THE FALLEN KING

CHRONICLES

The Complete Quartet

RICHARD FIERCE

Dragonsphere © 2013 by Richard Fierce

The Fallen King © 2014 by Richard Fierce

The Valiant King © 2015 by Richard Fierce

The Restored King © 2017 by Richard Fierce

This is a work of fiction. All events portrayed in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to real people or events is purely coincidental. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form without the express permission of the publisher.

Cover art by Luciano Fleitas

Dragonfire Press

e-Book ISBN: 978-1-947329-05-8

First Edition: 2022

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Dragonsphere

Introduction

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Epilogue

The Fallen King

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

The Valiant King

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

The Restored King

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Other Books

DRAGONSPHERE

The Fallen King Chronicles Book 1

“There has often been theological debate as to who, or what, is behind the forces of evil. No one is certain, but there is one thing everyone agrees upon: whatever it is, it certainly calls the Viss Mountains home. The feeling of evil there is palpable.”

- from the Book of Faith

INTRODUCTION

Year of the Divines 418

It was dark and cold. The distant sound of dripping water echoed throughout the narrow tunnel, part of a large system of interconnected passageways and caves deep in the Viss Mountains.

A hooded figure navigated his way through them hesitantly, pausing every few paces to run his fingers along the stone walls. He desperately wanted to light a torch, but he knew it was a foolish thought. If he brought light into that chamber …

The figure halted as he felt the familiar sigils on the wall. He had traveled through this cave many times now, yet it seemed he could never memorize his way to the central chamber within the mountain.

“I sense you.” It was a sound unlike anything in his most insidious nightmares. “Come forth.”

An intense fear overtook him. His breath came short and quick and he could feel his heart throbbing inside his chest. His hands began quivering so he clenched them into fists, hiding them within his robes. Closing his eyes momentarily, he forced a deep breath before stepping into the chamber.

Every rational thought told him to flee. A horrible feeling wriggled its way into his heart, melting his resolve like wax in a fire.

“You have carried out my instructions?”

The man crumbled to his knees. He could almost feel it hovering around him, able to see everything while he was as blind as a bat.

It was more of a demand than a question. The man could barely speak and meekly nodded his head. “I have arranged the bones in the cave as you said.” Something colder than ice touched his shoulder, causing his entire arm to go numb. It could only be the touch of his unholy master.

“You have pleased me. I shall reward your obedience when all falls into place.” It seemed to him that the words slithered across the cave like snakes, wrapping themselves around him.

“Yes … m-my … lord.”

“They thought they destroyed me. But I cannot be destroyed … no, I am eternal. And now … I will unleash hell upon the land.”

The man looked around futilely in the dark cave and could see nothing. But he could feel it. A shudder in the ground, a tremor in the walls. He could hear loose rocks clattering against each other as the rumbling grew stronger.

A wicked, cackling laughter erupted, making him flinch unexpectedly. Then silence. Suddenly there was a loud cracking sound, as if something were splitting open. He heard the roar echo out across the mountains, but he also heard the distinct sound of flapping wings.

An ancient and mighty creature had been awakened. The man couldn’t help but wonder: what have I done?

Death was coming. A dragon was coming.

“All of history bears false witness.

Truth is only known by those who were present.”

- from the Book of Faith

CHAPTER ONE

Year of the Divines 419

When rumors of a dragon attack reached Demetrius, he dismissed them almost immediately. Having lived in the port city of Radda his entire life, he had heard many wild stories from countless travelers. Everything ranging from giant squids in the open seas to horses with wings. Admittedly this was the first time he heard mention of a dragon, supposed giant mythical creatures that fed on the fear of people and could lay waste to entire cities.

“Rubbish,” he said. “Children’s tales told by parents to scare little ones into obedience.”

“I believe it,” the old sailor remarked enthusiastically. “Captain heard it ’imself. Says the whole city was burned to the ground and everyone killed.”

“Then how did your captain hear of it?” Demetrius eyed his friend sternly. The man’s face was covered in wrinkles and his hair bleached from constant sun. The man had been a sailor since he was not more than a boy and was prone to believe almost anything.

“What d’ya mean?” the sailor, Bannigan, asked.

“If everyone was killed, how did your captain hear this story? Who would have repeated it to him?”

The old man remained silent for a moment and scratched his prickly-haired chin. “It not be my place to question the Captain, silversmith.”

Demetrius laughed heartily. “Nice cover up.”

The sailor stomped his foot indignantly. “It ain’t no cover up. I trust the Captain’s word. How’s business?” Bannigan changed the subject.

“Profitable, as always. The war with Oakvalor hasn’t put a pinch in anyone’s pockets yet. I hear some of my fellow smiths have been requested to appear before the king, as to why is anyone’s guess.”

“Maybe the king needs more weapons.”

Demetrius shrugged his large shoulders. He wasn’t in the business of making weapons, so it mattered little to him. His craft was typically sought after by the well-to-do, custom pieces that didn’t come cheap. Some people had so much money they apparently didn’t know what to do with it. He could work with any metal he put his hands on, but he preferred silver. It was very easy to bend and could be cast or hammered which allowed him to form almost anything with it; from teapots to statues.

The clanging of the bell tower echoed loudly across the city, signaling noon. The bell tower was originally built to alert the populace of emergencies. Its main use now was to indicate the time. Bannigan clapped Demetrius on the shoulder and bid him farewell. “That’s my call,” he said, trying to be heard over the noise. Demetrius’ shop was situated near the docks for convenience and the daily clanging of the bell had eventually become a normal sound to him.

“Be safe,” he called out as the old man left. Bannigan waved to acknowledge he heard him. Not that anyone couldn’t.

Demetrius was a large man with a thunderous voice. At six and a half feet tall, he was a beast of a man, with muscles so large that he had to be custom fitted for his clothing. His hair was light brown and cut short to keep it out of his eyes, and to keep it from being singed. His skin was a deep bronze color as he preferred to be in the sun most of his time.

He watched his friend until he could no longer see him among the crowd. He heard his name a few stalls down and glanced to see who said it. He could see a member of the king’s guard talking to one of the vendors. The vendor pointed towards where he was standing. What in the Divines would a soldier of the crown want with him? He watched the soldier approach.

“Demetrius?”

The big man eyed the soldier warily. “Yes?”

“The silversmith?” he asked with an air of impatience.

“Yes.”

The soldier withdrew a scroll from his belt and handed it to Demetrius. “What’s this?” he questioned. The soldier shook his head. “Not my business, sir. I am just the messenger. I believe His Highness requests your presence at the palace.”

“What for?” Demetrius probed.

“Not my business.” The soldier’s impatience was evident by his short, almost rude, answers. “I must be on my way, sir.” The soldier turned and headed back from the way he came. Demetrius stared at the scroll, unsure if he even wanted to open it. Everyone knew he didn’t make weapons. Why would the king summon him if he was seeking smiths to make his armies more weapons?

He snapped the seal in half and opened the scroll. It read:

To Demetrius the silversmith,

Greetings from the Esteemed Ruler of Talvaard, King Garun. Your presence is requested at the palace. Do not worry about your business. You will be well compensated. A carriage has been arranged to meet you outside the city of Radda at sundown. Do not be late.

King Garun

There was a fancy signature and the crest of the king, a phoenix bursting forth from a pile of ashes, at the bottom of the parchment. Demetrius sighed. He hated politics.

Dusk found him standing near the road at the outskirts of his hometown. He had closed his shop early much to his disappointment. There was a certain beautiful woman who walked by his stall everyday around the same time, usually carrying fresh bread. He had only noticed her because he caught her staring at him as she passed by one day.

Her look was one of admiration. At least, that’s how he took it. She had smiled embarrassedly and blushed. And so, Demetrius made it a point in his day to watch her as she walked by and smile at her.

Closing early meant that he missed her. He was more than slightly frustrated by that, as he had finally worked up his nerve to actually speak to her. His hope was that she would let him get to know her and perhaps they would see where things went from there.

The carriage pulled up suddenly and Demetrius noticed that the sun was just sliding behind the mountains. “Well at least the king is punctual,” he muttered beneath his breath. The door to the carriage swung open and a man dressed in plain clothes, probably a servant, stepped out. He motioned to the carriage and bowed low. “If you would, sir.”

Demetrius dipped his head in thanks and climbed inside. A quiet whistle escaped his lips. The inside was adorned with all sorts of glittering shapes. He looked closely and recognized most of the precious stones. Diamonds and rubies comprised most of the decorations, but there were also a few sapphires and a couple stones he did not recognize. The fabric that made up the seats was comfortable and smooth to the touch. It was hard to tell whether the material was dark red or brown in the fading light.

Demetrius was impressed. He didn’t expect to be brought to the palace in luxury. Granted he was known among the higher ups for his skills in crafting, but he was not of noble birth. And most, if not all of them, seemed to ignore the fact that he was much wealthier than most of them, anyway. The servant did not get back into the carriage, but instead shut the door and climbed into the seat with the driver.

He had a decent amount of time to think as the buggy headed toward Talvaarin, the city built around the palace. It was a thirty-minute trip to the palace by horse. After what seemed like hours to him, he felt a difference in the road. Instead of bouncing about on the dirt path, the ride smoothed out and he could tell they were now on the stone paved roads of the city.

The carriage came to an abrupt stop and the door swung open. The servant stood there and motioned for Demetrius to come out. He had gotten comfortable and it took him a minute to move. Why did the king want him to come so late in the evening hours, he wondered.

The servant led him through enormously tall double doors and into a massive circular room that was normally filled with nobles and commoners alike, usually bringing petitions and requests to the king or his advisors. The room was empty and their footsteps reverberated off the walls.

Demetrius looked admiringly up at the vaulted ceiling, rising sixty feet above him. Support pillars were spaced every ten feet, outlining the main walkway through the antechamber. “This is huge,” he remarked to himself.

“Sir?” the servant looked back at him. Demetrius shook his head and the servant continued his hurried pace. A door in the middle of the far wall was flanked on either side by two giant alabaster statues of winged men standing at attention, their swords drawn and held up before them. Demetrius thought them an odd addition to the room. The walls were covered with portraits of regal looking men, whom he assumed were previous kings, and large brightly colored tapestries depicting scenes of long ago battles.

He began to wonder why he had never made a trip to the palace, if for no other reason than to say he had been there. The servant stopped before the door. “Wait here, sir,” he said breathlessly before disappearing through the door. Demetrius looked down at the floor. Stone tiles, painted orange and yellow, ran the length of the entire room, forming a triangular pattern. The tiles outside the three-sided shape were bright red.

He assumed there was some sort of significance to the design, but it was lost on him. Demetrius looked back up and noticed the servant was staring at him. “His Highness will see you now.” He held the door open and pointed down a long hallway. “It’s the last door on the left at the end of the hall.”

The big man nodded his head in thanks and walked to where he was directed. The hallway, large enough to comfortably hold two carriages side by side, was barely adorned at all. A guard stepped out from the shadows and startled him. “I didn’t see you,” he laughed nervously.

“That would be the point,” the guard answered, his face hidden by the hood over his head. He patted Demetrius down for weapons and finding none, opened the door for him to enter. “Go to the center of the room and do not leave the circle.”

“Circle? Why not?”

“Just don’t.”

Demetrius was starting to regret having made the trip. Then again, seeing how guarded the king was, he doubted he would have lived long had he refused to come. He walked to the middle of the room and noticed the circle design in the floor. He assumed that’s where he was supposed to stand.

The guard shut the door and Demetrius was enveloped in darkness. He cleared his throat and the sound echoed eerily. Torches flared to life and revealed a large wooden chair with a man seated on it.

“Demetrius,” the unknown man greeted. “I don’t think we’ve had the pleasure of meeting before.”

Demetrius wasn’t sure if it was the king or not. And if it was, should he bow? He didn’t answer. The man must have taken his lack of response as hesitance. “You can speak freely.”

Demetrius felt a little better that he could speak his mind. He wasn’t one to bite his tongue. “What is this about? Why am I here? I am a very busy man, and I have lost half a day’s time”

The man in the chair stood up swiftly and Demetrius fell silent. “I can assure you, master smith, that we are all busy. Some busy with tasks more important than others.” The man tossed a leather pouch onto the floor in front of him. “Consider this payment for your time.”

Demetrius didn’t dare move from the circle to see what was inside, heeding the warning the guard had given him.

“Talvaard has a shadow cast over it, master smith. A shadow that threatens to consume us all.”

Demetrius assumed the shadow was Oakvalor, the enemy kingdom that Talvaard had been at war with for as long as anyone could remember. “Then I must inform you, sir, that I am not a weapon smith. I make trinkets and items ordered for noble houses. I think you have erred in your selection of men to build your weapons of war.”

“Do you think that I am ignorant of those in my kingdom?” the man asked, revealing that he was indeed the king. “I know what you are capable of, Demetrius, and I have not summoned you here to build weapons. At least, not in the sense that you are thinking.”

