The Dream of Embers

By J.B. Kleynhans

Following the death of its last great King, the dominion of Attoras falls into the care of Shala of Evrelyn, a living vessel of the light of Seluin. The young ruler is soon confronted by the scavengers of Kingdoms, hoping to put their own pretender on the throne, Shala finding herself at odds with creatures from deathly realms and more. But from the shadow of the Black Mountains warriors of a lost order rise to protect her right to the throne, and with them come a host of conspiracies that have dogged the west, and a reminder that all roads might yet lead to the Dream of Embers, where the ultimate sacrifice is demanded.

• Language: English
• Publisher: J.B. Kleynhans
• Release date: Feb 24, 2021
• ISBN: 9781005412777

Book preview

Prologue

It was in near darkness that Shala disturbed the waters. There she waited at the pool edge, as a lone bird cry beckoned dawn. At its first promise she stripped naked, slipping from a white gown that fell discarded in her wake, and never losing her grace, waded dutifully into the cold waters, where the sacred stream of Seluin came tumbling from snowy peaks.

Further in and the water drew level to her breasts, her nipples stiffening. Unforgiving came the cold embrace, to which she closed her eyes in search of strength, willing her thoughts into the ancestral dream of Evrelyn to go looking for it. Her face was stony then. Her hair dragging on the surface. Her features bleak.

The worthy dwell here.

All warmth leaving her she did her best not to shudder or shiver, wanting to show no weakness before the mountain. Yet slowly, involuntary movements crept up her body all the same, afraid that the tiniest tremor might displease the spirits of a lost order.

The strong linger in places where others cannot. She held onto the thought and reflected on the place where she stood. This enclosure was sacred. The pool a site of faith tested. But nothing was as discouraging as a voice not heard and acts not seen. She tried to hold onto what strength she could.

Thoughts of doubt crossed her mind all the same and they would not leave her without having their say, the cold water stabbing at her sides and leaving her numb. The Wolves are long dead, tremble all you like, you are alone in your petty ritual.

A harsh wind had come down the mountain the night before, hurtling through snow-laden passes with a howl that reminded the north of those who once walked the ranges of Dunnoom. Its ghostly fury was their dead echo and stirred up memories of fear and awe that were waited out by friend and foe alike. Smoke billowing chimneys told of people huddling around a fire, and maybe some of them rekindling tales of the Savage Art, as they listened to the howl of the Mountain, the Spirit of Dunnoom. Late in the night, when the white moon had danced among the clouds for hours, the wind finally abated, the world holding its breath.

Come dawn the sun crested the horizon slowly, illuminating the castle of Attoras, nestled at the rocky foot of the Black Mountains, the morning air crisp. Where the slope allowed for such things was kept the secret enclave with its pool as smooth as a mirror, hidden behind the castle and out of sight from town. The waters there had iconic white pillars circling its boundary, a low icy mist still clinging to its surface.

Higher up, an old keep long abandoned rested far above the castle of Attoras, built in secret and obscured by folds of heaven high spires of rock. Throughout the year blizzards pummelled the peaks with snow, barricading its surroundings in white mounds. From the foot of the keep's gate spilled the water freshly thawed, following natural mountain channels to down below, until they gently lapped from the lip of the pool stoneworks in a serene curtain.

The mightiest of Attoras’ warriors once resided in that keep, and bathed also in the waters even as Shala did now, cleansing themselves of weakness and doubt. They were once the Wolves of the Black Mountain, infamous and renowned, having passed from this world without a whisper as to their fate.

Of that once great power only the waters remained, pure and untainted, perpetually rolling and bubbling over every other rock on the way down, a trail of a thousand tiny waterfalls, said to take upon itself the strength of the mountain as it did, delivering to those who could dare into the cold the strength of Dunnoom and renewing a faithless heart. The pool in which Shala stood was where the water finally came to rest, there to provide a crippling test, reducing one and all to nothing but the power of their will.

‘Open your eyes, Princess,’ said deBella suddenly, the handmaiden, her usually warm demeanour as cold as the water. deBella wandered the enclave with a heavy amphora in her hands, her shoes tapping lightly on the white porcelain tiles around the pool. ‘Look up into the mountain and hold to your dream. Embrace the cold.’

I must be strong to rule in his stead, she thought, as she looked up at the mountains dappled in the early blue of day.

But her enemies were pressing, many of them living right here in the castle and using their fealty to the crown as a guise to sabotage Shala’s birthright. They were King’s men in name only, for they desired no heir from Evrelyn. It was only here that she truly escaped them, in the privacy of an ancient ritual, where she suffered in the cold. The castle is supposed to be my birthright.

‘Turn your thoughts away from this place child,’ said deBella knowingly.

Shala obliged for her own sake, losing focus meant the cold became overwhelming.

deBella moved closer to impart the last of the test. Standing right above Shala, deBella turned the amphora over and spilled the icy water on Shala’s head, her thick dark hair instantly rendered darker still and plastered to her face. She did not wince or gasp, but inhaled deeply through her nose to warm the air in her lungs, as the new shock of cold left her breathless.

‘Strengthen yourself child or you will die!’ urged deBella.

In the serenity of the dream she called the magic, the familiar power of Evrelyn, the healing hands of the King. Gently it bubbled within her, and it kept dangers of the cold away.

Seeing the change in her deBella said, ‘Good child, the discipline of your mind must become a fine edge cuts through all distractions, which does not waver in the face of many.’

Like the Wolves, who never wavered faced with many foes, thought Shala, clinging to any resemblance she could possibly have with their once mighty order.

