Chapter 1
In Days to Come
In a different time and place Shala walked along a dirt road, wandering blissfully in a memory of her youth. In the blessed forests of Norwain a tall man walked at her side. His face had the look of wisdom, but didn’t tell of age, with longish hair that made curls and extraordinary green eyes visible below the hood of his cloak. His kind dressed like rangers or hunters out on the road, fading along with the browns and greens and greys of the wood, a longbow slung over the shoulder at all times. The outfit was very humble, except for a small marvellous stone worked into the palm of a thick leather glove on his right hand. By now Shala knew the crystalline stone had nothing to do with vanity.
The man's name was Metrus and he called himself one of the Druids of the Grove. He was a close friend to the Kingdom, and an even closer friend to the ruling House of Evrelyn. In all ways he was a tutor to Shala, teaching her of the world and of dreams, and at this time point in time, of woodcraft and trailblazing.
‘Do not stray from the path Shala,’ he said to a Princess that struggled to keep close at hand. He called her by name here in Norwain, the sacred grove not partial to titles of men.
‘But how will I pick up the trail if I don’t go searching?’ she said, looking through the wildflowers in her hands which she had stooped to poach.
‘The land takes a quick plunge not far from here, and you’ll not see your own tumble until it is too late because of the undergrowth. Besides, you won't find trails looking for flowers - unless they are trampled by a hoof, which these certainly are not,’ said Metrus with a smile.
Shala blushed guiltily, her mind far from stalking any prey today. Metrus took a step closer to her and put his fingers lightly on the flowers in her hand. He mumbled, and there was the slightest hint of light from his bejewelled glove. Taking his hand away Shala looked on eagerly as the stringy stems of the flowers curled and twisted, forming around her wrists like bracelets. The petals themselves came into fullness if not already so, and their colour became as bright as they could ever be, their scent wafting pleasantly. ‘There, in all ways, a true blossoming,’ said Metrus.
Shala smiled, both at the flowers and his observation.
‘How is your magic so different from my own? You seem to own all the tricks I could hope to have.’ And this was the least Shala had seen the man accomplish. At times he would sing, in a fair voice much different from his usually husky tone and in response all the flowers would turn to him like he was sunshine itself, winds whirling low and gentle to distribute unspent pollen, and everything would bloom and grow.
‘You belong to a different domain child. You do not dwell in dreams as we Druids often do, but still you touch it, still you are at least familiar with the dream of Evrelyn, the kingly house of healing.’
Shala frowned.
‘It is the dream of the old keep, its foundation bridged over a great waterfall in the mountain - you’ve seen this before?’
‘Yes!’ said Shala, having had this dream upon many nights. ‘How could you know?
‘It is a dream well-known and shared by all your ancestry, and when your spirit is welcome in that place, you may draw into this world the power of your House, the healing hands as it is.’
‘Can I visit this dream at will? So that I may walk the paths and see what lies beyond those gates and all?’ asked Shala.
‘No child, and do not attempt it! Dreaming like that where you wander the places of your ancestors is akin to standing with one foot in life and the other in death, and you are much too young for that. The strongest of magi are all but dead, their eyes glazed over and their ears deaf to the nonsense of men, doing their wonders in this world, but their minds already abiding in another.’
Shala took stock of what the Druid said. She saw a pair of butterflies orbiting one another as they flew past and a question formed in her mind.
‘So the caterpillar dreams also?’ asked Shala, hoping to test the Druid.
Metrus smiled as if he knew what the Princess was trying to do. ‘In a way, but their dream is elementary and inevitable, and its blossoming is a constant of nature. If it does not blossom and become a butterfly, then something is wrong. Blossoming for mankind is something else entirely, for the old blood has grown thin, and we are too in love with our world to spend too much time dreaming.’
‘Scholar Naceus says you can shape into an eagle, and I’d not believe it, save that you often arrive far faster than a horse can run. Is that blossoming?’
‘Scholar Naceus tells you too much,’ said Metrus with a laugh, ‘but while it is among friends, yes; I blossom at times to become an eagle, and soar above all that is part of Attoras.’
