Achilles Maestri and the Veiled Prince

By Victoria C. Preston

When his grandmother falls ill, Achilles, along with an unexpected dwarf ally, must venture to the Witch of the Northern Wood for the cure. However, unbeknownst to the travelers, they began a journey that wouldn't end in the gnarled woods of the north. A veiled entity is turning the hand of fate and creating ripples in time that would come to change every fiber of Achilles's being. In his conquest to pursue the man calling himself the Veiled Prince, he must become more than he ever imagined.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Apr 22, 2020
• ISBN: 9781647011086

Book preview

Chapter One

The Dupree Farm

He could see her golden hair flowing like a river, so soft and bright like the first touch of morning light. She was drawing him closer; he could almost see her face through the thin fabric that veiled her. The smell of flowers filled the air when he was with her. Her image started to fade, and he chased after it, reaching out but unable to grasp the indefinite form as she grew farther away. Her words echoed to him, Achilles, wake up.

The beautiful woman was gone, swallowed away by the stark pitch of the night. The rustling of his stale straw-filled mattress brought his mind back to the small cottage he called home. Achilles’s eyes betrayed him from weariness, masking the room with blurred vision. He yawned deeply and rubbed the budding stubble along his angular jaw. He blinked a few times before he noticed the flickering of a candle near the door.

Standing in the open doorway of the cottage was a figure in a black cloak with the hood pulled close to their face. The leather belt that Achilles kept his hunting knife in was slung over a hook near the door, slightly out of reach. Although he was ready to actively pursue the stranger, he paused when he realized his grandmother was the source of the candlelight. Her lips moved soundlessly in the dim light, indistinct words passing between them. She appeared in a trance, as if walking in a dream, as she extended a loaf of bread toward the cloaked figure.

In return, the stranger retrieved something from a hidden pocket and held it out. Achilles panicked at the thought of them drawing a weapon, but he only saw a glint of a golden chain dangling between delicate fingers. Gwenore? Achilles asked wearily. What’s going on? The figure jumped slightly but didn’t turn toward his voice. The stranger hastily took the bread with a clumsy bow, putting the chain in Gwenore’s hand before dashing from the doorway.

Achilles bolted out of bed, grabbed his hunting knife, and swung through the doorway. The cloaked figure vanished. He stepped outside to look across the plateaued hill to the barn and the garden. His gaze followed the path that led down the hill to the dirt road, the fields of wheat on the other side swaying with the wind, but he did not see the stranger. Achilles turned back around to find Gwenore staring at the object in her hands. What is it? He scanned the hill again before closing the door. Why did you not wake me?

She set the candle on the table in the center of the room and yawned heavily, Just a hungry traveler… She walked to her bed and lay down with the chain clutched tightly in her hand. Go back to sleep.

What did they give you? Achilles went to her side, but she only mumbled under her breath.

He sighed and ran a hand through his asymmetrical chestnut hair. The strands around his face clung to his skin from the warmth of the late summer night. He returned the knife to its holster, blew out the candle that was placed on the table, and went back to his bed. For a few moments he stayed awake, listening to the light breeze caressing the outside walls of the cottage. Then he made a prayer to return to his dream of the mysterious and beautiful woman that often haunted his slumber.

The roosters crowed their morning greeting, but Achilles had been awake for quite some time already, having been hunting and gathering in the early hours of morning. He had managed to slay a smaller buck that he carried across his shoulders back to the farm. The meat would last for a few weeks, if he were to dry and salt it properly as his late grandfather Berenice had taught him. The deer hide would sell particularly well at market if he could manage to skin it in one piece. Unfortunately, Achilles’s talents leaned more toward hunting rather than skinning.

He had come back from the market only days ago, but if the skinning process proved successful, he would plan a trip again soon. The recent harvest he hauled brought him a great sum of treckles that he used to stock up on animal feed for the winter months. Treckles were a widely used currency, and although he could barter or offer personal services for goods, no one likely turned down the thin T-stamped stone coins that provided the majority of wealth to peasants and common born.