Using the stinging discomfort to slay all intrusive thoughts, Shala brought her mind to the keep sitting high in the mountains among a veil of clouds, its foundation built over a waterfall. Half awake and yet halfway into slumber the family of Evrelyn could walk in this dream and summon powers inherent to them. It was a welcoming place, but for its nature it reminded her of death and what follows afterwards. In the foremost of her thoughts came her father’s note, a passage he had written on his deathbed.

Here, I sign the death of my House, but not yet the end of all things. He wrote.

What say had you in the fate of the world Father?

But she feared she knew the answer, and that whatever her father had failed at she must now accomplish. He would expect that of her, and for him, she would do it, lovingly.

Aveno-

A spell of light. In the mode of Seluin. A hearkening to life, for what the eye yearns and makes the heart leap. What soothes and spurs on mending, driving back the darkness. All the world patient for it, for there is nothing else without it.

Chapter 1

A Desperate Plan

In a different time and place Shala walked along a dirt road, wandering blissfully in a memory of her youth. In the blessed forests of Norwain a tall man walked at her side. His face had the look of wisdom, but didn’t tell of age, with longish hair that made curls and extraordinary green eyes visible below the hood of his cloak. His kind dressed like rangers or hunters out on the road, fading along with the browns, greens and greys of the wood, a longbow slung over the shoulder at all times. The outfit was very humble, except for a small marvellous stone worked into the palm of a thick leather glove on his right hand. By now Shala knew the crystalline stone had nothing to do with vanity.

The man's name was Metrus and he called himself one of the Druids of the Grove. He was a close friend to the Kingdom, and an even closer friend to the ruling House of Evrelyn. In all ways he was a tutor to Shala, teaching her of the world and of dreams, and at this time point in time: of woodcraft and trailblazing.

‘Do not stray from the path Shala,’ he said to a Princess that struggled to keep close at hand. He called her by name here in Norwain, the sacred grove not partial to titles of men.

‘But how will I pick up the trail if I don’t go searching?’ she said, looking through the wildflowers in her hands she had stooped to poach.

‘The land takes a quick plunge not far from here, and you’ll not see your own tumble until it is too late because of the undergrowth. Besides, you won't find trails looking for flowers; unless they are trampled by a hoof, which these certainly are not,’ said Metrus with a smile.

Shala blushed guiltily, her mind far from stalking any prey today. Metrus took a step closer to her and put his fingers lightly on the flowers in her hand. He mumbled, and there was the slightest hint of light from his bejewelled glove. Taking his hand away Shala looked on eagerly as the stringy stems of the flowers curled and twisted, forming around her wrists like bracelets. The petals themselves came into fullness if not already so, and their colour became as bright as they could ever be, their scent wafting pleasantly. ‘There, in all ways, a true blossoming,’ said Metrus.

Shala smiled, both at the flowers and his observation.

‘How is your magic so different from my own? You seem to own all the tricks I could hope to have.’ And this was the least Shala had seen the man accomplish. At times he would sing, in a fair voice much different from his usually husky tone and in response all the flowers would turn to him like he was sunshine itself, winds whirling low and gentle to distribute unspent pollen, and everything would bloom and grow.

‘You belong to a different domain child. You do not dwell in dreams as we Druids often do, but still you touch it, still you are at least familiar with the dream of Evrelyn, the kingly house of healing.’

Shala frowned.

‘It is the dream of the old keep, its foundation bridged over a great waterfall in the mountain. You’ve seen this before?’

‘Yes!’ said Shala, having had this dream upon many nights. ‘How could you know?

‘It is a dream well-known and shared by all your ancestry, and when your spirit is welcome in that place, you may draw into this world the power of your House, the healing hands as it is.’

‘Can I visit this dream at will? So that I may walk the paths and see what lies beyond those gates and all?’ asked Shala.

‘No child, and do not attempt it! Dreaming like that where you wander the places of your ancestors is akin to standing with one foot in life and the other in death, and you are much too young for that. The strongest of magi are all but dead, their eyes glazed over and their ears deaf to the nonsense of men, doing their wonders in this world, but their minds already abiding in another.’

Shala took stock of what the Druid said, seeing a pair of butterflies orbiting one another as they flew past, and a question formed in her mind.

‘So the caterpillar dreams also?’ she asked, hoping to test the Druid.

Metrus smiled as if he knew what the Princess was trying to do. ‘In a way, but their dream is elementary and inevitable, and its blossoming is a constant of nature. If it does not blossom and become a butterfly, then something is wrong in the balance of things. Blossoming for mankind is something else entirely, for the old blood has grown thin, and we are too in love with our world to spend too much time dreaming.’

‘Naceus says you can shape into an eagle, and I’d not believe it, save that you often arrive far faster than a horse can run. Is that blossoming?’

‘Scholar Naceus tells you too much. And you deduce too finely,’ he said with a laugh, ‘but while it is among friends, yes; I blossom at times to become an eagle, and soar above all that is part of Attoras.’

Shala smiled broadly at the idea, clasping her hands together. ‘Will I blossom to become something one day?’

‘Most assuredly Highness, and it is no secret, you will blossom into an even more beautiful woman, and in time become a beloved Queen of the Kingdom.’

Shala blushed. ‘That’s not what I meant.’

‘What is it that Scholar Naceus always taught you, whenever you chided him for giving a hundred answers for a single question?’ asked Metrus, already familiar with the answer.

‘Life is all about asking the right questions…’ she repeated dully, as though the old Scholar had drilled it into her. ‘Was my question so horrible then?’

‘Not at all. But what becomes of men and women who blossom are not all as benign as me turning into an eagle. And therefore, I would not talk of it today.’

