Dirk raised his hands for the crowd to quiet. “No simple steed will face this wolf without faltering. This steed must be strong and brave; it must have known battle and be fast as the wind.”
“Surely you speak of Frostmore!” a man’s voice called out, and the crowd parted until Dirk saw the speaker and the horse he spoke of. The man walked to him and presented the tall, strong horse.
“Frostmore will see you swiftly to glory, but can you kill such a beast as this wolf? I would not see my best horse fall along with you.”
Dirk spread his fingers in front of him and his many rings glimmered in the nearby light. “If we fall to the beast, all that I carry is yours—surely generous payment for such a steed.”
The man nodded. “It is a deal; go with the grace of the gods, warrior.”
Dirk nodded his thanks and shook the man’s hand. He then mounted Frostmore and was led to the gates. He unsheathed his sword and raised it to the sky as the clouds parted to reveal the moon, and a howl rose up yet again.
“The wolf waits for you, stranger!” yelled a guard from the wall.
“Don’t do it, brave sir!” shrieked a maiden.
“I must!” Dirk declared.
As the gates opened someone yelled from the crowd, “What is the name of such a fearless warrior?”
Dirk turned from the gate and eyed the crowd. “I am…” He smirked to himself. “I am Whill of Agora!”
The crowd gasped and Dirk charged out toward the wolf. The gates closed and men and women alike crowded to the top of the wall to see the battle. Dirk urged the horse into a fast charge, and Chief charged likewise. The villagers held their breath as three hundred yards away Dirk and the wolf continued their collision course. A woman fainted and men cheered as tension over the inevitable violence mounted.
Chief leapt high into the air with a snarl and Dirk struck with his blade. The sword sailed through Chief’s form as the spirit wolf became translucent. The crowd cheered and Dirk sped on away from the wolf and the town. Chief landed and spun around to chase Dirk into the woods and beyond. The villagers looked after them for a long time, but the two were never seen again.
Shortly thereafter, but far away, Dirk laughed to himself and dismissed Chief to the spirit world, then pocketed the trinket once more. He spurred his new mount on westward toward the Ky’Dren Pass.
Chapter 12
The Test of the Masters
Whill was surprised to find it afternoon when he left the Watcher’s house of dreams. There Avriel was sitting in the sun waiting for him. She sat on all fours with her head to the sky, sunning herself in the bright rays that shone down from a cloudless sky. For fall it was very warm, like a northern summer it still seemed here in the elven lands. Avriel turned to Whill and smiled as he walked to her. He laid a hand upon the shimmering white scales of her shoulder.
“I am sorry that I ignored your call earlier, I needed to be alone.”
It is of no concern; we all need time now and again. You have enough beings demanding of you, I do not wish to be another. I wish only to be at your side.
“You are a good friend, Avriel,” Whill said and hugged the base of her neck. “Thank you.”
Together they flew to Zerafin’s quarters within one of the outer pyramids that made up the city’s constellation. Located opposite the Thousand Falls, the pyramid lay near the edge of a jungle. One of the three sides of the pyramid was covered entirely with vine, all the way up to its crystal dome. High above the tangled trees grew their leaves wide and thick, their trunks green and slick. The canopy above left the jungle dark, but Whill could sense the many creatures within.
Before Whill reached the door of leaf, it parted and Zerafin strode out. He was in good form, his skin having fully recovered from the puss-filled rot that had infected him of late. He was as broad of shoulder as ever, and looked no worse for wear.
The elf king wore only a loose-fitting kind of robe the elves called a lokata. A sash tied at the waist kept its long sides from unfolding, and a high drooping collar arched from his neck to shoulder. The sleeves were short but deep and hung long at his sides as he approached Whill and Avriel with outstretched arms.
“My friend, it is good to see you well,” said Whill as they shared a brotherly hug.
