or another, would circulate around the corrals of the various Tribes to see if they were picked out. Most of the young colts and fillies, nothing more than mere horses feeling an unknown urge, stood with their heads reaching over the makeshift rails, testing the air for something which nagged at them or scrounging titbits from the hopefuls who carried plenty of treats. Every so often there would be a little spark pass through the corrals as another bonding took place.

  That was the way of the Gathering.

  Most of the hopefuls who were bonded by an available horse were young, less than twenty man years and occasionally among them, a foreigner who had paid handsomely to be present for the Bonding.

  She herself did not want to hang her head over a rail and had stood at the back of the pen, away from the crowds. The Gathering and the process of bonding did not feel right to Darla so she hadn’t bonded during the Great Gathering, much to the dismay of her owner who hailed from the Swift River Tribe but Barsoomi horses were Barsoomi horses and they had their own ways. The Swift River Tribe returned to their home range on the plains with Darla and the rest of their horses. There was no ill will directed at her, she had the right of choosing.

  For the next month or two, life went on as normal until the day another Tribe joined up with the Swift River Tribe out on the plains. An impromptu celebration started that evening, with singing and dancing and much consumption of fermented mare’s milk. Couples paired off and went to tents or out into th
e long grass, to consummate relationships newly made. Darla, one eye on the festivities while she grazed, had seen a man walk slowly from the gathering by himself and sit out on the plain, well away from the hurly burly around the campfires. Every so often he raised a jug to his lips and drank. Curious, Darla edged closer and closer to this stranger she had never seen before. Then she felt his pain.

  Felt his pain!

  Was this the one? Confused, she hung back and sorted through images which came to her, careful not to broadcast anything. He was older than most of the hopefuls, approaching thirty man years or so. Images of battle, it must have been battle, men fighting with longknives and lances from the back of horses and horses fighting men and other horses, ran through his mind. It was all a big chaotic jumble of experience and pain and death, both of horses and men. Later she was to learn it was visions of action during the Dominion Wars when Barsoom was freed from the rule of the Dominion.

  Among the images she picked up from the man was a recurring one of his Barsoomi horse being cut down from under him, hamstrung from behind. A pervading sadness accompanied this image. However, the sadness of loosing his bonded horse did not approach the level of pain attached to the memories surrounding his return to the remains of his Tribe’s camp. Tents slashed and burned, hacked and mutilated dead bodies lying scattered, with crows and worse feeding on the remains. His stumbling through the carnage and the eventual discovery of that special someone, dead, clutching a small ragged bundle that might once have been a child. His.

  For the first time in her short life Darla’s brain was on fire, sensing and seeing in a way she had never done before when she was merely a horse. The images burned into Darla, searing into her brain. One foot was placed in front of another as she was drawn inexorably nearer and nearer to the man sitting in the grass.

  Eventually she stood over him and her request transmitted to him. The reply she received was distressing.