Shala smiled broadly at the idea. ‘Will I blossom to become something one day?’
‘Most assuredly Highness, and it is no secret, you will blossom into an even more beautiful woman, and in time become a beloved Queen of the Kingdom.’
Shala blushed. ‘That’s not what I meant.’
‘What is it that Scholar Naceus told you again?’ said Metrus knowingly, so very familiar with the answer.
‘Life is all about asking the right questions…’ she repeated dully, as though the old Scholar had drilled it into her. ‘I don’t understand it though, it doesn’t sound that important. A question is a question, isn’t it?’
‘One day you will understand it; you will learn that every belief, every dream, every action and everything we covet is come about by asking questions of this world and of ourselves. The kind of question is what gives direction. Remember this well, because the mind forgets quickly, and sometimes the right question can soon remind us of truths, both those within us and those others try to hide.’
A seventeen year old Shala did not always understand what Metrus was getting at. ‘Father taught me that as long as I’m true to myself I’ll be able to dream of the waterfall, the Icy Falls as they call it.’
‘That is true and like your ancestry it’ll give you strength all of your life. Like the Grove provides for me as long as I represent its collective will.’
‘And yet others dream of many different things, and only my kin is allowed to dream of the old Keep and the waterfall. Is every dream like a world then?’ asked Shala abruptly.
‘Yes, and no, somehow they are of the same substance, the same thread that runs through your dream runs through the dream of the Archendal, or of the Dey’illumra for that matter.’
‘But they are… evil...’ said Shala, not sure if anything Metrus said could be false, but in this she felt he was in the wrong.
‘And the world and the echelons above us do not differ on whether man is good or evil, it takes and gives to all kinds. Very few royal Houses still have powerful blood, you must cherish yours. Because our world one day might very well be without the gifts given by the Benevolence, as they certainly return to the source.’
‘The source?’
‘To the great Dream itself, to our best estimation, the south of the land, Nem Nemuris they call it, maybe the only bastion of it known to us.’
‘And gifts are gone from Angaria by the means of death?’
‘Yes, and for those of you who are mortal, your tenures of power will make of you targets for those who extinguish light for the most fleeting greed. And the men and women who escape the pursuits of kingslayers often look south and decide to make the journey - so that death can mean something more.
It is life itself that is so very fragile. It all hangs like a droplet of water from the edge of a cold blade, there but for a moment, threatening to fall and end it all. Everything like a dream, just on the verge of waking up...’
II
Shala woke abruptly, her head rising from the pages of a book on the table surface. Taking a moment, she was glad to realize that she was still alone in the library, where sleep had clearly overtaken her fascination for the book she had been reading.
She'd been dreaming, and thinking hard, she gathered her wits and tried to pin down the dream before it co
uld slip from her recollection.
It had been vivid, a memory in fact, where she had spent one summer two years ago on the borders of Norwain forest, learning the craft of the wild from Metrus the Druid.
On that day their discussion had turned to the nature of her dreams, and where the power of Evrelyn came from. Of course all of Attoras knew of the healing hands of the King and his House, more life-giving and generous than any other with gifts of healing. But even men and women close to dreams of power were not always certain on how they worked.
She could not imagine why this memory bothered her now, not when so many other matters were troubling her. Maybe her mind sought gentler times?
She looked at the pages of the book before her, a slight fold set in the paper where her head had rested on her arms. The story was good and she enjoyed it, but it ended every affair with celebration and love found, in essence heart-warming and predictable. Yes, I am looking for gentler times, she thought, not having slept well in many days.
With the library being in the east wing, the morning daylight sprawled into windows many men tall, crystal clear so that all might enjoy inside what was outside. This was her spot, in daylight, away from candles or lamps, often pacing with a book she read, up and down, to the dismay of the librarians. They called her restless, but how could she read her favourite parts sitting still?
