A Time of Tales Told

Chapter

1

Kings Queens and Vagabonds

The castle walls appeared higher although it was true enough they never changed. But if you looked at them, lying on the ground, depending on your perception of the sky, the gray-pink seastone walls seemed to grow. Today, the Day of Long Light, a day of festivals and parties, of drinking Khendourian wine and eating Trochean delicacies, of merry melodies and drunken ballads, this day found Tomas staring up at the sky and at the mountainous reach of the castle walls.

The stir of busy preparation for the days festivities went unnoticed around him, as he dreamed of his grandfather's battles against the Tramon, long since fought and won and written in the histories, yet vivid in his mind's eye through his grandfather's stories. He dreamed of himself swinging a battle sword and removing the heads of his enemies, faceless though they were but tall and muscular and barbarous, with claws and fangs and an animal's roar for a voice. He envisioned mighty hand to hand struggles, grappling for the upper hand over his foe and then defeating them after a hearty contest of strength, and of battles with the Shadden, forcing them to flee from his Light.

He sighed with the realities that he had yet been permitted to venture beyond the castle walls without escort and that his mightiest foe was his cousin Charles whom he had yet to best at anything.

"Tomas! Tomas! What pray are you doing? Do you not know your father expects you by his side for the day's festivities? And look at you! The grief I must endure! You may have Caladain blood running through your veins but it is I, like a cat and her kitten that must look after you. Now get up and dust yourself off. If the Prince knew that his son lay in the dirt that we trod upon, he would have me scalded in water and I in turn would have you."

"But Lady Margaret, I don't want to go. All they do is sit around and tell the same old stories over and over. Every year it's the same thing." He had hoped calling her lady Margaret would sway her to his side, as it had done so many times before, but he saw her brow darken at his ploy. "It's so boring!"

"I suppose you would rather be in the kitchen, plucking fowl or washing vegetables, or perhaps a broom to the courtyard would remove these thoughts of boredom from your head? You are who you are, Tomas. And for today that means you must be by your father's side." Her bony hand reached out and grabbed him by the ear. "Now get along with you before I take you upstairs and dress you myself."

The thought of being dressed by Margaret was enough to quash any qualms he had concerning the festival. His royal blood had indeed condemned him to many things he did not enjoy, things that took him away from the freedom of a normal life for which he yearned. He ambled towards the kitchen with Margaret at his heels, dusting at his back with a little more force than necessary, sending him stumbling forward.

He wandered the halls towards his bedchamber, his route the same as always. However with the festival, he was able to find many a wondrous curiosity. The kitchen smelled of yeasty breads and cooking meat; spits, roasting succulent pig and lamb and for Rhunians, a side of charred regot, blistered black on black. Bags of flours and sugars crowded the lower halls for baking that would continue throughout the day and magnums of wine and barrels of Rhunian ale lined the walls to the ceiling, the source for many a drunken tale that would be told in days to come.

Tomas imagined the day he would be able to take part in this, having tales of his own, new tales of foes vanquished by his sword, or of maidens rescued. Instead he must sit and listen.

All the world seemed to be at peace from all he had heard. Stories of greatness and prosperity accompanied all the parties coming to the festivals. Only the coastal cities to the east, across great Carthia, only they seemed to have anything worrisome, but that was all it was. Fascian trolls from out of the Draghon's back. A generation's old nuisance. Nothing more. As if the days of war and battle had passed him by and he had been born in a time of tales told.

He glanced down the corridor leading to the great kitchen, listening as Margaret bellowed her orders about food preparation and the incompetence of her assistants. He shivered at the thought of being under her brow all the light of the day. The night would be a blessing even a Lightbearer would look forward to. He chuckled to himself as he ventured deeper into the castle.

Couriers bearing official greetings, bustling pages burdened with the regal raiment of their charges, and a host of familiar and unfamiliar faces dashing to and for, all accompanied Tomas through the great halls. Rooms usually dormant during the majority of the year were now bustling, either being aired for pending arrivals or presently occupied by the many lords and ladies attending the festival. This festival, certainly one of the most celebrated as it coincided with the shining of the three moons and thus the gathering of Jorin', drew dignitaries and truthfully any person of notable character, not to mention the entire House Caladain.

Tomas reached his bedchamber, closing the door gratefully against the tumult.

"The walls have grown."

Tomas whirled to find a man, old and dirty, beard crusted with filth, eyes muddled brown and hair the color of sun-bleached wood. He leaned against the far wall, casually poured himself some water.

"Who are you? What are you doing in here?" Tomas turned to leave but was compelled to remain.

"I know you Tomas tri'Caladain, son of Marcus di'Caladain, son of Michael Caladain, son of Olde Caladain. You are the key. The crown you shall wear, Catarrhin, and all of Carthia are at risk. This day changes all."

Tomas looked at the man, his eyes unmistakably blue.

"You do not know me, Tomas? I am Tramaen."

Tomas' eyed rounded. Chiridion priest, here in Catarrhin! Truly it could not be! He knew of Tramaen from the histories, magic wielder of the Jorin' and outlaw.

Tramaen eyed Tomas with amusement. "Yes. I see you know of me. I am the one written of in the histories. But the stories, they suffer from exaggerations and falsehoods. If they were written out true they would be worse reading than your studies. But add a trickle of treachery, a hint of conspiracies, and a few battles makes the reading go more easily. Perhaps one day I will set them straight, but mayhaps I will not. A good story breeds more than a sharp blade and historians, they certainly are capable of producing good reading." Tramaen took a step towards Tomas.

"But you're dead! Grandfather saw you fall!"

Tramaen appeared momentarily stunned, faltering in his steps, as if struck by a blow. He recovered quickly. "Yes," he sighed, "I did fall, but death so early in the game would be so unfair. As you see I am not dead. Close perhaps, but dead, no. I am as much alive as you are. Unless you are dead."

Tomas felt his strength drain from him as he tumbled to the stone floor, his very being seeming to flutter away like dried leaves in a breeze. The room darkened. He reached for the door, to escape but was unable to move.

