Bound to the Flame, Chapter IV, Part I

Tags

bound to the flame, original stories, original work, stories in progress

Erin should not ramble around, trolling other people’s blogs like a zombie, making no sense whatsoever, at nine p.m. her time.

Erin should not ramble around, trolling other people’s blogs like a zombie, making no sense whatsoever, at nine p.m. her time.

Erin should not ramble around, trolling other people’s blogs like a zombie, making no sense whatsoever, at nine p.m. her time.

Whew, that’s done with! (I promised Sheikah last night after posting a VERY rambling comment about hoods, animation models, video games, and special effects. Yeah… that’s going to be an INTERESTING conversation… *wince*)

Once again, Erin is back with more Bound to the Flame! Rosalie: Please don’t worry. I am working on Battlefield of the Soul. Slowly but surely. I also have not given up on Shifting Tides in general. This is merely all the stuff for Bound to the Flame I had written already. It’s 30k long–and I haven’t even typed up everything yet!

Warnings: Some violence, emotional distress. It gets a bit intense, but hopefully not too bad.

Bound to the Flame

Chapter IV

Part I

                As he drew nearer to the ancient stone circle, this time Rowan could feel it drawing him in, seeking to ensnare him. This time, though, he was aware of it, and resisted its allure. To be of any help to Adyn, he had to remain conscious, aware. He could feel its power pulling at the edges of his mind, whispering a lisping siren song to all those who could hear it at all. Rowan threw off the cloying tendrils and moved faster.

Reality was warping now. Time bent and creased; might-have-beens played out in memory, flashing in and out of existence. His stomach twisted rebelliously at the vaguely unpleasant, unfamiliar sensation. His life played out, oddly different somehow.

Rowan snapped himself fiercely out of it and gasped softly at the synaptic snap of pain behind his temples and in his sinuses. If Adyn was experiencing this, he didn’t know what he could or should do. The boy was only half-trained!

Rowan moved faster. The strange currents carried him forward more rapidly, drawing him forward, murmuring to him. A pale mist rolled around the edges of his vision, but he had it under control. He wasn’t going to give in. He could feel the currents carrying him away, but he would break or be pulled under. This magic, though, felt strange—untouched, primal, raw, its breath far older—tangy, foreign—than anything Rowan had ever felt before. He shuddered as he felt it course through him. It was odd, and yet somehow familiar. He brushed the feeling off and focused himself, still wary of the curious energy, the strange raw surging of power. It murmured strange words to him, words with no meaning, words that still terrified him. It wanted him, though for what purpose he could not say. Cautiously, Rowan let it pull him towards its source, the nexus of its flow, faster and faster. All answers could be found within that curious ancient circle of standing stones.

Faster. Faster. Over the breast of this low knoll, leaping a stream, breathing steady. He did not grow tired. His leg did not pain him. The miles between him and his object were rapidly eaten up, in this strange dreamlike state where the elder energy bore him on. Speed did not bring exhaustion; movement was thought and done with nothing between the two. Indeed, it felt as if thought was motion. Long miles were not weariness. Time stretched out, and twisted confusingly. Rowan was glad for the fact that he was in control, not only because of his prior vision and the subsequent revelation, but because of the phantasms and wraiths that hovered on the edge of consciousness, waiting for the first slip to close in for the kill. The colorless mist rose slowly up again, clouding his eyes; Rowan fought it back down once more.

Then, suddenly, he was at the edge of the Cremlegged itself, with lightning cracking overhead, under a stormy sky.

Rowan jogged through the stones, weaving in and out between the huge monoliths and tall boulders. The stones pointed, ominous and threatening, toward the black sky. “Adyn? Adyn!” He dared not raise his voice above a low murmur. The stones whispered back, echoing, hollow, mocking. Adyn… Adyn… Adyn… The last dregs of the curious magic were slowly draining away, but as they lasted they bore him up, blocking any pain from his damaged leg. It felt almost euphoric, giddying, like a drug. Rowan did not particularly like—or trust—the feeling. To lose control was to unleash a storm on the world.

As he loped around the stones, their names echoed inside his mind. Courage. Honor. Hope. Premonition. Trial. Sacrifice. Dreaming. Waking. Service. Obedience. Command. Virgin dawn. Drawn-out nightfall. Pain. Freedom. Trust.

The last stone was cleft in two, riven to its base. Its two faces faced two ways: Past and Future. It was more ancient than any of the others; its name, Time. Between the two pillars of the riven stone was an empty space, empty in more than one sense of the word, and yet reverberating with power, the eternal presence, the moment in which men were given to act. Its ordained power was a terrible one, more terrible even than the immutability of the past, more terrible still than the most horrifying, ominous premonition of the future, and Rowan found himself instinctively shying away from the hollow, yawning void in the break of the twin pillars.

At the center of the ring of standing stones was a single, low, flat stone, its top and upper edge polished and worn by passing ages, crusted with lichen, carved with runes, overgrown by grass and moss—and it was stained threateningly dark. It whispered strange words directly into Rowan’s mind. He fell back from it, resisting.

He stumbled against the ancient, moldering gray stone of Trial. His fingers slipped into deep-carven runes, scrabbling against the roughness of the rock. He clung to the stone for support, struggling against the storm. The world seemed to have lost all stability. Rowan felt unmoored, weightless. The thunderous, ominous sky roiled overhead in lightning and clouds. The wind picked up suddenly, reminding him of his nonexistent, illusory control. It was developing into a maelstrom.

Again came the vision of the same precipice, but this time he was not climbing those malevolent, looming rocks alone. Margery was with him. Even as he watched, her foot slipped and she tumbled over the edge, catching herself only in the nick of time by grabbing the edge of the path’s ledge with both hands, and his vision-self was reaching down a hand toward her, calling out words he could not catch. They were carried away by the rising wind. The scene shifted. Margery and he were fighting against overwhelming odds, trying to fend off their enemies’ attacks. Margery fell, injured, and he limped to her side, attempting to turn aside the flood of black crows that crowded in on them. The vision changed again. His father and mother, Rheadwyn, Fortaine, Taryn, and many others belonging to the Ertraian clans were under attack from monstrous black-furred wolves. The wolves piled in on them, bringing them under. Rowan cried out, his voice one with the storm, feeding the gale. A dim figure, its face clouded by mist and shadowed by a dark hood, turned away from Rowan’s reflection in the vision, shunning him. He saw a twisted labyrinth; everyone who touched him fell. Melilana—Halbryn—his two foster brothers—even Adyn and Margery fell as though dead. He heard himself, faintly, as though from a great distance, crying out in denial, screaming in horror. The vision twisted, wrenched, turned inside out. He saw ghostly figures moving through the Cremlegge—some dark cult performing their arcane rituals. A young child was brought forward; Rowan closed his eyes. A beast—or perhaps a man—cried out as it, or he, was struck down. Rowan could not so much as move to interfere. Whatever the creature was, its blood now stained the low, ill-portended stone in the center of the Cremlegge. Rowan reached out, half-entranced, to one of the figures, his hand passing straight through it. Oddly enough, the figure reacted to him as well, flinching away from his touch. The warping threads and currents of power twisted out again and Rowan couldn’t contain his scream. It was ripped from his throat like an animal cry of pain. Now, walking around the other ghosts, who were beginning to withdraw, new ones, faintly outlined in shadow, as transparent as the others had been. Three children, fleeing in terror. Instinctively, Rowan reached out to aid them, but he could do nothing. They were not real—they were not present. Only as present as a dream. The children’s pursuers were already upon them. The youngest—a small girl—screamed. Lightning flew from the turbulent clouds above and smote among their persecutors, striking them down. They faded slowly away. More faded shouts and cries. This time, it was a group of full-grown wizards who sought refuge in the ancient circle of standing stones. However, their attackers were among them, slaying many, smiting them down as if they were no more than beasts. Rowan choked on his tears. A flash of light, and then the Wielders’ tormentors were fleeing in terror, eyes wide with madness. The unseen power of the place twisted and writhed once more, and Rowan was caught in the middle. He gasped at the churning, disorienting motions of the universal fabric. He cried out again. His grip was slipping. He was losing control.

Bound to the Flame, Chapter III, Part II

Tags

bound to the flame, insanity, novels, original stories, original work, philosophy, stories in progress, theory

Sorry it has been so long. My life has been busy to the extreme of sanity. But I’m finally posting this again. Enjoy!

Warnings: None for this chapter. A lot of theory is discussed, and Adyn acts up. Nothing special. ;-P

Bound to the Flame

Chapter III

Part II

                Margery met Rowan in the chapel that morning, for prayers. She gave him a sidelong glance. It seemed that he wouldn’t be done for a long while; he was kneeling upright, hands folded demurely, large golden-hazel eyes turned slightly up toward the makeshift altar in the pavilion. The lights cascaded down over him in a golden shower of shifting, glittering dust motes, adding to the home-like atmosphere. Margery slid into a row of pews, kneeling down as she did, and shooting another sideways glance at Rowan. He looked as if he was exhausted, but drawing comfort and strength from this place.

After a long while, Rowan made the sign of the cross and rose. He picked up the stick that was resting against the pew beside him and made his way out of the makeshift chapel, struggling to genuflect. He limped slowly out of the tent and into the open. Margery followed. “I thought you were going to tutor Adyn…” she began.

“I am,” Rowan replied, “but only after we’ve had breakfast, and once we’re well within the woods. We don’t want any trouble. Meet us in the glade by the stream with the two standing rocks once you’ve eaten. That’s where we’ll have our classes.”

“All right. I’ll see you then,” Margery said.

 

Margery ate breakfast with her family and some of the other members of her clan and made her way into the woods as soon as she had finished. This was perfectly normal for her, so no one remarked on it. She followed the stream that ran through the encampment at Cremlegged, instinctively avoiding the forest on the side of the encampment that faced the ancient circle of standing stones in the woods beyond. She didn’t know why, but she dreaded to enter that ancient star wheel. She found her way easily to the glen Rowan had specified. Just as he had said, there was a stream flowing through an open glade with two large gray moss-covered, lichen-encrusted boulders at its head. She perched on one to wait, enjoying the sunny morning in the woods.

She was sitting there, as pre-arranged, on that same stone, when Rowan finally appeared, leaning heavily on his staff and shepherding a reluctant Adyn ahead of him. She rose, quickly. “What took you so long?” she asked.

“Adyn has a ritual of playing hide and go seek before magic lessons,” Rowan replied succinctly, with a little irritation evident in his breathless voice. Adyn grinned, unabashed, then he looked up at Margery with a look of awe.

“Are you a pixie?” he asked, eyes wide. Rowan groaned.

“That’s a marvelous way to start an awkward conversation, Adyn.” he reproved. Almost miraculously, the incorrigible, insufferable grin reappeared on Adyn’s face. Rowan sighed. “You’re impossible, obstreperous, and frustrating, and you’ll likely come to a bad end one of these days.” Rowan sighed and faced round to Margery. “Once in a blue moon, one word in three will get through to him. Not much more than that, though.” He sighed and gestured to the base of a nearby tree. “Shall we begin?” Margery stared at the huge—at least ten feet across—pixie ring that stood a few feet away, under the canopy of a spreading oak.