A distant shout shook her from her musings. Many noises came from the town below, but above all else she heard the voice of the marshal, a strict man named Gibbon, and by his booming commands knew the soldiers of her household guard were in training, and that they were so tired by now that only a man with a tongue like a whip kept them going.
She stood up curiously to the window sill to have a look at the courtyard below. In a square of sand, mostly apart from the mill of civilians, were her soldiers arranged in pairs, at a duel with one another. As they were Shala could not recognize them individually, yet being bare-chested and armed with wooden quarterstaves she could see welts and bruises on their bodies already showing by this hour.
The strokes were awfully hard and fast, not at all like the duels they had in acts and plays. There was no exaggeration in their movements and the rounds of their bouts often lasted but seconds before one man struck down another, the loser usually at the receiving end of Gibbon's harshest insult. Conversely, the winner got his fair share of critique as was the marshal's way. Shala remained watching, as the sun glistened from the sweat of their bodies, muscles showing in their strain, as skill and temperament were revealed in mock combat.
Nowadays Shala felt that she could take such a man, maybe a captain or so, and before he could humbly protest stick him in front of the altar and be wed to him. And even if he became King, Shala would still rule, for he would only bear the crown by her grace. He need not talk much, as long as he’d listen, and for all his strength of being a soldier he would be gentle with her, because she would choose the man from the look in his eyes.
But that would never happen, she reminded herself. That was left for one of the books she had just read, where the Princess marries a Knight by some obscure logic found only in stories. Shala laughed a bit at the thought. Her own Knights were men with strange and lonely minds, loyal to the death and abroad most of the time, as they were now. The Knights were almost celibate in their isolation, although Shala could see them taking a willing stranger for a night in a far off land. Even with their duties and sacrifice Shala envied their freedom. She wanted roads before her, and mountains to climb, and to pass no great tree twice until she had passed them all.
“With title and privilege a web is spun, where choices are few, and decisions made for the Kingdom are more important than those made for the person,” Scholar Naceus had explained to her once. I should know that by now.
And she could live by that until recently, when, by the Council’s behest, came forward a man from the noble House of Sannil, named Patrick, who the Council deemed Shala should be married to for the good of the Kingdom, “for the good of Attoras,” they all said.
Nothing could repulse her more. Shala held no respect for the man, and much less love. He was a young puppet with illusions of power, unable to see the strings of his benefactors above his own head, and personally Shala had only found malice in his eyes. He wasn’t a strong man and he would be a cruel king, this much Shala knew. These thoughts of injustice carried her away and left on her own she stooped to a brooding mood.
A set of footsteps pierced the obstinate silence of the library and told her that she was about to have company. She hoped it wasn't one of the snooty librarians who would certainly lecture her on the trail of books she left from place to place, not attending to them until she was well and done finished reading. Cursorily she closed many of the books around her, in order to lessen any impending outrage.
But by appearing in a white apron over a striped shirt she knew this man was no librarian: Kaell already carried a familiar smile on his face as he came down the stairs to the very first landing of the library, holding a tray of pastries in his hands. He was a young cook in the legendary Master Jalson’s kitchen, who was famous for his food and famous for his temper. Kaell had everything of his Master's talent, but was otherwise as docile as a lamb.
Shala often thought that Kaell had a handsome face, and for the year and a half that she’d come to know him he always carried that kind smile and the eagerness to keep her company. He had the habit of showing up wherever the Princess might be and an even stranger ability of always knowing her whereabouts.
But she did not mind, because there was no threat or unkind intention, and though he was skinny and weak, he looked out for her like he was part of the household guard. Wondering about people as she often did Shala feared for his part that he would grow old to become soft and fat like Dieral, the Master of Ceremonies, mostly because Kaell enjoyed his own cooking and treats just as much as everyone else, and had all access to his own talent.
For all his respect of books Kaell did not heed any library etiquette parading with food here, but the Princess was the last person to make a fuss about it, as she was often the beneficiary of Kaell’s work.
At a distance she already got the scent of his finest baking efforts, her stirred appetite waking more cheerful thoughts in her.