"Get up." Tramaen stood next to Tomas, not old and decrepit, but young and hardened, a soldier, eyes a vivid green. "You are very strong and yet too open to suggestion. We will work on that." Tramaen nodded to himself, whispering a few words and vanishing into the stone wall.

. He felt strength returning to his limbs. The door stood open and a page paused in the doorway holding clean garments.

"Margaret has sent me with your clothes and to insist that you hurry." The page looked about the room.

"Never mind that." Tomas took the clothing. “And not a word of this.”

The page bowed out of the room and scurried down the hall, certain to tell any and all who would listen.

Tryana woke, fear as strong as the sea wind taking hold of her heart. She reached for the silver moon, the rays instantly forming shimmering strands. She wove more strands until images began to form, the images from her dream reappeared. It was her son and a human boy. And Khendour her home, in flames. Such images proven true in the strands of moonlight frightened her. Tryana caught her breath. Her husband Jarsai, long since gone on, walked towards her in the misty image.

Tryana Ashyala. It returns. Khendour shall know pain again, but as never before. The evil once thought vanquished so long ago, wakes. Time is short. I am permitted solely to bid you warning, for the evil that threatens Khendour, threatens all.

The words were sibilant and melodic as Jarsai had sounded in life, but jaded with darkness which reinforced her fears. The shimmering strands of light diminished, returning to the night sky. Through the leaves, the wind blew and the night air was warm, but Tryana trembled. Her world and all she knew was in peril. She reached out with her mind, seeking the presence of her children. What would become of their world? Tryana considered this thought, shielding the fear she felt emanating from her.

Farain Gondor, lord chief of the mountain wolf clan, stood high above the encampment, watching the flurry of activity below. They prepared for a battle, a battle they would surely win, if the gods looked upon them in favor. But the gods were at odds these days, sending victory to the least likely, giving the underlings a heavy sword and a mighty battle-ax. A foul wind of carrion and burning flesh blew down through the passes of Ice Mountain. It seemed all of Draghon's Back had the stench of death about her. The scent alone was enough to deter any man, but the air was filled with shrieks of pain and of fear resounding off the cliffs and borne by the wind for all to hear.

It was believed they fought Fascians, trolls from out of the Draghon's Back. Farain scoffed at the idea. Fascians were a cruel and malicious race, but they did not eat the flesh of captives as a means of torture. No, they were not the culprits behind the raids on Traephos, but because of a generations-old hatred of them, it was easy to force a gauntlet upon them, naming them foe. To tell his men they fought an old enemy, one they knew, one fought against during the Tramon wars, these words brought more anger and contempt. Farain had already heard the stirring rumors that this was not Fascian work, however and his men carried the gleam of such truths in their eyes.

Farain unsheathed his sword, admiring the silvery glint and meticulous shine he had given it. His sword had neither name nor glorious history but it had served him well, sparing his life on more than one occasion.

His arrival on the battlefield, accompanied by his battalion of fighting men was the measured remains of troops being sent from Traephos. Another token battalion was believed on its way from Charlan, but he doubted their arrival would come before their march into the mountains. Caeris had sent all of two hundred men, holding a strong reserve for themselves to thwart any further attacks. And from Greneth, just fifty men and these haggard, burdened with too much loss, but eager to seek vengeance. Three thousand men, all told, a large enough force for a normal campaign, but one venturing into a den of untold numbers, three thousand did not seem enough. Farain shook his head at these doubts, his thoughts always the same before any military undertaking. But it was always best to think of your worst scenario.

Always see your bird before you cast your stone, goes the saying. But in this case the bird was more a draghon and the stone a mere grain of sand. But such odds, certain to please the gods with such a show of bravery. Like Old Caladain against the mighty Tramon. Rannd had indeed blessed him with a victory of legendary proportions and handed him all of Carthia as well.

Farain allowed himself a momentary chuckle. These thought were of a child's whim not a chief's undertaking. And before a battle no less. He thanked the gods his thoughts were his own.

Jilaim carried himself solemnly through the darkened forest, training his eyes on the mighty trees shadowing the forest floor. Dark shadowy branches and leaves silhouetted by the green moon darkened his path only slightly. The moon was at its high place and lit the forest with a gentle verdant radiance that showed Os'hilain swaying amidst many of the trees in a tender dance with the wind. The crackling of branches and dried leaves were music upon the forest floor, swiftly borne away by gusts of wind. Jilaim stopped and pondered the tall tree before him, its branches reaching deep into the recesses of the forest, some intertwined overhead in the green canopy, others dipped and caressed the earthen floor in the shadows out of sight. Its peak swayed above the canopy overhead in the full light of the moons. He reached his hand to the coarse bark of the trunk, drawing his hand along as his circled the giant tree. The grooves and crevices were innumerable and he would know them all, each mountain and valley upon its surface. He stood again on his original path, kneeling solemnly. His thoughts drifted momentarily to Sayanin and Jovi. Had they too found their Os'hilain? He sat quietly, listening to the wind tell its tale to the forest night, speaking of rains in the south, of the harshness of the winter just past, of the burning sun and the glistening moons that shone above, of the brilliant clouds of butterflies nurturing the blooming fields beyond Sylvinael. Jilaim listened intently to the rustling leaves and the minute sway of the creaking trunks, and to the dry grasses lapping like waves throughout the forest.

The dance continued. Brightness appeared at the horizon. The wind paused as if waiting for the New One. Jilaim rose and reached again for the trunk, giving his surrounding a final glance through his own eyes. It would soon be different to him, both larger and smaller. The warmth of the bark coaxed him closer and pulled at his inner being. Suddenly he heard the wind again, at first silently coming through the trees in the direction of the horizon, it was all around him, on him. He swayed.

A brightness at the horizon, a brightness bringing with it life. The Os'hilain reached with branches constricted in the immobile branches of the surrounding trees. Branches crackled and broke away, leaves crinkled and fell away being replaced by the new, all straining and reaching for the sun. Jilaim was no more, only the New One, Os'hilain, hearing the forest song, a song filling the dawning, raised by the wind through the trees and sung by every being of the forest.