Achilles had a handsome collection of treckles from selling at the market that he kept beneath the floorboards in the barn, another trick passed down from Berenice. In all of Achilles’s years tending to the Dupree Farmstead, they had only been robbed once. Berenice had been alive then and had made it seem as though he gave everything to the raiders. Then, when the men were gone, he had shown his grandson the loose planks in the barn where he kept the farmstead’s profits safe.

Berenice was very beloved to Achilles, having taught him everything that he knew, from hunting and gathering to gardening and carpentry. Achilles had been a studious apprentice, but he was young when Berenice passed. The work of the farmstead was never meant to rely on one caretaker, but Achilles never complained about the blistering work. He wore his calloused hands and toughened feet proudly. Gwenore had grown frail in her old age, but she helped around the cottage and cooked when she felt well enough.

Achilles took the buck into the barn to begin preparing the animal when he heard Gwenore call to him from the cottage, Achilles, mind you bring me some vegetables from the garden? I’m putting a stew on for supper. Her voice sounded more hoarse than normal, but there was a simple joy masking it.

Of course, he called back. Parsnips, carrots, onions, and potatoes?

Gwenore’s voice was further away. Chives, too, please.

The young man walked into the barn and was greeted by hogs and chickens. The hogs followed him, greedily sniffing at the buck. Don’t even think about it. You’ve had your breakfast already. He tied the hooves together and hung it over a hook above a large bucket, wiping sweat from his face with his baggy shirtsleeve. He was momentarily occupied by the thought of creating a sled to transport his kills, rather than carrying each one across the meadows and uphill.

He stretched his arms and shoulders that had cramped from his haul, looking to his right as he saw his baluchi resting in its stall. What are you doing in here?

Baluchi were wild creatures, a beast of the ancient world, with bone-plated hide like stone. They resembled horses, though they had much longer necks and were generally larger. However, Beorn, as Achilles called him, stood much higher than any baluchi he had ever seen. The young man had found the young calf lost from its herd during their migration south in the winter months. He decided to raise him until the herd came back in the spring, but when the time came, Beorn chose to stay with Achilles instead. The population had been terribly depleted from hunters who sought the bone plates for armor, and soon the herd stopped migrating so far north. Beorn was possibly one of the last of his kind, and Achilles protected him as such.

Beorn gave a snort in response to his master’s question and lowered his head to the ground, closing his eyes. Are you feeling well? You should be out grazing? Achilles approached Beorn carefully, but his steed gave a startled whinny. Fine, fine. I’ll leave you alone. The lone heifer, Clarie, was in the next stall quietly napping despite the commotion Beorn made. The young man backed away from the baluchi’s stall. It wasn’t ordinary behavior, but he allowed Beorn the freedom to act as he wished.

As Achilles backed out of Beorn’s stall, the straw beneath his feet was swiped aside, revealing something that made his stomach turn. An area of the straw, about the size of his palm, had been burned. He stared down for a moment, and then swept the rest of the blackened bedding away.

Under a patch of sooty straw was a strange symbol etched into the wood. Achilles stared a while longer, half expecting something to happen. He brushed the symbol with the toe of his boot, softly at first then more roughly with his heel. Kneeling down and pulling out his hunting knife, he started to scrape the symbol from the wood. A forced shudder came over him that made the hair on the back of his neck stand up. He could feel the word burning in the back of his mind, witchcraft.

When he had scraped the top layer of wood from the infected board, he carefully took the pieces outside and down toward the bank of the river. He dug a shallow hole in the sand, put the pieces of wood inside, and packed more sand on top. He wiped sweat from his brow, thinking deeply of what this could mean. Witches were few and far between in the countryside, but it wasn’t entirely unheard of. He couldn’t help but wonder why a witch would leave a charred symbol in his barn as he started back toward the barn.

Halfway up the hill he saw Beorn trot out, seemingly fine. Thoughts raced in the young man’s mind, but he let them dwindle away as he went back to his regular farmwork. After he had prepared the buck to drain, he went out to the garden to pick vegetables. While he collected into the slack of his shirt, he suddenly remembered the odd happenings of the previous night. Traveling merchants were not uncommon, but something just didn’t feel right about it, especially with the mark of witchcraft that he believed had been left in the night, as he would certainly have noticed it otherwise.

