Chapter 1
Prince Kelvris of Lorm was
afraid. He was not terror-stricken by
any means, but he rode in a state of uneasiness that nagged him. Am I doing the right thing? He asked himself.
It was a hard, cold December night,
and the ground echoed sharply with each fall of his horse's hooves. The north wind whispered its bitter chill
through the tall pines and bare oaks surrounding the deserted road—that and the
occasional snapping of limbs from gusts or frozen sap were the only sounds he
could hear. The icy air stung his lungs
when he inhaled. He was shivering, not
so much from the cold, for he was well protected by rich furs, but from his
trepidation over the thing he was doing and the person he was going to meet. He slowed his horse. Maybe this was a mistake.
Kelvris was twenty-seven years old;
he was tall, handsome, witty, ambitious, and, he had to admit, bitter. He liked to think he was doing this for the
good of Lorm, for the good of the House of Hemris—that he was making things
right and proper again. He was aware
there was a certain level of jealousy at work in his thinking but only to a
degree; he could only be so jealous of his cousin. Thoughts of her brought out more of his
dwindling resolve to carry out his task.
Tolian has no right to the throne. I am the rightful heir.
At first, Prince Kelvis was sure he
was going to be given what he felt was rightly his. Was his uncle, the King, insane? Did he not know that their kingdom would be
the joke of the entire civilized world if Tolian ascended to the throne? It boggled Kelvris’ mind that the old man
would even consider such a thing. The
prince would be damned if he would allow a woman to take the Warrior’s Throne
of Lorm. He assured himself it would
only be treason if he were caught. And
he was too smart to get caught. He
tightened his grip on the reins and kicked his mount to greater speed. That bastard better be there.
He had never met his fellow
conspirator, but he had heard many of the legends and stories about him. Until last year, he did not even believe that
he really existed. A lot of things
changed last year. When the prince got
the message from him two months ago, he almost dismissed the whole thing as a
hoax. There was something in the
messenger’s eyes, though—the boy was as frightened as anyone he had ever
seen. The paper, ink, and handwriting
all possessed that otherworldly quality, a vague shimmer of alien nature that
Kelvris had come to recognize as faerie.
The note was brief and to the point.
He had long since destroyed it, lest it fall into the wrong hands and
incriminate him, but he had burned every word into his mind:
“Good Prince Kelvris,
Hail to thee, who could be Lorm’s
king, if you have the courage and ambition.
Meet me at the Well of Aslor on the first New Moon of December, at
midnight, if you would see your country spared the folly of a woman-king. I have a plan that will solve problems for
both of us. Come alone. Tell no one.
Your Faithful Servant,
Dowbreth.”
Kelvris had a great many questions,
of course. Not to mention
reservations. Why did the faerie warlord
even care who the heir to the Lormian throne was? Why would he suspect Kelvris would be
interested in any such schemes of power?
It was true enough that Kelvris had made no secret of his unhappiness at
the King’s announcement to his circle of friends at court, initially at
least. Still, it seemed difficult to
believe that word had somehow made its way to the realm of the faerie
folk. For a while after he received the
message, he feared that others closer to the palace might have heard tell of
his grumblings. No one seemed to. What did Dowbreth expect to gain? What was his plan? Kelvris truly hoped that murder wouldn’t be
necessary. He wasn't sure he could do
that to his cousin. She had saved the
world, after all. For that matter, he
wasn’t even sure that she could be killed.
And what about the baby, Relinder?
He, too, was now ahead of Kelvris in the line of succession. With Dowbreth’s fearsome reputation, the
prince was certain that whatever plan the Elven chieftain had, it would be
thorough and prone to success.
So, it was a mixture of ambition and
curiosity that, against his better judgment, brought Prince Kelvris out so late
on the night of the first New Moon in December.
Around the road, the taller trees became sparse and gave way to a copse
of mountain laurel, the leaves of which were curled tightly together like
needles in the cold, moonless night.
They shivered and rustled in the icy gusts that bit at Kelvris’s
cheeks. The druids were predicting a
harsh winter and the prince was inclined to believe them. How long had he been riding? His best estimate was about two hours. He should be nearing the well quite soon.
Why would Dowbreth pick the Well of
Aslor for their meeting? It was obviously
not for Kelvris’s convenience. That was
clear. The long trek on such a night was
sure to discourage all but the most stalwart spies. The well was ancient. There were no records or stories of its
builders. It was there long before the
Lormians settled these lands. Kelvris
remembered a story of
particular relevance to him that night.