“Wouldn’t you rather use the pixie ring?” she asked. Rowan shrugged.

“Suit yourself, but you might as well make yourself comfortable,” he said, adding a slight emphasis on the last word. “We’re not doing magic practice today. Only theory. And mystique isn’t really worth much. There’s not much point in exhausting yourself just to sit in a circle of mushrooms.”

“That’s all it is?” Margery asked, disappointed.

“Quite everything,” Rowan replied. “Though some plants are thought to channel magic or have magical properties, mushrooms often just make you hallucinate. They have nothing to do with magic at all. In other words, they’re perfectly normal. There was a rumor, once, about mushrooms that could supposedly block a magic user’s abilities, but that’s just legend, with no substance that I know of. They just started calling those things pixie rings because someone thought that a toadstool would be a nice little place for a pixie to live. I don’t know why they would think that. It might make a nice place to hide under if you got caught outside in a downpour, but it would make a pretty poor seat or house in the long run. I think that pixies would really rather prefer trees, actually.” Feeling rather foolish, Margery sat down on a low stump nearby, and Rowan began the lesson.

“Much of modern magic theory is based on the work of Greek philosophers, such as Empedocles and Aristotle… you remember that much from last time, don’t you, Adyn?” The boy nodded. Rowan continued. “The Aristotelian theory of the elements states that there are not four, as in Empedocles’ theory, but five. The first four, which you probably already know, are earth, air, fire and water. The fifth Aristotle called ‘ether.’ He postulated that it was the material which made up the heavenly bodies, the stars, sun, comets, and planets. Maewyr the Great, whom we consider to be the first of the true Wielders, was the one to come up with the idea that the heavenly bodies were made up of similar materials and elements to Earth itself, and the fifth element, ‘ether’, was in fact, the essence of magic itself. All the work of later Wielders in theory is based off of his.

“According to Maewyr, the two classic elements most akin to magic are fire and air—air, because it is invisible, like magic is; only its effects are commonly seen and felt—and fire, because it is pure energy, just as magic is. Magical manipulation of the elements is a very large part of traditional magic, and more challenging than simple telekinesis or enhancement of the senses. Most people have an affinity for one, or two, but it takes training to effectively wield all five. Magic and fire are the two most difficult to use, as both are pure energy and as such are hard to control, but for the same reason they are the easiest to summon. It takes practice and experience with the elements to control plants and growth, and to learn to bend and summon light, which is considered the highest form of magic.

“Each element has an extension, or a separate form or continuation beyond itself. Some are both. The extension of fire is lightning. Water’s is ice. Earth’s is stone. Air’s continuation is rain.”

“Why rain?” Margery interrupted. Rowan looked at her, half-bewildered at having his discourse thus interjected.

“The air feels moist at times, does it not?” he asked. “And clouds come from the air, and rain comes from clouds. I think there is rain hanging suspended in the air at all times; it only falls occasionally, though.”

“Oh,” Margery said, subdued.

“Elemental storms are the most dangerous form of this kind of magic, especially since they can be so hard to master and remain in control of, and can be so easy to start in some circumstances.” Rowan continued. Adyn’s eyes wandered, following a butterfly across the pixie ring. Rowan sighed, frustrated. “And you’re not hearing a word of this, are you, Adyn?”

“Nope,” the boy said cheerfully. Rowan groaned.

“I don’t know how I’m supposed to turn him into the kingdom’s champion,” he confided to Margery. “The little scaramouch.” Margery looked surprised.

“He’s supposed to become the Champion?”

“Well, what did you expect? He’s too scatter-brained to be a Seneschal,” Rowan bemoaned.

“Then… why are you training him? No offense, but you’re just a kid like me. Younger, even. How old, exactly, are you, anyway?”

“Seventeen,” Rowan replied, scuffing in the dirt with the toe of one boot.

“I’m a year older than you, then,” Margery said. She glanced at Rowan, coyly. “I thought you were younger.” Rowan sighed.

“Everyone tells me that,” he said. Margery shrugged.

“So… why are you, of all people, training Adyn, then?” Rowan sighed.

“I think it’s partly because of… the accident… to keep my mind off things. Keep me from brooding.” Margery frowned.

“Accident?” she asked, uncomprehending.

“Your highness, I’m crippled.” Rowan said bluntly. Margery gasped, both her hands going to her mouth. Rowan carried on, ruthlessly. “I’m not so badly crippled that I’m helpless, but one of my legs is weaker than the other, and some days the pain is so bad I can’t even walk at all. Since I can’t always walk and ride, I can’t be a knight in the strict sense, so I teach instead.” He glanced around, to see Adyn attempting to sneak off. With a startling burst of speed, he caught the miscreant by the collar and dragged him back. “Where do you think you’re off to, wretch?” he asked. Adyn struggled helplessly.

“I can’t help it if you’re boring, can I?” he snipped back. Rowan shook him gently.

“You just want to sneak back and see what’s going on at the Gathering, don’t you?” he said, softly. “A Wielder does not seek adventure or excitement for their own sakes!”

“Yeah, well, maybe I don’t want to be a Wielder,” Adyn retorted. Rowan’s eyes widened and he dropped Adyn, taking a step back.

“How can you say such a thing?” he asked, horror-struck.

“I don’t want to spend my life stuck in some moldy old castle in Ertraia! I want to see the world and have fun!”

“Adyn, being a wielder is an honor and an ancient tradition, and you have the potential to be the greatest,” Rowan said. “You can’t just throw that away! You can not disregard the Call like that!”

“It’s my life,” Adyn said obstinately.

“You wouldn’t go back to what you had before my mother took you in,” Rowan pointed out threateningly.

“I was a baby,” Adyn said, his voice whiny, completely ignoring Rowan’s ominous tone. Rowan’s dark eyes flashed.

“How can you be so ungrateful? You have talent, Adyn, talent, and you could be greater if you tried harder, but no! You throw it away the first time you see fool’s gold! There’s a reason why it’s lying by the wayside, Adyn, and that’s because it’s worthless!” Rowan gestured to the stone upon which Adyn had previously been sitting. “Now, sit back down, and we’ll complete the lesson.” Adyn stepped away, shaking his head.

“No. Not anymore. I’m not doing this any more. I’m leaving!” Rowan gripped the staff.

“Adyn!” he called after the boy, but it was too late. Adyn dashed off, ignoring him, vanishing into the surrounding trees in a matter of seconds. Rowan moved to run after him; limping a few steps, he tripped over a tree root and fell, stumbling and falling flat on his face, sprawled across the soft, moist loam. He gasped in pain. “Adyn!” he called again, but Adyn was gone. Margery ran to his side and helped him to his feet. Rowan limped forward, leaning against a tree exhaustedly for a moment, drawing in a slow, painful breath. Margery moved with him, supporting his slender form.

“Rowan…” Margery began.

“No time—I have to find him!” Rowan replied, anxiously.

“No. Wait.” Margery said. “You can’t catch him by your own speed, Rowan. You have to use your wits. And before you can find him, you have to rest.” Rowan groaned.

“I have to find him soon,” he stressed. “You don’t know Adyn as I do. He’s going to try to run away. His response to anything that doesn’t go his way is to run. And here, he could run anywhere.”

“But he won’t run just anywhere,” Margery said. “You know him. You can make an educated guess as to where he’ll go. And I—Right now, I need answers.”

“’Need’ and ‘deserve’ are dangerous words,” Rowan said coldly. “It would be both arrogant and shallow to take your high birth for granted, Your Highness.” Margery dashed his icy words aside as if they were so many annoying insects.

“I may not know Adyn, Rowan, but I do know humankind.” Rowan stiffened.

“And you’re saying that I do not?” he asked dangerously.

“Adyn didn’t really mean everything he said to hurt you,” Margery carried on, brashly ignoring him. “He… well, to be harshly accurate, he feels interest in me, almost fascination. He was showing off in front of me, trying to impress me. You were just an unintended victim caught in the crossfire, nothing more.”

“Do other boys act like this?” Rowan asked.

“Yes, I think it’s part of their natural disposition. Hormones are terrible things.” Rowan groaned.

“Why does Adyn have to pick someone twelve years older than himself to develop an attraction to? Sometimes I swear he’s just doing it all on purpose to give me grief.”

“Haven’t you ever had a crush on someone?” Margery asked. Rowan looked confused. “Puppy love. You know.” Rowan frowned, still confused.

“No, never.”

“Maybe it has something to do with you being so short,” Margery mused. Rowan dismissed the comment as unintelligible, walking slowly off, leaning heavily on his staff. “I’ll help you look for him,” Margery offered, running after him. Rowan paused and turned, a look of relief on his thin, narrow face.

“You will?” he said, tawny dark eyes deeply grateful. “Thank you.”

“Where would he go?” Margery asked, catching up. Rowan looked throughtful.

“When he’s having fun, he generally hides where he thinks I’ll never find him, but when he’s mad or upset, there’s no telling where he’ll go. He might even consciously put himself into danger of some kind, just to spite me.”

Margery nodded. “Where did he come from?” she asked. “I heard you say that your mother took him and his mother in.” Rowan sighed.

“Years ago, his mother came to us. She was a an orphan, and had been chased from her home by accusations of sorcery, though she was not a magic user in actuality. She was about sixteen, then. My mother offered her work in the royal household, and she took care of me when I was little. Eventually, she left us to get married. A few years after that, she came back. Her husband had been murdered by sea raiders. She took care of me, again, after I was injured two years ago. Adyn was a child at the time. He doesn’t remember anything about the sea raiders’ attack, and he doesn’t understand. He’s a volatile child. I’m afraid of what he’ll do when he’s a bit older, old enough to be interested, anyway, and finds out what really happened to his father. But, when he’s upset, he runs to his mother, she’s the only parent he’s ever known…” Suddenly, Rowan froze.

“His mother—that’s it! Margery, he could be in one of two places. One is with his mother. Hurry back to the encampment of Clan Caerlen and ask around for Taryn. If Adyn is there, with her, well and good. If not, tell her I’ll find him.” The determined ring in Rowan’s voice said he would brook no argument. Margery nodded and set off to find the mysterious Taryn. Rowan headed off into the deeper woods—toward the circle of the Cremlegged.

 

Bound to the Flame, Chapter II, Part VI

Tags

bound to the flame, camp nanowrimo april 2014, minor annoyances, nanowrimo, national novel writing month, pet peeves, works in progress

Hello, my dear readers, and welcome to the next installment of Bound to the Flame. News from Camp Nanowrimo: I am currently having a slight bit of bother, due to being stuck in places on my novel. Hopefully this will resolve itself shortly. If anyone has any ideas what two rebel groups trying to contact other rebels might do in the process, then please, by all means, tell me your ideas!

[NB: I have had some trouble with getting the parts posted in order. It might help to go to the Bound to the Flame Chapters and Artwork page and re-read them in order! Apologies for the trouble, and please enjoy!]