He took the dirt-caked vegetables down to the river that flowed between the hills surrounding the Dupree Farm and parallel the road through the countryside. The river was unusually calm today, flowing gently over the smooth rocks of the riverbed. He squatted low to wash the vegetables, watching small fish hide at the sight of his shadow. The dirt was taken with the current as Achilles peered down at his reflection in the crystal water. His eyes were heavy with exhaustion, their normal nutty gold color glazed over. With the recent trip to Cambridge and catching up on farmwork since he had been gone, there hadn’t been much opportunity to sleep.

He cursed when he realized how long his hair had gotten in the last few weeks. He had trimmed one side considerably shorter and more tightly cropped to his head. The style was popular in Cambridge, and he had attempted to duplicate the look using his hunting knife. It had turned out a bit choppier than he had expected, but he didn’t think it looked bad. Even now that it was growing back in, the cut looked natural to his overall appearance.

He stared down his slender nose, thinking of the description Gwenore painted of his mother. Therese had had blond hair much like Gwenore’s, though her eyes were slightly bluer than her mother’s. He didn’t think he resembled the description in the slightest, leading him to assume that he must take after his father. Although it wasn’t entirely uncommon in the mainland Salverien where they lived, the young man had always felt slightly out of place due to the darker complexion of his skin. He supposed this was another trait from his father as Gwenore and all her known ancestors were fair skinned.

His darker complexion wasn’t the first trait that people noticed, however, for he was uncommonly tall. In most cities or villages near the farmstead, he was easily the tallest. He had a rather brooding presence in general, complete with the muscular finesse that came with long days of arduous farmwork. Achilles hadn’t the discouragement that he would be treated differently because of the way he looked, though every now and again he came across someone who cared more about appearance than character.

Achilles was lost in thoughts of his lineage and the stories of his mother, nearly releasing his grip of the vegetables as he slipped forward on the riverbank. He was able to right himself without falling in or losing anything to the current. Straightening up, he carried the washed vegetables in the slack of his shirt back up to the cottage. His boots shuffled across the worn wooden planks of the stairs and porch, toward the open door where he could hear Gwenore coughing roughly inside. He walked in and to the table where he started to unload the vegetables. That doesn’t sound promising? Did that come on this morning?

Gwenore was seated at the table, struggling to slice cloves of garlic between coughing fits. I’ve but something in my throat.

You should let me make you some tea then… Achilles offered while he took out his hunting knife and started peeling a potato.

Gwenore shook her head. I’ll be fine. She coughed into her sleeve and continued to slice. He watched her, seeing sweat prickling on her face and arms. Settling the potato and knife on the table, he wiped his hands on his trousers before placing the back of his hand over her forehead.

You’re warm. You should be in bed, Achilles protested.

No. It is a lovely day. She looked over to the open door and smiled, a soft breeze wafting in and making the fire in the hearth dance.

All the same, you need to rest if you want to get better. He put out his hand to lift her from the chair. Besides, I don’t want you coughing all over the food. Achilles gave a playful smile and wrapped an arm around her, giving her no choice but to stand. He helped her to the bed, lay her down, and gently propped her head up. Seems like an odd time for an illness. The weather has been predictable.

Gwenore coughed again before she managed to say, I fear life is catching up with me. There was a somber tone to her voice, an acceptance more than a statement.

Achilles held his breath, unable to take the comment lightly. I’ll…bring you a cold rag from the river. It’ll surely break the fever.

He went to walk away, but Gwenore grabbed his arm. Wait. She coughed with a spasm that shook her entire body. She took a wheezing breath as she gasped, Wait. Achilles stooped at her side, stubborn tears flying to his eyes that he would not let fall. She turned away and reached for something between the bed and the wall. When she turned back over, she had a polished black box resting between her hands.

What… Achilles looked at her in confusion and interest, a smirk held back in apprehension.

She coughed into her sleeve and then replied, You thought I’d forgotten such an important day? Though she looked pained, she smiled brightly.