“And you, Whill.” Zerafin turned from Whill, and as Avriel bent her large head to him, Zerafin stroked her snout and head. “Sister,” he said, and a moment passed as they shared a private moment of thought speech. Then Zerafin looked at the two with a wide triumphant smile. “Well, then, here we all are in one piece. The quest was a successful one, though I deeply regret hearing of the loss of Abram and Rhunis. I wish I could have been there within the arena. I am sorry, Whill.”
“It is no fault of yours, Zerafin…or should I call you king now?”
“No, no.” Zerafin laughed. “I do not officially receive the crown until tonight at dusk. Even then you shall still know me as Zerafin Eldenfen.”
“You are accepting the crown, brother; does it mean that you have…”
Zerafin looked at his sister stoically. “I have accepted that our people need a king, and Agora needs an elven king, for if we fail, I shall be the last. But by the gods I will be the first of many.”
Whill was filled with admiration for Zerafin’s bravery, for voluntarily taking up a mantle which Whill himself dreaded. Zerafin was a born leader, and had gained loyalty not due to his lineage or through intimidation, but through bravery and deed. Whill was glad to have Zerafin on his side. Soon he would be joined also by Roakore, and if Zerafin’s proclamations reflected his intent, they would soon march to war.
There would be little time for training, Whill realized; it seemed he might have to accept the elves’ selfless offer of knowledge in the arts. If he was to be of any help in the coming battle, much less the savior, he needed any help he could get.
We are being summoned, said Avriel to their minds. We must return once more to the Summer Star.
“What is it about?” Whill asked.
“It is my doing,” said Zerafin. “Many of the masters have been gathered. They wish to know the extent of your abilities thus far. It is quite a mystery as to how you have done the things you have without a minute spent training.”
“It is a mystery to me as well,” Whill admitted.
“Then let us find out,” said Zerafin.
Avriel carried Whill and her brother easily upon her back, and together they flew to the pyramid. Inside waited seven elves, each a master of the arts and the head of their school of knowledge. The queen was there as well, and, to Whill’s surprise, the Watcher.
The inside of the pyramid was open space with a floor of sand. Directly across from the leafed curtains the masters sat upon the only seats within the open room, behind a long table set atop a landing. There were many items at the center of the room upon the sand, including a large bowl of water, a fire burning high from a large lamp, and a boulder half Whill’s size.
Whill eyed the items curiously as he made his way with Zerafin to stand before the seated elves. Zerafin then took a seat at the long table with the others. The queen offered Whill a smile and began.
“Thank you for joining us, Whill. We have asked you here today to determine your abilities. As you know, elves train for decades, centuries even, to master the ways of Orna Catorna. For reasons unknown, you are able to do things that only students of the craft can do, though you yourself have not studied it. Would you object to a series of tests, much like those taken by initiates?”
“No, I do not mind, but I believe I may have figured out part of the mystery,” said Whill. “I have found that in times of need, I can perform spells that have been used against me.”
The elves traded looks but none spoke to this.
“We shall delve into those implications later,” the queen said. “For now, let us begin. Behind you there is a large stone. Can you try to lift it for us?”
Whill looked at the stone, and with a lazy raising of his ha
nd, he caused the stone to rise from the floor slowly. He let it float there and turned toward the elves. A few scribbled upon leaf parchment with feathered quill. Others nodded, and still a few remained motionless.
“You may lower it now,” said a tall elf with short, spiky black hair and a robe similar to Zerafin’s. His dark skin told Whill that the elf spent most of his days in the sun, but then Whill remembered that many elves could change their appearance with but a thought. With elves, appearance meant far less than it might for dwarves or humans.
“I am called Arngil Enlar. I am a master in the art of Krundar.”
“Greetings, Arngil,” said Whill politely.
“Greetings. I am interested to see the extent of your abilities in my school of knowledge. Can you cause the flame to touch the stone?”
Whill looked at the fire. He remembered that he had sent it back at Eadon once before learning of Avriel’s fate. He lifted a hand to the flame, and as his hand moved in the direction of the stone, so too did the flame until it engulfed the boulder.
