by Anny Cook
Nervously, Alf cleared his throat again as the crowd looked on in enthralled excitement. There had never been such an electrifying change in the old, traditional ceremony. Avidly the people waited to see what would happen next. Before Alf could remind Hawke of his duty to lead the call to commitment, the third drang, a tall rangy blue and green creature approached him determinedly. “A moment please.”
Alf’s tongue stole out to lick at his dry lips. “Yes, sir. What can I do for you?”
“The call to commitment is part of a much older ceremony. In ancient times, the ceremony was first and foremost dedicated to the formal claiming of warriors by the drangs. I would make my claiming now.” The drang’s steely tone allowed for no protest.
“Of c-course, sir.” Alf had never dreamed of actually meeting a drang face to snout. “Uh, do whatever you wish.”
A low growl sent a puff of smoke into Alf’s eyes which watered at once. Moving to Alf’s left, the drang faced Arturo and Ban. The drang tilted his head back, trumpeting a loud call across the valley that seemed to echo back from the far cliffs. “I am Galen, guardian to the morkerts and archivists! I claim Arturo Llewellyn and Banisher Ewell, bonded warrior partners for my own!”
Arano, standing next to Merlyn with one of his tiny daughters tucked under his arm, chuckled under his breath. “Ah, destiny has caught up with you at last, ’Turo.”
“Did you know this was coming?” Merlyn muttered in Arano’s ear.
“No.” Arano slid a sparkling glance toward his mother. “But I bet Mama knew. She’s not surprised at all.”
Merlyn sighed. “You are probably right,” he admitted before focusing his attention back on the field where the drang confronted Arturo and Ban.
“Will you accept my claim?” Galen demanded.
Before Ban could agree, Arturo stopped him with a sharp gesture. “Unlike Hawke, who was not yet assigned, or young Panther, Ban and I have heavy responsibilities at Talking Wall. We are not free to follow you or accept your claim until replacements can be assigned.”
Galen sat back on his haunches with his tail wrapped around his legs and eyed the implacable warriors with an appreciative eye. After a few moments, he turned to Alf. “Well? Surely there are replacements among this fine crop of warriors?”
Alf scratched his chin in thought. “Finding a morkert to reassign is possible,” he agreed, “but archivists don’t grow on every tree. As you know, archivists must speak both the valley language and the ancient tongue.”
Galen ran his eye over the warriors standing in line, halting when he touched on a young warrior near the end. Pointing with a hooked claw, he announced, “That one. Falcon Llewellyn.”
“He’s still an apprentice,” Alf protested.
“He’s near Master status already,” Ban revealed.
“Very well,” Alf grumbled. “How we’re supposed to govern the valley when you take our best warriors is beyond me.”
“When you need them, they will be there.” Having reassured Alf as best he could, Galen motioned for Arturo and Ban to follow him back to the center of the field where they knelt down in front of the drang. When he offered his rough clawed hands, they accepted his claim at once. The slashing of and meshing of palms was the work of moments. The flash and sizzle of light was expected. The seal of Galen’s claim, a small blue dragon for Ban and green dragon for Arturo, rested in the hollow of their palms.
Galen urged them to their feet. Then as one, the group—drang and human—turned to the waiting warriors and Hawke led them through the ancient words of the call to commitment. When they were finished, Hawke’s drang began to sing. There were no words but it was clearly a distinct intricate melody. On the second round he was joined by Plato and Galen singing counterpoint. The song drew to a close. A hush fell over the field as the mighty drangs and their warriors walked away toward the mysterious unknown depths of the Dark Woods.
As though held in a spell, the crowd waited in place until they were out of sight. The warriors broke ranks and moved to join their families. That seemed to release the rest of the people from their places. Families gathered around the new warriors congratulating them and offering hugs and kisses.
The largest group gathered around Jade Llewellyn in a shell-shocked band. “Now what?” Tyger ventured. “What just happened?”
Bishop pulled Samara into his embrace with her back facing him. He slid his big hands over her rounded belly heavy with their babies. “I think that the Llewellyns have been drafted,” he observed absently.
Samara laced her fingers with his in time to feel the sharp thrust of a tiny foot as the taut muscles in her belly tightened. “What does that mean?”
Traveller swooped down to kiss his son’s small downy head where it rested on Wrenna’s shoulder. “It means that the drangs have a plan. And the Llewellyns are necessary to their plan. Good thing my name isn’t Llewellyn.”