“What do you mean?”

Several other torches lit up, as though by magic, and exposed King Garun in all his splendor. He was shorter than Demetrius by at least a foot. His hair was long and black, pulled back tight into a ponytail. His nose slanted down his face, reminding Demetrius of a bird’s beak. His eyes were hazel and set deep in his head. The king was nothing special in terms of attractiveness. What he lacked in looks, however, was made up for in bearing.

His posture and demeanor exhibited a great deal of confidence and his general appearance was enhanced by his garments. His crown gleamed in the torchlight and gave the impression that it was made of silver. Demetrius knew it wasn’t crafted of his favorite metal, but was instead made of something much more valuable: white gold.

It had three gems set in the front. A rare black diamond, twenty karats by Demetrius’ estimate, in the middle, surrounded on either side by two green serendibite stones. It was a marvelous treasure. The king’s shirt was turquoise and had a lustrous, dazzling sheen that only silk could give. His linen pants were a brilliant green color tucked into black leather boots. During the daylight hours, when dealing with matters of state, he would also wear a mantle that extended to the floor, joined at the neck and open down the front, that was emblazoned with the large phoenix crest on the back.

“I’m sure you have heard the rumors?”

“Of dragons, Your Highness?”

“Indeed. I can read the disbelief in your face. I know how you feel, as I too was of the same mind when word first reached me. I can assure you,” the king’s tone grew somber, “there is no myth to these tales.”

Demetrius was dubious. “What in the name of the Divines are you talking about? Dragons? Winged creatures that fly and breath fire? You can’t be serious, Your Highness.”

The king’s face remained solemn. “Had I not seen the creature for myself, I would be as doubtful as you, Demetrius. Unfortunately,” he paused, gave a great sigh, and continued, “it is very real.”

Demetrius was still in doubt, but he didn’t further voice his suspicion. “What does all this have to do with me?”

“It is said that no one in Talvaard can work silver like you.”

Demetrius had certainly earned a strong reputation for himself, but he was down to earth and didn’t like to boast. “So I have heard,” he replied, shrugging his large shoulders. “You still haven’t answered the question.”

The king closed the distance between him and Demetrius with a few quick steps. “I cannot reveal the details just yet, as I myself do not have them. All I know is that the skills of a silversmith are required, along with a few other details. Our ally,” he used the word frostily, “does not have the privilege of metal smiths. And we lack what they have. So you see, master smith, you would be doing Talvaard a great duty.”

“And if I refuse?” Demetrius asked, more out of curiosity than rebelliousness. A job for the king could prove to be very profitable.

Garun eyed him dangerously. “It would not be in your best interest … but you have a week to consider it.”

Demetrius felt goose bumps run up his back under the king’s baleful look. “I am loyal to my country, Your Highness. I would never refuse an opportunity to serve the crown.”

Garun smiled, the first Demetrius had seen on his face, apparently pleased with the answer. “My servant will escort you out and deliver you back to your home.”

“When will you require my services?”

“You will know,” the king answered.

“It was that day that I realized just how short life could be.”

- Demetrius, silversmith

CHAPTER TWO

The ride back to Radda seemed shorter than the trip to the palace. Demetrius pondered the king’s veiled threat and his offer. He wasn’t sure what Garun even wanted him to forge. And then there was the fact that the king believed there truly was a dragon rampaging across the land. He briefly toyed with the idea that the king had been drinking a bit too much wine. He didn’t know the man personally, but from all accounts he was a man of intelligence, calculating, and courageous. The fact that he seemed troubled and had asserted to have seen the beast did add weight to his claim.

Perhaps Oakvalor had unleashed some sort of beast loose on Talvaard? Something frightening enough to make people think it was a dragon. Demetrius didn’t know. He didn’t care either. A job for the crown could make him rich enough to stop working. He could buy a house in Talvaarin and spend his days relaxing or sail the Ocean and see the world. He smiled at the thought briefly before pushing those notions aside. He had to do the job first. And he wasn’t even sure that he could.

The carriage stopped and the door opened. The servant didn’t bother to motion him out of the cab as he was already moving towards the door before it opened. The man stopped Demetrius and handed him the leather pouch the king had tossed him. He had completely forgotten about it back in the palace.

“The king said I will know when he needs me. How will I know?” he asked the servant who, in reply, shrugged his shoulders. So much for an answer, he thought.

He made his way down the worn dirt path that led through the center of the port city he called home. While his shop was located near the docks, his house was in the center of the town, where the “better” houses were. Radda was home to many merchants and traders, as well as some nefarious characters. Since the port’s expansion some eighty years ago, the small town had grown to become somewhat of a city. While they didn’t have the paved stone roads of Talvaarin, they did have some of the best inns.

One such inn was the Crab, owned by a wealthy sailor who had made his fortune in the crab fishing industry. Crabs were considered a delicacy, especially among the nobles. Having made more money than he needed, the sailor had retired and opened the inn. Demetrius would come here to unwind from his work.

He preferred it over the other places. It was newer than the others, and so had less sketchy individuals to worry about. He paused outside the doorway, considered calling it a night. He decided to have one drink and he would be on his way. He entered the building to find it mostly empty with the exception of two patrons. The barmaid, a young girl no older than twenty, was delivering a tray of food to one of the customers. The other customer appeared to be a woman, but he couldn’t see her face and didn’t recognize her as anyone he knew in the dim light.

He found a seat at an empty table and ordered some wine when the barmaid asked what he’d like. Demetrius laid the leather bag on the table and opened the flap to peer inside. His eyes widened when he was that along with gold coins, there was also some precious stones similar to the ones he had seen in the carriage. If this was just for his trouble of closing for one afternoon, he could barely imagine how much the king would pay for the actual job.

He slid the bag into his lap and kept one hand on it. The young girl brought him his wine and he sank down into the chair. The chairs were covered in soft cushions, another reason he preferred the Crab. Demetrius sipped his wine slowly, enjoying the taste and the solitude. While he did appreciate his customers, he needed time away from people in general to keep a cheery attitude.

Demetrius was still young, at least he considered himself so. He was almost thirty and had never married. Not yet, anyway. His mother had died giving birth to him and his father, a poor thatcher, had always been distant from him. Demetrius assumed his father’s lack of attention was the result of the man’s superstitious beliefs. He had viewed his wife’s death as a bad omen for the character of the child. Whatever sinful things the child would do in the future resulted in the mother’s death. A sordid payment of sorts.

Demetrius didn’t hold a grudge against his father. Besides, he had an entire town full of people who helped raise him. The previous ruler, King Verin, had expanded the kingdom’s trade routes with established nations across the Ocean and financed the expansion of all the ports in the kingdom. Since Radda was so close to the palace, it received preferential treatment. The city flourished and grew rapidly, bringing in people from all cultures of the world.

It was one of those people who had made the city his home that took Demetrius in as his own. Childless and widowed, the man took pity on him and made Demetrius his apprentice in the silversmith trade. And the big man had a knack for it. Under his adoptive father’s guidance, he became one of the best in the kingdom. His goods were highly sought after, especially by the well-to-do.

His thoughts were scattered as the female customer stood up to leave. Her face was revealed by the lanterns that hung from the ceiling and he realized it was the woman from the market. His heart skipped a beat and he felt his stomach drop. What was wrong with him?

He stood up and their eyes met. He couldn’t take his eyes off her which made her face flush pink. She smiled shyly and went to leave.

“Wait,” he said gently. She looked back at him with a nervous look on her face. “At least tell me your name, woman.”

She seemed to hesitate, as if she would not answer. Demetrius waited, thinking perhaps he was too forward. He wanted to know who she was.

“Tomorrow.”

His confused look spoke volumes. “Tomorrow? That’s … different.”

She shook her head and smiled. “I will tell you tomorrow.”

“I won’t be here. I must deliver some items to a customer. I will be gone for two days.”

“Then when you return,” she responded bashfully.

“That seems so long from now,” he said, downcast.

“You have gone this long without knowing my name. What is a few more days?”

When he arrived at his house and slumped into bed, his thoughts were of the woman who seemed to have stolen his heart. He had finally heard her voice. And it was more beautiful than he imagined. As he drifted off to sleep, he was still smiling.

—

When the sun shining through the window woke him up, he groaned and rolled out of bed. His trip to Kish was at an end and he would be heading back home. He had not wanted to travel, but the customer had requested that Demetrius himself deliver the items. He tried to explain that he was a busy man, but his customer would not hear it.

Normally Demetrius would have merely declined the job, but the client offered triple the price for the trouble. He couldn’t turn down the offer; it was a great deal of money. If there was one thing he loved more than his craft, it was money.

Besides that, the man was an ambassador to Treyfeth, a minor kingdom beginning to grow into a power to be reckoned with. Word was that he was cousin to the king, something that Demetrius considered more seriously now after having met the king two days ago. He certainly wouldn’t want to offend a man who could have him thrown in the dungeon, or worse. All of the preparations were ready, the person he normally used had ensured all would be ready by dawn.

His client provided breakfast which he consumed quickly. He was impatient to see the beautiful woman again. Judging by their conversation at the inn, he sensed that what he was feeling for her was the same that she felt for him. He could hardly wait.

The journey took half a day, but it didn’t seem to take that long as his thoughts were in the clouds. The city of Kish was located in the same direction as the Abbey of the Divines, the home of the monks. It was further east than the abbey, so he did not get the opportunity to glimpse their stone walls. There was one road that led out of Radda. It was a straight road north leading to Talvaarin, then it broke east and west from there. Far to the west was the nation of Oakvalor. He had never been that far west, as there was nothing but a lonely road that winded over the dormant volcano and the mountains that surrounded it.

He had no reason to go there anyway. Talvaard and Oakvalor had been at war with each other for the past thousand years, maybe more. When asked, no one could answer how it all started. Time had a way of erasing things. As Demetrius continued heading south, he thought he could smell smoke in the air. “Odd,” he muttered to himself, attempting to block the sun from his eyes to get a better look ahead. He was still about a mile away and with the sun setting in the south, he couldn’t see much. A foreboding feeling began to gnaw at him.

Demetrius urged the two horses pulling his wagon to speed up. As he got closer, the smell of smoke became distinct. The terrain was all flat grasslands except right outside the city, where small rolling hills slowed his wagon down. He could hear noises now, and he was gripped with fear. He leapt off the wagon before the horses had completely stopped and ran to the top of the last hill.

Fire raged across the city. Shrill, high pitched screams of women and children invaded the air, mingling with the shouts of men who were trying desperately to put out the spreading destruction. The smoke rising from the buildings was dark and thick, billowing into the air and blotting out the fading sun; a mere sliver of dimming yellow light on the horizon as it was.

The smell of burnt wood, and possibly flesh, reached him as a cool breeze blew in from the Ocean. The massive port city of Radda was now a charred wasteland. Demetrius dropped to his knees, overcome with emotion. This was his home from childbirth. The people he knew, the woman he had hoped to know, all burned up in the inferno. Tears stung his eyes as he thought of his father, too aged to have run for safely. He punched the ground, raising up dust and cutting his knuckles on rocks. He barely felt it. He punched again and again, wishing he would wake up from this horrible nightmare.

The soft nickering of a horse beside him seemed a strange and out of place sound. He looked up through tearful eyes to see a man dressed in soldier’s clothes with the crest of the king displayed on the shoulder. His clothes were different from the soldier he had seen at the palace.

The man sat upon the horse, staring unfazed at the carnage. The man turned and looked down at him. Demetrius saw another emblem on the man’s clothing, one he supposed was the symbol of a general.

“Where are the king’s men?” Demetrius demanded, his voice breaking with grief.

The general turned his eyes back to the burning city. “Scattered throughout the kingdom dealing with similar situations.” The man’s voice was devoid of any genuine concern. Demetrius also looked back to the city. He wanted to rush down there and help, but he felt powerless and weak. He could only see a handful of people and they were trying to escape the flames, not put them out.

“It’s time,” the general said abruptly.

“Time for what?”

“To fulfill your obligation to the crown.”

—

Demetrius rode in silence. He followed behind the general who didn’t seem inclined to talk anyhow. He had fallen into a state of depressive calmness. He could feel tears sliding down his face but he didn’t bother to wipe them away.

He wasn’t aware that they had reached the castle until the general cleared his throat, breaking the silence. Demetrius looked up and saw the double doors that led into the palace. He looked over his shoulder, having some idea that maybe he would see his home, fine and undamaged as when he had left it. He saw only the ten-foot stone wall that separated the palace from the city of Talvaarin.

He slid off the horse and followed the general to the door, who entrusted him to the servant whom he had dealt with on his first visit. The antechamber was filled with servants and soldiers alike, dashing here and there, at times almost running into one another. The entire palace was in chaos. Demetrius oddly found comfort in seeing many people eye him with frowning faces, the only way they knew how to express their condolences.