Ry listened to the wind, the song she sung amidst the branches and leaves of Sylvinael, bringing him the solitude he sought. He had seen his tomorrow in the dream night just passed. His home, Khendour, had been in flames, a truly magnificent sight, yet frightening as the only world he knew was consumed by fire. He had dreamed of loss, someone close to him, someone faceless in his dreams but someone whom he cherished. He dared to ponder who it was. He dreamed of strange cities and of people, stranger still. And he had dreamed of death.

A strong wind rustled through Sylvinael. Ry sighed resting his eyes on the green moon above, the tree moon, the moon of the Os'hilain. The tales of this moon were exciting and intriguing. The eldest of the elven became the warders of Sylvinael and Khendour with this moon, safeguarding against brigands and marauders from the sea and the nomadic tribes of the north plains.

The moon of the Os'hilain appeared in his dreams as well. From wherever and whenever, in faraway lands or along the ways of Khendour, the starry nights of summer or the cold nights of winter the moon shown bright.

Ry wondered on Jilaim, Sayanin and Jovi. They were to Become with this moon. Had they found their chosen? With the rising of the sun they would be true Os'hilain, living in the forest and of the forest, roots delving deep into the soil feeding on the fertile riches and limbs reaching into the air, grasping for knowledge any and all pertaining to Khendour.

A human boy resided in his dreams as well. He carried with him stones of light, which expelled darkness and evil with a burning brightness. An aura of golden light emanated from him. The golden light was familiar. It was the light of the Jorin', one who wields magic. But the light was bound, unreleased. He had yet to find his 'Ro, his pairing. Ry found this curious. He wielded magic too strongly to have his Light still bound. Perhaps the stones?

An aged man stood before a great crowd gathered to hear a tale, a tale told of magic and battle, of good and evil, of Light and Darkness. He stared to the horizon as the moon began to rise. The true beginning of the Rite of Jorin. A gasp carried through the crowd as the moon swelled larger and larger at the horizon, its light mingling and joining with the lights of Felin, the southern moon, and Canin, the northern moon. The third great moon, the moon of the Jorinda'Ro, the moon of the Os'hilain, the tree moon, the moon that hung over the Cliffs of Catarrhin, rose free of the horizon and blazed its green light in the night sky. The aged man faced the crowd, all eyes now upon him.

"The time is come. With the rising of the moon, it is time to venture forth and seek out the Jorin'. Time to seek out the magic. Time to bring the Jorin' and the 'Ro together. Time to feel the waters of Sethos flow about us. Time of the great trek to seek out those who would join us in the Light. Time of the Jorinda'Ro."

The aged man looked out over the crowd as they cheered him. It was their time. All in the crowd were Jorin' who had made their way to Jarar'tol in the previous months to mark the beginning of a journey. Some came to seek a true 'Ro to marry. Some sought the magic that came with the pairing. Among them would be the healers and seers and magicians of the coming age. But this was not their whole number. Throughout all of the Carthia they would seek out others. The trek would begin in Jarar'tol with the rising of the sun and would venture to all the great cities of Carthia. Traephos first, the great northern port, a dwarven province, the military might of the east. Along the Draghon's Back south to Falcathe and Balduum and then west to Catarrhin where the magic is strong. Their numbers would be swelling when they entered Charlan and Rhun. Finally they would venture through the forested lands of Khendour to the Laqke of Sethos. Into the waters of Sethos, the Jorin', numbering into the tens of thousands, would enter. Such a number would enter the Laqke, the Riverswell two hundred leagues south would overflow her banks and cleanse the Black Marshes of its stagnant waters. Further south, at the mouth of the Trieis at Daman'rai, the waters would be collected for healings, for brewing Balduumian ale, the best in all the lands. Others would stand in the flowing waters hoping to be blessed with Jorin' abilities or relieved of some illness. The season that would follow would be more bountiful. The barren plains along the Trieis would bloom with the rare draghon lilies. The land would be renewed.

The old man smiled as he relished in the memories. So long to wait and so soon upon them again. He felt strength in the air, an invisible churning of elements, of untapped magics within the crowd, some weak pulses other trembling vibrations of amazing strength. Throughout the crowd, eyes sparkled with anticipation and hope. He turned his eyes to the swollen moons above. Calin and Fenia raced each other across the night sky as Verdis swelled even larger overhead, casting stark moonshadows.

"It is begun," he muttered. He cast another glance at the crowd. "It is begun."

Charlan stirred. Rumormongers in the street passed the word. Spies and agents peered into every face. The King was among them this day, the King's Game day. How did he travel? What was his disguise? Vagabond? Merchant? Thief? These were the questions of the people of Charlan and those who sought to be Kingcatcher. The winner of the King's Game would be rewarded handsomely, gold to fill the pocket, food for the belly, and a marker from the King.

He played the game against the wishes and admonishments of his advisors and royal guard. But the King was very good, a chameleon. He was young and strong and powerful, a man who should be King and he played the game with skill. He knew his way with a knife and could parry a blade with the best of men. And the people loved their King. From throughout Carthia, they ventured to Charlan for the opportunity to be the Kingcatcher.

Drannin paced his quarters impatiently, waiting for word of his King's whereabouts. He hated this game more than anyone did, he was certain. But the King was stubborn when it came to his own safety and had insisted that Drannin not interfere. Drannin peered out the window into the early gray morning, wondering where his King had placed himself amidst the city, worrying about the lurking dangers around certain corners. He knew of the love the people had for their king, but he also knew of the assassin's who lay in wait for a king, this day being one of their most advantageous. He knew of his King's prowess with a sword, with any blade, but a blade was no weapon against a bolt from a crossbow.

"Drannin put yourself at ease. The game is done. The King's ruse has been undone by a stable boy. You should see him. He is crestfallen to be discovered before the cockcrow." Daria laughed pleasantly. "This day takes so much out of you."