“Hah! Neither is Ban’s!” Dai pointed out.
Dancer stared off at the Dark Woods pensively. “I wonder why they claimed Panther? Hawke will be the high clan chief. Ban and Arturo were claimed for their skills in law and translation. Why did Plato claim Panther? Isn’t he apprenticed to a builder?”
“No doubt he had his reasons,” Jade said. “In the meantime, we need to move into the shade. It’s too hot out here for the babies.”
While the rest of the group moved to settle under one of the wide shelters that provided shade, Bishop and Llyon slowly escorted Samara back toward Lost Market. “How long were you going to wait before you mentioned that you were in labor?” Bishop scolded. “Surely you weren’t planning to have the babies on the field!”
“They aren’t due until next moon,” she pointed out irritably. “I’m not ready!”
“Twins are usually early,” Llyon reminded her. “Seven moons is full term so you did very well to make it through six. They’ll be fine.”
Before they reached the bridge, Wolfe caught up with them. “I’ll run ahead and make sure everything is ready.”
Samara caught her lip between her teeth and breathed in deeply. “Wolfe? I hope you have a spare medical pack at the home domes. We’re not going to make to our dome.”
Wolfe ran a professional eye over his cousin. “Ah? Well, we always have room for one more at the Llewellyn domes. Or in your case, two more. I’ll go prepare for our newest family members.”
“Midsummer is a good time to be born,” Llyon teased. “You won’t forget their birthing day that way.”
“I don’t mind that so much. But why do I always miss the feast?”
“Don’t you worry about the feast. The minute your mother misses you, she’ll be here with enough food for a week. At least this time you won’t have to worry about burning the cake.” Impatient with their progress, Bishop swept her up in his arms and carried her up the steep path. “Llyon?”
“She’s doing fine, Bish. Just fine.”
“Are you sure?”
“Would I lie?”
“Yes. If you thought it would help.”
Llyon shook his head and laughed. “No lie, Uncle. We’re going to make it with plenty of time.” He led the way up the steps and held the door open.
Wolfe popped out from a room down the hall. “Here! Everything is ready.”
They did make it with time to spare. Not a lot of time. About five minutes actually, but Samara was not delivering on an open field and that was Bishop’s chief concern. As Wolfe deposited each newborn in Bish’s arms he cradled the babies, stunned by the powerful emotions that bombarded him as he watched them sleep with the rapt intentness of all new babies. Little frowns and smiles flickered over their faces as they slept. His kissed their foreheads, amazed that he had contributed to such miraculous creations.
By the time Rebaccah and Hamilton showed up with two full baskets of food, Llyon and Wolfe were in the kitchen having a relaxing tea break. “Down the hall,” Wolfe directed. “Fourth door on the right.”
The new grandparents rushed down
the hall to the room where Samara and Bishop were snuggled on the bed together with two tiny babies between them. Rebaccah tiptoed over to the bed and stared down at the babies. “Boys or girls?”
Bish chuckled. “One of each. Grandma, meet Riordan and Riona Llewellyn, newest inhabitants of Mystic Valley.”
About the Author
Anny Cook learned to read at five years old. Learning to write was a natural extension. Through her adult years while a wife, mother, grandmother, fast food cook, warehouse book packer, Girl Scout and Cub Scout Leader, perpetual college student, executive secretary, and adult education teacher, writing served as the anchor that kept her sane.
Well, maybe not exactly sane, but close to it. Today, after thirty-five years with kids, cats, dogs, guinea pigs, and hamsters, she and her husband are empty nesters. Sigh. Finally, there’s time—and quiet—to write in peace.
Anny welcomes comments from readers. You can find her website and email address on her author bio page at www.ellorascave.com.
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Also by Anny Cook
Flowers of Camelot 1: Chrysanthemum
Flowers of Camelot 2: Honeysuckle
Flowers of Camelot 3: Daffodil
Flowers of Camelot 4: Magnolia
Kama Sutra Lovers
Mystic Valley: Everything Lovers Can Know
Mystic Valley: Traveller’s Refuge
Mystic Valley: Cherished Destinies
Winter Hearts
Also see this author’s titles at Cerridwen Press (www.cerridwenpress.com):
Mystic Valley: Dancer’s Delight
Discover for yourself why readers can’t get enough of the multiple award-winning publisher Ellora’s Cave. Whether you prefer e-books or paperbacks, be sure to visit EC on the web at www.ellorascave.com for an erotic reading experience that will leave you breathless.
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