Bound to the Flame

Chapter II

Part IV

Shortly after, a lesser herald came out to fetch them for the feast. The herald seated them in a somewhat confused jumble, near their parents, but not too near. The Elruun royalty had no children yet, so it was simply the Ertraian and Arethwyne children. Margery found herself sitting in between Julian, a charming, roguish young knight, and one of Rowan’s two adoptive brothers, and Rowan, with Fortaine, the eldest of the three Ertraians, sitting in the midst of the Arethwyne princes on Rowan’s other side. Margery decided she liked Rowan’s foster brother. He was fascinating, charming, and kind, the sort of person who is popular everywhere, and he had the same curious ability that Rowan seemed to possess of taking a boring topic, and by some strange alchemy, rendering it captivating. Margery wondered if Rowan had picked it up from him, or vice versa, via sibling osmosis.
Meanwhile, Rowan charmed and interested her brothers. He had enough knowledge of history, especially the wars, to thoroughly captivate Gareth, was willing to debate the finer points of falconry with Aaron, and shared a passion for philosophy and the art of studying people (and leading them) with Hamish. No one mentioned the topic of magic, but it didn’t seem awkward at all.
At last, the feast drew to an end. Margery was tired, but she felt sorry to leave. It had been a good evening.

Rowan lay down on the pallet in the pavilion, thoroughly exhausted by the day’s adventures. Melilana came in, carrying a candle lantern and wearing a white dress; moving slowly, gently, like a drifting, beautiful moon moth or gliding white ship, glimmering faintly in the dusk. “How are you feeling, Rowan?” she asked, gently. Rowan sighed.
“I’m tired,” he admitted, truthfully. Melilana smiled sadly.
“It’s been a long and exhausting day. I would have been more astonished if you weren’t tired.” Melilana laid a long, slender, elegant hand on his forehead, gently. “You’re running a low fever again,” she commented, her voice mildly concerned. Rowan sighed.
“It’s just a stress response,” he demurred. “I’m starting to recognize the symptoms,” he continued, his voice sinking into a dull murmur. Melilana put her hand on his shoulder, slipping it down behind his back and lifting him slightly. She pressed him close.
“Sleep well,” she murmured, then she left the tent. Rowan sighed and turned over. His leg was aching, but it was a good kind of ache, he decided. He had met new friends, and had left Ertraia and seen new places for the first time in his seventeen years.
For tonight, life was good.

It was cold.
Rowan shivered, feeling the weight of quilts, blankets, and coverlet on top of himself. If he was so muffled in blankets, then why was he still so cold?
Slowly, Rowan slid out from under the covers and fell, with a soft, muffled cry of distress. His tentatively-healed broken leg would not carry his weight, not yet, anyway. Slowly, Rowan dragged himself upright, struggling to his feet by the aid of the bureau. Gripping it tightly, leaning on the table, and at last collapsing into the chair by the window, he stared out through the rain-smeared glass. It was raining outside, still, a harsh, cold downpour. Rowan stared bleakly out the window for several minutes, then he slid slowly out of the chair, onto the floor, with a low groan. He had never felt so alone before.

They were talking about him. Rowan could tell by the low tone of their voices. Melilana and Halbryn were discussing something urgently, quietly, outside his door. Rowan didn’t want to eavesdrop, but their conversation was carried perversely to his ears, against his will.
“Hal… what’s going to happen now?”
“He will get better, Mel. I know that much. He will overcome this. He’s like you.”
“But what if he doesn’t?” Their voices suddenly dropped, much quieter now, and they continued to converse in low tones.

He kept hearing them talking in the corridors outside his room. The servants whispered, thinking he would not hear, but he did. He couldn’t help it. “Broken.” “Damaged.” “Will he ever be able to serve the realm?” “Will he ever be able to walk again?” “He’ll never become a knight.” Rowan tried to close his mind to the hurtful rumors, but he was helpless to stop it. Day by day, he couldn’t help hearing them outside his room, when they thought he wouldn’t hear. Slowly, he began to doubt himself. Would he ever walk again? The question plagued him, nagged at him.
Would he ever be able to use magic again?

“Rowan, are you paying attention?” Fortaine asked, looking compassionately at his little brother, who was sitting, wrapped in a thick robe, in a chair, staring blankly out the window at the downpour outside. Never before had Ertraia seen such a rainy summer; it fitted the mood, perhaps.
Rowan sighed. “No. I don’t feel so good,” he groaned. Fortaine bundled him up in the robe and carried him up to his bedroom.
“I understand. Right now, you just need to rest, more than you need to further your studies of magic.” Fortaine set the boy down on the bed. Rowan lay perfectly still, his body stiffening as he drew up the sheets over himself. A rush of energy flitted through him. Rowan struggled to contain it. Fortaine paused at the door, and Rowan clenched his jaw, trying his hardest to tamp it down, to keep it from bursting out. He was fighting a losing battle, he knew.
“Shall I tell Mother you’re not feeling well?” Fortaine asked. Rowan drew in a struggling, scraggly breath.
“Please don’t bother her,” he whispered, fervently hoping his voice didn’t sound as stilted to Fortaine as it did to his own ears. Fortaine nodded, sympathetically, blessedly not picking up on his younger foster brother’s distress. He closed the door. Rowan gasped and threw the covers off. He gripped the bed post for support and cried out, silently, screaming in the blank vacuum beyond as the loose power that refused to be grounded exploded outwards in a chaotic whirlwind, picking up speed as it raced through the room. The storm crashed and jeered outside, as within the fierce swirling maelstrom howled, bursting its bonds and carrying the dam along with it like a river in flood.

Every magic user in the castle sensed the sudden burst of raw power surging outward. It flung several of those who were not gifted against the walls. In the solar, Melilana and Halbryn stared at each other in horror, speaking a single word.
“Rowan!”

Author’s note: Um, yeah. Cliffie. Sorry.

Anyway, is anyone else annoyed by the fact that when you c&p your work into the edit post it sometimes deletes your formatting?… ah well. At least I fixed it… mostly.

Bound to the Flame, Chapter II, Part V

Tags

bound to the flame, camp nanowrimo april 2014, nanowrimo, national novel writing month, stories in progress

Hello, everyone. I beg your pardon for the laconic author’s notes, but I’m busy with Nanowrimo… At least I spend most of the time writing, and I’m mostly caught up…

Enjoy the chapter!

Edit: I just realized something. I posted this part slightly out of order… You might want to go back and read Chap. II Part IV, then read this one, THEN read Chap. III Part I. My most sincere and abject apologies… I do try to avoid problems like this, but occasionally they do happen.

Bound to the Flame

Chapter II

Part V

They were almost back to the royal pavilion when Rowan gasped, clutching Rheadwyn’s arm, his fingers twisted in the hem of her cloak in a mute expression of pain. Rheadwyn gripped the boy’s arm, steadying him. She studied his face with calm, concerned eyes. “Is your leg troubling you again, Rowan?” she asked, collectedly. Rowan nodded wordlessly, biting his lip and drawing blood. Rheadwyn sighed. “I was afraid something like this would happen. You should not be so reckless, Rowan.” Rowan shot her a pained, angry, tearful look.
“I hate being a helpless cripple!” he exclaimed. Rheadwyn steadied him. “You’re far from helpless, Your Highness,” she reminded him. Rowan frowned.
“It’s still not the same thing,” he said. Rheadwyn sighed.
“I know it’s not,” she replied.
“Sometimes, I wonder why the wisps brought me back.” Rowan whispered. “I wonder why I even bothered to follow them. Sometimes, I even wish that I had died there, under that horse!” Rheadwyn sighed and lifted the boy, as close as she would ever willingly come to a full-fledged embrace.
“I know, Rowan. Believe me, I know.”
“Why am I like this, ‘Wyn?” Rowan snapped, his voice cracking, as if he was about to burst into tears of frustration.
“Sometimes, we don’t even know the reason,” Rheadwyn said. “I know this seems pointless to you, Rowan. But it’s just possible—just barely possible—that there is a point. You just can’t see it yet. God knows it, but you don’t. Ultimately, it’s your decision whether you are going to trust God to take charge of your destiny, or not.” Rheadwyn finished her speech by shoving Rowan’s face roughly, though not unkindly, up against her shoulder. Rowan smiled into her mahogany hair. This was why he trusted and loved Rheadwyn as confidante, friend, advisor, and loyal soldier; her lack of attempts to butter people up or influence their decisions, and her no-nonsense attitude were a breath of fresh air. Most of the nobles—even of Ertraia—unbiased as they all tried hard to be, they often had their own agendas or pet projects to further, though they tried to do so on their own time and with their own resources. Not so with Rheadwyn. She was completely loyal to the crown, and without bias or prejudice. Her suggestions were always balanced and well-rounded, but if they were rejected, she did not make undue fuss. While the other councilors and advisors sat in state at lengthy meetings, Rheadwyn served as a Ranger, protecting Ertraia and maintaining its borders, and Rowan privately hoped that he would have her advice, courage, honesty, and good sense to rely on for years after his coronation took place.
No one knew where Rheadwyn came from. She had arrived in Ertraia as a young child, a partially-trained warlock with no parents and no teacher. It was rumored that she had come from the far south of the island, far beyond the clans’ rocky, picturesque, mountainous, forested, starkly beautiful domain, from the fen country; the nation the lowlanders called Wales, but it was uncertain if this were the case, or a mere rumor perpetuated by gossip. Perhaps she had been in a shipwreck, and had alone made her way along the coasts until she turned inland. No one knew. Rheadwyn herself didn’t speak of it; indeed, she rarely talked about herself.
That had been many, many years ago. Like most of the Ertraian people, Rheadwyn did not show many signs of her age, like Melilana, who still appeared as she had in her late thirties, though she was now fifty-five years of age, and Halbyrn, who was five years older, but whose hair was only beginning to be streaked with gray. Rheadwyn herself appeared of indeterminate age, not particularly beautiful in a classic sense, but not unprepossessing, either. She was weather-beaten, with a determined aspect, a hard-edged blade of good sense and hard-earned wisdom, both an accomplished warrior and an able healer. Some of Rowan’s earliest memories were of learning the double arts of warfare and of healing by her side.
After a short while, apparently knowing that Rowan would object to being carried any further, Rheadwyn set him down. Gripping her hand like he normally would his staff, which he had left behind on a whim today, Rowan limped bravely along by her side. Rheadwyn made no comment. From long years of training and working with him, both before and after the accident, she knew both their limits—mental and physical—very well.
They arrived at the main pavilion—the gathering place of all the tribes and kingdoms—at last. Rowan moved to enter, but Rheadwyn stood as still as a stone, holding him back. The young man looked up at her, curiously, for a long moment. Rheadwyn sighed and took a deep breath. “I know you’re eager to see the world outside our borders, to meet new people, but you must be cautious, Rowan. You would do well to remember that some people here will not—and do not—welcome us. Some people here today would as soon stab you in the back as look at you, and you know how particular some of the nobles can be about the rules of primogeniture. You are the Queen’s only child, and were you killed, a named heir would most certainly be an unpopular choice with one group or another. It could mean civil war if an unfortunate so-called accident were to befall you.”
“I’m not defenseless, you know,” Rowan muttered rebelliously. Rheadwyn sighed.
“I know you’re not. That’s not the point.”
“Then what is the point?” Rowan asked, defiantly. Rheadwyn’s eyes glittered angrily, dangerously, but Rowan was too riled up to care.
“For heaven’s sake, Rowan!” Rheadwyn burst out at last. “You fail to recognize your limits—you won’t listen to warnings. What does this rebellion arise from, Rowan? Is it pride? Is it impatience? I never would have taken you for being the type to harbor either! Then again, I never would have thought you a coward.”
“I am not a coward!” Rowan shouted back. Rheadwyn gripped his shoulder, painfully tight.
“Then why can’t you accept the fact that you are only human?” she demanded. Rowan stiffened, but willed himself to speak calmly.
“I don’t want anyone to think that I’m a helpless cripple,” he said.
“All the more reason why you should accept your limitations,” Rheadwyn said softly. “You can’t work around them until you have. I know you’re not weak; so do you. No one would blame you if you were to just give up, but they would pity you. I’m suggesting a slightly different channel for your energy.” Rowan nodded slowly.
“Why is it that, while Adyn can frustrate me, you’re the only one who can actually make me angry, ‘Wyn?”
“Only because you always get me angry first,” Rheadwyn grinned. “You’re quite the pesky little blighter for an Ertraian.”
“So, you get mad at people who aren’t Ertraian?” Rheadwyn laughed and ruffled his hair.
“All the time,” she grinned. “I don’t think you will, though. You only get mad at me—it’s a sign of mental resilience, I guess. Besides, you haven’t gone mad after teaching that rapscallion Adyn for two years, so I’d say you have a good chance of being a very good diplomat.”
“Why do you say that?” Rowan asked.
“Well,” Rheadwyn said, glancing sidelong at the boy, “the world is full of obnoxious bull-headed galoots who need some sense knocked into them, and you—you started at it young.” Rowan burst out laughing, a clear, rippling note like a brook leaping from stone to stone. Rheadwyn grinned and offered him her arm. “Well, shall we?” she asked.
“’Wyn, it’s supposed to go the other way around,” Rowan protested, leaning on the proffered arm nonetheless. Rheadwyn laughed silently.
“Oh, how silly of me,” she said.