‘I am much tougher than you think, you know. You don't have to hide things from me.’

‘I know,’ he said, keeping that patient smile throughout.

‘I don’t understand what Naceus is getting at though, it doesn’t sound that important. A question is a question, isn’t it?’

‘It is hard to explain that which is taken for granted, I agree. But one day you will understand it; you will learn that it is the kind of question that gives shape to all things unclear, that steer our course, tell things for the way they are or what they can be, that reveals purpose, and that folds open truth, holds you to your own and reveals truths others try to hide.’

A seventeen year old Shala tried to absorb as much if it as she could, feeling a difference of age as Metrus was speaking of intricacies that had not yet crossed her road. ‘Father taught me that as long as I’m true to myself I’ll be able to dream of the waterfall in the mountain, the Icy Falls as they call it.’

‘That is true and relevant. Like your ancestry it’ll give you strength all of your life. Like the Grove provides for me as long as I represent its collective will.’

‘And each dream is like a world?’

‘Somewhat. But the same thread runs through all dreams, both through yours and that of the Archendal, or the Dey'illumra.’

‘But they are... evil,’ protested Shala when hearing the names of those factions, although never having found Metrus to utter things he had not clear knowledge of.

‘Yet a dream would ask questions of us, which we could not answer if we had not asked ourselves. Tested ourselves. We are defined thus. And the dream of your ancestry would not suffer any who have gone as impure as your enemies. Within the dream is elementary purpose for those that share it, but the purpose only comes to those true to themselves.’

‘How would I test myself if I do not know the purpose?’

‘The dream of Evrelyn runs in your bloodline. As does your powers, the healing hands, which are there for the betterment of all nations. You already know your purpose as a carrier of the light: a shield for the sick and the weak. You must cherish this, because one day our world might very well be without the gifts given by the Benevolence, as they certainly return to the source.’

‘The source?’

‘To the great Dream itself, to our best estimation, the vast realms beyond life and death, the origin of all magic, that watch over us even when cannot stare back, and that dwarves even that which we think is great.’

Metrus suddenly took pause, as though he had remembered something important, or came to a realization. ‘I am surprised that you've returned to this time, with what's going on. I wonder, is it you that needs wisdom from this day, or me? What is it Shala, what is wrong that we are walking this path again?’

Shala had stopped, drinking on the Druid's words, staring at Metrus as he lifted his hood just enough so that his wise green eyes met hers, his gaze capturing her as he spoke solemnly:

‘Do not fear dreams. It is life itself that is so very fragile, hanging like a droplet of water from the edge of a cold blade, there but for a moment, threatening to fall and end it all. Knowing that it would fall and return to its source. Everything like a dream, just on the verge of waking up...’

II

Shala woke abruptly, head coming up from the table surface. Taking a moment, she was glad to realize that she was alone in the library, where sleep had clearly overtaken the fascination for the book she had been reading. There'd been a dream.

And thinking hard, she tried to pin down the details before it could slip from recollection. It had been vivid. A memory in fact, where she had spent a summer two years ago on the borders of Norwain forest, learning the craft of the wild from Metrus the Druid.

On that day their discussion had turned to the nature of her dreams, where the power of Evrelyn came from. Of course all of Attoras knew of the healing hands of the King and his House, more life-giving and generous than any other with gifts of healing. How the power abounded from a blood-line dream however was a mystery sometimes even to the practitioners.

She could not imagine why this memory surfaced now, not when so many other matters were troubling her. Maybe her mind was in search of gentler times? she thought, holding onto that last moment of bliss a shapeless dream would give.

She looked at the pages of the book before her, a slight fold set in the paper where her head had rested on her arms. She smoothed it out. It was a light-hearted story that she enjoyed, in essence heart-warming and predictable. Next to it were books on medicine, prodigious volumes with a thousand pages and no answers to her questions. Yes, I am looking for gentler times, she thought hopelessly, not having slept well in many days.

With the library being in the east wing, the morning daylight sprawled into windows many men tall, crystal clear so that all might enjoy inside of what was outside. This was her spot, in daylight, away from candles or lamps, often pacing with a book she read, moving from spot to spot, much to the dismay of the librarians. They called her restless, but how could she read her favourite parts sitting still?

A distant shout shook her from her musings, but she was glad for distraction. Many noises came from the town below, but above all else she heard the voice of the marshal, a strict man named Gibbon, and by his booming commands knew that the soldiers of her household guard were in training, so tired by now that only a man with a tongue like a whip kept them going.

She stood up curiously to the window sill to have a look at the courtyard below. In a square of sand demarcated by a low wall, were the men arranged in pairs, at a duel with one another. As they were Shala could not recognize them individually, yet being bare-chested and armed with wooden quarterstaves she could see welts and bruises on their bodies showing already by this hour.

The strokes were awfully hard and fast, not at all like the duels they had in acts and plays. There was no exaggeration in their movements and the rounds of their bouts often lasted but seconds before one man struck down another, the loser usually at the receiving end of Gibbon's harshest insult. Conversely, the winner got his fair share of critique as was the marshal's way. Shala remained watching, as the sun glistened from the sweat of their bodies, muscles showing in their strain, as skill and temperament were revealed in mock combat.

She would be wed to such a man; that was the fancy she had nowadays. Maybe a captain or so, and before he could humbly protest stick him in front of the altar and let him say the vows. And even if he became King, Shala would still rule, for he would only bear the crown by her grace. He need not talk much, as long as he’d listen, and for all his strength of being a soldier he would be gentle with her, because she would choose the man from the look in his eyes.