The servant led him through the doorway in the middle of the chamber with haste. “Where is the King?” the servant was demanding to those who passed them in the giant hall. Some shrugged, others didn’t bother to answer at all.

Demetrius saw two women that appeared to be attendants, talking in hushed tones. As they passed by, he heard bits of their conversation and learned that Radda was only one of many cities across the kingdom that had burned to the ground. People were blaming Oakvalor and their king’s wizard for the destruction.

While he still held reservations about Garun’s story of a dragon, he didn’t think there was any way Oakvalor’s armies could burn so many cities without a single person seeing anything. The servant stopped at the end of the hall and glanced about. Demetrius wasn’t sure what he was doing. A hooded guard stepped out of the shadows and the servant nodded back toward Demetrius. “His Highness has summoned the smith. Do not delay me!”

The soldier eyed Demetrius warily but did as the servant bade. He watched the soldier run his hand along the wall. Seeming to find what he was looking for, he removed a key from his belt and slid it into the wall. There was a soft click and the wall opened inward about two inches. Both the guard and the servant glanced around again.

“Come,” the servant said, motioning Demetrius to follow him. He pushed the door and it opened silently. Once inside, the guard shut the door and Demetrius heard it lock. There were small lanterns every few feet, lighting what appeared to be another hallway. They walked straight ahead for about fifty feet before the servant turned to Demetrius. “I hope you aren’t afraid of small spaces,” he remarked as the floor in front of them slowly slid open, revealing stairs that wound downward.

“Where are we?” Demetrius asked. The servant stared at him intently before answering. “The palace that you see outside is only a small portion of the castle. The rest is hidden beneath the mountains.”

“Wait,” Demetrius grabbed hold of the servant’s arm. “We’re underground?” he asked incredulously.

“Not yet,” the servant smiled. He began to descend the stairs, then paused and looked sternly at Demetrius. “You didn’t see any of this.”

“King Garun, needing an edge in the war with Oakvalor, had all their smiths assassinated. This caused Oakvalor no end of trouble, but the Oaks could boast of something Talvaard could not: the power of wizards.”

- A History of Talvaard

CHAPTER THREE

Demetrius found himself feeling a little claustrophobic. The chamber he stood in was enormous in terms of open space, but the knowledge that he was deep underground gave him chills. The idea that more dirt and stone than he could imagine was being held up by a few wooden beams was distressing. The air was cool, but he was sweating so profusely his shirt was soaked. It clung to his skin and made him even more uncomfortable. The servant had left him alone in the room, and he was beginning to wonder what was taking so long.

The door swung open and the same general who had met him outside Radda strode in, followed by two guards leading a blindfolded man in flowing grey robes. Demetrius looked questioningly at the general. “This” he waved towards the man, “—is Vallen. He will be working with you.”

Demetrius’ brows rose. “Who is he? A prisoner?”

The grey robed man let out a chuckle. The general was not impressed.

“He is King Manaem’s wizard. We don’t need the Oaks having anymore advantages over us; hence the blindfold.”

That put Demetrius on his heels. His initial shock, and then anger, was apparent on his face. “I will not work with some fool from Oakvalor,” he cried angrily. “Especially not a servant of their king! Is this some sort of joke? My home was destroyed and you come in here …” his large body was shaking with rage.

“Be calm, silversmith. The Oaks,” he used the insulting slang term again, “are facing the same problems we are. King Garun has issued an unofficial treaty of peace with Manaem. Do this task so we can be rid of the vermin from our land.”

Demetrius almost refused, but the look on the general’s face reminded him of the deadly stare of the king. He hated the Oaks as much as anyone else in Talvaard, but he valued his life and nodded in resignation.

“Follow me.”

The general led them through a maze of passages and into a chamber similar to the one they left. There was a furnace and an anvil, as well as all sorts of tools hanging on one of the walls. “I still don’t know what I am supposed to forge,” he commented to the general, who in turn said nothing. He instructed the guards to take the blindfold off the wizard and left Demetrius in the room with him.

Demetrius looked at the wizard. He was young, perhaps younger than himself. His robes looked to be made of velvet. The man’s hair was long and platinum colored, hanging down past his shoulders. His eyes were slate blue and brought the waters of the Ocean to mind. He carried an ordinary looking staff made of wood, but it was not to help the wizard walk.

The smith had never met a wizard. Before he was born, sorcerers were a common sight. A few bad seeds, however, caused a great persecution to break out against anyone who practiced the craft. The soldiers were able to quell the violence, but it was too late. Those who had not been killed went into hiding or gave up the craft altogether. It was whispered that the church had a hand in the revolt, but the Abbot condemned such accusations. It was also whispered that some wizards had the ability to control others with the power of their minds.

If the rumors were true … Demetrius suddenly wondered if this man had that power. He looked questioningly at the wizard, who frowned and muttered something about stupidity.

“Well?” Vallen said impatiently.

“Well what?” Demetrius answered.

“Are you ready to get to work or are you going to stand there until the beast destroys both our lands?”

“The king hasn’t told me what to forge,” he reiterated.

“I’m telling you what to forge, you fool.”

—

Demetrius was the best at what he did because he worked alone. No one told him what to make or how to make it. His clients asked for certain pieces, true, but they did not dictate to him how to accomplish it. And that was precisely the reason he wanted to strangle Vallen. The wizard had drawn up a very specific blueprint and he insisted every detail be followed.

With each hammer blow, he would hear Vallen mutter something about “too much force” or “this is the best smith they could find?” Demetrius glared at him on one such occasion.

“Do you want to do this?” Vallen returned his glare but didn’t say another word.

Demetrius prided himself on attention to detail, which was one of the reasons his work was so highly sought after. But this … this was just a round, hollow sphere of silver unadorned in any way. He had to shape it in two separate pieces, each one the wizard inspected meticulously. With both pieces complete, Vallen had him heat the metal pieces up so that he could engrave some sort of symbols onto the inside.

When Vallen was finished, Demetrius melded the two together, ensuring it was a perfect seal. For all the specifics, it looked like something he may have crafted when he was an apprentice.

“It looks unfinished,” he lamented, turning his gaze to Vallen. For the first time since they had met, Vallen was smiling.

“It’s perfect.” Vallen reached over to pick up the sphere. “You are crazy, you blasted Oak!” Demetrius smacked the wizard’s hand away. “The heat of the metal will burn the skin right off your fingers!”

The wizard’s smile quickly vanished and turned into a scowl. “Watch what my craft can do.” Vallen snatched the sphere off the anvil and held it close to Demetrius’ face. “Do you feel any heat?”

To his surprise, Demetrius didn’t. If anything, the metal seemed to be radiating a coldness. “What is it?” he questioned.

“This, silversmith, is a weapon beyond imagining. And it is going to save our kingdoms.”

“There comes a time when one must sacrifice for what he believes in. I believe in my king and my country. And so into the mouth of death I travel. For King and Country.”

- a page in Vallen’s journal

CHAPTER FOUR

The sphere having been forged and imbued with magic, Demetrius thought his task was done and expressed his desire to go back to Radda to help the survivors with the task of burying the dead and rebuilding.

“Out of the question,” King Garun stated in a tone that allowed no room for debate.

“The task you required of me is complete,” Demetrius returned irritably.

“On the contrary. The wizard requires your continued assistance. There is one last thing that the crown requires of you. You must escort Vallen to the dragon’s dwelling and ensure the safety of the sphere when the wizard captures the beast.”

“I am not a soldier, Your Highness. I couldn’t possibly protect it better than your men of war.”

They were in the same room he had first met the king in, which was just as dark and mysterious in the daylight hours. Garun dismissed the servants who were attending him and drew close to Demetrius. “Let me be blunt with you, since you are not wise in the ways of politics. I do not expect the wizard to survive the encounter with the beast.” Garun’s hazel eyes seemed to pierce his soul.

“Do whatever you must to secure the sphere for Talvaard’s interests.” Demetrius was catching on to the king’s subtle words. “What interests would those be?”

Garun frowned. He was not accustomed to being questioned. “Let us merely imagine that it may be of use to us one day in the future. In the event that a certain kingdom begins to grow too powerful …” his words trailed off. He called his servants back into the room. “Take our guest to prepare for his journey,” he instructed them.

“Where are we going?”

Garun smirked. “You are going to Kerosh Pass in the Viss Mountains. I will remind you of the importance of having that sphere brought back here.”

“Why me?”

“Vallen trusts you now. Do not fail me,” Garun warned.

The servants escorted Demetrius to a room located two doors down. He was given fresh clothes to change into, as well as a lightweight suite of chain mail. The wizard was also there, though he refused to take anything the servants offered to him. “I will not have it said I accepted anything without payment,” was his excuse. Demetrius figured the real reason was because they were not made by Oakvalor hands.

“How does anyone know where this dragon lives?” Demetrius inquired, still having doubts that it even existed.

Vallen pointed to a large map that hung from the wall. “The border between our kingdoms crosses through the mountains of Ward and Viss. Within those mountains is a cave the creature calls home. We cannot hope to use the sphere within his domain, so we must draw him out into the open. One of the mountains is level at the top. That is where we will make our stand.”

Demetrius was uneasy by the way Vallen seemed to be talking about their future encounter. Assuming the dragon was real, it was unlikely that he would be of any actual help to the wizard. Demetrius sighed heavily and half listened as the wizard babbled on. It was going to be a long journey.

—

Demetrius scrambled up the cliffside, almost slipping on the jagged rocks several times. The wizard had convinced him to enter the cave alone while the wizard stayed at the top of the mountain. Demetrius initially didn’t care as he still didn’t believe there was a dragon. But seeing the massive creature inside the cave suddenly put a lot of things into perspective for the smith.

The beast had seen him and that immediately caused Demetrius to turn and run. No amount of money or threats from the king could make him stay and do anything. He reached the plateau, his only thoughts on escaping and running as fast as he could. Vallen stopped him in his tracks by letting fly a blast of lightning. “Stay focused. I cannot do this alone!”

He knew if he tried to flee that Vallen would kill him. The wizard might trust him, but that didn’t make them enemies any less. The ground shook beneath his feet and he looked around frantically. A mighty roar of the dragon echoed off the mountain tops. Demetrius covered his ears, afraid he might go deaf from the sheer volume. The dragon shot up into the sky, a blur of red against the blue sky.

“How are we going to get the beast to land?” he yelled at Vallen.

Vallen withdrew the sphere from a leather bag strapped across his shoulders. “That is the good news. We don’t need it to land. We just need it to fly overhead. It is a fire dragon, the deadliest of its kind. As in nature, fire can be extinguished by ice. The magic infused within the metal has a twofold purpose, the main being that it will keep the dragon’s fire at bay. The other purpose is about to be tested.”

Demetrius’ face turned pale. “Tested? You don’t know if your magic works? Divines save us!” Vallen ignored the smith’s terror.

“This is not something that has been done before, but I know it will work. The magic will imprison the creature inside. I will distract the beast from there,” he pointed to the edge of the plateau, “and you hold the sphere up in the air as the beast flies over.” He handed the sphere to Demetrius.

“I thought this was going to kill the dragon?”

Vallen shook his head. “Dragon’s cannot be killed. At least, not the way we can be killed.” The sound of rushing wings filled the air, and Vallen sprinted to the edge of the mountain top.

“Where do I stand?” Demetrius shouted at the wizard.

Either Vallen didn’t hear him or Demetrius didn’t hear the answer. He threw himself to the ground as the massive dragon shot by. The dragon landed close to Vallen, dropping down onto an upraised platform of rock. Demetrius watched with panic as the beast spewed forth gouts of flame from its mouth.

He expected to see Vallen consumed in fire. A blue light flared to life and protected the wizard from the flames. The dragon went airborne again. The force of the wind from the dragon’s wings seemed to be turned into a weapon and flung Vallen off the cliff.

Demetrius cried out and ran over to the edge, expecting the worst. He found Vallen holding onto the ledge. Using every last ounce of strength, he pulled the wizard back up.

Vallen’s facial expression was all the thanks Demetrius needed. The dragon was circling high above them. “Get back over there, quickly.” Demetrius held the sphere tightly and ran back to where he had been standing. Death seemed certain to him. The dragon shot downward, halting overhead and flying a complete circle.

There was a sudden eerie silence. Why couldn’t he hear anything? He heard Vallen’s voice inside his head.

If anything happens to me, keep the sphere safe! Do not let the safety of the world be jeopardized by the greed of men.

The dragon swooped over the plateau and Demetrius lifted the sphere high into the air as it passed above. The dragon jerked awkwardly in the air. All life seemed to leave the beast and it crashed with jarring force into the ground, rolling and tumbling toward Vallen.

The beast, and the wizard, disappeared over the cliff edge.

Do not fail!

Those three words echoed in his mind the rest of his life.