Achilles couldn’t help but smile. He hadn’t expected anything for his birthday, besides, perhaps, the special biscuits that Gwenore made every year. He gingerly accepted the box and paused meaningfully before peering inside. On soft, shiny black fabric was an old key on a silver chain. He looked up questionably Thank you…but… He lifted the key and ran his fingers over the intricate edge of teeth, a jumble of whispers clamoring for his attention all at once. He didn’t have any inkling why, but he knew something had changed. Nothing felt as it should. There was restlessness in his bones, a warning that shot through his chest like the truest arrow.

The whispers had become so loud, he barely heard the muffled voice of Gwenore calling to him, Achilles…Achilles? He shook the feeling away, blinking a few times before putting the chain around his neck and letting the cold metal kiss the skin of his chest beneath his shirt. It felt heavier than what it was, burdened in a way. Achilles?

Sorry, what were you saying? The young man feigned focus as goose bumps broke out over his torso and arms. There was a flutter in his chest like something waking up inside of him.

It was a gift from your mother. She made a failed attempt to clear her throat before going on. She left a letter with instructions. Gwenore pointed to the floorboards beneath the table, Under the floor is a wooden chest. The key belongs to it. Gwenore’s voice was coarse as she went on, Leave it hidden…until… She trailed off, sadness filling her eyes.

Until…, he asked, but he already knew what she meant. His heart sank as he tried to steady his voice. You…I can’t just leave you…

Achilles, it is your coming of age. It is tradition to leave home on your seventeenth birthday… She started.

No. I won’t leave you, and now that you are sick…absolutely not. What kind of grandson would do something so…so heartless. He shook his head. Who would care for the animals, for the garden, for…you? Her eyes darkened with her answer, but Achilles wouldn’t accept it. He stared at her for a moment, catching a glimpse of the golden chain hung around her neck. Is that what the traveler gave you?

She looked down and clutched the necklace through her dress. She was hungry. She had no coin or anything to trade…I offered her a warm meal and rest…but she was adamant on leaving. She wrapped her fingers more tightly around it, her knuckles turning white. She insisted on giving it to me…

What is it? Achilles pressed, trying to make out any details of the necklace. When she didn’t answer, he nodded in defeat and said, Next time, wake me. I don’t like the idea of someone being here whilst I sleep. He started toward the door before he realized something. You’ve been ill since this morning? She mumbled a reluctant agreement to which Achilles urged. You’ve been wearing that necklace—

Jewelry doesn’t make for sudden illness. I’m old, that is all…, she interjected stubbornly.

Achilles chose not to work her up, especially in her current condition. I’m going down to the river. I’ll be back. He took a kitchen towel from the table, setting down the empty box before walking out the door. Troublesome thoughts swam through his head. The traveler in the night, the necklace, the unforeseen illness, the mark burned into the barn, and the unshakable feeling that plagued him since he’d first touched the key. Achilles could sense that something was different, like things had changed or weren’t as they seemed. He just couldn’t place it.

Chapter Two

Chimera

In the stretching roots of a mountain, a great toil took place. Hammering, chiseling, and hauling away. Men and beast alike worked like mad to reach the heart of the mountain their master so desperately sought. Long ramps had been carved into the stone, allowing passage from the surface to the depths where they dug. Carts of rubble, ore, and the frequent collapsed worker were hefted to a chamber where the treasures could be sifted and the bodies disposed of.

Above their heads and the winding ramp that spiraled through the mountain, their master sat upon his throne with withering patience. A young man with shoulder-length hair and piercing eyes was perched on a tall throne of dull stone. One of his hands was busily tapping the armrest, and the other was holding up his chin as he stared down at the large medallion carved into the floor. The medallion had a face like a sundial with a shining sun in the center. At first, the design hadn’t bothered him, but now the sight of it was unsettling.

He wasn’t sure if it was due to the fact that sunlight couldn’t reach the face of a sundial within a mountain, or the conclusion that the design wasn’t a sundial like he had thought. The carving was the only decoration in the bare throne room, which only worsened his unease. He glanced away and stood to pace as he thought.

Two guards were stationed in the throne room, staring blankly ahead at the far wall while the young man walked up and down the length of the chamber. It had taken years of careful planning to bring himself to this point, but now he could do nothing more than wait. The power of a mountain’s heart would garnish him with the prestige of a king. His combined ability of magic and the fabled heart of the largest mountain in Merendere would be enough to lavish his castle with any amenity.