But that would never happen, she reminded herself. That was left for one of the books she had just read, where the Princess marries a Knight by some obscure logic found only in stories. Even then her version of it would not be for romance; it would simply prohibit others from forcing her hand.

Shala laughed a bit at the thought. The castle's own Knights were men with strange and lonely minds, loyal to other powers and abroad most of the time, as they were now. Even with their duties and sacrifice Shala envied their freedom. She wanted roads before her, and mountains to climb, and to pass no great tree twice until she had passed them all.

With title and privilege a web is spun, where choices are few, and decisions made for the Kingdom are more important than those made for the person, Scholar Naceus had explained to her once. I should know that by now.

And she could live by that maxim until recently, when one day, by the Council’s behest, came forward a man from the noble House of Sannil, named Patrick, who the Council deemed she should be married to for the good of the Kingdom, "for the good of Attoras," they all said.

Nothing could have upset her more. Shala held no respect for the man, and much less love. He was a young puppet with illusions of power, unable to see the strings of his benefactors above his own head, and personally Shala had only found malice in his eyes. He wasn’t a strong man and he would be a cruel king, this much she knew. His misdeeds preceded him, the rumours of his ways with women finding its way from one corner of the Kingdom to the other. These thoughts of injustice carried her away and left on her own she stooped to a brooding mood, in which she almost failed to notice a set of footsteps piercing the obstinate silence of the library. She was about to have company. She hoped it wasn't one of the snobbish librarians, who would surely lecture her on the trail of books she left from place to place, not attending to them until she was well and done finished reading. Spurred into action she cursorily closed many of the books around her, in order to lessen any impending outrage.

To her relieve however her visitor appeared at the top of the stairs wearing a white apron over a striped shirt, marking him as no librarian. She stopped scurrying gratefully, and gave the man a wry look for giving her a fright: it was Kaell the Cook as he was known, and he carried both a tray of pastries and a familiar smile unperturbed by the Princess's response. He was a young assistant in the legendary Master Jalson’s kitchen, who was famous for his food and famous for his temper. Kaell had everything of his Master's talent, but was otherwise as docile as a lamb.

Shala couldn't help but return the smile, and Kaell had a bounce in his step seeing his company would not be unwanted, coming down the stairs to the first landing. She often thought that he had a handsome face, and for the year and a half that she’d come to know him he always had a kindly way about him and an eagerness to keep her company. He had the habit of showing up wherever the Princess might be and an even stranger ability of always knowing her whereabouts.

But she did not mind, because there was no unkind intention in him, and though he was skinny and weak, he looked out for her like he was part of the household guard. Wondering about people as she often did, she feared for his part that he would grow old to become soft and fat like Dieral, the Master of Ceremonies, for Kaell enjoyed his own cooking and treats just as much as the next person, and he had all access to his own talent.

He did not heed any library etiquette parading with food here, but Shala was the last person to make a fuss about it, as she was often the beneficiary of Kaell’s good work. At a distance she already got the scent of his finest baking efforts, her stirred appetite waking more cheerful thoughts in her.

‘Fresh from the oven Highness, although while searching for you they have cooled down nicely. I’d like your Highness to try it if you will; I think I am getting close to perfecting the recipe.’ He presented a flaky lemon-pastry, the inside filled with an apricot cream.

Taking one with a smile, she said, ‘Hmm, this is good. I miss the cinnamon one however,’ Another bite was evidence that she did not miss the cinnamon that much. ‘Do you intend for me to end up looking like Master Dieral?’

‘No Highness, you will bear many weights in your life, but not such a one as our dear Master. The keeper of Ceremonies dreams heartily of food all day long, and he enjoys the many passages into a kitchen where even Master Jalson cannot chase him from. He speaks of merely tasting, to ensure the food remains of high quality, but his nibbles take their apparent toll on supplies thought to be enough to feed the castle.’

Shala laughed then. ‘Only Dieral can dream about food!’ Her smile lingered as her gaze went out the window to the blue sky. ‘Hmm, dreams are odd things... do you dream interesting things Kaell?’

‘No Highness, my dreams are as bland as Jelen's cooking. But, I do recall a dream where I’m wake up from a nap sitting against a tree in the garden below, the old elm tree, and you approach me where I sit, with great scorn on your face.’

‘Have I ever scorned you?’ asked Shala with a smile.

‘Yes on the occasion Highness, which is why I rarely approach without pastries and cakes anymore.’

Shala scoffed indignantly. ‘Well, while I am such witch, you do know I can give you trouble for bringing food to the library?’

Kaell laughed and dismissed her warning, which he knew didn't carry substance. ‘Still at it I see Highness, are you intent on working your way through the entire library?’ he asked looking at all the books.

‘All this,’ she said, circling her finger, ‘is as close as a person like me will come to seeing the world, experiencing it in different eras, exploring things that have happened, will happen, and things we wish would happen. Maybe I’ll teach you to read and write as well. Then you'll know what I mean.’

‘I can do both Highness; Master Jalson would not allow an illiterate cook running around in his kitchens.’

Shala tasted one of the other pastries, smiling at the flavour. ‘Take these away from me now.’

‘I take it for a success then?’ said Kaell hopefully, putting the tray aside.

Shala nodded, swallowing her last bite. ‘But don’t stop working at it, there is only one Master of the kitchen and he is chosen on merit, not friendship.’

‘Alas, all my effort to impress spent in vain,’ said Kaell in mock.

Shala crossed her arms. ‘I should have known you had an agenda. Tell me this; is it painful to pretend to be a friend to one such as I?’

Kaell laughed. ‘Admittedly there is no pretence Highness, and I find it hard to play at a charade where I could have a hidden motive. I'd rather spend my days with you than managing kitchens anyway,’ he said, his infatuation sometimes shameless. Or his fear for Master Jalson in some cases.