“The Eradication is a blight on our history, a disgraceful display of proselytizing by a man who did not interpret the Book of Faith properly. Though the church was strengthened in the long term of things, was it worth the incalculable lives of innocent souls? I think not.”

- From the writings of Denrie’Aluth

Former Abbot

CHAPTER FIVE

Year of the Divines 544

The Abbey of the Divines was an ancient structure, dating back almost a thousand years. The ruler of Talvaard at the time, King Beraiah, had converted to the worship of the Divines from the pagan religion that prevailed in the country. After his change of faith, he used the royal treasury to finance the construction of the monastery and issued a decree that all other religions were illegitimate.

The edict had angered the leaders of the major religions and instead of continuing their rituals in secret, they joined together and declared war on the king. What ensued came to be known as the Eradication. Beraiah hired mercenaries to track down and slaughter the rebels. It was a dark time in the kingdom of Talvaard as Beraiah enforced his new beliefs on everyone. Many of his top advisors resigned their positions, not wanting innocent blood on their hands.

Eventually the defiance from the rebellious people subsided and they converted to the new religion; or at the very least did not voice their opposition. As the years passed, and the Church of the Divines grew, the mercenary bands were replaced with loyalists, people devoted to the crown. Beraiah made them an official faction of the government and split them into two groups; his personal bodyguards and the Retribution.

The Retribution was a secretive sect that sought out those few who continued practicing the pagan religions and brought them to justice. They would be disbanded three hundred years later by the fourth great grandson of Beraiah, who believed them to be outdated and an unnecessary drain on the treasury.

Yet the Church of the Divines flourished in Talvaard despite its violent beginnings. The Abbey was the largest ever built, containing more than two hundred rooms. It was one story, made from the dark brown stone that could only be found on the Isle of Eio. Beraiah had spared no expense on the monastery, bringing in craftsmen and resources as far as the forested mountains of Eurista, half the world away.

No one was sure of the origin of the belief of the Divines, though it was rumored that Beraiah had indulged a missionary from some distant land and had been persuaded to abandon the traditional religion of his royal bloodline.

The monastery was massive in terms of square footage, larger even than the royal palace. It was situated outside the city of Talvaarin, the quarters of the palace and capitol of the kingdom for as long as anyone could remember. It was surrounded by an island of tall grassy plains with a single wagon-worn trail leading to it.

At one time, it had been open to anyone for prayer services and other ceremonies, but the Abbot in command closed its doors to the public when Demetrius brought the sphere to them. He claimed it was in the “best interests and safety” of everyone in Talvaard. It did spark some outrage from the king, who demanded that he be allowed to visit anytime he pleased, reminding the Abbot that it was, after all, the crown who paid for their building.

In a show of good will, the Abbot offered to send monks to Talvaarin each week to hold a prayer service and meet the needs of the people in the palace, to which the king agreed.

Inside the monastery, the monks continued their teachings by allowing only first born males into their ranks, referring to them as being ‘consecrated to the Divines’. They took oaths of celibacy, forgoing their natural desires to serve the Divines.

Calderon was one such monk. He had entered the monastery at the young age of six, two years younger than what the Abbot normally allowed. His parents, devout followers of the Divines, had arranged for their son to be the exception to the rule. Many speculations followed as to how they managed it, but no one could decipher fact from fiction.

Nine long years had passed since the day his parents had dropped him off. Calderon had not seen them since. He could barely remember what they looked like anymore. The pictures he had conjured up in his mind when he first arrived quickly faded, leaving him with only a few distinct memories of events from his early childhood. He could not remember much outside the walls of the monastery. The monks were forbidden to leave without approval from the Abbot and Calderon was no exception.

It was past noon now, close to the first hour of the afternoon and the Abbot was winding down his exhortation. The Abbot, leader of the monastery and the priesthood in Talvaard, would preach his sermons each day at noon, and though he was typically long winded, todays seemed like it would be shorter than normal.

Calderon bowed his head as they closed the service in prayer. He quietly whispered his own invocation and rose from the pew. He searched the room but didn’t see Velkyn in the audience. While attendance was not mandatory, his childhood friend hardly missed the daily service. He could always confide in Velkyn without fear of judgment. The two had become instant friends his first day in the monastery. Calderon had initially been shunned and bullied by the older boys because of his controversial admittance.

Velkyn, however, had taken justice in his own hands and pummeled a few of them. The masters had then punished Velkyn. His friend took it in stride and they became inseparable, doing all of their daily routines together. Calderon left the chapel and traversed his way through the winding hallways, occasionally glancing into private prayer rooms dedicated to the various Divines.

There was only one reason why his friend would miss the Abbot’s sermon.

—

Velkyn finished his prayer and kissed the foot of the copper statue depicting Virtue and rose to his feet. Tomorrow would be the culmination of all his recent efforts. He would need all the favor Virtue would give him. The statue stood on a round dais made of curved red bricks that lifted the statue almost a foot off the floor.

The statue was probably decades old, but the lacquer that covered the statue gave the reddish-brown color a shiny complexion and made it appear new. Due to the fact that the metal turned green from oxidation, the monks had to import the protective lacquer from one of the islands on the coast and arrange periodical maintenance.

He pulled the hood of his robes over his head. “I always know where to find you,” Calderon’s familiar voice echoed in the chamber. Velkyn turned to face his friend. “That’s because you know me.” Calderon was almost the same height as himself, though slightly shorter. His head was shaved as was the custom for all of the monks in the monastery. Unlike himself, his friend had deep blue eyes whereas his were green. He was also the only one who knew about Calderon’s disorder.

“Are you ready for the ceremony?” Velkyn smiled as he asked the question. He already knew the answer. Calderon was nervous. He knew his friend well, but he also could sense it in his spirit.

“My soul is ready, but my mind betrays me. I want this so badly,” he raised his hand and clenched it into a fist with the last words. Calderon used his hands often when he talked. “I am afraid, though.” Velkyn nodded in understanding. “I know. I have my own reservations about what lies ahead, but I trust that if I am not chosen, there is another path for me.”

“My biggest concern is having my disorder discovered. Perhaps I am not meant to be the Musician. I do not feel right hiding the truth.” Velkyn put his hand on Calderon’s shoulder. “We all have secrets that we must bear. If you confess your weakness, you will never be the Musician. And they may even kick you out of the order. I believe you are making the right decision. Besides, you know my secret. I would surely be excommunicated for mine. I do not feel guilty. Neither should you.”

Calderon’s downcast expression brightened. “I suppose you are right.”

“Have faith,” Velkyn said empathetically. The two sat in silence for a moment before Calderon spoke. “I have never understood that phrase.”

Velkyn’s mind was wrapped up with his own thoughts. He looked at his friend confusedly. “What?”

“That phrase,” Calderon repeated, waving his hands about as he talked. “Have faith. Faith is a Divine, so how do we ‘have faith’? I’ve never understood it.”

Velkyn contemplated the question. “That is the beauty and glory of her love. She gives of herself to us, filling us with her spirit so that we may not only believe she exists, but that we may be empowered to obey her commands. That is how we have faith.” He smiled at Calderon’s look of amazement.

“You are wise beyond your years, my friend. Perhaps one day you might be the Abbot.”

Velkyn grimaced. “With all my heart I hope that not to be the case.”

—

Velkyn was up long before he needed to be. He was too excited to sleep anyway, spending most of the night tossing and turning. Today was the ceremony that would decide his fate. He would be asked grueling theological questions about the sphere, as well as about its history. Then his strength would be tested in a battle with a master of hand to hand combat. Each candidate would be tested separately by different masters. Then the masters would convene and decide amongst themselves who would be the next Guardian.

The positions of Guardian and Musician were very similar with the exception that one played music to keep the enchantment on the sphere active. The Guardian’s role was to guard the door to the sphere, literally, their entire life.

The Guardian would only get three hours of sleep each day when the Musician came to play their music. The Guardian’s position was essentially useless, as the only enemy of Talvaard was Oakvalor. The two nations were at war, but the Oaks also served the Divines and the church kept itself separated from the political agendas of their royal counterparts.

The Musician was the more important of the two positions. It was the Musician who played the music that kept the freezing enchantment on the sphere. All magic expired over time without any influence. Demetrius himself had given them the musical notes needed to keep the sphere’s magic from degrading.

Velkyn left his room and headed to the chamber where he had prayed the previous day. The sun had not yet risen, so he did not expect anyone to be using the room. Even though he walked softly down the stone hallways, the echo of his footsteps seemed loud in the silence.

He entered the chamber and stood before the statue of his favored Divine. He wondered if the statue was an accurate depiction of the deity. How the sculptor knew what the deity looked like was beyond him.

What if all he was praying to was a giant piece of elaborate metal?

One of the doubts that always seemed to dwell in the back of his mind had escaped his mental barrier. He drove the thought away and sighed in frustration. How could he be so wise and have so much knowledge, yet have so many doubts about his own faith? He knelt down before the dais and bowed his head in prayer.

Virtue … I have sought your favor already, but I come before you again to pray for my friend. I know he is the best suited to be the Musician … he has worked so hard to get to this point. If it is Your will, I pray that you would give him your favor as well.

Velkyn’s mind began to wander. He thought of Nydel, his secret. Monks were forbidden to have relations, but he loved her. How could they justifiably ask him, or anyone else for that matter, to bury their desires and emotions? He refused to. She had been his closest friend before coming to the monastery on his eighth birthday.

He smiled at the thought of how she had snuck in to see him over the years, sometimes desecrating this very room with their romantic episodes. He didn’t know how or when, but he would marry her one day. It may have been contradictory to be praying to the saint of Virtue considering his secret sin, but he didn’t care.

His entire future rested on becoming the Guardian, and he would pray to whoever he needed to for success.

—

Velkyn had been drilled for the last hour on every deep subject based on the sphere. “Then Demetrius brought the sphere to the Brotherhood to keep it safe. Though our nations were at war then as they are now, they had banded together for the good of the world. The king of Oakvalor disagreed with King Garun’s decision to keep the sphere here, but he ordered the bones of the beast to be brought to Oakvalor.

“Demetrius lived the rest of his life behind these very walls. The sphere is said to hold the soul of the fire dragon that brought massive destruction on both our kingdom, and Oakvalor’s. Our order vowed to keep it protected and safe after the death of Demetrius.”

“What if it doesn’t contain anything at all?” the master inquired.

“That’s a difficult but excellent question. The only way to know the answer is to stop playing the music that keeps the enchantment on the sphere. The better question would be, is it worth the risk to find the answer to that question? I do not believe it is.”

“What if you spend your entire existence keeping it safe, only to find out that you wasted your life?”

“That is where faith comes in. I believe it though I have no proof. My faith drives my actions. If in the end there is nothing to what we do, did we really waste our lives doing what we thought to be just? I do not think so.”

Velkyn was having trouble reading the master’s faces. Was he answering the questions correctly? He could only hope.

“You showed a proficient level of training in your defensive skills. What if a member of the Brotherhood, meaning someone other than the Musician, sought to enter the chamber of the spherewhat would you do?”

“I would strike them down. Everyone in the Brotherhood knows the rules, and any fellow monk who breaks them deserves what comes to them.”

“Please remove yourself from the chamber while we await the other masters.” Velkyn turned and left the room, feeling unsure of how he did. Had he been too forceful in his answers? Was his hand-to-hand skill up to standard? Despite what he could glean from the masters, all of these and many more doubts assailed him as he waited outside the chamber. His thoughts turned to Calderon and he wondered how his friend was faring in his tests.

“Let your will be done,” he whispered quietly, to no Divine in particular.

—

Calderon stood waiting outside the chamber he would be tested in. He could hear music playing through the wooden door, though it was muffled. His final and most challenging test would be to play his music for the current Musician. Calderon had only seen the man in passing a few times. Both the Guardian and the Musician led lives of solitude, kept away from the general population of the monastery.

A full hour of perfect notes without a single mistake was required to pass the test. He had been playing his flute more and more each day in preparation, but he had yet to make it more than thirty minutes without having to stop. All he could do was hope for the best. The music coming through the door stopped abruptly. Calderon leaned against the door and put his ear to the polished wood, hoping to hear what was happening. He could hear voices, but nothing audible.

He quickly backed away from the door when he realized someone was opening it. He turned his gaze up at the ceiling and pretended to be paying grave attention to the ceiling. One of the candidates walked out of the chamber, his face flushed red with embarrassment telling Calderon all he needed to know.

“Calderon,” an elderly voice called out from the doorway, “it’s time.”

Calderon’s heart began to race. His hands were sweaty, too. As he started walking towards the door, he dropped his flute. It clanged to the floor loudly, the sound echoing down the hallway. “F-forgive me,” he stuttered, kneeling down to pick it up. He felt a weight on his shoulder and looked up. The Musician’s hand was on him.

“Don’t be nervous,” the old man encouraged, “just breath.”