Drannin turned to his wife. "It isn't as if we've nothing to do this day. I must oversee the preparations for our departure for Catarrhin, leave orders for Kell concerning Charlan and you know how I hate this game. He is a child when it comes to playing. As if it were the safest thing for a King to be doing." Drannin shook his head. "We do all we can to dissuade him, but to no avail. All I can do is to fill the streets with as many men as I can to prevent him from getting killed." Drannin released a draining sigh. "I suppose I should meet this stable boy. Find out how it is he is so quick to discover my King. I dread to hear his request for the marker."

Drannin recalled the marker, a golden coin with the King's crest embedded with smarag, a rare green ivory. The rare marker, a prize all its own, paid or provided anything the Kingcatcher might make of the King, within reason, and the King's reason gave much in the way of freedom.

"What is your name boy?"

"Fresser, sire," he looked at Drannin. "They call me Fresser. My given name in Eritt."

"You can not go before the King as Fresser. So it will be Eritt when you make formal introductions." He looked at Daria, who eyed the boy with a maternal concern. "How is it you discovered the King so quickly?"

Eritt looked at them, uncertain of his words. "I thought him a thief. He was in my stable, sneaking in the shadows." He paused afraid his words might offend but then saw a smile on Daria's face. "I was above in the loft asleep. I thought he was going to make off with one of the new mares. I jumped down to stop him and I saw it was Him."

"How did you know it was the King."

Eritt puffed out his chest and lifted his eyes to Drannin's. "I know my King, sire."

Drannin ducked his head in acknowledgment. "And your marker? What is to be your request."

"Kingcatcher!" It was a summons.

Eritt stared around the large chamber at the many faces that knew not who he was, until the word was bellowed forth. Then the many eyes within the chamber found him an irresistible mark of scrutiny.

Large oaken doors swung open and Eritt attempted to carry himself with as much prestige as he could muster in a room filled with Lords and Ladies who looked down upon him and his attire with distaste.

The inner chamber glowed and smelled of riches. Large intricate tapestries covered the walls depicting scenes of battles and of jousting knights and of coronations. Scented candles burned throughout the chamber, potent fragrances grabbing his attention as he entered the room. Several Lords and Ladies, laden with light silks and jewels about their necks and fingers, whispered amongst themselves as though his importance was nonexistent and mere happenstance.

Eritt focused his thoughts on Daria's words. Keep your eyes on the King. Show him your respect. Eritt listened for the footsteps of Drannin and Daria and two of the King's blade, regaled in their finest as they approached the King in ceremony. The King sat in his throne and the Museman of court stood at his side. Two additional members of the King's blade stood in front of the King's dais to each side of his majesty. Both had their eyes directly on Eritt as if he were the sole person in the great hall. They seemed at ease but the hard malice in their eyes told him he would be dead in but a moment if any threat arose. He stopped a hand's reach of the King's blade and bowed.

"I wish to accompany you to Catarrhin, your Majesty." His words echoed in the suddenly silent room. Even the whispering had halted for his words.

The Museman paused in mid-sentence as he heard Eritt's request of the King's Marker. "You seek adventure, lad?" He nodded.

Eritt noticed a faint aura about the man as he leaned for the King's ear, whispering.

"Euphro has discerned that your request is a good one. And company other than this lout of a museman would be good." The King appraised the hushed gathering. "Let it be so. Let it be known that the Kingcatcher accompanies the King to Catarrhin." He smiled down at Eritt. "As my protector." The King lowered his head towards Eritt and whispered. "Euphro is of a mind to have you at my side and only a protector may be within the radius of the blade."

"Thank you, your majesty." Eritt bowed his head.

Eritt paused in the doorway.

The day seemed bound never to end. No end in sight if Eritt believed any of the happenings of the day and what the evening promised. He had no inkling of his new identity, uncertain of himself, of his surroundings. Another great hall, another gathering of Lords and Ladies, another show he was forced to endure. Ceremony, no matter how impractical it may seem, is often necessary. Daria had again been at his side with encouraging words to assist him through the great feast of the King’s Game Day.

“Eritt. Come and sit.” The King motioned at a seat next to him. Eritt walked the length of the table, looking at the king. He appeared younger, stronger, and more royal than when he had “caught” him in the stables this morning.

The conversation had stopped at the King’s beckoning, but now as he walked he heard the hushed murmuring behind hands as he walked to sit beside the King.

“ . . .Kingcatcher . . .”

“ . . .Protector . . . by the king’s side.”

“ . . . Magic . . .” “ . . .Fresser . . .”

He paused in his stride and looked up at the mention of his nickname. As far as he knew only Drannin and Daria were aware of his street name. None looked at him though, again relegating him the unimportant status of someone with a turn of sudden good fortune.

The smoke from fire within the hostel beckoned Talien from out of the cold mountain air. The scent of O'Bash ale and roasted meats reminded him he had not eaten since the previous night. Talien watched the windows, aglow from the burning fireplaces, which were continuously burning within the Nesting Eagle. He listened to the night air, filled with hearty laughter and the song of a raucous ballad. He tethered Greysash to a tree on the ridge above the hostel and walked towards the inn.

After so many nights alone, an evening of good food, sweet ale and companionship other than his horse, seemed a blessing from Tneth. He grasped the golden medallion through the coarse cloth of his jerkin and gave silent thanks.

Two towering trees, their branches sweeping the ground, their leaves a brash gold, flanked the entrance to the Nesting Eagle. Adventitious limbs clung to the stone surface of the walls, while others appeared secure within the lush canopy overhead, twisted around the immobile branches of the native trees. Banyai!

Talien scrutinized the surrounding open area in front of the hostel. All looked normal, except for the Banyai trees. He looked at the Nesting Eagle again. Who or what was so important to have the protection of warder trees? It was a sign, he knew, an omen of things about to change. Within he would find a twist in his destiny, a trek beyond the realms of O'Bash, venturing into a world on the verge of cataclysmic change.

He stood between the warder trees, touching the warm coarse bark, feeling a heat emanate from within them. Their warmth was comforting and reassuring. Reluctantly he brought his hand away and entered the Nesting Eagle.