She smiled with a faraway look. Kaell knew that any mirth touching her face was a brief distraction from current affairs, which is why he had brought the pastries to begin with. ‘Many shadows have been tailing me lately, mean-spirited ones. I am glad at least one of them is you Kaell. Although that you find so much time on your hands is troubling,’ she added teasingly.

The cook was about to rush to his own defence with a wisecrack, but Shala held up her hand to gesture silence.

Another pair of footsteps approached and Shala motioned desperately for Kaell to try and hide the tray of pastries, and he was at a loss of finding a solution that didn't involve him ducking in under the table with the tray. Before he could do such a thing however, Shala grabbed him by the elbow - it was only deBella.

With her hair in a bun she came down the stairs, her hands entwined in front of her, and she let not anything pass her mouth until she was next to the Princess. Her grave face already made Shala rise, towering above the short and aging handmaiden.

‘Dear, it’s your father. I can’t know how long he will last, but his time will be soon. You must come while you still can,’ she said softly.

Shala’s breath shuddered where she stood and her face fell to despair, already resigned to what she must face today.

‘Go on, Highness, I will take care of the books,’ said Kaell softly, setting the tray on the table, its presence trivialised now.

Shala was off without a word, the handmaiden following her out. Kaell set about gathering all the books the Princess had removed from their shelves, and for all its sunlight the library was morbid now. On the upper levels, where the wooden walkways spanned tightly against the highest of shelves, a tall figure stood hooded in a black robe and looked down on the cook. Unawares that he was being watched, a chill ran down Kaell’s spine, ‘Darkness has made its way into the castle, I can feel it,’ he said to himself.

Shala walked the passages of the castle solemnly, her heart filled with dread and her paces quickening to satisfy her fears of arriving too late.

All the castle staff gave her but a glance, as if already knowing, as if already looking at her as the Queen. She wished they stop. She wished they would not pay attention at all. Ascendency would take a heavy price.

Before the west wing two lines of the household guard stood solemn watch, backs to the wall, armoured from head to toe, their presence restricting all at this point but Shala and the disciples of Evrelyn. Captain Merohan, the foremost of the household guard escorted her into the infirmary, beckoning her through the doors with a quiet, ‘Your Highness.’

Inside many people lay bedridden, most taken by the same disease as her father. Such a ravaging thing it was, called Pilgrim’s Malice, and true to the name it was a foreign traveller that first brought it to Attoras where the people had no resistance to it. It took its time, but untreated it decayed a person until and onto death. Only her father’s case had progressed so suddenly, resulting in a freakish onset of symptoms and a dire prognosis.

At the first signs of sickness her father was merely confined to his room, but was soon taken to the infirmary as he worsened, where the disciples could watch over him at all times.

The infirmary was the pride of the House of Evrelyn, home of the Kingly hands of healing. The folk of the land knew that the infirmary doors stood open for anyone - that was its pledge - and because of that were famous for saving many from their maladies, or wounds or aches if that was their predicament.

Here the King or his daughter, or some of their disciples who shared in the power, were ready to attend to the tragedies befalling the people. Many who would be shunned as plague carriers were welcomed here, and here they had a fighting chance. Yet there was no saving the King and Shala was left to wonder on the misfortune of a man falling sick by his own good-heartedness.

The infirmary was spread in many different rooms, but the hacking cough of the disease permeated through the halls. The lamps were dimmed and the windows covered, because the disease made the eyes sensitive to light. It brought darkness in all ways.

Doing her rounds, there was not even one patient she recognized since her last visit she realized despondently, they change that swiftly, and not necessarily because they are cured. That was all except for this one man that lay next to her father’s room, a large warrior-type they brought in many days ago from the town streets, fighting for his life, his sun-touched skin covered with feverish sweat at the best of times. He held better than most, but by the look of him Shala was not hopeful for him.

She entered her father's room, finding Joshua, a leading disciple, at his bedside. In the gloom he nodded once at the Princess, and then left. Her gaze went over him in disbelief. The King, with all his power and familiar to the dreams of healing like no other among the living, could not tend to himself, lest he create a corruption within his own body.

Shala was powerful in her own right and with the help of their disciples they snatched back many from death’s door. Regardless, her father was beyond their ability, the disease having taken to him like no other before.

Shala dealt with the mystery in suspicion and confusion, for the disease could not touch her. She wandered these halls daily; held their hands and comforted the dying, and even got a spatter of blood-cough on her. Never did she show symptoms and not once did she feel weak or sick. But her immunity did not comfort her. Not once since its dawn had the infirmary struggled with a single disease as it did now. It left them rather answerless.

She sat down where Joshua had sat, pulling the chair slightly closer to the bed.

‘I am here Father,’ she announced quietly to the man lying there, deep in sleep, teetering on the edge of death, his wheezing breath the only sign of life. All the parts of her that had prepared to simply accept this moment failed and the many things she wanted to tell him simply fell away. She pushed the chair out from underneath her and went on her knees, folding her hands upright on the edge of the bed, and closed her eyes.

She prayed to the Benevolence:

‘O Blessed Father, hear now my prayer, soft and whispering. To you to Whom all burdens can be offered, I beg of great favour. From the Crimson City and the realm of dreams, at the seat of your power. Stretch out your blessed hand, far across the land; over mountain and river and manmade nuisance, and heal where I cannot. I petition on behalf of this man…’

She sobbed.