Calderon nodded silently and stood up. If he was meant to be the Musician, everything would work out. All he could do was offer his best. As he entered the chamber, he noticed a single chair. The room was devoid of any other furniture. The only source of light was from a small window in the stone wall behind the chair.

The old man sat down in the chair and motioned Calderon to stand in front of him. “It is very important that you can endure physical strain. You will stand there while you play. Perhaps when you are my age, you will have the privilege of a chair.”

Calderon wasn’t sure in the dim light, but he thought he saw the old man smile. He breathed in deep, placed the flute to his lips, and began to play. He knew the song well, he had memorized it when he was young. He distinctly remembered when he knew he wanted to be the Musician. Everything now depended on this moment. He couldn’t see anything with the light shining directly in his face. He closed his eyes to focus on the music.

The next thing he knew, the old man was standing in front of him. Had he fallen asleep? His felt his stomach lurch within him.

“You did well, Calderon.” The old man smiled, then motioned to the door. Calderon followed the Musician’s direction and left the chamber. His thoughts tumbled around in his mind as he made his way to his personal quarters. He was confused. What happened? He couldn’t recollect anything.

—

Velkyn and Calderon had been summoned to the Abbot’s chambers as the sun was setting. Both monks knew that because the smell of food was beginning to waft through the air. The monastery served two meals a day, always at sunrise and sunset. They both stood staring, entranced by the decorations that covered the walls. Tapestries, paintings, and other items practically hid every wall behind a multi-colored landscape of artistic beauty.

The desk, though made of wood, was plated in gold and silver. Red stones, possibly rubies, cast a reddish hue across the room in the candlelight. They were so awed by the wealth that surrounded them that they did not hear the Abbot ask them to sit down.

“You may be seated,” the Abbot repeated after clearing his throat. Once they were seated, the Abbot stared intently at them from across his desk.

“These artifacts are beautiful,” Calderon said quietly, feeling like he was in a holy place. The atmosphere of the room was hushed and serene. Speaking almost seemed sinful.

“Thank you. Most of these items the church has acquired through donations. The wealthy people of the city send them to us, not realizing we have no use for such things. Turning down their gifts would not be respectful, so we keep them here. I have called you both here for other business. The masters have made their decisions. While I do not completely agree with their ruling, it is not my place to challenge them. Tradition separates the duties of guarding the sphere from my duties as leader of the faith. With that being said, I must inform you both that only one of you have been chosen.”

Velkyn shifted uncomfortably in his chair. Calderon didn’t move.

“Velkyn, you have been chosen as the new Guardian. The previous Guardian, master Groves, passed away just this evening.” Velkyn’s face showed a mixture of joy and then confusion and finally, sorrow. “How …?”

“Age has taken its toll on his body. The Musician will not be far behind him. They do not live long after the choices are made, due in part to the fact that we do not choose candidates until we know the current protectors of the sphere are close to death. He died doing what he committed his life to; guarding the sphere. It was an honor to have known him.” The Abbot paused before turning his gaze to Calderon.

“There was some debate about you,” he said. “The Musician believes you are the right choice, but some of the masters who oversaw your other tests disagree. The majority voted to go with Sevrin. Were it in my control, I would honor the Musician’s desire. But in this matter, the masters have majority power. I am sorry. You are dismissed.”

The tranquility shattered like a mirror being tossed to the ground. Calderon sat in disbelief. Velkyn nudged him with his elbow and motioned with his head toward the door. Calderon stood up dazedly, and slowly made his way out into the hallway. Velkyn sighed softly. This was not part of the plan.

“I feel for him more than he knows,” the Abbot said. “As for you, however, you must report immediately to your post. Under less saddening circumstances, you would work with the master until he left this world. I assume you know your duties?”

“Yes, I know them,” Velkyn answered solemnly.

“You are also dismissed.”

“Faith is the mother of Virtues. Faith is the fire which consumes sacrifices. Faith is the water which nurtures piety. If you have not faith,

all your graces must die.”

- from the Book of Faith

CHAPTER SIX

Calderon paused outside the door to his room. How could they have chosen Sevrin over him? By all accounts, he had passed the other tests just fine. Maybe he had fallen asleep when he played his music? That wouldn’t explain why the Musician wanted to choose him though. He could feel the tears welling up in his eyes. He didn’t want to cry, but he couldn’t help it.

He had worked for years to get here, but this was not the way he expected things to go. Perhaps he truly was not meant to be the Musician. He entered his room and hit his knees. He cried, and he prayed. And then he prayed some more. And cried some more. His tears were selfish, he knew. If the Divines had willed Sevrin to be the Musician, then he would have to accept that. But he didn’t want to.

It was easier to be selfish. He should not allow himself to wallow in self-pity. He was stronger than that. He sat there on his knees, the hot tears streaming down his face. He was unaware of the passage of time. No light shone through his window. He didn’t bother lighting a candle. He slumped down onto the cold stone floor and just laid there and stared into the darkness of his room.

When he woke up, small shafts of light were shining through his window. He was still lying on his stomach and his neck was a little sore from facing the same direction all night. A knock on his door startled him. “Yes?” he called out, not sure why anyone was knocking in the first place. It wasn’t time for the morning prayers.

“Calderon,” the Abbot’s familiar voice rang, “I need to speak with you.”

Calderon pushed himself off the floor with a grunt. He didn’t bother trying to smooth his disheveled look. He opened the door and was greeted by the Abbot, who had a disturbing look on his face. “Due to unforeseen circumstances, you are now the new Musician. You will report to master Donovan this evening for instruction.”

“Master who?” he questioned, only half awake.

“The former Musician. His name is master Donovan. And don’t forget your flute.” The Abbot turned and left, his departure as quick as his arrival.

“What just happened?” Calderon whispered to himself. Unforeseen circumstances? What did that mean? And why did he have a dreaded feeling about being the new Musician? He should have been overjoyed.

He wasn’t.

—

Calderon made his way quickly to Velkyn’s room. He knocked several times, but his friend did not answer. Could he be guarding the sphere already? He wasn’t sure, but decided to go by the sphere chamber to see.

As he walked down the hallway that led to the room that housed the sphere, he saw Velkyn standing outside the door. “Velkyn!” he shouted. “I’ve got to tell you something!” As he approached his friend, Velkyn began to run toward him. “It’s the strangest thing” he began to say, but then Velkyn slammed into him, knocking him to the ground.

Velkyn’s fists were a blur of raw fury, striking him in his jaw, neck, and chest. It was all he could do to try and block his face. The intensity with which Velkyn struck left no doubt in his mind that he was indeed the right choice for Guardian. “I’m the new Musician,” he screeched.

As quickly as Velkyn attacked, he stopped. “Oh, thank Virtue,” Velkyn gasped. “Why didn’t you say so? I could have killed you!” Calderon could feel blood on his face, but he didn’t know where it was from.

“How was I supposed to know you would attack a fellow monk within our own walls?”

Velkyn helped him to his feet. “Lesson learned. That is great news, my friend. What changed?” Calderon shrugged. “I’m not really sure. The Abbot came to my room and told me there were unforeseen circumstances.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know. I’m going to ask master Donovan tonight.”

“Who?”

“Master Donovan, he is … or was, the Musician.”

“Somehow, I knew you would be chosen. I appreciate you coming to tell me, but you really shouldn’t be here until you are supposed to play the music”

Calderon wiped his face with the sleeve of his robe. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

“Don’t worry about it. Go clean yourself up. Someone is bound to think you received a beating.” Velkyn grinned at him.

—

The day didn’t pass fast enough for Calderon. He went to the morning prayer ceremony, helped some of the newer monks with the cleaning tasks, and even spent some time in the library studying some old books about the sphere.

As the daylight began to fade and candles started to be lit, his anxiety about being the new Musician returned. He was uneasy about it, but he was also excited. Unfortunately for him, the uneasiness seemed to outweigh his joy. How could one live their entire life leading up to a single moment with anticipation, and then be so afraid of what would come next?

He met Donovan at the same chamber he played his music in. The old man was slightly shorter than him, about five feet tall. His head was shaved like all the other monks, but his wrinkles gave some hint to his age. He was one of those men who time had aged beyond years. His eyes were dark brown and seemed to pierce Calderon’s very soul.

“Good evening,” Donovan greeted.

Calderon returned the greeting and bowed his head to the old man. “The Abbot didn’t mention the reason for the change. Do you know what happened?”

Donovan’s face softened with what appeared to be sadness. “Sevrin, though not my first choice, did well. He played the music under my supervision and did everything the way he should have. Afterward, he fell ill. We assumed it was a minor thing, perhaps some bad meat. But he did not survive through the night. The poor boy died in his sleep.”

Calderon frowned. “My heart breaks at this news. I have to confess something.”

Donovan raised his eyebrows.

“I have worked and waited my whole life to be here, to be the Musician. But now that I am here and this is all happening, I am afraid. What if I mess up? What if I am not meant to be the Musician?”

Donovan did not answer immediately. “The Divines work their will out in ways that we do not understand. Their ways are not our ways. Their thoughts are not our thoughts. Yet everything works out in the end the way it was meant to. Sevrin’s death is a part of their will, though how or why we will never know in this life. Fear is a natural response to the unknown. There is nothing wrong in being afraid. We all have fears; we are only men.”

Donovan stared into Calderon’s eyes with that piercing gaze. “The true test of a man is not whether he is afraid or not, it is how he responds. I will be here to teach you and guide you as long as the Divines see fit. And when death comes to me as it comes to us all, you will be ready.”

Calderon had a puzzled look on his face. “Ready for what?”

“To be on your own, as the new Musician.”

—

Calderon found being the Musician to be less overwhelming than he expected. There were two things that Donovan was very specific about. The time that he began the music, and how long he played.

“The enchantment that is bound within the metal of the sphere is old. It requires the music to be played daily to strengthen it. Every twenty four hours, to the minute, it must be played or else the enchantment will weaken.”

“What happens if it weakens?” Calderon questioned.

“The soul of the dragon that is captured within is a fire dragon. The enchantment keeps the sphere cold, which ensures the beast is trapped inside. If the enchantment weakens, the temperature of the metal drops. And if that were to happen, the dragon would be able to escape. Were the dragon to roam this world again … it would be the end of things as we know it.”

The old man knew more about the sphere than any of the books he had read in the library. He was older than any of the other monks, older even than the former Guardian. Calderon didn’t like looking into the man’s eyes. His piercing gaze made him uncomfortable.

“That is why you must never be late. The music must begin at the exact time, and it must be for a complete hour. If either of these guidelines are not kept, you endanger the entire world.”

Calderon was silent in thought. “Why entrust something so important to the monastery? Why did the silversmith bring it to us? Why not destroy the dragon’s soul instead of trapping it?”

Donovan shrugged his thin shoulders. “Why he chose to come here is a mystery. From what I have learned in all my years is that while a dragon’s body can be destroyed, its soul cannot. They are from a time and world beyond ours. There are tales of wizards from ancient times that had dealings with the beasts, but dragons are sly creatures and often betrayed the wizards. No one knows where they came from or how they came to be in our world.”

“What if I fail?” Calderon asked, hesitating to ask such a dramatic question.

Donovan didn’t answer. Instead, he led Calderon to the chamber of the sphere. They relieved Velkyn and entered the room. This would be the fifth night that he played the music. Each night became less stressful. His sleeping disorder even seemed less active than he could ever remember.

He put the flute to his lips and began to play his music. Perhaps he had been wrong about his fears.

—

Velkyn had trained for years to make his mind more powerful than his body. Guarding a door that could be attacked for twenty-one hours a day, with only three hours to rest was no easy feat. The first couple days hadn’t been too difficult, but it was beginning to catch up to him. He desperately needed sleep. It was hard for him to keep his eyes open. They were beginning to water and his eyelids were so heavy. He managed to make it to his room and slump into his bed. Sleep overcame him almost immediately.

His eyes shot open. How long had he been out? It felt like he had slept for hours. Panic gripped him as the thought that he might have overslept entered his mind. He heard a noise and sat up quickly.

“It’s been a week since I’ve seen you,” a female voice echoed in the darkness. Velkyn turned toward the doorway, where he heard the voice.

“Nydel … when did you get in here?” Velkyn whispered. He felt her soft hand touch the left side of his face.

“Just now. Why haven’t you come to see me?” she whispered back, leaning in close.

“I was chosen as the Guardian. I get relieved late in the evening.”

She hopped into the bed and straddled him. “I’m so proud of you!” she said excitedly as she wrapped her arms around him.

“Sshh! Not so loud, woman. Someone might hear you. I have to get back to my post soon. I only get three hours away.”

“I saw you from down the hall, you just got in here. You must be exhausted,” she pouted. “You are probably too tired …” she said sensually. She pulled her shirt off and tossed it to the side.

Velkyn shook his head and pulled her face close to his. “Mm … I missed you.”

—

Velkyn arrived back at his post just in time to meet Calderon and Donovan as they were leaving the chamber. Donovan didn’t say anything but continued on his way. Calderon stopped. “You look exhausted.”