They entered the tent to see Halbryn and Melilana already seated at the dais at the opposite end. The queen rose as her faithful retainer appeared, leading her errant son. “You found him,” she murmured in relief.
“Aye, and gave him the scolding that was due,” Rheadwyn replied, winking at Rowan.
“Please don’t do that again, Rowan,” Melilana said, nonetheless. “If anyone had recognized you, realized who you were… I don’t know what would have happened.”
“I don’t think anyone noticed my tartan colors,” Rowan offered helpfully.
“Good,” Melilana replied repressively. “I know our precautions must seem harsh and constricting to you, but you must remember that you are our responsibility and our son. We love you very much, Rowan.” The boy looked down.
“I know,” he muttered, shame-faced.
“I’m just glad to see you’re all right,” Melilana murmured.
“What’s going on, now?” asked Rowan.
“We’re going to be formally introduced to the Elruunian and Arethwyne nobility.” Melilana explained, giving her son an once-over. She slid the catch of his cloak off to one side, straightened his kilt, and sighed. “There. You’re at least halfway presentable. Now, where did you leave your circlet this time?”
“It’s in my luggage,” Rowan muttered. Melilana sighed and sent one of the servants to get it. Once the maid came back, the queen carefully brushed Rowan’s overly-long bangs back from his brow, carding her fingers quickly through the thick waves, then she set the circlet on his head. It immediately slid down to one side, and Melilana pushed it back up, sliding it back until it was satisfactorily still. Rowan stood huffily, arms crossed, through the whole performance.
“That thing hates me,” he said, stone-faced. Melilana carefully centered the filigreed decoration and sighed.
“It’s inanimate, Rowan. It doesn’t have preferences.”
“I don’t like it, then,” Rowan muttered. Melilana sighed.
“I know you don’t,” she said. “Unfortunately, it’s necessary. Come on.” She led Rowan up to the dais. For a while, as they waited, Rowan was distracted by one loosely curling, dark lock that had slipped out from behind his ear, but it did not last long enough to prevent acute boredom from settling in.
At last, there was a fanfare, a brisk beat of drums, and the representatives of the other kingdoms marched in. The heralds followed them in and they seated themselves on the dais, under the banners of their respective kingdoms; the stooping falcon argent on a field verdant for Ertraia, a unicorn rampant argent on a red field for Elruun, and a gold crowned bear on a field argent for Arethwyne. As the herald announced them, the leaders of each nation stood in turn and bowed to the assembly.
“King Archibald and Queen Alana Maroch of Elruun!” the herald cried. The king and queen, an older man and a much younger woman with a faintly worried, peaked face that, had it not held an expression of slight discomfort, unease, and nervousness, would have appeared extremely beautiful, stood. The queen curtsied, and the king bowed gravely. Newly married, Rowan thought. The queen is not quite sure yet of her new station. Most likely an arranged marriage.
“King Seamus and Queen Marena of Arethwyne, and their children Princess Marena Margaret and Princes Gareth, Aaron, and Hamish Dun Fayr!” I didn’t know she had brothers… Lucky lass.
“Queen Melilana Caerlen, King Halbryn Jaentyr, and Prince Rowan Jaentyr Caerlen of Ertraia!”
With a slight struggle, Rowan rose from his seat and made his own bow. He fell back down into the high seat with a tiny sigh of relief. Melilana gave him a concerned glance. Rowan smiled back reassuringly, mouthing “I’m fine.” Halbryn remained standing.
“We are gathered here for the purpose of deciding the future of our kingdoms,” he announced in his fine baritone voice. “Ertraia is here for the first time in over four decades, in the hopes of forming an alliance with the kingdoms of Arethwyne and Elruun.” Melilana stood.
“We also come with a warning. We have kept our borders closed for forty-two years, but even we have felt the repercussions of events in the outside world. We have defended our shores for the past forty-two years against attacks by sea robbers; within, we have faced treason on a scale far higher than ever before in my memory. Our guard on our borders is becoming increasingly strained. In the past week, we received no less than three refugees, none of them magic users. They would not say exactly what they were fleeing from, or where they had come from. We could see the terror in their eyes.
“I remember a time, my lords, when all the nobles of our kingdoms trusted the seers of Ertraia to predict the future, and today I come before you with not only visions, but with material evidence of the dangers that lie ahead. Will you join us in defending our lands?” There was silence for a moment, then Melilana continued, “I do not say that the danger is imminent. I am merely advocating further caution. My lords, our chief reasons in attending this gathering were first, to deliver this warning, and second, to gain the friendship of Arethwyne and Elruun. We are not strong enough to fight these foes on our own, but together we are strong enough to overcome them. Will you join us in the defense? Will you fight with us?”

Margery had stopped listening to the golden-haired queen of Ertraia after she had mentioned the hope for friendship between the kingdoms, to aid in the defense of the land. Her eyes were fixed on the young prince of Ertraia. How had she not guessed that he was not as he seemed? It seemed so blatant, so obvious, now. The prince had been hiding in plain sight. Then, another thought struck her. She knew now why Rowan’s voice had sounded so familiar. It was the voice of the young man who had ordered her to be set at liberty after she had been caught trespassing beyond the Ertraian border. She put her chin on her hand and gazed at him curiously. She had heard time and time again that the royal family of Ertraia had magical powers; she wondered, now, if her friend Rowan was a wizard. He wasn’t at all like she would have imagined a sorcerer to be. She wasn’t offended at all that he had concealed his high birth; if everyone in Arethwyne and Elruun hadn’t known her identity anyway, she would have taken every chance that she could to abandon it, as well. In fact, she had been doing the same thing to him not even an hour ago, though she knew now that he had seen right through her, as he had at their anonymous first meeting.
Eventually, the adults withdrew to one side to continue their discussion of politics and policy, while the young people drew off and out into the open air to allow the servers to prepare the dais and tables for the feast that evening. Margery walked over to Rowan, who was sitting on a tree stump just outside the tent. “Hello again,” she said. Rowan smiled wanly.
“Hello.” he said. “You’ll have to forgive me for not getting up.” Margery shrugged.
“Oh, it doesn’t bother me,” she said. She sat down beside him and studied him for a moment. “So it was you…”
“Yes. But it’s better if we don’t speak of it. Officially, it never even happened.” Margery nodded in understanding.
“So that’s how you knew you’d see me again tonight?” she asked. Rowan grimaced.
“Don’t tell me I forgot to tell you who I was. For one thing, I despise fanfare. For another, my mother would’ve been furious. Besides, I think it’s better not to take who you were born as for granted, don’t you? I’d rather earn my birthright, prove my ability to rule.” Margery was a little startled. Apparently, Rowan took his inheritance much more seriously than she ever had.
“I never thought of it like that,” she remarked. “I… well, mostly I just hate grovelers.” Rowan burst out laughing. He had a nice laugh, Margery thought.
“So, you’re really named after your mother?” he asked.
“Yes. Everyone calls me just Margery, for short. It’s kind of a joke, you see. Mar is short for Marena, while Margery is short for Margaret. So, two birds with one stone.” Rowan gave an odd little smile and said nothing on the subject.
“Marena is a beautiful name,” he said, taking a completely different tack.
“Thank you,” Margery said uncertainly.
“It suits you, too.” Rowan said, looking at her with a critical though not judgmental eye.
“Excuse me?” she said, confused.
“It means ‘maid of the sea.’ You are very like the sea… I think water must be your element.”
“My… element?” Rowan sighed.
“Sorry. Magic theory. Air is my element. I’ve always been able to control the winds,” he explained.
“Can you tell me more about magic?” Margery asked, curious and excited. Rowan thought for a moment.
“Well, I’m currently teaching a five-year-old named Adyn… just the theory for the moment. We don’t want any trouble. No one is allowed to use magic at the accord. But… you could maybe sit in on Adyn’s classes.”
“Sounds like fun!” Margery said excitedly. Rowan shrugged, resignedly.
“Adyn doesn’t think so,” he muttered, then rallied, looking her with a piercing glance that was decidedly disconcerting. “But mind, you’ll be learning things that not many people care to know. You’ll have to be discreet… I’m not even sure I should be teaching you. But… I have a feeling. It doesn’t feel wrong.”
“I can do that,” Margery said, somewhat confused by the boy’s uncanny intuition. He seemed to be able to follow her emotions with startling, even frightening, accuracy. She paused. “So, it’s true that the Caerlen ruling line is made up of wizards?”
“Most have been Wielders,” Rowan replied softly, “and those who were not had the potential to be. They merely chose other paths.” He gave Margery a questioning look. “Something wrong, your highness?”
“Well, no…” Margery stammered. “I just thought… anyone could be a magician.” Rowan looked shocked.
“Well, not everyone has a good singing voice,” he said, as if that were the explanation.
“What has that got to do with it?” Margery asked. Rowan sighed, obviously preparing to give a full explanation.
“You remember how Saint Paul says that different gifts are given to different people, don’t you?”
“Right…”
“And he also said that our responsibilities are in proportion to our gifts?”
“Yes…”
“Thus, those with a magical gift have a responsibility to protect and preserve those who don’t. Also, Saint Paul said that we shouldn’t be envious of others’ gifts, since all of us have different ones. Magic is just another gift, just like anything else. People who don’t have it shouldn’t seek it out. It’s forbidden. It’s dark.” He shuddered. “Let’s talk about something else, please.”
“I never thought of it quite like that before,” Margery admitted. “But isn’t everyone who could be—I mean, who has the potential to be—a magician, trained? I mean, don’t they want to be trained?”
“There are other things than magic,” Rowan replied, “other ways of life. No, not everyone is trained. It’s partly due to resources, and partly because of personal preferences. Some people who could have been powerful Wielders choose to develop their other talents, rather than their natural aptitude for magic. There have been great musicians and healers and bards who could have all been Wielders, but they chose to pursue another path.”
Margery thought this through, then asked, “So, your mother is the ruler?” Rowan nodded.
“Yes. She married my father during the third year of her reign.” Margery looked thoughtful.
“What does your father do, then?”
“He acts as my mother’s chief advisor, is considered the highest diplomat and authority in the realm aside from my mother, deputizes for her, and he’s the commander of the knights and Rangers. He is also the chieftain of Clan Jaentyr, but since I’m the crown prince, he has a named heir, rather than a blood one. Technically, I’m part of my mother’s clan, rather than my father’s. I hope that’s not too confusing,” he added, noting the look on Margery’s face.
“Not really,” Margery said.
“You have three brothers, then?” Rowan asked. “Lucky! I have two foster brothers, and they’re both much older than me.” Margery shrugged.
“You wouldn’t be so enamored of the idea if you had to live with them,” she said. Just then, a tall, handsome young man stepped out of the pavilion and walked across to them.
“Prince Rowan?” he said, bowing, then flashed a charming smile at Margery as he straightened up.
“Tamnar, please, don’t call me by my title. It isn’t necessary,” Rowan said.
“The banquet is ready, your highnesses. They’ll be calling you back in in a few minutes.”
“Thanks for telling me, Tamnar,” Rowan said, grimacing and fiddling with the coronet he now obviously wished he had taken off for a few minutes while they waited for their elders to complete their business. Tamnar swatted his hand away.
“Queen Melilana would have your hide if she knew you were at that again,” he said. Rowan shrugged.
“It wouldn’t make me hate that thing any less.” he said. Turning to Margery, he continued, “Margery, this is Tamnar MacConnor. He’s almost a knight.”
“Not nearly a knight yet,” Tamnar said, bowing gallantly over Margery’s hand and kissing it. “Merely a humble squire.” Margery could feel herself blushing. Tamnar met her eyes; his eyes were large, liquid brown, enchanting. “Rarely does royalty go with such loveliness,” he said. Turning to Rowan, he teased, “You’re not among that number, your highness.” Rowan shrugged indifferently.
“That’s better,” Rowan declared. “I don’t particularly care,” he continued. “It doesn’t bother me.” Tamnar grinned, flashing a line of white teeth.
“Shall I take it further? Take your unprepossessing face out of here, my lord, you’re scaring the babes.”
“Go execute yourself for high treason, Tamnar. I’m too lazy to bother,” Rowan said, obviously trying to keep from laughing, and failing. Margery, somewhat unsettled, tugged Rowan’s sleeve.
“Is everyone in Ertraia like this?” Rowan shrugged.
“Tamnar teases everyone and everything. I once saw him trading insults with a rock. In my opinion, the rock had better comebacks.” He glanced sidelong at Tamnar, who acted as if he had been deeply wounded. Rowan promptly ignored him. “I don’t know why he does it,” he confided. “He just always has. It’s something that not a lot of our people do. Not even Julian teases like that. But you still get used to it, after a while.” Margery nodded, slowly.