‘… my father, the King. Her voice became lost and she had to stop until she could speak again. She breathed and swallowed. ‘A greater man there is not, and he is not old enough to depart. Spare him, for there is no better warrior, no braver heart and no kinder touch. He is a leader of men, whose crown and sceptre keeps the people honourable and steadfast. Do not let his Kingdom fall so easily! He cannot depart when so many are in need of him, but above all: please, please do not take him away from me!’

She opened her eyes, and a moment later wetted her hands in the bowl next to her father's bed, a bowl filled with the Seluin waters of the mountain. Knowing it was vain she cast her magic on him again, the waters providing the substance of the spell, in a last effort to defeat the disease. There came no change. Dreading that this may be her last gestures, she checked his pillow, and threw another blanket over his legs. Rummaging through the bedside dresser, she sought the little book that would have one healer know another what medications or herbs have been administered to the King recently. A quick glance at the latest entry told her there was nothing she could improve on.

As she slid the booklet back into the drawer she spotted a curious piece of torn parchment revealed in the mess of the other items. She would not have given it a second glance had she not seen her father's script on it, his hasty handwriting still inclined to tall and elegant strokes:

And the dragon said to me, ‘I have written the truth upon your mind and in your heart.’

Those who walk the mountain walk with us no more...I should've seen it back then... To them who listen, I admit, Evrelyn is spent.

Here, I sign the death of my House, but not yet the end of all things.

Yet even then and now there will be no rest for the tears I must cry for the fate of my lineage.

That was all of it. Nothing more. Nothing the two of them had ever discussed, and it was written in a defeated tenor she did not associate with her father. It was to her almost as cryptic as it would be to the next person. She could not, and would not, pay much attention to it now. She could not even begin to guess to what purpose her father had written this note, and wondered if he had at all intended for Shala to find it. He predicts me to fail? Has it to do with his request? She let the thought falter.

For a long while she simply sat at his side, the waiting taking its toll on her.

She could not say how much time passed. She heard his breath become still and then she did what she had to do, what her father had asked her to do but a few days ago.

‘I will die,’ he had said then, still able to speak coherently at the time, ‘and you must preserve what is left of me for the Dream of Embers.’

If Shala hadn’t sat right next to him, there would be no chance of her hearing his rasping voice, strained and hoarse.

‘You will not die and I will not put a spell on you that will seal your death so that there is no return!’ Shala spoke harshly.

‘You must!’ he said, and then coughed painfully in his excitement. ‘If the spell is not wrought in time my soul will be gone from this world and then one day you must go to Nem Nemuris and strengthen the Dream. No my child, I can still do it, rather let it be me. I would ask one of the disciples and leave you out of this deed, but you are the only one powerful enough to do it, and worthy besides, my own blood!’

It was a desperate plan.

Shala would have protested still had her father but the strength to continue in debate, but there was already little left of him. Now at death's door she had nothing else to do than honour his wish. Again she dipped her hands in the bowl of water.

With resignation and great pain she held her hands out over her father’s body, shutting her eyes, and then cast the spell. A web of light spun from her hands, branching quickly as light would if caught suddenly by a dozen different mirrors. Slowly then it flowed and eased onto her father, soaking into his skin. She looked down on him.

He looked better, his skin more pearly now than pale, the mottled areas gone and the wrinkles of his face fading miraculously. But he was completely quiet now, the low breathing gone, his chest still. It was done. ‘I love you Father.’ She kissed him on the brow, the skin already cold.

And Shala let fall her head on the bed, covering her face with her arms, and she cried inconsolably.

Skahta-

His blades were frosted over, lying ready at his feet. He dare not sheath them unless they become stuck there. On his haunches, he did not move, despite the cold being the killer of all things gone still. Of the three passes, he watched the southern-most; there the foemen skulking in what they thought were cover from watchful eyes. He did not act. He watched. The foemen looked up and saw the pointed ears in the swirling snows. Conferring frantically in the small passage, they turned back in fear as though a hundred men waited for them on the ridge.

Chapter 2

In Days to Come

The King was dead. By nightfall word had spread throughout every corner of town and by morning many grave messengers would ride out to carry the news to the rest of the continent. In the castle thousands of candles were lit, and they gave a scent reminiscent of rainwater on dust, a fragrance that lingered in the mind just like the man they honoured. Under the pale light of Mallova, the white moon, men gathered at night in homes and taverns, and soberly, they toasted to the name of Ankareus, or simply Anka as he was fondly known, to the King! they whispered, putting their mugs together.

Shala did not remember much of the next two days, save that the town was utterly distraught and that the castle was as grave as never before. Once this same King had stood almost invincible against a host of dragon invaders, doing battle in the very halls of the castle. To those old enough to remember those days the King's departure was received in disbelieve. The King's fall was also Shala's burden, as his departure left questions of who could possibly fill the void.

deBella almost never left Shala’s side and despite her lack of appetite Kaell kept bringing her food and tea. She would sip at the tea, but to appease Kaell’s worry she gave the food to her father’s hounds behind his back, which were glad to unburden her of it. She was sure that Kaell had noticed what she was doing with the food, because her tea got all the more sweeter, and she knew he was adding honey to it to keep her strength up.

In her wandering the halls she ruminated profusely on her father, and strangely, came to think a lot about her mother, the sombre castle now reminiscent of her childhood.

For more than ten years Attoras has stood vacant of a Queen. The Highlady Salstasha died in childbirth and the boy-heir that would have been Shala's baby brother not long after, having come into this world with a weak constitution. Little as she was she grieved then, for grief was infectious in a place where a beloved was lost. In all ways deBella the handmaiden had made a great stand-in mother; tutoring, comforting and loving - but at the same time, came short of being Shala’s true mother. That was but the way of it with these matters, was what Shala told herself growing up.