Velkyn waited until he didn’t see the old man anymore. “Nydel came to see me.”

“Here?” Calderon asked incredulously.

Velkyn smirked. “She’s amazing. I will make her my wife one day.” Calderon could only raise his eyebrows in response. He knew that wouldn’t be very likely, but he didn’t want to point that out.

“Are you going to attend the coronation?” Velkyn asked Calderon, abruptly changing the subject.

“The entire monastery is attending.” Calderon responded. “Donovan just told me about it. How did you find out? And are you the only one guarding it?”

Velkyn shrugged. “I honestly don’t know. I would imagine the other candidates will be under my supervision to keep it safe. I hear the king of Oakvalor will be present. Who knows what they might have planned. And anything that concerns the sphere comes to me first. After the Abbot, of course.”

Calderon waited in silence a few moments to make sure Donovan was completely out of earshot. “I am playing the music by myself from now on. Donovan thinks his time is coming. I’m nervous about playing alone. What if—” Velkyn raised his hand to quiet his friend. “Trust in yourself, Calderon. You have too much fear about what might be, when you should live in what is. They were not wrong in choosing you. You’ll be fine.”

Calderon wasn’t so sure of that.

—

It was hard for Calderon to believe it was time to play again. The days seemed to drown together. He had not seen Donovan at all since he played his music the night before. It was entirely possible he had passed during the night. Given the importance of the coronation, it was unlikely he would get the news of his mentor’s death.

As he approached the sphere’s chamber, a tingly feeling spread down his back. He reached down to rub the spot and the feeling went away, but he didn’t feel right. He felt … off. Shaking his head, he continued on and relieved Velkyn from his duty. He pushed the door open and entered the dimly lit chamber, pausing to let his eyes adjust.

It was almost time.

Calderon placed the flute to his lips and breathed in deep.

He opened his eyes and was looking up at the ceiling. A horrible feeling of dread washed over him. He had fallen asleep! Calderon struggled up to his feet and tried frantically to determine how much time had passed. He pulled the chamber door open just enough to look out. Velkyn was not back yet. Perhaps he had only dozed off for a short moment.

He pushed the door shut and began to play his music like normal. As he played, he glanced around the room. The room was so dim, he wasn’t sure how much time had passed, if any at all. Perhaps he had passed out and not fallen asleep? He wasn’t sure. He eyed the sphere closely. It did not appear noticeably different, though he never really paid attention to what the sphere looked like. Calderon rested one hand on the sphere as he held a note on his flute.

It was cool to the touch, but he had only touched it once before. Was it always cool to the touch? He couldn’t remember.

Calderon was so engrossed with the sphere he did not hear the door swing open. “Calderon,” he heard Velkyn whisper. He spun around, startled by the sound. Velkyn stood in the doorway motioning him. “Your hour has passed, my friend. Come, your duty is complete for today. The sphere must be readied for the coronation tomorrow.”

Calderon nodded, unsure of how long he had played his music anyway. He assumed he had played long enough to keep the enchantment strong. He left the chamber and stood in the hallway as Velkyn shut the door. “I will see you at the palace tomorrow. Do you suppose we will meet the new king?” Calderon asked as Velkyn took his post.

“If the Divines see fit to allow it,” Velkyn responded. “You look pale. You should get some rest. Wait …” Velkyn’s voice lowered. “you didn’t fall asleep, did you?”

“No, I didn’t.” Calderon lied. “I just feel a little weak now. I will see you tomorrow at the coronation. It will be exciting to see what lies outside these walls.”

As troubled as Calderon was about his sleeping disorder having roused its ugly head, he had little difficulty sleeping through the night. As the light of dawn shown through the small window of his room, he was readying himself to see the palace for the first time in his life.

“The single most appalling atrocity perpetrated on the world happened when a mysterious man made the king believe the Divines were real. The horrible truth is this: they are the product of make-believe by a man who crafted his own religion. Because of this, the true knowledge of the Creator of our world may be forever lost.”

- Jasiel

Former priest

CHAPTER SEVEN

The palace was buzzing with rumors. Prince Ranaan sifted through the conversations of the servants as they dashed about, whispering in not-so-quiet tones. He feigned ignorance and continued making his way through the vast hallways that led above ground and to the throne room. The servants were always full of gossip and sharing the latest intrigue, but today was different.

Today, there was talk of death.

Barely reaching five feet, Ranaan was not an intimidating figure. His hair was black and of medium length, usually tied in a pony-tail. His bangs hung down in sharp points and he was always pushing them aside. His eyes were an icy blue and stood out vividly when he wore his formal white uniform. The youngest of his father’s two sons, he would not take the throne but instead would be allowed to do with his life as he chose.

He reached the hidden doorway that led to the section of the castle that was above ground. At the end of the hallway was two massive wooden doors. As he approached he was greeted by two guards, one at each side of the entrance. They bowed low at his arrival. They grunted as they pushed the doors open, bowing once more as Ranaan swept past them without acknowledgement. The audience room was an enormous circular chamber. It was usually filled with nobles, but today it was empty.

His father was seated on the throne, a large oak chair plated in gold and silver. His brother, the heir to the throne, stood attentively at his side.

“You called for me father?” His voice echoed in the empty chamber.

Dagmar, his brother, had a grave look on his face. “He can’t speak, Ranaan. His condition has worsened. The healers said” his voice cracked and he paused. The emotional turmoil was obvious. “They said he won’t make it through the night.”

Ranaan stood in silence, unsure how to take the news. He loved his father dearly, but the man was nearing ninety and time had not been kind to him. A disease of the mind had consumed him and he was no longer the man Ranaan remembered. It was a confusing mix of emotions. Sadness at the imminent death of his father, but relief that his suffering would soon be at an end.

Byramm, the royal chamberlain, made his presence known by coughing softly. “Your Highness’s,” he greeted solemnly. “You know what this means.”

Dagmar looked to Ranaan. “Do you object?”

“You know I don’t,” Ranaan replied, lowering himself to one knee. “I support your reign as king.” He lowered his head in homage.

Their father, in a rare show of normalcy, reached up weakly and pulled his crown off. He looked at Dagmar and mouthed something unintelligible. Dagmar hesitantly took hold of the crown. Lifting it up, he stared at the large black diamond in its center. He looked to Ranaan, then to the chamberlain, and lastly, his father.

The old king nodded his head slowly. Dagmar placed the crown on his own head.

“Long live the king,” Ranaan said.

There was complete silence. Byramm waited a few moments to speak, not wanting to ruin the moment. “My Lord’s, I do not wish to rush your mourning, but there are things that need to be done. We must announce the coronation and summon the monks from the Abbey to bring the sphere.” Byramm eyed Dagmar critically. “And we must summon the tailor.”

—

“There is one more thing, brother.” The tailor was busy taking Dagmar’s measurements, her hands a flurry of fingers and measuring tape.

Ranaan looked questioningly at his brother.

“I am announcing a truce with Oakvalor.”

Ranaan’s face turned incredulous. “What! There hasn’t been peace since … since anyone can remember. At least, not a real peace. How in the Divines are you going to manage a truce?”

“Marriage.”

The tailor produced a plush violet robe and placed it over Dagmar’s shoulders. Using needles and some sort of sticky parchment, she marked out where she would need to make cuts in the material. “I am going to marry the princess of Oakvalor. It is going to be announced at the coronation.”

Ranaan was at a loss for words. “It is what is best for the people of our kingdom. And theirs. Enough blood has been shed in a war that neither side can win. No one can even remember how it started or why. It is time to leave our feuds in the past and work toward a better future.”

Ranaan looked at his brother in a new light. He seemed wiser somehow. “It makes sense to me, brother. I’m not sure how the people will accept it. War is all we know. I stand behind any decision you make. And I will stand behind this one. My heart says peace would be a nice change, but my mind doesn’t know what peace is.”

“My prayer and my hope is that we can change that.” Dagmar looked at himself in the mirror. “Do I look like a king?” he asked jokingly. Ranaan chuckled softly. He had to wonder if Dagmar meant ‘we’ as in he and his bride to be, or together as brothers. He supposed it didn’t matter so long as the people of the kingdom were happy.

“You look noble to me, but what do I know?”

—

“No, no, no! You will stand here,” the chamberlain screeched, pointing to a specific stone on the floor. Ranaan rolled his eyes at the old man. He reminded Ranaan of his grandmother, wrinkly and decrepit. Between the heat and the old man’s irritating voice, it was all he could do not to snap. “Why does it matter where we stand, Byramm?”

Byramm’s face turned a deep crimson color. “It is tradition! Which you apparently lack any knowledge of. You are fortunate you’re not a child anymore.”

Ranaan smirked at the chamberlain. “Careful, Byramm. I might break your hip.”

“Please brother,” Dagmar interjected, “we must get this right before evening. Two days from now is the coronation and we will have the entire kingdom watching. The less inexperienced we look, the better.”

Ranaan conceded the point and stood where the chamberlain directed. That old man had been a pain, usually quite literally, when he was younger. Anytime he made a mistake, Byramm was always there to deliver discipline. Now that he was in charge of himself, he could pick at the chamberlain all he pleased with no painful retaliation.

The next few hours were full of boredom for Ranaan as the chamberlain laid out the course of events that would unfold leading up to the coronation. The monastery would bring the sphere out as a symbolic display of power, there would be a few speeches by the people who had helped raise the older prince, and once they were finished, he would be crowned the new king of Talvaard. The only thing that would be different from any other ceremony, at least according to Byramm, was the announcement of the marriage and treaty with Oakvalor.

“The general has tripled the guard in the event the people do not initially take to the idea. There will also be archers on the rooftops. We are not only protecting our new king, but also our new ally and his entourage.”

“That should be plenty of protection,” Dagmar said. “I’ve given King Elkanah permission to bring his bodyguard as well. We have made every preparation possible. Now we can only trust the Divines for the best.”

—

The palace grounds were crowded with people who had come to see the crowning of the new king. Many of them had traveled hundreds of miles from all corners of the kingdom to glimpse the ceremony. The kings of Talvaard were known to live long and die of old age rather than of battle or disease, so the ceremony was a rare event.

Innumerable banners and flags of bright orange, yellow, and red lined the buildings and walkways leading up to the Palace Square. Why it was called a square, no one was certain. The stonework that laid out the area in front of the great wall which separated the actual palace and the Square was in the shape of a rectangle. Whoever had termed it a square, the description stuck.

Soldiers wearing ceremonial armor, emblazoned with the royal insignia of a phoenix bursting forth from a pile of ashes, stood guard along the streets to ensure order and keep the crowds from overwhelming the plaza where the sphere and the new king would be. Archers lined the rooftops with bows in hand, keeping careful watch. The entire population of the monastery, with the exception of the Guardian and those under his command, formed a large circle around a short pillar to the right of where the king would stand. Velkyn and the three former candidates for his position stood alert with their backs to the sphere, forming a protective square. An identical pillar to the left held the crown used only for coronations.

Prince Ranaan peered down at the scene below from the window of the throne room. Dagmar would pace the room, then turn, and pace back. “Are you nervous, brother?” Ranaan chided. “You act as though you have never stood before a crowd.”

His brother ceased his march. “It is easy for you to be calm. You aren’t the one who is accepting a crown that has many enemies. Not to mention the ire I may receive from the people of our kingdom with the announcement I make today. So yes, brother, I am nervous.” Dagmar continued pacing back and forth.

Ranaan shrugged and turned his gaze back to the scene outside. He could see the glint of the sphere through the veil that covered it. Enormous groups of children waved miniature flags with the royal crest. It seemed that the people were happy. The Square was a much different place the night before when they held the funeral. The same people who were excitedly waving flags and banners were also the same people who had cried and openly mourned the loss of their previous king.

Ranaan thought about how his father looked inside the casket. He had always viewed his father as tall and strong, wise and venerable. Seeing him shriveled and pale just lying in a box made him conscious of the reality of death. It was no respecter of people or their status.

Trumpets signaling the approach of King Elkanah momentarily drowned out the sound of the people talking and cheering. Ranaan looked to see which direction the entourage was coming from and spotted them to the west. He could see about twenty men dressed in the colors of Oakvalor marching in front of a carriage.

“Brother,” he said loudly, “our guests have arrived.”

Dagmar seemed not to hear the news, so Ranaan motioned the guards to escort the visiting king to the plaza. “Have you seen her?” Ranaan asked aloud.

“Who?” Dagmar replied.

“Your future wife. Have you seen her?”

Dagmar still did not cease pacing the throne room. “No. Why do you ask?”

“What if she is ugly?” Ranaan laughed, though his brother did not.

“I do not see how the beauty of my queen has anything to do with bringing peace to our kingdoms.”