Bound to the Flame, Chapter III, Part I

Tags

bound to the flame, works in progress

Finally, we’re on to Chapter III! A big thank you to everyone who’s been following and reading these so far, and sorry for the big gap in posting a while back… “I got lazy” is the only excuse I have. Because c&p is easy. Anyway, here you go!

Bound to the Flame

Chapter III

Part I

Rowan sobbed painfully for breath, drawing in shallow, agonized gasps of sweet air as he sank to the floor, completely spent by the wild outburst. He sprawled on the floor, tears running down his face. Beyond his small bedchamber, doors slammed and feet ran, thundering down the hallways of the castle. The corridors and passages echoed to the banging of doors and the rumble of people dashing this way and that. Fists banged on his door. “Rowan!” “Your highness, are you all right?” “Rowan!”
Rowan slowly lifted his head, not knowing where he found the energy to do it. The air was oppressive in the room, weighing heavily on him. The guttering fire in the hearth gave up the ghost, plunging the room into deep gloom. Still clutching the bed post, Rowan gazed, half-stunned and dazed, across the room, at the door. A heavy bench had been knocked down and hurled across the room by the maelstrom. It was set hard against the door, preventing anyone from opening it, and blocking the entrance. He lifted his hand, distantly, wearily, attempting to summon the strands of loose magic that were still reverberating around the room, but they evaded his grasp. An upsurge of vital, instinctive, animalistic panic welled up in his stomach, but he suppressed it savagely. It didn’t go away entirely, however, and churned nauseatingly, tying his insides into knots, despite his best efforts to control it. He reached down into the magical undercurrent that under-ran the entire visible world, but it, too, was unresponsive, and eluded his grip. Taking a deep breath, Rowan called, “There’s a bench blocking the door on this side. I can’t move it.”
“Don’t try to, then. Don’t over-exert yourself, Rowan!” came Fortaine’s voice from the other side of the door. “Stay where you are. We’ll unblock the door from this side. Don’t try to help. Don’t move, Rowan. Don’t move.” The young knight shouted out a word in a strange language—Rowan recognized it, distantly, vaguely, as a telekinesis spell—and there was a soft but assertive thud as the door shuddered slightly. Tremors radiated outward through the room as pale bluish sparks flickered through the air in myriad bright, yet soft, radials. Rowan shuddered as he felt the magical energy pass through him, as if he wasn’t even there, touching him, but not affecting him. And he was as good as blind to it. He could not touch or manipulate it. With a soft sob, the boy curled up on the floor, withdrawing into himself. He was lost, beyond hope. He was broken.
Ponderously, the hefty bench slowly rolled—rather than floated—over, back into its own right place in the correct corner, righted itself, and thudded down, perfectly still. Melilana and Fortaine rushed in. “Rowan, are you all right? What happened?” Fortaine asked.
“Rowan?” Melilana whispered. Rowan drew his one good leg up under himself, wishing he could hide. His slender form shook. Melilana rushed forward in alarm. She lifted him gently from the floor. “Rowan? What’s wrong? Are you hurt? Are you ill?”
“I can’t touch it,” Rowan whispered, shaking. “I lost control, and now I can’t even touch it!” He sobbed silently, head bent and shoulders shaking. Melilana almost gasped, but by a supreme act of will, she retained her composure.
“Oh, Rowan,” she whispered, softly, desperately wishing she could take the pain away, make it better, with the same ease that she had when he was smaller.
Never again. She could no longer kiss it and make it better. Melilana could feel the tears running down her face. Her sweet son was, for all intents and purposes, crippled, and possibly magic-blind for the rest of his days, as well.
There was no way in the ways of the Wielder or healer that she could fix this.

Rowan snapped awake, fighting for breath, sitting up, his dark hair falling lankly about his face. Rowan gasped, momentarily panicking as he realized that he wasn’t in his room. Then he remembered that they were at the kingdoms’ accord. He lay back on the mat, exhausted. It was only a dream. Only a dream.

Whirling like the storm within, confused, muddy eddies whipped past him. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, didn’t know what to say or do. He was held immobile, as if viewing a far-off battle on some broad scrying pool.
Ships washed up against ghostly shores, broken, their gutted hulls burned, charred. Ancient kingdoms grew and fell, cities were built, and atrophied. It was almost as if all of history was playing out on that unlikely stage. And faster—faster—the tales rushed by at a breakneck pace. The world was spinning far too fast. Rowan’s grip on reality was slipping. Then, the vision stilled, steadied, balanced. Rowan found that he could breathe again. Cautiously, he looked down once more.
Hovering over a yellowed parchment map of all the lands Rowan knew—Ertraia, Elruun, Arethwyne, even Savenera and the wild realm of the northern crags—was a dark pall, something like a cloud, something like a heavy veil, part mist and part phantom. The darkness grew until it was overwhelming. He could feel empty, blank shapes, darker than mere shadow, stalking in the dark, the cold breath of wraiths echoing down the darkened corridors of his mind. He shuddered and pulled away. Distantly, he could see himself walking a narrow, dangerous path along a Cliffside, above a yawning void, along the edge of a precipice. He followed the narrow path through trees that seemed to be closing in; fleshless hands caught and clawed at his clothing and hair, ripping the soft, worn green cloak. Suddenly a net dropped upon him, unimpeded somehow by the thick brush of the woodlands, which seemed to draw away fearfully from its touch. The net weighed him to the ground, and thousands of black crows descended on his head, pecking, attacking, clawing at his face, his eyes…
A black snowstorm of bats whirled up, obscuring his vision, and he fell, his head hitting something hard, painfully hard—stars exploded in his skull, pain roaring behind his eyes…
Rowan snapped upright, panting, startled awake for the second time that night. He was lying on the floor, tangled in the bedclothes, having tumbled off his cot while still in the throes of his nightmare. Rowan swallowed hard, willing his racing heart to slow. The first pale fingers of dawn had not yet begun to drift over the horizon—at least, not just yet—but the night was late, and growing old. The moon had already set, melding its burnished after-glow with the bare gray predawn light of the unborn sun that had not quite begun to peep over the horizon, herald to its glorious source. Rowan took his staff from the place where it had leaned against the tent’s cloth walls in a trembling hand, and went to find Melilana.