“And the water, can you cause it to extinguish the fire?”
Before the elf had finished speaking Whill had turned and caused the water to rise up like a serpent and engulf the lantern, putting out the fire.
“And wind, I assume that you can control that as well?” asked Arngil.
Whill thought for a moment, unsure. “I do not know; I have never tried.”
“Please do,” said the elf.
Whill turned to the leafed curtains at the entrance of the pyramid. He extended his consciousness outward and beyond. Concentrating upon the unseen currents of air outside, he summoned them to him. Nothing happened at first, but then slowly a breeze entered the room. The curtains wavered gently as Whill’s hold on the air currents became stronger. Suddenly they blew inward and a gale gusted through the room, scattering papers and sending Whill’s hair dancing.
“Thank you, that will be enough!” said Arngil over the torrent.
Whill released the wind and faced the counsel of masters once again. Arngil said no more and took his seat. Whill could not tell from his face whether the elf was pleased or not.
Another elf stood. She was scantily clad in leaves much like Azzeal wore, and her green hair seemed to be intermingled with red and yellow moss. Whill assumed she was a Ralliad, or druid, like his friend.
“Greetings, Whill, it is a pleasure and indeed an honor to meet you. I am called Flouren En Fen, and I am Ralliad.”
“Greetings, Flouren En Fen.”
“Are you able to change form, be it animal or plant?”
“No,” Whill admitted. “I have no skills in the school of Ralliad.”
“Hmm.” She hummed to herself. “Would you mind trying here for us today?”
“I will try,” said Whill, unsure of what it was he should try, or even how to begin.
“We will start simply, then, with a test used for initiates.” She pointed at a small pot that was set apart from the other items. Within the pot Whill could see a small seedling that had recently sprouted from the earth around it.
“Try to make the plant grow,” she said with all seriousness.
Whill made his way to the pot slowly and squatted next to it. He put his hand over it but then self-consciously withdrew it. “I don’t even know where to begin.”
“That is understandable, as you have not studied the science needed to understand the process,” said Flouren.
“Should I just will it to grow?” he asked.
“If you wish; this is not a lesson but a test,” Flouren replied.
With a sigh Whill slowly extended his hand over the pot and closed his eyes. With his mind-sight he looked at the seedling and its small roots within the dirt. He wondered how he could possibly make it grow; plants needed water and light, after all. Without sun and water it is impossible. But aren’t those things just forms of energy? If I can give the seedling the energy it needs to grow in a form that it can use, perhaps it will work.
Abandoning mind-sight he looked up to see everyone patiently watching and waiting. How long he had been studying the plant he did not know.
“Take your time,” said Flouren patiently.
Whill nodded a thankful affirmation and resumed his pondering. With mind-sight once again he looked deeper into the small sprout. He saw the bright life force surrounding it, and the minute webbed tendrils of dancing light that swirled throughout. The seedling was tiny, but the closer Whill looked, the more intricate it became; it seemed there was no end to how far he could see into it. He quickly realized that this task was well beyond him. If he had time to learn its systems he would be able to do it, he was sure. But that was not the point of the tests, he remembered; he was being tested on raw ability.
Accepting that he could not figure out how it worked in such a short time, he stood from the pot and sighed. “This task is beyond my current knowledge,” he told the group.
Flouren smiled at his words. “If I am not mistaken, you have not begun to try, you have only examined it. Did you know how to move stone from study? Or fire, for that matter?”
“No,” Whill answered truthfully.
“Then please try to make the plant grow. Your abilities seem to be hampered not by lack of knowledge.”
Whill wondered if he had just been insulted, however politely. He redoubled his focus and stared intently at the sprout. He willed the thing to grow, pictured the result he intended, and called upon Adromida. His palm face down, he directed his energy and will into the soil and sprout.