King Ankareus never remarried, always saying he had his reasons, despite the admonishments of the Council and his advisors. When Shala had asked her father on it, he said that no other heir from another woman would have such blood as Shala carried within her, that he did not need sons to leave his House strong. Others did not believe that.

Her father's concern in this matter became plain to her as she'd grown older; a son from another woman would become King, but might not have the healings hands as Shala did, the ancestral gift that King Anka would protect at all costs.

But for all it's worth the hands of healing did not raise the dead and neither could it stem the grimmest of fates. After having heard of her father struggling gallantly to save his wife, her mother, Shala also became obsessed with matters of medicine and the gift of her ancestry. Fortunately as her father had remarked, you have the talent, and stronger than I’ve yet seen among healers.

Remembering many words between her and her father her mind sadly conjured images of the man in every hallway, his commanding voice echoing from the walls, always the centre of attention, a King owning the hearts of the people.

In the west wing of the castle following the immediate split of stairs in the entrance hall was a grand portrait of him, a fabled artistic work of a painter, friend to the King, and immensely skilled. Shala avoided the corridor altogether, not wanting to see her father so clearly and be reminded so vividly. In his living days he himself had found the portrait very amusing, throwing his head back and laughing at how handsome the brush of a painter could make him look. He always said it was much too flattering. How Shala missed that laugh.

On the third day after her father’s passing, Shala alone went to the throne room, sitting deep in the castle and called the heart of the cold archlands. Scholar Naceus had taught Shala that when a ruler sits there, she must think kindly of her people even on days where they seem like snowflakes soon to be melted, or pine needles of which the north had more than enough to spare. "And ask the right questions!" He would always add. She met there with Master Dieral, who as always wore large ceremonial robes to cover his considerable frame and an expensive looking cap upon his bald head. She tried to dress equally fine, as though in preparation for her being the centre of attention all the time. Being judged for every word and every look of her.

Today she wore a pinkish dress, that shimmered depending on the light. What confidence it gave to her faded as Dieral spoke to her.

He explained to her the decorum the place and readied her for the sudden responsibilities that would be thrust upon her. ‘What you would need to understand Highness, is that as I oversee the rites of this place, I cannot be seen to favour you in any matter or the other, though you are my liege, this court entrusts me with enforcing the rules of the proceedings.’ He explained to her kindly, but also firm, with just enough of a hint to let her know that this place tested the best of rulers.

Shala nodded along numbly, surprised by all the things she had to consider when the court converged. She felt like a child then. When Dieral left, Shala remained there on the throne, for the time basking in the loneliness of the room and paging grimly through the documents Dieral had handed her.

She however did not mind the loneliness of this room; rather it was its reawakening Shala dreaded. She knew its nature. In the peaceful hours Shala as a girl would play at the foot of the throne, while the more sensible petitioners made their plea to the King. Come the ramblings of the Council, deBella or one of the household guard ferried Shala away, leaving King Anka to deal with their squabbles.

She looked around the deserted hall solemnly, studying the place where she would defend her family's right to keep the throne. Tall pillars kept up the gallery where the council would sit when in audience with the King. From each of the pillars hung masterful tapestries many men tall, each portraying the insignia of a royal House and family that had ruled Attoras in the past. Shala always thought it was strange that the Council sat higher than the King, them being seated in the gallery, but she knew now it mattered little where her father sat; he was commanding no matter the circumstance. Now that lion of a man is dead and the scavengers of kingdoms will emerge, their hour has come.

In the domed roof of the throne room was an oculus right at the top, a gaping round hole showing the sky as it were. Men and women who petitioned before the King were only allowed at noon, when the sun could shine straight onto them and illuminate the truth of the claims or accusations they brought before the King. The measured oculus provided only a determined circle of sunlight on the patterned granite floor and Shala could imagine how daunting a commoner would find that spot. If only that were true I would have the councillors stand there for a day, and they'd be left confessing to a lifetime of scheming.

Other than that it brought in a cool breeze that had the stone hall chilly at the best of times. Shala was momentarily amused, remembering her father telling her that the oculus at the very least gave a ruler an excuse to not see petitioners the whole day long.

The throne itself stood on a dais at the far end of the chamber, golden and tall, and from its backrest sprouted golden ornate wings on each side, three on the left and three on the right, and right down the middle peaked the hilt of a sword, the blade set within a cavity inside the backrest itself, a sword to be drawn by none other than the King himself; the blade called Erenciel.

The Kingdom was begun and crafted with that sword and had changed many hands among the Houses that had ruled here. Ankareus however was said to have a way of carrying it like it would know no other ruler and it was often taken as a symbol that his reign would be a lasting one. The notion did not survive.

I cannot even lift the thing from its rest, what still about wielding it, Shala thought glumly.

It was a mighty thing, made for two hands and even then some men could not wield it in combat. Her father had been tall and broad in the shoulder and carried it easily. If that did not intimidate his enemies, the hilt certainly did, wrapped in rare dragonhide in his hands, matching his favourite pair of gloves.

When Shala asked her father where the dragonhide came from he would smile wryly and tell her stories of Knights and Wolves and Dragons. "Spoils of war little Shala, we took these mountains from the Dragons and they came to reclaim it, both them and their worshippers. It was their mistake to try conquering us during my reign."

That memory tentatively had Shala thinking of her father's note. That a dragon had spoken to him sounded like the worst of his delirium. Although maybe he was making sense of the dragons' invasion twenty years ago? He had always said there was a mystery to that conflict. She did not know and wondered if she ever would.