"Well returned young Talien. And how is our errant knight this eve?" Beldon Groth laughed from behind the long oaken bar of the inn's tavern. "Slain any draghons of late. And what of that young damsel I hear imprisoned in yon crag. You have saved her from a terrible fate, have you not, and positioned yourself within her good graces?" Another round of laughter filled the room. "Shall we give our bard a deserved rest and allow you to spin us a tale of your latest conquest?" Groth turned and drew Talien a tankard of ale. "Here. To wet your lips and make the telling easier."

Talien accepted the tankard hesitantly and drank. He sputtered after the second swallow, grimacing at the bitter taste. Rambunctious laughter drowned out the bard and his song. "Rhunian rot!" Talien gasped for a cool breath.

"That is quite enough!" Dera Groth drew another tankard of ale, this one of O'Bash. "You are all children, the lot of you, with fat bellies and mush for sense." She turned to Talien. "Here, drink this."

Talien drank, swishing the ale around, allowing the sweetness to negate any lingering bitterness. He looked at Dera as he drank, eyes thankful. "Are there travelers in this night?"

Dera halted any laughter from the inn with a stern look. "We are the Nesting Eagle. The finest hostel on the banks of Rai Trieis and en route to Catarrhin for the Festival. Of course we have travelers."

"I believe you have travelers of some import."

"The tale begins." An unseen voice uttered. A murmuring filled the tavern as chairs squealed against the tavern floor, turning to take in the conversation.

"What of travelers Dera?"

Dera glanced around the room, a bland expression on her face until she came to Talien. "I can not tell you. I have given my word to that. Save to say that young Talien here has more wit about him than the lot of you. You who think yourselves brave men, fighters and soldiers, may learn much from this errant knight." She gestured toward Talien with her eyes, while surveying the room for anyone with a mind to interrupt. "You sit here each night and listen to a museman tell stories and drink your ale and grow old, ignoring the rest of the world around you. Young Talien only seeks the opportunities that have passed you by, and by right they are his for the taking. And you make fun."

"Dera! You go too far! Insulting these men who make our way."

"Beldon. You instigate the harassment of this boy each time he crosses the threshold. A good laugh at his expense to boost the morale of this lot. What? You think they'll not be back if I fling a few insults their way?" Dera laughed and a few of the men accompanied her. "Do you not think Talien might find a more hospitable tavern along the river. Where he is not the end of some joke. But he returns here and only Tneth knows why." She looked at Talien. "Drink up. And I will see if I may make introductions to my guests. Perhaps they need an extra hand to accompany them. I believe it is Catarrhin where they venture.

Talien's eyes brightened at the prospect. He drank of his ale.

"

Chapter

2

Those amidst The Enemy

Everyone covets the throne! Don't you think I hear the "If I were King" stories. It is nothing new. But they would fight against the bond? You forget the bond. Always you forget the bond. We are born with it. My death will awaken the bond and the bond's will decides who gains the throne. That is as it always has been from the first Caladain."

Drannin paced, anger in his eyes. "The bond can be broken. You know that."

"But . . . "

"I know what you are going to say. “But Tramaen was forced to break the bond.” All know the bond was broken once. If there is a once, there will always be a second. It is the nature of things, the nature of people. Once is always the beginning" Drannin looked at the King "I have reports of Tramaen in Catarrhin." He shook his head at the King's questioning look. "All reliable."

"He is no threat to Caladain blood. You know it as well as I."

"But he is in Catarrhin. Tramaen would give the world to be free of that city and yet . . ." Drannin went to the window, eyeing the sprawl of Charlan. "We would do well not to take his presence lightly.

"I daresay you haven't taken precautions. You are worse than any wetnurse I have ever known. You worry too much."

"And you too little. That game of yours. One day it will not be some stable hand to find you out, but . . ."

The King raised his hand, silencing Drannin. "Our journey awaits. You will have plenty of time to chastise me of my folly on the way. Let us see to my new protector."

"And another thing. You give that Muse of yours way too much reign. Young Eritt as your protector. Surely you know such is folly. He is a boy, a stable hand, who, by mere fortune, found you." Drannin followed the king through the doorway, certain his King smiled.

"Drannin, in his presence, do not call him stable boy. It is enough that I am King and you are Captain of the Guard and he will be travelling in a progress of royalty who will not deign to look upon him with any sort of favor. He is the Kingcatcher and all before is naught. You recall the feeling, do you not?"

Drannin could only smile in response.

Euphro looked at the boy. The fates had cast him a destiny he could have never foreseen. And all were parts in the play. Abandoned by his mother, his father dead, the King wandering into his stable and Euphro, himself, speaking words not his own. He had practically pushed the child in harms way. "Hello Fresser. Are your thoughts so heavy you must cradle your head and at the expense of a simple smile.

Fresser raised his head from his palms and turned towards the Museman, a pleading in his eyes. "I'm not meant to be here. I'm a stable boy and not even such as that. I hear what they all say when I walk into a room."

"Eritt. Certainly you place too much credence upon the value of other's thoughts. Such action will always lead you away from the True. "

"I don't know what the True is."

Euphro closed his eyes, chuckling, feeling a sudden jealousy for the boy's innocence. "Life is the True. Not existence. For we all exist. Living your life. Accepting your life. Not what you are to others, but who you are to yourself. The gift of the True. Each day so many leave it unopened. So many do not live, but exist. Eritt, I say to you, live. Not for any of them, but for you. And if I may share a secret with you, I believe you being here is indeed of the True. More than anyone else, mayhaps even more than his majesty, you are supposed to be here."

Fresser looked at Euphro. "What does a Museman really do?"

"That, well that . . ."

"Euphro? You're not corrupting my young protector, are you? One of you within my circle is quite enough, some might even say too much." The King looked back at Drannin with a mirthful gleam in his eyes.

" . . . Is a story for another time." The Museman turned from Fresser to the King. "No your majesty. Just trying to lift the lad's spirits. He misses his stable, I believe. In the stable, dung is always dung, and not bejeweled or donning silks and finery. 'Tis a task to discern such things. And one so young, certainly it must be difficult for him."

