Thirteen, read the door to his left. He was halfway there. He heard nothing but his heart in his chest; it seemed to echo throughout the vast room. His leg no longer hurt, or if it did, he was not aware of it. He had already determined where the door stood and focused on it for fear that it would vanish. It had haunted his dreams since Fendale, and now it was here in front of him. Seconds seemed like hours as he made the short walk to the vault. At last he stood before the door, his door, number twenty-seven.
He jerked as Abram put a hand upon his shoulder. How long had they been standing there? A few seconds, minutes? Abram handed him one of the wall torches, He looked again at the key in his hand. Then he inserted the key in the lock and turned the large brass handle. He heard the sounds of many locks and bolts disengaging, and then silence as the door opened.
The vault was dark. Whill entered slowly and raised the torch high so that he could see beyond it. The light shone on walls bare but for an unlit torch on each. At first he saw nothing. But as he walked to the center, he began to notice furniture: a large iron chest, two wooden chairs, a small, circular table. He turned to Abram, baffled.
Abram took the torch from Whill and lit two others upon the walls. He replaced the last torch with the one in his hand. “Have a seat, Whill.”
Whill took the chair to the left and eyed the chest curiously as Abram retrieved his tobacco bag and lit his pipe. He puffed softly, eyeing the chest.
“Long I have pondered how best to present you with this story,” he began. “How to begin, where to begin? And I have determined I cannot tell any part of the story without first telling you who your parents were.” He took another long drag from his pipe. He sat in his chair seemingly relaxed, with one leg crossed over the other, while Whill sat literally on the edge of his seat.
“I don’t know any other way to say it, Whill, so I’ll just come out with it. Your father was King Aramonis of Uthen-Arden, and your mother was Queen Celestra.”
Of all the things Whill had anticipated, this was not one. He sat in utter shock. “King Aramonis? How can that be? I thought all perished in the ambush that killed the king and queen of Arden. She was with child at the time, but-”
He stopped as he comprehended what he had just said.
“Yes,” said Abram. “She was pregnant, with you.”
Whill’s mind raced. The gravity of reality bore down on him as he realized what this meant. “Then that means that I…I am…a prince?”
Abram shook his head and blew smoke into the air. He sat up in his chair and looked Whill straight in the eye. “No, Whill. This means that you are heir to the throne, rightful king of Uthen-Arden.”
Whill stood in disbelief and began pacing. “King? I’m no king. If I am King Aramonis’s son, why was I not brought back to Arden? Why was I not raised there? Why would the surviving heir to the throne of Uthen-Arden be kept a secret from the world? Why-”
“Because your uncle wants you dead. That’s why.”
Whill stopped cold in his pacing as Abram answered his many questions with one answer. He began to understand. “King Addakon of Arden, my father’s brother. Are you saying he had them killed? That he planned the Draggard attack that killed the queen and king of Arden, his own brother?”
“Yes, but there is much, much more to it. Please sit, you’re making me nervous.”
Whill sat back down in his chair, tense as a bowstring and shaking. His mouth had become parched and his head ached. He could hardly take in all that Abram had revealed.
“This story goes back hundreds of years, to the coming of the elves to Agora.” Abram sat back once again and puffed on his pipe between sentences. “The elves, as you know, were driven from Drindellia by the Dark elves and the Draggard. Hoping to ensure his people’s survival, the elf king Verelas sent the queen and their children, along with hundreds of others, over the ocean. When they reached the shores of Agora over five hundred years ago, they were met by the people of Opalmist. Upon hearing of the refugees, the king of Arden quickly rode to meet them. Soon a great friendship rose between King Theorolus and Queen Araveal. By then he had learned of the elves’ strange powers and their ability to manipulate energy, which they called Orna Catorna The king made a deal with Queen Araveaclass="underline" he would give to the elves forever the land now called Elladrindellia, and in return he asked that the elves teach him and his decedents Orna Catorna. The queen agreed and the deal was made, and with every new birth in the royal family, the elves have kept their word. At the age of twenty the royal children are brought to the elves to be taught for a year. This is a well-guarded secret, of course. Your father and your uncle were taught by the elves, as you shall be.”
“Me? I am to be taught by the elves?”
Abram nodded. Whill thought for a moment. “But how is it that I can have these powers to heal now?”
Abram tapped his pipe on the chair arm, emptying the bowl. “You are a descendant of King Theorolus. You have in your blood hidden powers given by the elves. Though they usually do not come out before being taught, the ability lives in you. You really surprised me when you healed Tarren, you know. But in a good way.”
“So that is how I did it.” Whill stared beyond Abram to a point not of this world. “What of my parents, Abram. Were you there when they died?”
“I was. I’m getting to that. Now as you are aware, your father and uncle were identical twins, born only minutes apart; your father Aramonis first, and Addakon second. You must understand that your father treated Addakon as an equal. He loved his brother deeply. Addakon, on the other hand, harbored a deep and dark hatred for your father which he did not show. He was insanely jealous and felt that he had been cheated. He looked just like his brother, and in all aspects but the mind, he was the same. The fact that Aramonis would be king rather than he merely because he’d been born first-and barely first at that-angered Addakon deeply. And when they were sent to learn the ways of Orna Catorna, it only got worse. Addakon thirsted for power, and once he got a taste of it, his thirst could not be quenched. He wanted to be king at any cost, and he proved that no cost was too great.”
Abram stood and began to pace slowly, his hands behind his back. “Your father was my best friend, Whill. I loved him and your mother deeply. They were the best people I have ever known.” He stared into the torchlight a moment before continuing.
“I was a knight of Arden, and I met your father when he was sixteen. I was twenty-two at the time and trying to make a name for myself within the ranks of Arden. I fought in many battles on both land and sea against the Draggard, and soon caught the attention of your grandfather, King Armond. I was made a personal guard to the royal family at age twenty-five, and shortly thereafter King Armond died in battle on Fendora Island. As you know, the Battle of Fendora was the greatest Draggard attack on Agora to date. They came with hundreds of ships and their army numbered over ten thousand. It took the combined strength of all four kingdoms of men and the elves to defeat the enemy. Afterward your father became king, and I his personal guard and friend. He took as his wife the beautiful Princess Celestra of Eldalon. Years passed, and the kingdom of Arden prospered, as did its people. Your father was known as the greatest and most generous king to take the throne of Uthen-Arden, and his death was deeply mourned throughout Agora. As you know, the kings of Arden have been legendary warriors since the time of King Theorolus. Now you know that this is because they possess elven powers. Each king in your line has striven to become a greater legend than all before him. It has helped the kingdom to thrive, but it has also led to many untimely deaths. This thirst for power and fame, along with a boldness that comes with great power, has made you and Addakon the last in the line of Theorolus.”