‘Fresh from the oven Highness, although while searching for you they have cooled down nicely. I’d like your Highness to try it if you will; I think I am getting close to perfecting the recipe.’
Taking one with a smile, she said, ‘Hmm, this is good, I miss the cinnamon however,’ she said taking another bite, ‘Do you intend for me to end up looking like Master Dieral?’
‘No Highness, you will never have to bear the title of Master, and never bear the weight of one... neither will you eat as much as one mentioned. The keeper of Ceremonies dreams heartily of food all day long, and he enjoys the many passages into a kitchen where even Master Jalson cannot chase him from. He speaks of merely tasting to ensure the food remains of high quality, but his apparent nibbles take their toll on our supplies.’
Shala laughed. ‘An odd thing to dream about; food! Hmm, dreams... do you dream interesting things Kaell?’
‘No Highness, but I often dream I’m waking up from a nap sitting against a tree in the garden below, the old elm tree, and you approach to where I still sit, with great scorn on your face.’
‘Have I ever scorned you?’ asked Shala with a smile.
‘Yes on the occasion Highness, which is why I rarely approach without pastries and cakes anymore.’
Shala scoffed indignantly. ‘You know I can give you trouble for bringing food to the library.’
Kaell laughed and dismissed her warning, which he knew didn't carry substance. ‘Still at it I see Highness, are you intent on working your way through the entire library?’
‘All this,’ she said, pointing to shelves, ‘is as close as a person like me will come to seeing the world, experiencing it in different eras, exploring things that have ha
ppened, will happen, and things we wish would happen. Maybe I’ll teach you to read and write as well. Then you'll know what I mean.’
‘I can do both Highness; Master Jalson would not allow an illiterate cook running around in his kitchens.’
Shala tasted one of the other pastries, smiling at the flavour. ‘Take these away from me now.’
‘I take it for a success then?’ said Kaell hopefully, putting the tray aside.
Shala nodded, swallowing her last bite. ‘But don’t stop working at it, there is only one Master of the kitchen and he is chosen on merit, not friendship.’
‘Alas, all my effort to impress spent in vain,’ said Kaell in mock.
Shala crossed her arms. ‘I should have known you had an agenda, tell me this; is it painful to pretend to be a friend to one such as I?’
Kaell laughed. ‘Admittedly there is no pretence Highness, and I find it hard to play at a charade where I could have a hidden motive. I'd rather spend my days with you than managing kitchens anyway,’ he said, his infatuation sometimes shameless.
She smiled with a faraway look. Kaell knew that any mirth touching her face was a brief distraction from current affairs. ‘Many shadows have been tailing me lately, mean-spirited ones, I am glad at least one of them is you Kaell. Although that you find so much time on your hands is troubling,’ she added teasingly.
The cook was about to rush to his own defence with a wisecrack, but Shala held up her hand to gesture silence.
Another pair of footsteps approached and Shala motioned desperately for Kaell to try and hide the tray of pastries, and he was at a loss of finding a solution that didn't involve him ducking in under the table with the tray. Before he could do such a thing however, Shala grabbed him by the elbow - it was only deBella.
With her hair in a bun she came down the stairs, her hands entwined in front of her, and she let not anything pass her mouth until she was next to the Princess. Her grave face already made Shala rise, towering above the short and aging handmaiden.
‘Dear, it’s your father. I can’t know how long he will last, but his time will be soon. You must come while you still can.’
Shala’s breath shuddered where she stood and her face fell to despair, already resigned to what she must face today.
‘Go on, Highness, I will take care of the books,’ said Kaell softly, setting the tray on the table, its presence trivialised now.
Shala was off without a word, the handmaiden following her out. Kaell set about gathering all the books the Princess had removed from their shelves, and for all its sunlight the library was morbid now. On the upper levels, where the wooden walkways spanned tightly against the highest of shelves, a tall figure stood hooded in a black robe and looked down on the cook. Unawares that he was being watched, a chill ran down Kaell’s spine, ‘Evil has made its way into the castle, I can feel it,’ he said to himself.