The King knelt in front of Eritt. "Eritt, you mustn't let them sway you. They are all envious and threatened by you. Some of them have taken generation to be where they are and you are here by happenstance." He gestured at Drannin and Euphro. "You have my ear, whether it be through these two, or my own person, do not hesitate to come to me."

Eritt nodded, unable to say anything, uncertain of what to say. His King knelt before him.

A progress is a messy thing. No matter how meticulous the planning and orchestration, events arise and mishaps occur. Drannin scrutinized the list of details one last time, certain he had forgotten some small aspect. Preparations for the progress to Catarrhin for the festival had entailed no end of meetings with cook, horsemaster, hostlers along the route, men at arms, and any number of retainers, coffers, and companions who would be in the great host. It was tedious work to put underway, but now as they waited for embarkation, Drannin felt a sense of accomplishment, a sense of finality. The forerunners had left the previous morning for O'Bash, to ensure a proper reception for his majesty and his retinue. Now in the early morning light over Charlan, the sky a brilliant deep blue and hinting at the pleasant day to come, Drannin enjoyed a moment’s peace.

Tomas pulled at the tight fitting jerkin, certain he looked more a fool, than the eye-catching gentleman Margaret claimed him to be. His shirtsleeves billowed tremendously like ship sails in a strong wind, and the gilded buttons glistened like stars against a black felt night. The fabric of his collar scratched at his neck and shoulders. And it was hot, very hot for midmorn. He felt imaginary eyes peering from every direction as he walked towards the barbican to the outer city.

Tomas looked at the wall again; its ogre hewn stones appearing the same as always, nothing oversized. He ran his hand along the cold surface, red crystalline flecks shimmering within the huge blocks of seastone. A cheer went up from the other side of the wall, grabbing Tomas' attention. He hurried along the flagstone towards the barbican and under the hanging black iron portcullises. The festival beyond was a grand sight.

Though it was morning, the festival was alive with peoples from across the land. The Festival of Long Light, the most celebrated of Catarrhin, boasted the greatest effort the people of Catarrhin could provide.

A giant carousel mounted with carved draghons and gryphons turned slowly, carrying children of every realm. Musicians sat atop an immobile platform in the center of the carousel playing melodies, while jugglers weaved in and out of the crowd, catching coin tossed in their direction, not missing a beat in their act as they pocketed the coin discreetly. Men and women shouted their wares from stalls along the main thoroughfare, of pots and pans, of baubles and toys, of food and drink for every taste, of magic trinkets and potent elixirs, any and all one might imagine was here for the right coin.

The people were a blur bright silks and drab rags, the women boasting hats with veils and colorful plumes, the men glinted and glimmered with their decorative scabbards and festive armor.

Tomas felt absently for his coin purse, certain the cutpurses relished this day as much as the next man but for their own reason.

"Tom, Tomas! Does your father know you are out among the riffraff alone?"

Tomas heard Charles before he saw him, but needed only the sight of him, before he sprinted forward, pulling out an imaginary sword. They met amidst the crowd, parlaying one another with an agility only children possessed, their swords cutting through the air and each other more times that physically possible. The crowd gave way at the spectacle, a few in the crowd tossing coin at their feet. The coin encouraged their play and they continued, the crowd jeering and cheering for one or the other of the boys. Both took the others sword to the heart and sank to the ground with dramatic flair to an uproarious applause. Tomas and Charles rose and bowed to the crowd as they dispersed, then gathered the few coins that remained and gave them to the children who eyed them with curiosity.

Tomas looked around until he saw who he was looking for. Gren stared at the two of them from the edge of the swirling crowd, his shoulders burdened with packages, his right hand resting on the hilt of his sword.

"Gren." Tomas smiled. "You really should let Master Charles here carry his own packages. If you did so, he would be less willing to run out amidst a crowd of strangers and endanger himself. Or at least he would be an easier target for me."

Charles laughed. "It would take more than a few packages to let you beat me." Charles puffed out his chest. "Father has me practicing with one of his own Blade. I shall be the best sword at the festival this year, you can be certain of it."

Gren readjusted the burden on his shoulders. "Come." He looked around uneasily, heading towards the barbican.

Tomas sighed, glancing over his shoulder at the tents and the game tables that seemed to beckon him, then hurried after Charles and Gren.

"They seem higher." Charles looked at the walls and then to Tomas. He shrugged his shoulders.

Tomas looked to the walls, the seastone solid and immobile.

Gren looked back at the two boys, his eyes indiscernible.

He hated it when his plans went awry.

It was a burden, truth be told. Surely no one expected a conqueror of the world in their midst. But to have to wear this wretched disguise, it was inane. But a disguise was very important and the right disguise even more so. He looked at himself, at the face that he carried the body that portrayed some semblance of wealth, though a mere pittance, the way he carried himself as though the world around him acted on his very whim. Such arrogance men had at times. Little did they know what the world around them was capable of. They would soon know. He scratched at the face. The way it itched against his own skin was a burden as well. It was so tight, if anything would undo him, he thought humorously, it would be this damnable skin. He tried to adjust it, like adjusting the clothes that men wore, trying to make it more comfortable, but alas, it was old skin, worked with magics and now he had only to endure it.

Everything was going perfectly well. The King's Game Day was preplanned, every year same day, to celebrate this one man's popularity among the people. It was absurd, to put oneself in a position of vulnerability, but this man and his arrogance, of course, believed the people, all the people, loved him. But he knew people who were not so keen to the King's ways. People aware of the King's routine. The King's comings and goings. And these people were ready, even eager to share their knowledge. 'For the right price' was often a term he heard, but these turncoats found the right price, often more than they expected. He scratched at the face again, disheartened with the realization that he would be forced to wear it for a longer duration.

It was that damnable boy. His bumbling discovery had swiftly neutralized the perfect opportunity to do away with the king and take his place. Now instead of being the king, he would be forced to make chase across the country and in this damnable disguise, perfect as it may appear, it did have its drawback. Travel was futile, slow and cumbersome, and his natural tracking abilities were somewhat muffled through the membranal tissue of a man.