“It doesn’t.” Ranaan answered. “Though it would be humorous for you to go into the history books as a king who married a repulsive woman.” That did cause Dagmar to stop his pacing and glare at him. “Come now, brother,” Ranaan left the window and embraced his sibling. “I only jest to lighten your heart.”

“There will be plenty of time for you to jest after the ceremony,” Dagmar said curtly. “Though … I do hope she isn’t unsightly.” He smiled at Ranaan and continued his pacing.

One of the generals appeared in the doorway. “Your Highness,” his deep voice echoed in the giant marble chamber, “The king and his daughter await you in the plaza.”

Ranaan removed the robe that lay on the throne and wrapped it around his brother’s shoulders. “That’s our queue.”

—

Calderon could hear the Abbot arguing heatedly with someone in hushed tones. When he looked to see who, he was surprised to see Donovan. His spirits lifted when he saw his mentor, but when he realized his mentor was the one arguing with the Abbot, he got confused. He could only hear pieces of their conversation over the noise of the crowd.

“You must remove it,” Donovan said.

“That will never happen. The coronation will begin any moment, and we will not insult our new king.”

“Something is wrong … I feel … dangerous,” Calderon strained to hear what Donovan was saying, but the crowd was getting louder. “It’s not safe.”

The sound of horns blaring overpowered every sound and shook the ground around them. “All hail Prince Dagmar and Prince Ranaan!” One of the heralds roared.

Calderon thought the crowd was loud before the princes arrived. The masses shoved forward and it was all the soldiers could do to hold them back. He could see a general barking out orders but couldn’t make out the words. Then the two bothers entered the plaza, surrounded by a host of at least two dozen men armed to the teeth. He had not seen much outside the monastery and was overwhelmed by everything.

He looked to where Donovan had been but the old man was gone. The Abbot seemed unfazed by whatever his mentor had said. Velkyn looked calm and composed compared to the soldiers fighting to keep the crowds at bay.

It took almost twenty minutes to restore order and get the people to be silent enough for the ceremony to begin. Despite the chaos of the crowds, everything seemed well orchestrated as each person who had written a speech about the new king came forward and spoke about their memories of Dagmar as a child and various other stories about his character.

As soon as the chamberlain finished talking, an odd hush fell over the crowd. Calderon wasn’t sure why everyone suddenly went quiet. It was probably the only moment of silence he had experienced since leaving the monastery that morning.

Byramm approached the pillar that held the crown and gently picked it up. He turned to Dagmar and lifted the crown into the air. “It is my esteemed honor to name you, Prince Dagmar, as the new king, by royal lineage, over the kingdom of Talvaard and its people.” Placing the crown upon Dagmar’s head, Byramm turned to the assembly. “I give you King Dagmar!”

A great shout filled the air, though the people did not try to surge forward this time. Calderon noticed Prince Ranaan was staring at the sphere. The veil had been removed and it seemed so bright. Ranaan seemed to be entranced by the thing and oblivious to anything around him. The prince closed his eyes and opened his mouth in a scream that was lost in the sound of the thousands of people cheering.

Panic gripped Calderon as he wondered what was wrong with the prince. He was about to rush forward to help him but noticed that one of the soldiers came to his aid.

Ranaan kept shaking his head and seemed unsteady on his feet. It seemed to Calderon that nobody had noticed the prince’s odd behavior. Suddenly Ranaan seemed fine. He stood straight and pushed the soldier away from him.

Calderon kept his eyes on the prince to see if anything else happened, but he seemed fine. Dagmar was trying to hush the crowd, and eventually Calderon turned his attention away from Ranaan.

“I have an announcement,” Dagmar yelled loudly to be heard as the noise of the people died down. “We have long been at war with our neighbors, and I am sure you are all wondering why the king of Oakvalor is here for my coronation. Today the nation of Talvaard and Oakvalor put our feuding past behind us. Today, my people, we forge a peace that not even our forefathers imagined. Today, I will marry the daughter of King Elkanah and seal a treaty of peace between our kingdoms!”

There was complete silence. Calderon eyed the crowd. Everyone just stood there, staring at their new king with wide eyes and in some cases, wide mouths. Then someone in the back started clapping. Then another followed suit. And another. And another, until everyone was clapping in approval of the union.

King Elkanah brought forth his daughter and the people began cheering loudly again. To say the woman was beautiful was an understatement. Calderon was awed by her eyes. They were bright blue, and her white flowing dress made them seem all the brighter. Her hair was blonde and long, perhaps reaching the middle of her back.

The two kings embraced each other in a hug, and then Dagmar took the woman by her hand. “What’s your name?” Dagmar asked embarrassedly.

“Nizana.”

“It’s as beautiful as you are,” he complimented.

A great smile spread across her face, revealing her teeth which were just as white as her dress.

Despite the loudness and chaos of the crowd, Calderon was glad to have experienced this moment. “History in the making,” he whispered to himself. He noticed Prince Ranaan was hovering toward the back of the plaza, his behavior seeming odd again. And then …

Calderon watched in sheer horror as a scene more nightmarish than anything he could ever dream played out before his very eyes.

Ranaan shoved his brother to the ground from behind. Unsheathing a sword from the soldier who helped him, he thrust the blade into Nizana’s abdomen. Blood spurt forth onto Ranaan’s hands and onto the floor. There was a wild look in the prince’s eyes as he jerked the blade free.

Dagmar stared in horror and confusion, unsure of what to do. King Elkanah pointed at Ranaan and ordered his bodyguard to seize the murderer. The crazed look on his face made the guards hesitate. Then in a quick fluid motion, he swung the blade in a giant arc and decapitated his brother.

Time seemed to cease for Calderon, but for everyone else, all hell broke loose. The Talvaard soldiers, unsure of what they should do, grouped protectively around Prince Ranaan. King Elkanah’s bodyguards did likewise and began systematically moving him away from the Square to the carriage, pushing their way through the distraught crowd.

People were screaming and trampling each other to get away from the horrific sight. Calderon’s attention snapped back to the direction of the sphere when he heard the familiar voice of his friend Velkyn shouting for the monks to shield the sphere with their bodies. The thunderous sound of magic boomed and lit up the square in a bluish-green light and King Elkanah’s carriage, and his entourage, disappeared from sight.

“So, there are wizards,” Calderon whispered in disbelief. He felt a hand on his shoulder and looked up to see the Abbot. “Go with Velkyn and the others and take the sphere to safety.” Calderon nodded and left the circle to join his friend. He noticed that the soldiers had moved Ranaan behind the stone wall of the palace.

“What in the name of the Divines just happened?” he yelled. Velkyn shook his head grimly. “I’m not sure, but it seems like a coupe just happened.”

“A what?”

Velkyn pointed to the dead body of Dagmar. “An overthrow and seizure of the throne by a jealous brother. Come, we have to get the sphere back to the monastery.”

—

The trip back was rushed and nothing like the trip earlier that morning. Calderon had been entranced by the beauty of the capital city and the surrounding countryside. Everything now seemed different. Velkyn personally carried the sphere and only allowed Calderon to walk near him.

“Why would the Prince kill King Elkanah’s daughter, let alone his own brother?” one of the monks whispered to another.

“Why indeed?” Calderon looked questioningly to Velkyn.

“Your assumption is as good as mine,” he replied, holding the sphere tightly to his chest. “Perhaps he wasn’t happy with not being king.”

Calderon’s heart was heavy with grief. This was the only time he had left the monastery since he entered the sacred halls and it ended in bloodshed. A nagging thought in the back of his mind kept reminding him that the day wasn’t over yet.

“The Tunnel is an omen of the worst kind. Through much research, we have found that it is an omen that only appears in Oakvalor, and within Oakvalor, only on the Five Islands.”

- Lord Aio’s journal

CHAPTER EIGHT

The sun was barely a sliver of dimming yellow light on the horizon. The few clouds in the sky shone red in the waning light of day above the low, forested hills of the Red Island. If one were watching from the hills overlooking the east or west parts of the valley at this time, he would have seen a shadow slowly stretch over to the south, creeping slowly down into the valley over the vast patchwork of fields, orchards, and pastures. All that could be seen of the Aiakh River was a dark ribbon, glittering like a long snakelike diamond in the last rays of the sunlight, winding its way north up the valley and out through a tunnel under the hills.

One could see the campfires of the ruby and iron miners being lit on the hillsides. The familiar sounds of cattle, sheep, and goats being herded into their caves just above the valley. The smell of dead fish that were daily brought upstream for trade with the farmers came up from the valley, rising with the heat of the day. Occasionally, a warm, gentle breeze would blow from the valley up into the hills, the richness and aroma reminding the entire island of the impending harvest.

A horn sounded, heralding the coming of night. In response, the sound of a flute playing an ancient melody rose from one of the campfires. It was a beautiful song, composed ages before the migration of the first twelve tribes of the Aihi into the Five Islands of Oakvalor. Such a song is very difficult to describe, as one would not hear the likes of it elsewhere. If one listened closely, you could hear voices coming up out of the earth, singing their ancient chant to the sound of the flute. The branches of trees rustled in the gentle breeze, humming along with the music. All of nature seemed to sing the song of the flute. If the song had words, one could be sure that all of the men, women, and children on the Island would have sung its chorus on that peaceful night.

All was peaceful on the Red Island as the sun set on that late summer evening. One felt like celebrating with every breath, such was the richness of the pre-harvest air. All the children were sleeping soundly in their beds, while the mothers prepared nighttime meals for their husbands coming back from a long day of work in the fields, pastures, and orchards.

As soon as the sun had set, the moon in its full brightness rose from the southern horizon. Proceeding, guarding, and following it were thousands of bright stars, lighting up the heavens. The sun had gone to bed along with the children of the valley, and then had come the moon, escorted by her children, to continue the great dance across the sky.

If any man by this time still had a trouble, discomfort, or sense of foreboding on his mind, it would have soon been forgotten. For once, all troubled thoughts and worries could be put aside until the morning. For just a few hours of time, man’s mind could be at peace. All of the Red Island sang with that flute song, and the hearts of mankind sang with it. For just a short period of time, in the face of eternity, all was at peace.

The aged prophet made his way up the lonely mountain path after his journey to and from the busy streets of the capital city, Aicatan. He and his disciple, Lord Imen, had traveled much during the previous week. After four days of treading the valley roads, a week of sleeping in the cramped rooms of the city inns and taverns, and many rigorous ceremonies and rites of passage, both master andespeciallypupil were glad to be returning to their peaceful homes on the mountain, and looking forward to a comfortable rest in their own beds.

The prophet, called Lord Aio, would have had little trouble hiding behind any medium sized tree trunk or small boulder without having to crouch low or stand sideways. His pupil, who was of average height and build, dwarfed him considerably. His scarred, withered arms told of many long death matches. What little muscle that could be found on his diminutive frame would have been hard enough to force any Cannibal to leave the morsel in frustration, claiming it in the primitive Cannibal tongue to be a peculiar type of stone. His brown, oven-baked facebut one of the many perils enduredwas decorated by a long, unkempt and unwashed scarlet beard, framed on top by hair of similar color, length, fashion, and state. The dark eyes sinking deep into his face had not lost the fire of youth, but had been stoked with over a century of war and wisdom. His thin, cracked, dry lips almost matched his face in color.

His earthen-colored traveling cloak was covered with dust of a slightly lighter hue. His feet and ankles were so caked with dust, sticking to his skin from the sweat caused by wearing sandals for an extended period of time. The aroma of pipe-smoke mixed with the odors of sweat and old age emanated from his body.

They halted for a moment. The prophet inhaled deeply, feeling the warmth and richness of the air surge throughout his entire body, restoring some of his long-lost youth.

“A fine evening, Lord Imen,” he said.

“It is, Lord Aio,” said Imen, attempting to catch his breath before the tireless prophet continued the seemingly endless march.

The Lord Aio nodded. “The Ai has shown us favor in giving us such an evening. One hundred and forty-three years ago this hour, the personified Ai, the Great Aio, appeared on this Island.”

The young High Priest wiped the sweat off his forehead as he gazed out over the Island, looking over every twist in the river, every small campfire, every stone and tree, the moon and every small star, and every lighted window that was visible in the valley; hearing every miner’s flute and every grazing beast that was raised in the valley; absorbing every breath of wind, the odor of fish and manure. All of this, the good and the evil, the agreeable and disagreeable, the pleasant and the unpleasant, had been made by the Ai. All living and non-living things were of the Ai.

In the pasthe had been toldthe Ai had spoken to mankind through visions, or through the clouds, and sometimes in a great, blinding white light. However, the Ai, for a short period of forty-eight years, came to the Five Islands in the form of a man. It was at that very hour, and on that Island, one hundred and forty-three years before, the Ai has chosen a place for his unannounced arrival. For a moment, Imen forgot all of his troubles, discomforts, fears, and even his exhaustion in that thought.