For now, however, he was nothing more than a self-appointed prince with an army of grunts that feared more than respected him. He fiddled with the clasp of his charcoal cloak, his composure eroding as his mind unraveled. The sound of armored men marching up the ramp made the young man turn and expectantly watch as a troupe of several armed men stomped in. They were pulling along a rope that bound the waists and wrists of a group of men, with the same nonchalant expression as carrying lumber.

The men had darker skin than the young man’s and tattoos that wrapped up every limb. Their arms were scarred from past battles, and their faces were painted with streaks and symbols in white or red paint along their cheekbones and foreheads. They each had black hair that was cut short to show strong faces with deep eyes. Although their garb appeared elementary, there was an unrevealed nature of influence to them that the young man could sense rushing through them with every frantic pound of their hearts.

The guard at the front pulled the men down to their knees in succession. Only one of these men met the prince’s eyes, while the others stared down at the floor. The prince approached the plucky man that glared wildly back at him. In a calm, unconcerned voice, he addressed the kneeling man, There is fight in you yet, I see.

The man gave no answer, his chest heaving and his teeth clenched. A guard cleared his throat and spoke, He is responsible for the deaths of ten of our men…

The prince looked between them with pleasant surprise as the fearless man seemed practically untouched compared to the others. The young prince nodded with mock admiration. Were you considered a warrior among your people? The man did not reply, but the prince hadn’t expected much. You have fought most bravely. It would be a waste to forsake such talent with death.

The man spat at his feet with a disconcerted expression. The prince gazed down at the spittle on his black leather boot, and then back up to the man. You would do well to serve me.

After a short pause, the man spoke in a deep tone, I would rather meet the veil than do as you command.

The prince strutted back to his throne and sat down with a sigh. He was new to Merendere, but the concept of the veil was something entirely different. He had come to the forbidden land of raw magic to expand his knowledge and craft, but he could not begin to understand the obsessive attachment that the natives had with the veil. They acted as though the veil was alive and able to carry out judgment to those who abused raw magic. From what the prince had come to understand, the veil was no more than a superstition.

While the prince’s mind wandered, the kneeling man was busily tearing away at the rope behind his back that confined him to the others. The prince returned his attention to the room. I have no interest in commanding you… He made a flourish with his hand, and the guards that were stationed in the room left. I prefer the art of persuasion. The prince carelessly inspected his nails with a raised brow, allowing the tinkering below their feet to fill the tense silence that followed.

From the doorway came a chorus of voices and struggling that made the kneeling men turn their heads. The guards had reappeared, dragging a feisty woman, tears pouring down her face. She was thrown onto the cold floor between the men and the throne, the guards going back to their places. Some of the bravado had left the man’s face as he looked at the prince and to the woman with wide, fearful eyes. The woman clambered to her feet and ran at the prince, but within an instant she froze in place. The prince raised his hand and held her back effortlessly while she struggled against the unseen force that bound her.

Your people will find no place beyond my reach. Be assured I have collected all those that tried to find sanctuary in the tunnels. All of the men’s eyes flickered with fear. Will you join me now, druid? He inquired with a menacing smile.

Although his voice was less than convincing, the man ranted, I would never… Without a word, the prince squeezed his fingers slowly. A strangled scream escaped the woman’s lips as the magic that bound her was pulled tighter. No! the man cried, leaning forward to be closer to her.

When the prince retorted, all banter was lost from his voice. I’ve given you every opportunity to comply. I will only ask once more… The man heaved angrily, but he made no move to obey. So be it. The prince closed his fist, and the woman went limp with a shallow moan. He released her to fall in a broken heap to the floor. The man screamed and broke the last of his bonds, charging at the young man in a blind fury. With an instinctive twist of his fingers, there was a loud snap, and the man fell upon the woman’s lifeless body.

The other men looked on in horror, and in the haunting stillness that followed, one of the men replied in a defeated voice, If you promise the safety of my kin…I will fight… The druids stared at the floor, another nodding brokenly.