He found her sitting by the tiny waterfall at the head of the stream that ran through the camping grounds, praying, before anyone else could get up and the day begin. Rowan often did the same himself. He loved the soft light that shone out just before dawn, the coolness of the air, the soft movements of the wind, the beautiful sweet smells, the hushed twitter of the birds. It was peaceful, and one could pray without having to worry about the day’s interruptions. Before dawn, the world was a whole other place.
Rowan advanced to his mother’s side. Taryn, one of the royal family’s attendants, moved forward to keep him from disturbing her mistress, but he shot her a pleading look and she subsided, letting him go to Melilana’s side.
Laying his staff down on the sward beside him, Rowan knelt by his mother’s side to wait, and silently began his own prayers, closing his eyes and at least attempting to relax. Finally, after some time, Melilana opened her eyes. Rowan, sensing it, did the same. Melilana looked down at her son, concern in her eyes. “What is it, Rowan? Are you unwell?” Rowan sighed and shook his head. Melilana wrapped one arm—unexpectedly strong—about the boy’s slim shoulders. “You’re troubled, sweetheart,” she observed, voice quiet, and charged with faint alarm. Rowan sighed. Melilana bent her head to look him in the eeys. “What is it, love?” Rowan took a deep breath.
“I had… a dream.” he began, his voice disconcerted—and disconcerting, even to his own ears. “A strange dream,” he continued, his voice growing stronger as he spoke. “A vision? Maybe? I don’t know.” He wrapped his arms around himself in an unconscious gesture that, he realized a moment later, must have made him seem much younger than his seventeen years.
“What did you see?” Melilana prompted. Rowan shook his head.
“I don’t know. I didn’t understand most of it. A pall—a dark pall—sinking over the kingdoms. A snare—a net? And crows, or bats. I don’t know which.” Melilana exhaled, slowly.
“If only I could have spared you this,” she murmured, sorrowfully. “I have feared it for a long time, but I prayed that you would not have to bear this burden.”
“Mother?” Rowan asked, uncomprehending, his voice faintly distressed. Melilana drew in a long, deep breath.
“You are a seer,” she said softly. “A prophet. One to whom our good God reveals parts of the future in dreams and visions. He sends them to us as His gift in times of danger and impending doom. They are our bulwark against attack. They are His messengers, His warning.”
“Then there is danger in the future,” Rowan said, half to himself. “But what… what did I see?” he murmured softly. Melilana sighed.
“I do not know,” she admitted softly. “Whether your visions are past, present or future, or a future that will never come to pass, I do not know. God sends us visions for two reasons—to avert a future that should not happen, or to prepare for one that must.”
Rowan would not have admitted it, except, perhaps, to himself, but these words were more ominous to him than he would have allowed any living creature—or person—to think.

Bound to the Flame, Chapter II, Part IV

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bound to the flame, stories in progress

Hello!

Sorry I’ve been remiss in posting this part… Anyway, on with the show!

Bound to the Flame

Chapter II

Part IV

The next morning, the Arethwyne contingent began their ride to the Cremlegged. They were forced to move slowly, to allow the wains to keep up, but Margery did not mind. She enjoyed the scenery as they slowly traveled across the mountains toward the wild no-man’s-land north of Ertraia.
Once, Cremlegged had been within Ertraia, but in the great wars the common folk had wrested it from the magicians, and then, under mysterious circumstances, had fled. No one knew quite why, but there were whispers of a secret fear that no one dared name. It had traditionally been used as a meeting place; after a decade, the terror was forgotten and the people returned to hold their gatherings there.
The Cremlegged itself was an ancient circle of standing stones in the center of a forest, with a single flat stone in the center. No one knew how long it had been there, or who had built it, and no one dared to enter the center of the circle itself. It was thought to be forbidden. Only the fields around it were ever used.
The gathering place at the Cremlegged was crowded, and noisy. Margery looked excitedly about at all the tartan patterns, the heraldry, the hawkers standing about here and there, shouting out the merits of their goods at the tops of their voices; the venders selling hot buns and pies and candy; the minstrels, bards, and wandering troubadours who stood at intervals, singing popular ballads or telling stories from the histories of the various clans. Tents were pitched everywhere in haphazard sprawls, except on the fields specifically kept clear for the games. Indeed, the games were going on right at that moment, interrupted by some half-witted wastrel who was attempting to pitch a tent, smack dab in the center of the field. Margery paused, staring wide-eyed and slack-jawed in disbelief. A moment later, the foolish fellow’s pavilion was summarily flattened by a stray hammer from the hammer throw, and the varlet issued forth in wrath to protect his little castle in the clouds. A loud argument started and turned into a fistfight, which turned into a pitched battle, with the vagrant attempting to hold his own against all comers. Unfortunately, as the fool defended his shelter, two of the games’ marshals crept up behind him, removed his tent, and walked off to one side with it, where they dumped it in a sorry heap of loose canvas and poles on the ground, in a similar state to its dazed master, who, despite all his valiant efforts, had been bested, and now was lying in the middle of the field, alone, dazed, and apparently wondering where his pavilion had vanished to. Margery burst into a hearty laugh. “What an idiot galoot!” she exclaimed, then looked up to notice Marena staring in the same direction, an expression of surprise, amazement, distaste, and perhaps just the tiniest bit of amusement on her face. Margery looked up innocently at her. “A princess does not stare?” she offered, and they both burst out laughing.
“She doesnae chortle,” they chorused, then laughed again. They followed the rest of the clan off, toward their allotted area.
The most organization that was ever done at a gathering was to assign a kingdom an allotment of space to camp in, to keep kingdoms from becoming mixed up and national pride from starting minor wars. Once that was accomplished, the royalty of the kingdom, working with the great lords, would split that assigned area up into clan territories, again, to prevent minor-scale wars and internecine strife. Everyone belonging to a given clan was expected to encamp in their clan’s area, under pain of censure by the marshals and heralds, who were assigned to make sure that everything was kept in a reasonable state of order and running smoothly, and preventing aforesaid minor wars.
As the Arethwyne contingent made its way to its assigned spot, Margery could not stop glancing around in unconcealed excitement and awe. A whole troop of young people her age dashed by, and Margery shot Marena a pleading look. The tall woman smiled in reply. “Go,” she said. Handing Celad’s reins to the nearest servant, Margery raced off into the crowd.

As soon as the Ertraian contingent had settled in, Rowan slipped off into the crowd. He moved briskly, to hide his limp, gazing around in excited wonder at his surroundings. He had never witnessed such an excited bustle in his life before. He wandered among the peddlers and minstrels, the sheer crowdedness and wild panoply of different tartan designs and coats of arms, completely happy. No one looked amiss at his presence; no one seemed to think twice of the fact that there was another person among them. No one noticed that his tartan was the dusky green-and-heather-gold of the Caerlen clan—then again, that might have been due to the cloak he was wearing, the serviceable plain green cloak of the Ertraian nobility. He wandered slowly through the crowd, thoroughly enjoying the sights and sounds.
Suddenly, he found himself very near to the ancient circle beyond the edge of the campgrounds. The woods had enclosed it, hidden it from prying eyes. He had, in fact, wandered further into the woods than he had thought. So afraid seemed all the others of it, that no one else had even entered the virgin forest on that edge of the encampment. It repelled them, but strangely enough, it seemed to call him in; he could not resist its beckoning siren call.
It stood on the crest of a hill, a huge circle of ancient, moss-covered, mouldering gray stones, open to the blue sky above. In the center, a single, flat, black stone rested. It was strangely chilly, even though he was no longer under the canopy of the trees. The sounds of the encampment died away into a chilled hush, a distant murmur; he slowly moved toward one of the stones, his hands raised to it. There was an odd hum in the air. He shuddered, suddenly. All around, there were shapes… moving, coalescing, evaporating, shining faintly in the sudden twilight. These visions had a meaning, he realized hazily, but he could not tell quite what it was, not yet. The sky was suddenly overcast, thunderous, ominous. A chill washed over him and suddenly he was back in his own world, with a cold thrill still running down his back. He realized that he was much closer to the standing stones than any other person had been in a long time, and he slipped back through the forest to melt back into the crowd, slightly embarrassed by his own strange attraction to the place, and wondering what it was that he had seen.
The chill was gone, but not forgotten, a faint memory on the edge of the nimbus of his mind, faintly nagging, clinging to him, calling him back, but he was strong enough to resist the call, though he determined that some time he would have to investigate further. A soft breath of warm spring wind lifted his thick, wavy dark hair, playing with it. He trailed slowly after a group of young people around his own age, content just to watch, not quite yet comfortable with joining in with them.
Suddenly, a young woman bumped into him from behind, accidentally knocking him to the ground. Rowan sprawled ungracefully on the trampled grass, looking blankly up at the few fluffy white clouds in the sky. The young woman offered him a hand up. “I’m sorry,” she apologized. Rowan was a bit startled. It was the young princess of Arethwyne; he recognized her instantly. Regaining his wits, he took her hand and pulled himself to his feet.

Margery could not believe what had just happened. She had physically knocked someone down. She turned, offering him a hand up and an apologetic grin. “I’m sorry,” she apologized. “Are you all right?” He took her hand and stood, albeit somewhat slowly and warily. His grip was stronger than she had expected. Margery sized him up thoughtfully. He was somewhat smaller than most, slim, pale, with thick, wavy dark hair and large, wise, kind hazel eyes. His face was long and somewhat narrow, its sharp lines full of character, with almost elfin features; high cheekbones, a straight, small nose, sharp chin, and an expressive, delicate mouth that gave a vague impression of fragility; yet Margery imagined that he could be very firm. All in all, an interesting if not handsome face. The young man gave her a crooked smile.
“I’ve been hurt worse,” he said. His voice seemed oddly familiar, but she couldn’t place where she had heard it before—soft, yet with a hard edge to it, underneath. Margery offered a quick handshake.
“I’m Margery,” she introduced herself.
“My name is Rowan,” he replied. Yes, Margery thought, he did remind her, vaguely, of a slender tree, raising its humble branches to the sky. His appearance was curiously otherworldly, eerie, ethereal, yet solid, grounded. She studied him, thoughtfully, for a long moment.
“Have you ever been to a Gathering before?” she asked.
“No,” Rowan said. Margery smiled.
“Me neither.” She smiled again. “Are you as excited as I am?” Rowan shrugged.
“I don’t know. How excited are you?” he asked, in all seriousness. Margery burst out laughing. Rowan smiled, a little. “I just wanted to get away from everyone for a bit,” he confessed. Margery sighed.
“Same here. It’s going to be crazy until they get the tents and pavilions all set up.”
“I wish we could slip away into the woods,” Rowan remarked. Margery stared at him oddly.
“Why do you say that?” she asked. Rowan shrugged.
“Well, it’s just that… well, the crowd and the noise—it’s all a bit… overwhelming.” Rowan peered hesitantly from under thick, unruly dark bangs at her, as if he was wondering if she would laugh at him. Margery gave him a sympathetic look.
“Not used to all the commotion?” she asked. Rowan shook his head. Margery smiled. “They are making quite the racket, aren’t they?” she asked. Rowan laughed.
They passed a minstrel, who was relating the deeds of some of the clans in the wars, and paused to listen. After a few minutes, Rowan said, “This is the first time he’s told this story in public, and he’s not quite confident that he’s telling it correctly, not just yet. He shouldn’t worry. He’s doing just fine.” Margery turned to him, astonished.
“How could you tell that? Are you training to be a bard?” Rowan half-grimaced.
“Not really, but I know all the stories very well,” he said.
A tall woman with gray eyes and mahogany hair, wearing a green cloak similar to Rowan’s and tall boots and carrying a long claymore at her side, walked up and put her hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Rowan, we’ve been looking for you,” she said in a tone of quiet reproach. Rowan hung his head. The woman gave his shoulder a reassuring squeeze.
“I’m sorry, Rheadwyn,” he apologized. Rheadwyn smiled, amused.
“Couldn’t resist the pull of the crowd, could you?” she said. Rowan smiled, sheepishly. He followed Rheadwyn as she led him off toward the eastern area, turning for a moment to wave to Margery, his tawny eyes alight, joyful.
“I’ll see you later this evening, Margery. It was a pleasure to meet you.”
“Nice to meet you too,” Margery called before turning to head back to her own family. What had he meant, “I’ll see you this evening”? Margery shrugged and put the thought out of her mind. If he had known something she didn’t, she could ask him herself, later on.