Following that brief pause, they continued their arduous climb up the narrow, steep, winding trail for what seemed to the pupil to be an hour (though it was probably a good deal less than half). It had always amazed Imen how the decrepit old mentor always managed to be a good three paces ahead of the young warrior, never tiring or seeming to need a rest, while the youthful student felt as if his legs would fall out from under him.

They came to a place where the ground leveled off, surrounded on all but one side by high rock formations. In the center of this area lay five large, flat stones arranged in a circle, all of them large enough for one to sit upon with space left over for a staff, cloak, or a sword. If one were to look over the side not surrounding the mountain, he would have seen a patchwork of fields and orchards spread from beneath him, allowing him to view almost the entire valley.

The Lord Aio suddenly stopped, staring into a space that had opened up in the side of the mountain during his absence. For what seemed like an eternity to Imen, he stared in amazement and terror at the opening, never once blinking or letting his gaze shift from the tunnel before him. If he had not been paralyzed by the sight, his body would have shuddered violently. The look of death shone in his eyes.

Imen, at the sight, felt a mountain of fear fall upon him. He had heard of this omen, its meaning, and its history, yet he had never seen it until now. He wished he could have run and hidden, or better yet, jumped off the cliff wall that fell below him into the valley. The Tunnel had again been opened.

“This cannot be happening,” stated Imen, the shock evident in the shaking of his voice.

The words of Imen breaking him from his stupor, the Lord Aio shook the dust of the ground off his traveling cloak, muttering to himself in the ancient tongue of the Ai.

“The Tunnel has again been opened to us,” he said to Imen, “and troublednay, far worse than troubledtimes are to come. The East Wind grows bolder than ever; life eludes the West Wind; the fire grows cold. Sit upon this sacred stone, Lord Imen, and guard the Tunnel with your life. Let no one pass in or out unchallenged. I feel that an evil has come upon the Island. An evil I have not known for almost …”

Wincing as if feeling pain from some terrible memory, the Lord Aio turned quickly and walked up the path to his hut. After his master was out of sight, Imen sat down with his sword drawn, his eyes searching, and his ears ever attentive.

He could feel the cold winds of danger and fear cut through him like a sword. The ancient melodies played by the miners, and the warm, peaceful atmosphere that had just a few minutes earlier dominated the entire Island was suddenly gone. He shivered a bit, even though the night was warm and the weather fair and despite wearing a traveling cloak.

Just a few minutes before, he thought only of a long, peaceful sleep. Now, he felt as if he had awakened to find himself living in one of his worst nightmares. Every rock looked as if to conceal a ghoul, a Cannibal, or an Orc behind it. Likewise, every tree was the dwelling place of evil spirits. Imen felt as though the Tunnel itself would swallow him. The smallest sound was an army of demons. Every few minutes, Imen would check behind the rock he sat on to assure himself that no danger lay hidden in its shadow.

What reason had he to fear? He had been hungry. He had been without necessities. He had suffered pain. He had been betrayed. He had seen war. He had seen defeat. He had seen death, and had even faced it a couple of times. He, more than the population of the Five Islands, would know what it meant to have troubles. But the Tunnel? Nay. Although the High Priest knew of troubles, the opening of the Tunnel meant troubles of the worst kind. Atrocities that had caused even the greatest warriors to cower and flee as children escaping some punishment for some seemingly great offense, tortures that had caused even the most devout Priests to publicly denounce the Ai and claim allegiance to the forces of evil. A living death within a living death, as the Lord Aio had described some of the wars he had fought in during the time of the opened Tunnel.

High Priest over the Red Island was he, and a proven warrior. High Priest and warrior. On this night, however, he felt more like the small child that has strayed from his mother in a place he does not know. Although the Lord Aio and the other four pupils were just a few minutes’ walk up the mountain trail, well within earshot, he felt as though even his closest of friends had betrayed and deserted him in the thick of a battle.

The Tunnel had again been opened, and although he knew not what would happen, impending doom lurked behind the mask of that once peaceful evening.

“The time draws near. I feel it deep in my bones. Long has this war raged, and how shortly it shall conclude. The end is near.”

- Father Ean

CHAPTER NINE

At first glance, to say that he was an elderly person would have been the grossest of understatements. So numerous and deep were the wrinkles that creased his aged face, he was almost beyond recognition as a man. The darkened, earthen color of his face, the large forehead, the small, black deep-set probing eyes, the slightly pointed ears, a long, crooked hawk-like nose that looked as if someone had pulled on it too long, and a thin, slightly darkened pair of dehydrated lines he called lips did not help. The unmistakably human salt-white beard that hung from his protruding chin was the only thing that identified his human ancestry at this point in his life.

Beginning at the top of his head, coming down to the side in both directions forming an arc, his head was adorned with thin, dirty white hair of moderate length resting upon his shoulders. For the most part, this was unkempt and in it, one could find the remains of dead insects, traces of spider’s webs, leaves, twigs, and almost any other type of small objects that can rest in one’s hair. On very special occasions, he would wash it, comb through it with his eleven gnarled fingers (their appearance more like claws), and thread an intricate pattern of vines, leaves, and wildflowers into it. He had not had such as occasion of celebration in over ninety years. The greasy quality of his hair, as well as the dirt and filth that had claimed his head as a permanent habitat were quite conspicuous.

His tall, bony frame was clothed (if at all) in the leaves of the oak tree, woven together in a complex pattern by a myriad of pine needles. He would have two sheets of this covering, one in front, the other in back, connected on the sides and top by long, thick blades of grass or even the vines from his extensive vineyard.

Regardless of what ages he had seen come and go, he had towered above even the tallest of men from each race. Although not carrying a single drop of giant’s blood in his veins, he appeared as one with a tall wisp of a body, strong arms of immense length that one would think they could stretch to the ends of the world, claw-like fingers, and the thin, stick-like legs and feet that could have been mistaken for roots taking into account the leaves and twigs in his hair and the leaves that covered his body.

On this particular morning, he sat at the edge of the lush, green forest on the Island of Cerel, his eyes peering down into the bustling commerce and life that was characteristic of any bay in the dominion of the Five Islands. Well hidden from view, a sighting of him by one of the people in the town below would have upset the whole of the Five Islands. It had been centuries since any man had ever seen him, much less spoken to him. Even to the Council of High Priests, he was merely a legend, a story told among the more youthful circles sitting around the campfires. There had not been need for an appearance for a very long time, and he felt no desire to appear.

He had begun to feel the pangs of old age settle in about one hundred years before. From shortly after the founding of Oakvalor as a nation, he had forsaken the path of the rest of men and chose to serve the Ai, to look after and tend Oakvalor. On choosing this, his body and functions had changed dramatically. He had become one with the earth, his body aging ever so slowly. However, as all men did at some point in their lives, he would have to die. He did not expect to admire the bay from his camouflaged position again.

Looking down upon the bay at the brightly colored ships, the acreage of canvas used for sails, the fathoms of rope and netting, the crates, the sailors and vendors, the merchants, and the many people there to see what goods were to be had after market day, he could not help thinking about how much things had changed, yet how little the Aihi themselves had changed. The race had been much the same when he had been a part of it, caring only for its immediate pleasures, at most, thinking of how to build a strong financial foundation for the next generation. The Aihi had not changed.

He had changed, however. He had at one time been as those he viewed from afar, seeking pleasures that he knew would satisfy him only a short while. Perhaps it was the long centuries of his work that had caused the change, or the knowledge he had accumulated during that time. Perhaps it was from having seen the history of Oakvalor. Maybe his longevity. It could have been all four reasons, or even others unsurmised. “The answer will be known but to the Ai,” he thought. “Perhaps I shall be informed after my death.”

Having seen millions of people, empires, races, and even ages come to life, bloom, and then whither one would expect him to be an authority on death. This was the farthest thing from the truth. Although he had seen death in all different manners (even having caused it on occasion), his extensive knowledge ceased its long reach when it came to this concept. He had spent his entire life helping things to live and grow, giving life to the plants and animals of Oakvalor and the Five Islands. What lay beyond the moment of the body’s death, not even he could foresee.

For the first few centuries of his work, he had feared death more than pain, hunger, or fire. Having seen the ages rise and fall, having witnessed most of Oakvalor’s history the extremes of evil and goodhe no longer feared death. And despite his lack of knowledge on the subject he would have welcomed it at any time.

He sighed. To be even as blissful in the ignorance of these people once again! He had seen too much, had lived too long. He longed to purge himself of his body, to finally join with the Ai.

A hand came to rest upon his shoulder. “A fine bit of handiwork, brother.”

Without turning, the old man nodded. “The work of my master, the Ai.”

“It would have been destroyed by these creatures we let populate it without your help.”

“Perhaps,” he pondered. “Perhaps. It will not be long now, however, before I must select for myself one who will carry on my work. I have not much longer as the gardener of Oakvalor. I wish to live no longer. I beckon death. It draws nearer, as we speak.”

“Nearer, brother. It has been many a century since I said those exact words. How correct was the wise man that said, ‘The parting of oneself from one’s body brings momentary pain, but ever after, blissful rest.’”

The old man closed his eyes and nodded. “Blissful rest. When I undertook the task of tending Oakvalor, I was young and restless. Perhaps a touch of foolhardy.”

“Foolhardy!” interrupted the other speaker. “It becomes you less to speak of it as such. Curious, maybe, as is the nature of all men, but foolhardy? Nay.”

“Curiosity then!” continued the old man. “And overflowing of it was my cup. I had seen nothing of the world’s horizons surrounding the Five Islands. I was young, even to the standard of the time. Did I care for the life of the farmer, the herdsman, or the miner? Nay, I was the explorer. Before I had reached the age of thirty-three, I knew everything there was to know about the Five Islands. The mountains, the valleys, the mines. It was I who first discovered the Tunnel.”

“No small feat,” commented the speaker.

“At the time, no,” said the old man. “But of what purpose did it serve my lust for wandering? Did it satisfy? Nay. It only increased my appetite for more.”

“That I remember,” said the speaker. “Our father would not allow us to take one of the boats any farther than a mile past the outer coasts.”

“They would not have lasted half that distance,” said the old man, laughing. “That much knowledge I have gained from my work.”

“That you have. You have tended not only father’s nets, our uncle’s fields, but you have gardened a nation. You have seen everything that was worth seeing, as well as everything that was not worth seeing. If a new field was ploughed, you knew of it before the man’s neighbor heard a sound of the plough animal. If a new pocket of rubies was struck, you knew of its worth in countless ways before the miner recognized the stone. If furnaces beneath Oakvalor have displayed their glories through the tops of the mountains, you welcomed the spectacle while most creatures in fear would run for cover. Many great empires have risen, their numbers far beyond even my reckoning, only to become no more than the soil in which a child’s garden in planted. You have even seen the Great Lord Aio face to face, a thing that even I cannot boast. It was destiny that called you from our mother’s womb.”

“Yes, it would seem that I would be the most fitted to the task. However, it is because I have seen the good, the evil, the land, the mines, the mountains, the empires, and a great deal of the history of Oakvalor that I wish to die. There are no more mountains to climb, forests to probe, valleys in which to run. My lust has been sated and has become distasteful to me. I am tired, brother. I wish no more to explore the new. I can but revel in the memory of the old.”

“Perhaps it is not that you are tired of the new, but that you tire of that which you know. An eternity would scarce suffice the time necessary to explore completely even one room in the House of the Ai. Think on it. You have lived long in Oakvalor, long so that even the marvels of this place are common and wearisome. Your desire to explore and discover has not yet been sated, but has merely soured in the absence of novelty. The House of the Ai? You need not worry about running out of worlds to explore. It is more than even your mind can comprehend. Even I, the long-dead mortal fisherman who wished for nothing more than his boat and nets, have developed a taste for exploring.”

“You make me feel as the youth I once was, many ages past. The energy, vigor, strength, and unfettered curiosity that our father would whip me for! To have that again! To explore and to discover again! You tempt me, brother, to follow you back this very moment!”

“And as much as you deserve,” said his brother, “I would relish in the company of my now much older brother again. You have served well. You have, however, but one more task before your time.”

The old man turned and smiled. “A word from the Ai. Such as I have not heard since the beginning of my changed life, and from you, who have not walked Oakvalor for many a thousand years. I live only to serve. Speak on, brother.”

“This task will require all of your abilities, and perhaps cause you to discover a few others. You have heard of the advance of Orlek.”

The old man spit on the ground in response. “He was a good pupil. He could have served alongside me, maybe even succeeded me. A much earlier death for myself. His is the dominion where even I will not dare to tend. The reek of such evil I cannot bear.”

“That he could have succeeded you,” said the messenger. “I have only this for you: You are to do whatever you can to assist the new Lord Aio and his followers. However, you are not to make an appearance unless it is completely necessary.”

The old man sighed. “I do not have any love for man. Only the Ai. Neither do I love death or peddling it. The only appearance I wish to make is before the Ai himself in His own House. However, I will do what my master has asked. Now, for the sign of your master.”