The prince rested on his throne with his fingertips pressed together. With your undying pledge of obedience, they will live. The answer gave them no solace, the druid on the far left crying mutely to himself. The prince nodded at the guards who walked over to scoop up the bodies from the floor. I will send for you when I have need. For now, you will be reunited with your families… A look of surprise flashed on their faces, but it quickly vanished. When the guards came back from the ramp beyond, the young man gave the order to have them removed.

You march us into a war you know nothing about…to serve death among innocence…, one of the druid men said defiantly.

The prince seemed amused, like a cat toying with lesser prey. What is your name, warrior?

The druid men smirked and grunted at the unsuitable title, speaking volumes of the man’s placement in their society.

I am no warrior among the clans… They have no use for my kind…, the man said more to himself than the room.

The guards were leading the men out of the room, but the prince stopped them. Cut his rope and leave us. The other men peered up irritably, their eyes burning through the one that was singled out. The guards carried out the order, cutting through the bindings before leading the others away.

The man at the back of the line scrunched his face and spat the word Chimera with obvious distaste toward the druid that was cut free. However, the druid kept his focus on the young man, though the word stung him like the slice of a dagger.

After the chamber cleared, the prince assessed the man beneath a furrowed brow. What is your name?

I am known as Eko…, he answered reluctantly.

It seems to me, Eko, that you are an outsider among your own… The prince paused, sizing him up. What was it that he called you? A Chimera? Eko clenched his jaw and blinked. The prince continued, Though I don’t understand the term, I can sense it has driven a wedge deep inside of you…

Few share the gift I have… It is within our nature to fear what we cannot understand…, Eko answered coldly, fearing that he had already shared too much. He was an outsider among the druid clans, but a traitor he was not.

You have seen what I am capable of, Eko. Why don’t you reveal your gift to someone who doesn’t fear the unknown? The prince coaxed.

My family…, Eko asked, his eyes pleading.

Despite what you may think, I haven’t ordered my men to slaughter your entire race. If your family didn’t cause too much trouble in the relocation, then they are somewhere beneath this chamber in a holding cell…safe, for the time being…, the young man said.

To speak of the secrets I have vowed to preserve will have broken our charter… Eko tried to explain, fearing the retaliation of his own. They will see me killed…and my family… Tears formed in his eyes, and he turned away from the prince’s gaze.

The young man thought for quite some time before he said, Among my own people, my family was slaughtered… When have you been able to trust your own? The question lingered in the air, and after a pause, he went on, "There is only one place for an outsider…out. Eko looked back up, trying to understand. If you do as I say, I promise you will see your family alive and well… The prince stood from his throne and paced the room, circling the druid. I could promise you more…a place in my court, an opportunity to serve a greater purpose."

The prince watched him, drawing closer with every full circle he made in the room. "The possibility to rule over your own people, the ones that think of you as a Chimera… He stopped only a handsbreadth from the back of Eko’s head. I need you to tell me, Eko."

I… Eko’s voice cracked uncertainly, as he thought the offer was too good to be true. In honesty, he could think of nothing more satisfying. Since he was a child, he had been bullied for his differences. His face pushed into the dirt as kids teased him to take form of the worm that he was. His own parents disowned him from their clan; the very word Chimera burned his soul. The only person that treated him kindly was his wife, the woman that he wanted more than anything to return to. The thought of his wife and their children huddled up in a cold, dark cell broke him.

His voice was low as he fought to find the words. I…have the gift to change into any shape that I wish… It is something I have mastered over many years of training.

The prince’s eyes sparkled with understanding. If what you say is true, then you could prove instrumental to my efforts… He came around to face him. "I could guarantee you a place at my side with guarded protection of your family in your own chamber built to your liking. Here, in my castle…but I need you to help me find someone…"

The druid nodded a silent agreement, a single tear rolling down his cheek. Who?

The words caught in the prince’s throat, forcing them out in a hiss, Achilles Maestri.

Chapter Three

An Honored Guest

The sun was still climbing in the sky, the day growing warmer and more unforgiving. Achilles reached the river and bent down, running the cloth under the cold surface. He was busy thinking about the disappearing guest the previous night when he saw a bobbing figure in the crystal water. When he looked up, a large snow-white stallion stared back at him, its silvery mane and tail braided in a regal manner. Atop the majestic horse was a squat, hairy man who smiled politely. Good day to you! He had a bellow of a voice that cut through Achilles’s thoughts.

