The king sat in contemplation for a moment. “It is a miracle that you all made it through unharmed, especially the boy Tarren. Not many ever see a Dark elf and live to tell about it-nor the Black Dragon, for that matter. Your deeds these last few weeks alone ensure that your names will live on in song for generations. Yet you are not even twenty years old!” He leaned forward, elbows upon the table. “The question is, what do the two of you plan to do next?”
Abram shrugged. “I will follow Whill’s lead, wherever it may take us.”
“Good king,” Whill said, “I had thought such talk would be better suited for the meeting, but I may tell you now-I intend to aid Isladon in whatever way I can. And if I may-I understand I have been invited to the meeting, and I am honored, but I don’t understand what place I have there.”
King Mathus laughed. “What place, you ask? You are the rightful king of Uthen-Arden, my boy, as I am sure you know. You have as much right as I to attend.”
“I understand. But I have no army, no followers. My own kingdom does not even know I exist.”
Abram spoke up. “But you do have followers, and you will have an army. I have seen you in action, do not forget. You rallied those men at Sherna and led them to victory. You have a strength that you underestimate, my friend. And do not forget the power of the spoken word-news of the Battle of Sherna beat us to Kell-Torey. Your people know of you, do not doubt. Those whispers have been floating on the breeze for a long time now. Your people want you to be real. They need you to be. You seem but a myth to many, a legend. But soon you will show them that the legend is flesh and blood, that the myth is true.”
Mathus spoke, his voice serious. “You plan to learn the ways of the elves, do you not?”
Whill was shocked. “Yes-yes I do, in time-”
“And do you think it wise to risk your life in the inevitable battle within Isladon?”
“How did you know?”
King Mathus finally smiled. “Do not forget, I am your mother’s father. There were no secrets between us. Do not fret, your family’s secret is safe with me, grandson.”
Whill felt a lump build in his throat. Grandson. All his life he had yearned to know his true lineage and now before him sat his grandfather. For the first time in his life, he had family.
“Thank you” was all that he could say, and he meant it sincerely, in more ways than one.
King Mathus seemed to sense Whill’s mental state, for he simply smiled and turned to Abram. “Do you think Whill should fight?”
Abram stroked his beard and looked up at the ceiling. “Let us see what comes of the meeting. It may be that the elves will elect to go also. Either way, Whill is now a man and must decide what is best for himself.”
Roakore stood at his door, scowling at the young man before him. “What do ye want, anyway, wakin’ me at this hour?”
The young man bowed low. “I apologize, good dwarf, but it is three hours after sunrise and I thought you might want your breakfast.”
“Me breakfast, eh? What if I do?”
The young man nervously scratched the back of his neck. “I will bring you whatever you desire, sir. If I may. My name is Ithellio of the house of Noranan. My family has served the kings for more than seven centuries. I have been appointed as your servant for the duration of your stay.”
Roakore traded his scowl for a grin. “Servant, eh? Well, then, Ithellio. What do ye offer?”
“Offer?”
“Fer breakfast, lad! What do ye offer fer food?”
“Ah. Anything you desire.”
“Good then. Bring me a pound o’ bacon, greasy but crunchy, a pitcher o’ goat’s milk, a side o’ ham and a good fresh loaf o’ bread, with fresh-churned butter.”
The lad bowed low once again and stepped backward. “Very good, sir. I shall return shortly.”
Roakore slammed the door before the lad had finished speaking. His room was the same in design and layout as Whill’s, and soon he discovered the large tub with its two waterspouts and hand pumps. Being used to bathing in cold natural springs within his mountain home, he had not a clue what the spouts of the tub were for. He scratched his head and investigated the balcony. Below he saw the vast gardens with their many fountains and pools. To many humans such a sight would inspire awe, but to the gruff dwarf the flowers seemed a waste of space. Instead he looked past the gardens to the castle walls. It was upon looking at the cold, well-shaped stone that the dwarf was awed.
Zerafin entered his sister’s room without knocking; he had contacted her through his mind, and she had bade him enter. Avriel sat upon a well-cushioned and pillowed sitting couch, combing her long hair. She wore a white silken robe. Elves lived many centuries, and had beliefs and ways very different from those of humans. Within elven society, shyness and self-consciousness did not exist. Zerafin found nothing strange about the way his sister was dressed; it was morning, after all, and the castle was warm, the silk comfortable. Avriel’s servant, however, though well trained, was unable to hide his blushing face.
Zerafin looked at the man. So you have one also.
Yes. I find them quite handy, actually. Are you still not used to the idea of human servants? You have visited human royalty many times in the past.
Have you seen into him?
Avriel let out a chuckle and spoke aloud, startling her servant. “Of course I have, brother, do you really think me so unprepared?”
“Leave us now,” Zerafin told him.
The middle-aged man was visibly scared but did not move. “My lady?”
“Yes, leave us,” Avriel said. “Thank you for awaiting my instruction.”
The servant bowed low and exited the room without looking or speaking to either of the elves. As the door closed, Zerafin shook his head. “Why anyone would let themselves be reduced to that level is beyond my comprehension.”
Avriel stood and returned her brush to her nightstand. “You know as much as I of the history and traditions of humans. It is considered an honor to them to do so, as you well know.”
“An honor to make yourself like a dog? I know the traditions, but I will never understand them.” He picked up an apple from the fruit basket.
Avriel went to the wardrobe, disrobed and began dressing herself in her chosen garments. “You think that Eadon will try to reach Whill through possession?”
“I do. If I were Eadon and knew that Whill was here in Kell-Torey, so well hidden and protected, I would resort to possession to kill him. The boy Tarren, for example, would be a perfect subject.”
Avriel appeared fully clothed from the wardrobe with a look of disgust. “Sometimes you are very morbid, brother. Morbid, but brilliant. Tarren, you say?”
Zerafin nodded as he ate his apple.
“I have a thought you might find compelling, though it is not mine alone-Mother voiced it to me first,” she said. “What if…what if Eadon does not want Whill dead?”
Zerafin swallowed his last bite hard. “Go on.”
“Put yourself in his shoes, as they say. If you were Eadon, and you knew that Whill of Agora existed-the very one spoken of in the prophecy, the one who is destined to wield the sword Adromida-would you want him dead? Would you gamble that his human uncle could wield the blade in his place? And what if Addakon does find it? How long do you think he will put up with Eadon once he has such power? Evil will turn on evil, so it is written.”
Zerafin thought for a long moment. “I do not think that Eadon wants either of them to gain possession of the blade. If Whill does, then his plans will fail. If Addakon does, then he will surely be betrayed. I do think, however, that Eadon wants Whill to find the blade, and I think he plans to be there when it is found.”
“That makes sense. So you believe that Eadon wants Whill captured.”
“Yes, I do, which is only another reason we should watch him that much more closely.” He gave her a sly look. “Which I doubt you will mind doing.”