Yes that damnable boy. He will surely pay a price for this deed. Sheer happenstance would now be his undoing. As all knew by now, the Kingcatcher had chosen to accompany the King to Catarrhin for the Festival of Long Light. Perhaps to seek adventure, to remove himself from the doldrums of his own pathetic existence. Now he had put himself in harm's way. It was just as well, to meet one's end early, before the hard times. For those would soon be upon them, these people of Carthia.

Talien stared at the old men, his eyes filled with bewilderment that left him speechless. Musemen, the whole of the troupe except two sat round a large oaken table, dressed in an array of color and style, all their eyes on him.

One of the old men began to laugh, which in turn brought laughter to the others. Talien could only smile at the unspoken joke, though he felt within him a yearning to laugh aloud too.

"You wish to become a museman, do you not young Talien. It is on your face like the moons shine in the night sky."

Talien could only smile in response.

"Perhaps a test. Tell us a story. Ah ah." The old man shook his head. "We have heard you are good with the word and that is basic to being a museman."

Talien looked at Dera. She smiled to him and shrugged her shoulders.

" We are all grand storytellers. But you must be able to go beyond the words and images and bring the listener to the place you describe. We will take a simple story to start you out. One that you have known by heart as a child growing up. But you must tell it in your own words now. A simple story.

The story of Fenia and Calin. One of my favorites. Yes tell us a story."

Talien looked to the window, hearing in his mind the voice of a woman he no longer knew, telling him the story of the two moons.

Once upon a time there was but one moon in the night sky over Carthia. One moon bright and huge in the night sky that pushed moonshadows across the dark ground as the moon herself slipped from one horizon to the other, shedding her light into the night.

And Fenia, she loved this moon. Each night, every night she would talk to this moon, telling her the story of her day, her loves her heartaches, her joys, and her pains, the trivials of her life. This moon was her confidante and her companion.

One night a spy, a soldier walked beneath her window and heard her story. He was very young and he stopped and listened, taking in her every word in hopes that he might use them for the better of his master. On this night, however, Fenia cried, telling of a loss that had broken her heart. He did not know what this loss was, but he was taken by her words and struggled to look upon the girl who spoke them. He spied her image in the waters of a fountain across the courtyard and behind her in this image he saw the moon, bright and high in the night sky. But the horizon was growing light and the spy was forced to flee before he was discovered.

He asked his master to allow him to venture out again the following night and again and again and again. His master agreed. One night the spy hid amidst a grove of orange trees beyond the fountain. And he listened as the girl giggled to herself concerning a silly story told by the court museman. Her laughter mingled with the scent of orange blossoms on the wind. The spy felt himself smile as he looked up. And he was suddenly afraid of what he was doing. He started to return to his master and beg off, saying he had found nothing, but he stumbled in the darkness. The girl stifled her laughter and looked out of her window into the grove.

"Who is there? Speak or I shall call for the guards." She rose as if to call.

"No!" The young spy was insistent.

"Come into the light so that I may see you." She demanded at the sound of the young boy's voice.

The spy walked out into the moonlight. The girl caught her breath as she recognized the bluecolors of her father's enemy.

"Do you spy on me?" Absently she gripped the yellowcolor of her father's coat that she wore about her shoulders.

"No. Yes. I . . .I do not spy, but listen to your story." He looked up at her, pleading in his eyes.

"Why? Why do you listen to a girl's stories?"

"I can not explain. I know that they touch me. And I feel them as you tell them. You would make a fine Muse, m'lady."

"But I tell them only to the moon." The girl said.

He looked up at her again. "What better ear than one that watches over you each night."

The girl was speechless and then looked at him again.

"How long have you listened to my stories?"

"I don't know. It seems a lifetime."

She smiled. Startled she turned to approaching footsteps. "It is my father. Go! Wait . . . what is your name?"

"Calin."

"Come back tomorrow, Calin."

The young spy fled into the dawn, looking over his shoulder once.

The following night the young spy knelt within the shadows of the orange grove, overcome with an anticipation he had never felt before. He looked up time and time again, but as the night progressed, the girl never appeared. He heard the crackling of twigs and turned to find her looking at him. He smiled his heart pounding.

She took his hand and led him into the orange grove until they came to a clearing. She looked up at the moon and then at the young spy.

"Tell her a story." She nodded to the white-ivory moon then leaned against the trunk of a tree, a branch of orange blossoms crowning her head. "Tell us a story."

He sat across from her against another tree looking up and across. Up and across. He then told his story of the first time he had heard her telling a story to the moon. She looked at him as he told his story and her story and her heartbeat quickened, suddenly taken by him. She listened with an intensity she had never felt before as he told of his need to see her. And then he said he had fallen in love with her.

Neither the young spy nor the girl heard the guards coming.

Their sudden appearance in the grove surprised the young couple.

"Seize him!"

The young girl screamed and fought the guards.

"Fenia! Get away from him. He is our enemy!" Her father bellowed.

Fenia pleaded with her father to release him. But her father was angry at her betrayal and did not hear her words, but returned her to her chambers. Calin was taken into captivity.

The following night Fenia stole away to free Calin from his prison. Through the shadows they ran until they reached the orange grove.

Calin looked up at the night sky and into the light of the moon before he left. Taking her hands and kissing her gently, he whispered. "I too shall watch over you, my Fenia."

Fenia was heart broken and tried to tell the moon her story the following night. But as she looked up she saw something that left her speechless. Up in the sky at the horizon rose a blue moon, softly tinted as if by the waters of the sea. She watched the moon as it slowly rose and she wished to tell it a story. But she found no words. The moon shedding no light on her heartache, she could only cry.

The following day she heard the news. A young man, Calin of the blue had been killed in the night, spying. And as the guards of the yellow boasted of Calin's death, Fenia felt her heartbreak.