The young man took a moment to question if he had drifted to sleep before he mumbled back, Uh…afternoon? He stared at the man’s appearance and stature blatantly, but the man did not seem to care. The stallion had a sash around its neck and a banner beneath the saddle with the telltale colors of Burgdul. The man was wearing a matching surcoat over heavy metal armor.

The stout man asked, Is this the Dupree Farmstead? Achilles paused and then nodded, taking in the long beard that waggled as the man spoke. That’s great news! Seems I’m much closer than I thought… He took a satchel from his back and rummaged through until he withdrew a scroll. Let me see here…

At the center of the man’s surcoat was the crest of Burgdul, a circle to represent the whole of the reigning kingdom, cut into five equal pieces. The top slice was a royal red and depicted many ships at port (symbolizing Seethren’s trade by water). The two slices beside it were a deep blue, the left showing a burning brazier (symbolizing Galdran’s main export of oil), and on the right showing large sacks filled to the brim (to symbolize the imports and exports of Cambridge). The last two slices were the same royal red. The left side showed a net with fish (depicting the Eastern Fishing Villages), and the right showed a crescent moon eclipsing a brightly shining sun (the neighboring Twin Kingdoms of the eastern coast).

The circle was bordered with gold paint. In the very center were five smaller golden circles. Each one represented one of the five kingdoms of Salverien that pledged to rule in harmony. The Kingdom of Burgdul in the Western White Mountains, The Kingdom of Trelerro in the deep Southern Jungles, The Kingdom of Lanperidonia overlooking the cliffs far down the west coast from Burgdul, and the Twin Kingdoms of the eastern coast ruled by the brothers Azzindor and Anderoth.

Achilles pulled the cloth from the river as he caught sight of a blinding glimmer on the man’s back. He had to squint to make out a long handle attached to a double-headed ax. The man rolled up the parchment and put it away as he said, I hope you don’t mind my company. I was wondering if you could spare a bed and a meal for a knight?

The young man had trouble processing the heavy words, wondering if the strange man had a foreign accent or an impediment of speech. Uh, oh…I see…you need a place to stay for the evening?

The man’s expression had wavered but he quickly cheered up. Aye, if it’s not too much trouble? As the man readied to dismount, his steed stooped closer to the ground.

No, no trouble at all. You, uh, you said you were a knight? Achilles stood up, seeing that the man barely came up to his chest.

The man nodded proudly. Knight Arlo of Burgdul. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance! The man pulled off his heavy gauntlet and offered up a thick hand that Achilles shook firmly.

Achilles Maestri of the Dupree Farmstead. The young man introduced himself meekly, feeling underdressed and unimpressive in his current state. He fixed his expression and asked, If you don’t mind my curiosity…what’s a knight of Burgdul doing so far east?

The knight released his hand and held his gaze for a few moments. He blinked and smiled somberly. I have been riding for days. Would I be able to come inside to rest my feet? He gestured to the cottage on the hill with a nod of his head.

His accent was thick, but the young man was beginning to understand. Oh, of course. My grandmother was just starting supper. Let me introduce you. Achilles could see Beorn in the meadow beyond the road watching the unfolding events with interest, but then he went back to grazing. The young man turned toward the cottage as he went on, I’d offer my bed, but it isn’t much better than sleeping in the barn. Achilles forced a laugh to appear friendlier and then nervously added, We have chairs as well. They are not the finest, but they are…sturdy.

A chair would do fine, lad, the knight said with a warmer smile as he followed the young man up the hill. You have a lovely farm. Is it just yourself and your gran then? The white stallion stayed at the path, contentedly leaning its long neck down to drink from the cool water.

The young man was shy to answer, but a knight of Burgdul held immense power, and he did not wish to be anything but accommodating. Uh, yes. They came to the door of the cottage that had been propped open for the breeze. Achilles turned on his heel. I beg that I do not offend, but would you mind waiting here a moment?