Turning her thoughts back to the sword she moved in behind the throne. She could not wield it, but just to see it Shala drew the sword three inches from the rest; more than that she could not manage.

The ancient blade had a colour that was fallow gold like winter fields. No weapon had ever looked as glorious as Erenciel. (Or so Shala decided in her grief.) For all its use it did not break, it did not blunt and it did not fail, speaking as much of the hands that held it as it did of the sword.

Holding it, she felt the power of it, even if it were only in knowing the history behind it.

She promised then that the blade would not be wielded by an unfit king and that one day it would be picked up by her lineage again. A son of mine maybe, she thought hopefully. Until then she would lay down everything for House Evrelyn. She would hold everything together. She must.

Then again her place as Queen was far from assured, and she wondered in fact if ever a Queen’s place in this castle was ever more precarious. There were more symptoms than just her not being able to lift the sword of the king. These were stark days; because the King was dead and because the House of Councillors were filled with vile men. They controlled which House took the throne and they made the rules by which families came to power. When they deemed a House was weak, or leaderless – or manless, they would place a moratorium on rule and elect a new House to take the throne. They put forward the man called Patrick of Sannil.

If it were but the right thing Shala would step aside, for the good of Attoras she would gracefully bow out and serve her nation in some other way. Perhaps simply as a healer.

But the glorious history of royal houses (there was an ungainly book called the twenty-nine principle Houses of the Archlands) and meeting the men of these Houses had taught Shala contrasting truths. Maybe their ancestors were noble, but some of their offspring were certainly not.

The aforementioned Patrick of Sannil was a danger, a danger to Shala because she would have to marry, whether it was this man or another, and a danger to the Kingdom for the benefactors that dictated his acts. He would be played the puppet and the council would rule with sublime immunity, the fool King taking blame for their indiscretions.

Her train of thoughts came to a sudden halt as someone disturbed her peace. Her heart sank lower if that were at all possible. He approached like a shadow, edging closer, his shoes clicking on the stone floor. Chancellor Swarztial always seemed tall in his dress of black, dark sashes clasped to each shoulder, but he was thin and wiry underneath all the excess cloth, a long slender neck evidence of that. Of the council he was the foremost and was the only man Shala ever truly thought she hated. She thought he looked fittingly like a vulture. A fine-trimmed beard and moustache lined his mouth, being well-groomed and meticulous to a fault his efforts at disguising an otherwise vile person. On most days like today he preferred to wear a feathered beret on his bald head.

The Princess and Metrus the Druid had discussed the nature of the soul in one of her visits to Norwain, and there the Druid had remarked that the eyes were the window to a man’s soul. Shala would believe it, because Metrus’ flare of green eyes told much of how close a bond the man had with nature. The man in front of her however had eyes as black as night. Keeping her silence she allowed him to explain his presence.

‘My dear Princess,’ his voice came out of the hallway, hauntingly. ‘I am, exceedingly sorry about your father.’ His face appeared in the light of the oculus as he approached still. ‘His death fell hard on us all, and we’ll be poorer for having lost the strength of his rule,’ said Swarztial.

Shala swallowed and said politely, ‘I thank you member Swarztial, I have had a hard time dealing with it. It seems the only thing that stifles my bereavement is the prospect of doing my father proud, and rule his realm like he would have.’

‘Yes, and you will not be alone. In this you must allow the council to guide you. Our members have a vast experiencing in managing the kingdom. I am here to assure you that we will oversee your kingdom for you as we have always done. Unfortunately, not even the death of a king grounds the wheels of a kingdom to halt, but that is where we will stand in for you. While you take the time for bereavement, we will carry on in your stead.’

‘And I will see to it that I have a hand in all of the matters before the council. I will not forsake my duties and not have the people fear that I have forsaken their needs, even now.’

A brief flicker on his face had Shala know that was apparently not what Swarztial wanted to hear. But he nodded then as though praising Shala's stoicism.

‘In days to come the most difficult of times will wait for us who wish to govern a kingdom.’ Swarztial paced, an unnerving trait of his Shala had seen a hundred times, his clicking shoes taking over where his voice left off. ‘Our task is exasperated by uncertainties of course. In and outside the council chambers, from here to the Estermarsh, people are doubtful as to our prospects as a kingdom.’ He looked up to see the reaction on her face.

He straightened and faced her. ‘The council, has its hands bound as long as there are questions over who sits on the throne. Governing is going to be in a deadlock if we are divided.’

Shala waited for him to continue.

‘I... hesitate to say this your Highness, but it would be prudent for you to know that are whispers among the council members suggesting we place a moratorium on the rule of Evrelyn, convene the Council of Kings and cast a ballot for a new king.’

Shala was hardly surprised. And you are the one who leads this vendetta against me, albeit in secret?

‘Then so be it. It is the same process that anointed my great-grandfather to the throne and I would welcome the chance to prove myself worthy in the same way.’

‘Yes. Evrelyn has had some fine men, and I loathe to say this Highness, but you are a woman, and it is expected of you to marry.’

‘I can stand without a husband. I do not have to be married to be a Queen.’

‘Yes you can. But what you must understand is that the council would not look kindly on that. I fear that you might find yourself far removed from the throne if a ballot is cast and your House loses everything. There is a sure way to remedy it however. Patrick of Sannil already has the favour of much of the council. If you marry, your place as queen is assured.’ Swarztial said this as though he had spent long hours considering her well-being.

‘I would not consider it. Not now while I first need to see to many duties.

‘Leave the duties to us Highness, if you marry, it will please the people,’ emphasised Swarztial, ‘it is a smart show to give them, to bind them with a spectacle; it will give them the