More Artwork

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artwork, bound to the flame, dragons, paint

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Hello, everyone! While I was off my laptop, I did a lot of drawing, and now that I have the …

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Bound to the Flame, Chapter II, Part III

Tags

bound to the flame, original work, stories in progress

We’re back to Rowan in this one. It might be just a tad disturbing, so proceed with caution.

Oh, and this is the first time we meet Rheadwyn, too! 😀

That much said, enjoy!

Bound to the Flame

Chapter II

Part III

                He was burning up with fever, sweating and shivering at the same time. He tried to move, in order to get into a more comfortable position, but as he did so a terrible pain shot through his leg and up his back. He screamed in agony. White-hot lances ran, tingling painfully, through the broken leg and around his spine. Strong hands pinned him down. Panicking, he struggled, regardless of the pain it caused. Where was he? What was happening? He fought the hands that held him down. Why… why was this happening?

                Shadows coalesced in the angle beyond his mind’s reach, pain splintered the visible spectrum into red and black. Horrible light, too bright and yet unilluminating, pierced his eyes. He cried out, twisting his head away, trying to keep the light from piercing his head. That sent the agonizing spikes up his back again, and he gasped. He was trapped in a long dark hall of jagged shards of red, black, and torment. Slowly, he wandered deep in the shadows, wondering if he could ever return. Dimly, he remembered other things, when pain was only a dark dream, a mere terror of the night to be dispelled in the light of morning. It was his only reality now.

                Could he ever come back?

 

                “Keep him still! Keep him still!” Rheadwyn, a knight and healer, shouted over the racket in the sickroom, as she wrung out a damp cloth that she was using in an attempt to clean the injury. Her assistants pinned down the writhing boy to the pallet as she dabbed at the multiple cuts on Rowan’s broken leg. Rowan was crying out in pain, shouting out things that made no sense in his delirium. His breath came in ragged, shallow, painful gasps; he seemed unable to claim enough oxygen.

                Melilana placed a hand on her son’s forehead, her lips moving in a prayer, then a spell. “Isn’t there something we can do about the pain?” she cried out over the cries of pain and shouts of the healers.

                “We’ve tried willow, motherwort, mint even,” Rheadwyn said. “It’s not working. There’s nothing more we dare do, or we risk poisoning him.” Melilana wiped Rowan’s forehead with a clean, damp cloth, in an attempt to bring down the fever. She dabbed at the cut in his cheek that looked like a cross between a T and a backwards J. The injured child gave a low moan of pain. Melilana had to struggle to keep the tears from spilling out of her eyes and rolling down her cheeks. It pained her to see her much-beloved, only son so broken, so weak and ill.

                Rowan’s tawny dark hazel eyes opened momentarily. They were distant, unfocused. Melilana reached out and found the long, slim, elegant hand, now flaccid and feeble, that was draped like a sad pennon over the side of the bed. Rowan’s large, dark, tawny eyes were limpid, deep, unfocused, undirected, chill pools that led to unknown depths. Rowan drew in a sharp breath and moved restlessly. “Hold him! Keep him still! Don’t let him injure himself further!” Rheadwyn shouted. Melilana gripped her son’s limp hand and gazed him in the eyes. She saw only fear, terror, confusion, pain. While Rowan’s broken body lay in one place, his mind was in another entirely, walking dark avenues where no one else could follow, distant, far away, alone, struggling to comprehend. Rowan gasped out several more prhases and words that didn’t make sense. He writhed in pain, shuddering as if he was enduring more torment than simply that of his injured leg and broken body. Melilana was suddenly, sharply and horribly reminded of the scare stories she had heard from time to time. Mind torture! But of course, that was impossible, beyond imagining. Mind torture came under the label of dark magic, the occult, no matter who exercised it, how, or for what reasons; no matter the circumstances, it was always morally wrong, and as such, it was banned. Melilana banished the unpleasant thought from her mind and returned her attention to her ailing son. She felt for a single, strange moment as if she was drowning in the boy’s eyes—eyes eerily like her own. Melilana pushed the feeling away and turned her full attention and focus toward helping Rowan.

                “My lady,” Rheadwyn murmured, sotto voce, edging a little closer to the queen, “may I have a word, please?”

                “Of course,” Melilana replied, her lips scarcely moving, sensing that Rheadwyn meant a word that was at least reasonably confidential.

                “Please, I want you to feel Rowan’s injury out. I’d rather not rely on simply my own judgment alone in in a matter as grave as this.” Melilana nodded. She lifted her hand above the boy’s ailing body and murmured a spell under her breath. She was hard put to effectively contain and hide both her shock and horror. “It feels as if there’s some sort of dark magic ‘shroud’ that’s repelling our best efforts at healing magic. It’s almost as if the injury itself is resisting our healing.”

                Rheadwyn nodded, grimly. “That’s the sense I was getting, too,” she said. “Now, if only we knew how or why… if this had been a wound I would have almost said he was attacked with a weapon that had had his name tied to it…” Melilana shuddered as she thought of the dark magic ritual, in which the evil magician would call on the name of the Evil One, cursing the weapon to be the bane of their worst enemy, and whispering the enemy’s name to the blade six times to bind the charm. “It seems too directed for a simple curse, generalized curse,” Rheadwyn mused, rubbing her chin. “And yet, from what Julian said, the injury was likely caused by a fall from his horse, and possibly the horse also falling and landing on him, or rolling onto him. I don’t know how a healing-resistant injury could be caused in that fashion.” She glanced down at Rowan. “He’s fortunate that it wasn’t his back that was broken, and it’s a mystery to me how he traveled anywhere on his own in that condition.”

                “Guardian angels,” Melilana said succinctly, eliciting a wan smile from her friend’s face. Even though she was a powerful enchantress, Rheadwyn often confined her active beliefs to what she could see and hear, and though she did believe in the supernatural she didn’t remind herself of the fact very often.

                “Indeed,” the healer, Ranger and knight murmured in reply.

Bound to the Flame, Chapter II, Part II

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bound to the flame, original work, stories in progress

More from Margery’s point of view. Like her much? ;-P Recognize her family? 😛

Bound to the Flame

Chapter II

Part II

                Excited children dashed through the courtyard of Arethwyne Castle. Margery dodged between the children of two rival nobles, who were busily playing tag, paying no attention to anything but their own game. The whole castle was a-bustle with excitement at the prospect of the promised novelty at the kingdoms’ gathering. Servants gossiped like hens in a henhouse as they busied themselves about, far more industrious than normal, and far more eager at their work than they had been in many days. Margery hurried past them and made her way up into the castle, to her own chambers.

Once there, Margery helped her maid pick and choose which dresses to pack, then changed into an old, mistreated, thread-bare tunic that fell to her knees and a pair of slightly less worn leggings in preparation to run down to the stables, to see the great wains prepared. The armorers, too, were busy at their forges, plying their craft; Margery could hear them through her window. She knew the fletchers were, at that moment, preparing quiver upon quiver of precious new arrows; she loved to watch them at work. Margery paused as she walked through the solar, glancing up at the new tapestry which she and Marena had been working on together since the previous winter. Decorated with the Arethwyne arms around the edges, at the center it displayed a humorous vignette of Margery and her father, both laughing, with crossed swords, and Marena and the three boys watching. Margery giggled. They had begun designing it after she, Seamus, and the boys had practically destroyed Seamus’ new throne in a very involved, wild sword fight that had somehow mutated into a pitched battle.

After looking at the tapestry for several long minutes, Margery ran out into the bright sunlight outside. She dodged between the tag players again; avoided young pages, who were engaged in banging each other on both heads and shields with wooden swords; inept young archers shooting at invisible, debatably nonexistent popinjays; four young squires playing tourney, with one of the boys in each team sitting on the other’s shoulders and jousting with wooden shields and blunt poles and the carriers running hard at each other. The game summarily ended when both “steeds” simultaneously decided that they had had enough and charged straight at each other, colliding and throwing both the “knights” off in a violent crash. The “horses,” who were relatively unhurt, promptly dumped their tormentors on the ground and cantered off, chuckling with glee. Margery paused for a moment to laugh at the ditched and discomfited “riders,” then went on.

The whole kingdom was treating it as a festival, of sorts. Doubtless, they were motivated at least partly by curiosity, but a gathering of any sort holds a certain charm and excitement of its own. Many of the common folk and all of the great nobles were preparing to attend, and there was a certain excitement in the air, which thrilled all the youngsters in the castle.

Margery stepped out of the crowd and into the stables. Celad greeted her with a soft nuzzling, and she took his curry-comb and began to rub him down with it. She paused for a moment, wondering why she hadn’t asked Marena if she could ride Celad on the way to the accord before. She sighed, finished currying Celad’s glossy coat, pulled down new straw for him, and refilled his water trough. She sighed again and prepared to brave the crowd once more. Might as well ask Marena now…

A hand placed sharply on her shoulder made Margery jump. She spun around, defensively, then heaved a sigh of relief. It was only her mother.

“Would you find your brothers and bring them here for me, Margaret?” Marena asked, her voice deadly serious. “I have something to tell all four of you that is for your ears alone.” Margery nodded, catching on to the evident gravity of the situation immediately. She slipped out of the stables and back into the throng.

Dashing in between two sword-fighting squires and weaving in and out of small knots of men-at-arms. Margery rushed through the crowd. She found Gareth and Aaron in the armory and sent them on ahead; a deeper search revealed Hamish in the library, doing further research on the Ertraian people. Noting the title of the tome he had been engaged in, she hurried him out of the library and back down to the stables. They all met up with Marena in Celad’s stall. Under the pretense of currying the horse and feeding him carrots (Celad looked very pampered and blissfully happy,) the young princes and princess listened as their mother outlined her concerns and delivered her warning.

“While I think that most people are merely curious about the Ertraians,” Marena began, “there will, more than likely, be some who will wish to do them harm. You must be careful, Margery, Gareth, Aaron, and Hamish. If there is an outbreak of violence, that could very well mean a declaration of war. I don’t want you to seek out trouble, but if you overhear someone planning something, it is no less than your duty to warn them. If you have a mere suspicion or bad feeling, ask me first, but if there is no time your first concern should be saving lives. You must not risk an outbreak of fighting. We want this to run smoothly, and the Ertraians are reputed to be very civil—there is no belligerent, cheerful animosity between clans as there is with us. They do not maintain a friendly rivalry; they do not have ‘fun’ little skirmishes between the clans as we do. If the other kingdoms and clans have their little rivalries, that’s fine, but the Ertraians must be left out of it. They may very well be edgy and nervous, so be discreet.” Margery noded.

“I understand, Mum,” Gareth said with unusual solemnity.

“As do I,” said Aaron. For proof of his sincerity, Hamish merely held up his tome of records and annals. Marena wrapped her arms around all four of them gratefully.

“Thank you. I’m glad to hear that.”