Arlo only gave a gentle nod, though his expression read as chummy. Achilles stepped inside and pushed the door so it was nearly closed. He hurried over to Gwenore’s bed. We have a visitor…, he spoke under his breath as Gwenore looked to him with surprise. A knight from Burgdul! he exclaimed in a hushed voice. Achilles had forgotten about the drenched cloth in his grasp, clutching too hard and creating a puddle on the floor.

Gwenore tried to stifle a cough in her fist as she brightly answered, Oh my… Well, invite him in, don’t dally.

Achilles stepped through the puddle he had created, nervously handing the damp cloth to Gwenore, then went back to the door and opened it wide. We are making wild rabbit stew. I hope that will suffice?

Arlo gave a formal bow as he entered and said, I’d appreciate it more than you know.

Gwenore took to the accent much faster than Achilles had and was quick to say, It’s the least we can do for a knight of Burgdul! She clasped her hands together and looked to him with care. You may stay for the evening if you like, unless Achilles has already offered? She looked between them questionably. If not, then I really must insist. Achilles noticed that she had set the cloth on the floor, and wanted to say something but didn’t wish to interrupt.

Arlo nodded his thanks. Aye, I could truly use the rest—he took a whiff of the air—and a good meal from the smell of it.

Gwenore smiled sweetly. We are delighted to have you…though I would ask something in turn for our courtesy… Achilles looked to her with alert confusion before she explained, I would love to hear some stories of the kingdom, over tea and biscuits after dinner…

The young man relaxed, and the knight bowed again. Sounds like a fair deal to me.

Gwenore noticed the uncut vegetables on the table. Oh, Achilles, do not forget… Achilles nodded, lifting the cloth from the floor and putting it gently over her forehead. Then he went back to peeling and cutting the vegetables. Arlo withdrew his own knife from a hidden holster at his waist, and masterfully peeled three potatoes before Achilles had even finished the one in his hand. The young man was careful not to cut himself as he watched the knight work so deftly.

After leaving the stew to boil, Achilles received help with skinning the buck by Arlo’s adept knife skills. Knight Arlo’s accent grew on Achilles, and soon they were conversing easily. Achilles provided Arlo’s stallion with fresh oats and let him rest in the barn with Beorn. With the extra set of hands, the farmwork was finished early, and they both returned to the cottage for the stew that filled the air with its balmy scent.

Gwenore had tried to tend to the stew, but her legs wobbled when she stood. Her energy had diminished as the day rolled on into dusk, forcing her into a clammy sleep that caused violent shivers despite the warmth of the summer night. Achilles tried to ignore her condition, afraid of seeming vulnerable to their esteemed guest. He took the lid from the pot of stew to stir its contents, steam rolling over the stone wall of the hearth and unleashing a blast of aroma throughout the room.

That smells amazing…, Arlo admitted with his nose to the air. My provisions didn’t last as long as I’d expected.

I would have no problem providing you with some food for the rest of your journey, and of course, you are welcome to rest here on your way back to Burgdul… Achilles lowered his voice as he went to wake up Gwenore. He leaned over and called her name softly until she opened her eyes. After a moment’s hushed discussion, Gwenore decided she would eat from her bed to conserve her energy.

Achilles turned back to the knight with a strained smile. Please have a seat. I’ll get the bowls. He went to the kitchen cupboard for utensils, serving Knight Arlo first before his grandmother and then himself.

The young man turned his attention to their guest as he settled at the table. There is plenty if you want more. Please eat your fill.

Arlo took his given food graciously and sat opposite from Achilles. I am very grateful for your kindness. The ride from Cambridge took longer than I had expected. I have not had a decent meal in more days than I’d like to admit. He chuckled and took a large mouthful of stew. When he finished chewing, he added, I had hoped to be returning to Burgdul by now.

Oh? Achilles pressed as he started to blow on a spoonful of steaming stew.

The knight took another mouthful and seemed to consider many things at once. Finally, he swallowed and responded, I pledged myself to find someone… It seems she has taken up in the Wood of the North, not too far from here. Arlo sat back from his bowl and took his satchel from his back to rest it on the floor.

Gwenore cleared her throat harshly and retorted, Only one person belongs to those woods, and I wouldn’t implore you to seek her out. Even as the knight that you are.

Arlo wiped broth from his mustache and affirmed, "I’ve heard the stories. Men turned to pigs and