He only remembered the fewest
details. When the first Lormians came to
their country, more a band of warring barbarian tribes than anything else, they
fell in love with the wild land and sought to establish themselves there. An Elven lord had laid claim to the land as
his own, however, and refused to allow the settlers even passage through his
territory. The Lormian warlords agreed
that whichever one of them could defeat the Elven lord would be the rightful
king of all the tribes. It was told that
seventeen of the wild chieftains were slain before Threld, who was the first
king of Lorm, bested the fierce faerie warrior at the Well of Aslor.
The Well of Aslor. Kelvris had never ascribed any truth to the
old tale, of course. Myth. Legend.
Nonsense. Now the story was
making the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.
The mountain laurel gave way to a
small field to the right of the road.
Kelvris had only been there once before, but he recognized it as the
site of the well. He cautiously turned
his horse off the road; the loud clop of the horse's hooves was immediately
softened and cushioned by the dead grass.
His eyes peered into the darkness; he could just discern the outline of
the well, now little more than a great pile of rocks and rubble in the midst of
the field. There was no one else
evident. He was alone.
Without warning, a rough blow came
from behind. He tumbled off his horse
and fell to the cold hard ground with a thud.
He had hardly time to register what had happened when he was jerked up
by the collar and a lantern thrust towards his face, blinding him.
“Prince Kelvris?”
The voice caught Kelvris off
guard. He was familiar with the accent
and the otherworldly timbre by now. He
had heard other faerie folk since the Battle of Lorm, but this voice was
different. It hissed the question with
such violence it was as though the thinnest of veils held a torrent of wrath in
check, and the voice itself would rip him to shreds if it could. The light from the lantern blinded him. He felt his attacker’s impatience like a
strange force that would crush the life out of him if he did not answer. He fought through his fear to force some kind
of answer past his trembling lips. “Y-y-yes.”
“You are Kelvris of Lorm?” the
savage voice asked from within the light.
“I am Prince Kelvris of the House of
Hemris, nephew to the king.” His voice
wavered.
“Then, perhaps, Lorm would be better
off with a woman-king,” grunted the voice.
Kelvris was pulled to his feet and
the light removed from his eyes. He
squinted, but he was still blind for a moment or two. “Yes, well, you rather caught me off guard,
there, that's all,” he said.
He rubbed his eyes. The spots of light across his vision
faded. The faerie loomed before
him. He was by far the tallest person
Kelvris had ever seen. He had to stand
at least eight feet high. The prince got
only the briefest glimpse of the fellow’s face before the lantern was put
out. Bright red eyes set deep and
narrow. A scar across the nose and
cheek. Teeth filed to sharp points. The unearthly pallor of the faerie. Then the blackness of the night again. Kelvris gulped.
“Lord Dowbreth?”
“I am Dowbreth of the Sidhe.”
The faerie’s voice was audibly
calmer. The Lormian sighed. “So we meet at last.” Kelvris said, unsure of
the exact protocol for the situation.
Silence.
“It certainly is cold out here,” the
prince pointed out in an awkward attempt at small talk.
Silence, still.
Kelvris felt Dowbreth’s stare. It made his skin crawl and his hands shake.
“Look,” he said finally, “I received
your message. I’m here. Maybe we could attempt to communicate like
civilized people and get down to business.”
“Do you wish to be king?” the faerie
asked.
“I’m here aren’t I?” returned
Kelvris, attempting to bring a little courage and power to his voice.
“When do the Yule Jarrels begin?”
asked Dowbreth.
“The Yule Jarrels? What difference does that make?”
“When?” demanded Dowbreth, in a
harsh whisper.
“Um, the fourth day before the
Solstice,” replied Kelvris.
“I shall come to the palace on the
third day; you need only do two things for me,” said the faerie warrior. “Take this vial and add its contents to the
Jarrels wine immediately after I arrive.”
Kelvris shook his head in the
darkness. “I can’t poison everyone,” he
said. “I can’t do that.”
“No one will be hurt; the drug
causes only sleep. Try it on a dog first
if you do not believe me,” Dowbreth said.
“All right,” said Kelvris, taking
the vial. “I can live with that. What else?”
“I will give you a signal, and you
will give this bracelet to your cousin.
You must be sure to put it on her right away. Stay near her after you have drugged the wine
and watch for my signal. If you fail in
this, all is lost.” Dowbreth slipped the
bracelet into the prince’s gloved hand.
“That’s it?” asked Kelvris in
disbelief. “That's all I have to
do? How is that going to make me king?”
“You must trust me, Your
Highness. I will do the rest.”
“Are you going to kill her?” asked
the Lormian.
“No, I need her alive. But she will be no more trouble to you,”
answered Dowbreth.
Copyright 2004, 2015
Copyright 2004, 2015
No comments:
Post a Comment