Bound to the Flame, Chapter II, Part I

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bound to the flame, original work, stories in progress

Whew! Sorry it took so long, but you all heard about my accident with my laptop…

Enjoy the post! 😀

Bound to the Flame

Chapter II

Part I

                As soon as they reached the border, the masked and cloaked men returned Margery’s weapons, then their leader saluted her formally. Margery was about to bow in response, but before she could do so, the Ertraian guards had melted away into obscurity, vanishing into the green and brown of the deep forest. Feeling somewhat bewildered and more than a little ethereal, Margery turned Celad’s head down the glen and guided him slowly along the trails, back toward Arethwyne’s castle.

She crossed a stream on the way back, and paused to drink from it. She had set out before dawn, and now it was almost evening. She was starving, despite the fact that her honor guard had shared their luncheon with her on the march. Margery stooped and dipped her cupped hands into the flowing water, then drank. She remembered the day she had gone to Shaara and drunk from the Spirit Falls; no easy feat, as the falls were so high that the water fell in clouds of wind-driven spume and evaporated into droplets of misty spray long before it could fall into the river below. The only way to drink from the Fall itself was to climb one of the fingers of the Mirror Hand, or the jagged rocks of the cliffside itself. She had climbed the Forefinger, reputedly the most challenging climb, and the hardest to scale safely. She drew herself slowly from her reminiscences and threw one leg over the saddle. Nodding to Celad, she flicked the reins and the horse cantered off. She was lost in thought for the rest of the way home, and it was not long—or at least, it did not seem like long—before she was riding over the bridge that leapt from side to side of the mountain chasm in a single, majestic spring and onto the paved road to her father’s castle. The red, golden, and gray-blue shades of evening were beginning to fall as she cantered up to the gates and into the courtyard, taking just a moment before leading Celad to the stables to gaze back out of the gates at the glorious blossom of the sunset across the mountains. Then, she dismounted from Celad’s back and led him back to his stall, pulling down some hay and oats to feed him. She marched briskly up the path to the castle, entering through the kitchen door, walking through the kitchens and making her way up to the solar, where her family was eating dinner. Marena Dun Fayr, Queen of Arethwyne and Margery’s namesake and mother, rose to her feet and embraced her only daughter. “And how is my sweet little lass this evening?” She pulled a leaf out of Margery’s hair, laughing softly. “What did you do today? Did you rescue some poor cottager in distress? Did you follow the Agra to its sources?”

“Nothing that exciting, Mum,” Margery said, smiling and hugging back. “I just did some exploring.”

“Did you eat lunch?” Marena asked next.

“No, and yes,” Margery hedged. “I didn’t bring anything along with me, but I picked it up along the way.”

“Mmm.” Marena remarked, as if she wasn’t sure whether she should be pleased or displeased. “You thanked them properly for it, I hope.”

“I did.” Margery affirmed. Marena sighed.

“Well, at least I know you did learn something from me,” she said. Margery giggled, then covered her mouth with her hand.

“Sorry,” she said. Marena smiled, half-wistfully, and straightened up.

“Well, you’re probably starving again, so let’s eat before you faint from hunger.” Margery made a face; Marena laughed. “Of course you’re not that frail,” she said, laughing. “Did I tell you yet, Margery—we’re to meet at Cremlegge for an accord with the kingdoms of Elruun and Ertraia?” Margery’s head came up in an instant.

“Ertraia? Haven’t they been isolated for forty or fifty years?”

“Forty-two,” Marena said. “And no one really knows what to expect from the Ertraian clans—all we know about them is old hear-say—so I will expect you to be on your best behavior—you too, boys,” she added sternly, glaring at the three young men who sat on the other side of the table. The eldest, Gareth, grinned, mischievously.

“When are we ever not?” he asked. Margery groaned, rolling her eyes.

“Oh, maybe… all the time.” Gareth went on grinning like a mad rabbit.

“Oh, wait. You’re right,” he said, completely unconcerned. Aaron sniggered mischievously.

“We’ll remember that when we’re filching all the pies.” he said, nudging the youngest, Hamish, who gave one of the servants his best innocent, wide-eyed, melting look. “Then again, we may not need to.” Aaron added. Their father, Seamus, gave them a repressive look.

“Boys,” he scolded. Margery laughed, in spite of herself.

“You rascals,” she said. Gareth gave up on his mischief at a withering look from Marena.

“What do we know about Ertraia, Mum?” he asked.

“It’s been very isolated, though they probably had no choice but to be so,” Marena said. “What with the war over sorcery going on…”

“Mum, I’ve never really understood why people resent the Ertraians,” Hamish piped up suddenly. “I mean, they’re supposed to be very inoffensive folk, who keep to themselves quite a bit, but are a generally pleasant lot. True, they’re secretive, but they don’t cause any harm, and they don’t attack innocent folk randomly like some of the robber barons do. Why do some people abjure and molest and libel them so?” Marena passed the plate of sliced roast lamb to Margery as she replied to her son’s question.

“Well, to answer your question, Hamish, I’ll have to go back on history, and it’s a rather long and tangled story.”

“Ah, we don’t mind that, Mum,” Hamish said.

“And I want to hear it too,” Margery decided.

“So do I,” added Aaron. Gareth grinned.

“I’m always up for a good story,” he said.

“Go on, tell them, love,” the king said. Marena sighed, fidgeting with the napkin in her lap.

“Well, a long tale it may be, but for your sakes I will try to keep it from being tedious. That said, you may not like this tale much,” she warned. “It’s rather sad in parts, and it’s not yet complete—we don’t know all of what happened—but I think you should all know it. It would help you to understand exactly what is going on between our kingdoms today, and how we got where we are now. It’s a piece of our history that we hesitated to tell you before now, since it’s dark and disturbing—” Marena had the children’s full attention now, even Gareth’s—“but I think you are all ready now. By any measure, it’s certainly time you all knew the full story.” Marena took a sip from her glass of water and began.

“Years ago, there was such a thing as… magic in the land. There were magicians and sorcerers. Magic was known in our kingdoms, and it was widely and freely used. Wizards were held in high regard by people of every clan and walk in life; they were healers and protectors of the land, and the greatest of all the enchanters all came from Ertraia. It was the best place to pursue the study of magic, and the Ertraian royal family was not the least among the wizards of Ertraia. By the order of Clan Caerlen, the White Council was formed to regulate and oversee the study and use of magic, creating the rules in place at the time of the Great Peace. Any transgression was met with swift, decisive, and just retribution.”

“I don’t understand,” Margery interjected. “If the Ertraians were trying to promote the safe and legitimate use of magic, then why are people distrustful of the Ertraians and willing to attack them on the slightest provocation? Weren’t they the good guys?”

“Patience, Margery,” Marena said, smiling both wistfully and proudly at her daughter, happy with the knowledge that Margery had been listening to the tale thus far, but not yet having completed her explanation. “I haven’t told you the whole story yet, now, have I?” Margery flushed and hung her head. Marena lifted her daughter’s chin with one finger and smiled at her. “Have you not heard the proverb that history is written by the victors?” she asked. That had Gareth’s full attention in an instant—for once in his life.

“They were at war?” he asked, interestedly.

“Well,” Marena began again, “for many years, there was peace, and the magicians used their talents to help others, to protect the weak. Then, something changed, and a splinter group of heretical magicians turned on the White Council. They demanded to know why it was that they were not ruling the land. ‘Our duty is to service and leadership,’ said the head of the Council in reply, ‘not power and domination, and certainly not power for its own sake.’ In a rage, the dissenting magicians left the Council and their Order. They declared war on the Faithful, their brothers. Many innocent people were caught in the crossfire. Eventually, a third group, made up of ordinary people, in retaliation for the deaths of normal people, made war indiscriminately on both factions of magicians alike, despite the fact that on the one side the magicians were doing their best to protect the innocents, though the other could not care less. Many were killed; the wizards were almost wiped out. Ertraia, whose royalty has time out of mind been gifted with magic, offered a safe haven to magic users, provided that they swear a solemn oath to never use dark magic, on pain of death. Due to the fact that they still use magic and shelter others who use it, many people, not forgetting the casualties in the war, do not trust them, disliking as they are of all wizards and enchanters, both dark and light magic users alike. Ertraia has had, by necessity, to close its borders to many, and has become very isolated. They do not permit outsiders within their borders often anymore, and few that enter ever return, and this is the first gathering of the kingdoms and clans that they have agreed to attend in forty-two years.”

“If they’re so isolated, Mum,” Aaron asked, helping himself to seconds, “how did they hear of the gathering in the first place?”

“They do not allow outsiders to enter Ertraia itself,” Marena stressed, “except in very rare cases, in which case a supplicant must wait at certain points on the border for some high official or one of their patrols to meet with them and take them within the borders. Messengers, too, may come to those same points on the borders to deliver messages. At no time does anyone cross the borders unless they have a death wish. Besides, I dare say they have other ways of gathering information.”

“What are their life-ways like, Mum?” Hamish asked. “Do you know?”

“I only know what I’ve heard, old stories and such,” Marena said. “Their nation is rather less formal than ours in some ways, and stricter in others, from what I have heard. They do not make idle show, do not stand on ceremony as much as we do, and consider pageantry both pointless and tasteless.”

“Good,” Margery said, before she could catch herself. Seamus guffawed.

“There sits a lassie who balks not at all to speak her mind,” he laughed. “Is she not a treasure, Marena?” The queen hesitated for a moment, then she joined in her husband’s laughter.

“She is our most precious, beloved treasure,” Marena said, smiling. Margery blushed.

“I’m glad they don’t let riches blind them, I mean,” she explained. “There have been bad wealthy men. It’s not the wealth. It’s how we use it.” Marena smiled and nodded.

“Indeed. You have a rare wisdom that can not be taught, sweetheart.”

“So, can I wear my less formal dress?” Margery followed it up swiftly. Marena looked shocked for a moment, then she laughed.

“As long as you wear your nice dress when necessary, and certainly at the feast, then I don’t see why not,” she said.

“What else about them?” Margery continued, pouring herself more milk.

“As I said before, they do not often stand on ceremony, but they consider courtesy a great virtue. They are pleasant and soft-spoken, but not weak-willed; not much given to boisterousness or loquaciousness. Honesty is as important to them as it is to us. Storytelling is highly valued among them, especially when it involves the clans’ history, and education is more advanced than in most kingdoms outside Ertraia. This is when your hard-earned lessons in diplomacy, history, and literature prove useful, Margery.” Margery sighed. She wasn’t much of a scholar, preferring to learn on the spot, or to pursue less bookish avenues of knowledge.

“I’ve never been to an accord before,” Margery said, excitedly. “What will it be like?”

“Well, you’ll mainly be expected to interact with the young people of the other kingdoms, and discuss some of the issues that the older people will be dealing with—not that you’ll have to necessarily get that bit done—it depends on the others’ moods.” Marena sighed. “It’s been a long time since there was an accord of this size… If there’s another young prince or princess who shows interest in national matters there, I’ll be pleasantly surprised. He or she would be one to watch.” Marena’s eyes were distant. Margery edged a little closer to her mother.

“Mum? What is it?” Marena shook off her reverie.

“Nothing, darling. If you’re done eating, then you should begin your preparations… that is, if you actually want a say in your own packing.”