The vial of poison held her captive as she rolled it back and forth in the palm of her hand. The liquid, clear yellow. It seemed appropriate. Her smile was wistful.

First the old moon then the blue and right behind as if in chase, another rose quietly. At first almost unnoticed, as if whispering to herself a story she was unwilling to share with the others. But as she rose and her light brightened and mingled, lighting the night sky, one could see the orange grove, the ground covered under a snow of blossoms, the trees bare, the water of the fountains silver and flat, and the moon, her old confidant drew their light to her and shaded to green.

Farain Gondor looked past the mutilated corpses, the latest atrocity the search party had encountered with the trek into the mountain pass. He heard a gasp of anguish as one of the men in his party recognized one of the victims, a child of perhaps 10 years. Gondor looked away, allowing the man a moment of peace with the dead child. The majority of the corpses were decomposed beyond recognition, however a few, the child and a number of men and women were from Greneth, freshly dead, their blood still warm and steaming in the cold mountain air.

A number of men looked past the corpses to the trails ahead. Two trails ventured into the craggy mountainside. The Sethi tracker, Arithin, studied the terrain for telltale signs of passage. He studied the pit area refraining from looking into the pit of carnage that held the victim's remains. The Sethi appeared perplexed.

“What is it?”

He stared at Farain for a moment. “It is as if they were here and then disappeared into thin air. Yes, a number have gone into the mountains by way of the trail.” He looked to the two trails nodding to the one which head further west into the mountain range, to verify his thoughts, and nodded. “But the greater number appear to have been here by the pit and then not here at all.”

“How many went by the trail?”

“Twenty perhaps, no more than thirty, but we’ve tracks for at least a hundred in and around the pit alone.”

“And they have tried to make it appear as though more left through the trails.” Arithin pointed to the tracks leading further into the pass. “They track and then back track as if a hundred may have gone through but the tracks reveal another story. Too many are identical.” He nodded in agreement with his vocalized thoughts.

“Why here and not at the other sites? What is different?”

“It is a weak attempt at deceiving whoever follows, so weak as to appear intentional and another thing of importance. This group is getting smaller. Tracks we followed from the first site to the second and to the third were not present at the fourth or the last site and here again tracks are missing. But I find no discernible path that has taken them away from the group. And now we have this blatant attempt to disguise a large number of travelers passing through here when in fact only a quarter of the party has left this area on foot.”

Instinctively Farain looked to the sky, a clear blue except for black plumes of smoke rising above the previous sites where they had put fire the remains of the strewn corpses. “We are missing something. What is it?” Farain walked to the pit and stared at the bodies, ripped and torn, faces twisted in fright, not one of them greeting Rannd with a peaceful expression. They had all died horribly and painfully, begging for life. We will avenge you. I promise you this. He looked back to the sky reiterating his promise to Rannd, saddened at the number of times he had made the promise this day.

“I don’t like the feel of this place.” He looked to the tracker who nodded. The different sites appeared as bread crumbs for hungry birds. Farain grimaced and we have followed blindly being drawn further inward. “Gather the men, we return to camp. Quickly, this place stinks of a trap.”

Farain felt them coming before he heard or saw them. He pulled his sword as he heard the first words of alarm from one of his men who had ventured further along the path. A scream started and was cut off quickly. The Sethi tracker had knocked an arrow and took aim in the same direction Farain stared. Another shriek echoed from behind them and their party was suddenly overtaken with horrific creatures. A many-legged creature crawled from the furthermost trail, blood and entrails dripping from its maw. A sword had pierced what appeared to be an outer shell and it bled black. None of the soldiers followed the creature from the trail. Arrows flew into the beast, some piercing the carapace others glancing off with no effect. Still more arrows flew. A swordsman who used his shield as much a weapon fought the creature, only to fall under the weight of the beast. A half dozen arrows had pierced the creature before it showed any signs of slowing. But it had killed three more of his men, crushing them with its size and then slicing them open with its mandible-like jaws. Another of the creatures appeared from the other trail. And then he saw where the other creatures had gone. From out of the pit of corpses, like ants from a mound, the creatures struggled to free themselves. The Sethi was the first to react to the sight. Two barrels of burning-pitch stood next to the pit. The Sethi had knocked two arrows, one metal tipped, the other a tarred tip for flaming. He drew back and let loose the metal tip, which tore a gaping hole through the barrel, sending the pitch spilling into the pit. The flaming arrow followed instantly, finding its mark, igniting the pitch, the creatures and the bodies. An instant later the other barrel exploded, engulfing everything in flames. The creatures let loose piercing cries as they died. The Sethi continued loosing arrows into the flaming pit.

Farain found himself staring into the maw of one of the creatures, its breath the very stench of death. His sword drawn, he thrust it into an opening below the creature head and the beginning of the carapace that covered the creature heart. He turned and thrust the sword in quick action causing as much damage as possible. The creature dropped like a stone. Farain began to think it too easy when another of the horde appeared from seemingly no where. He raised his sword to fight the creature off but it was on top of him before he could swing. Scrambling out from under the thing he drew his dagger slashing at the razor-sharp mandibles, the blade glancing off as if it came in contact with another blade. Suddenly an arrow protruded from the side of the creature and it raised up on hind legs and let out a screeching cry before coming down again in front of him mandibles gnashing. Two more arrows ripped into the hard carapace behind the creature’s head. It lurched slowly forward and then tumbled. Before Farain could acknowledge the creature’s death, the horde was gone. Farain looked around. Many of his men lay dead and savaged by the creatures but a fair number of them were clapping others on the back while helping their fallen comrades. Arithin slowly gathered the few arrows he was able to retrieve from the fallen carcasses. He looked at Farain.

“They are draghon spawn.” Farain stared back his eyes expressionless. “like a dead horse may have maggots, draghon carrion draws a particular vulture to feed upon it.”

Time is not as you know it. It isn't always forward in one direction. It is a continuum. Each individual moment virtually the same except there is change, so miniscule that one does not notice. However join each of those infinitesimal moments together and you have time. And each of those infinitesimal moments is a point, at which one may arrive or depart.