The dirt began to vibrate and shudder upon the floor. To Whill’s amazement, the seedling grew. The growth was slow and stopped for a moment when he lost focus from his surprise, but it grew all the same. He cleared his mind of expectation and emotion and willed the plant to grow once again. The pot shuddered and the dirt danced as water might on a hot skillet. The plant doubled and then tripled its size. A leaf and then two and three grew out from the main stem and Whill poured more energy into it. With his left hand he reached in the direction of the water he had used before, and from the bowl came a sphere of floating water the size of an apple. He directed the water to the plant, and when it hit the vibrating soil the plant shot up rapidly as if from a jester’s sleeve. Up it grew until it was two feet tall and covered in orange leaves and flowers. Whill stopped, his work done.
He marveled at his creation with a delighted smile. He then understood how easy it would be to get caught up in the thrill of creation, and forget the morals of natural boundaries as Eadon had. He also understood that he should not have such powers, for he had not learned the ways; somehow he simply did it. He knew that many of the elves must be jealous of him, as many of the dark elves had been.
Abram’s words came back to him then: “Power without wisdom is as a child with fire.” Whill realized then that he was like a child playing with fire. He backed away from the flower he had created as if it had spoken to him.
“Well done,” said Flouren, and many of the masters agreed. But the note of her voice had a begrudging quality, be it a faint one.
Whill looked from the flower to the seated masters, Zerafin and the queen. “I should not be able to do this,” he said quietly, as if to himself. Louder still he repeated, “I should not be able to do this. I have not studied the art; I do not even know how I did it.”
“We know, Whill,” said the queen. “This is the very thing we are attempting to understand. Please, there will be time for reflection later. For now the tests must continue.”
Whill nodded reluctant acceptance and closed his eyes to focus the mind. Another elf stood from his seat and with raised voice called out to someone unseen, “Bring in the volunteers!”
Through the entrance to the pyramid came a group of four elves. They each wore a lokata identical to the standing elf’s, but where his was a dark blue, theirs were a much lighter shade. These too had swirling, darker blue tendrils embroidered along the sleeves and across the back. They were all women, and each lo
oked at Whill as one would a worshipped relic of untold value. They smiled at him with a sincerity and joy usually only seen in children. They came to stand at his right and turned to face him.
“I am called Libratus,” said the elf standing at the table. “I am master of the school of Arnarro.”
“Greetings,” said Whill with slight trepidation. He could see where this test was going and he didn’t like it.
“Are you ready to begin?” asked Libratus.
“I do not want these women to be pained for my sake. I can show you that I can heal on myself.”
“Please,” said Libratus. “This is the will of the masters. These women have volunteered on their own accord; it is an honor to them. Precautions have been taken, no pain will be felt.”
“You want to do this?” Whill asked the female elves.
“Yes!” said one.
“It is an honor, Whill…Whill of Agora,” said another.
The rest nodded in eager agreement. Whill sighed with resignation. “Very well.”
“Let us begin, then. Minrell, please step forward,” said Libratus.
The elf to the left of the group stepped forward. A dagger appeared from under her sleeve, and with it she cut a long line along the palm of her other hand. She did not flinch as the blood began to spill; she only looked at Whill happily.
Whill quickly stretched out his right hand, and from it, writhing blue tendrils of healing energy snaked the short distance through the air and surrounded her injured palm. The elf shuddered slightly in apparent ecstasy of the contact with one so clearly revered. He ended the healing and looked as they all did at the elf’s uninjured palm.
“Very good. And now, Drellen, if you would,” said Libratus.
A red-haired elf with bright green eyes stepped forward and without warning plunged her own dagger into her exposed thigh and yanked it upward, splitting it from above the knee to hip and exposing white bone.
“In the name of the gods!” Whill swore and watched horrified as blood spurted from an artery. He quickly extended a hand, and the healing tendrils surrounded and penetrated her gaping wound. After a time the gash was healed, and though the elf swooned from loss of blood, she was all right.
Whill of Agora: Book 03 - A Song of Swords Page 11
