Pirin - Book III - The Gests of Nhalbar

By Brocchi Sebastiano B.

Nhalbar, too, on the other side of the rusty bars, contrasted visibly with the dark scenery. Sitting cross-legged, eyes closed and hands clasped in prayer, with his candid hair and white dress trimmed with shining gold, he emanated so much light that he looked like a full moon in the dark womb of the firmament. He replied before even opening his eyes to meet those of the sovereign: “You call me that, but the White Thief is only one of the masks I have worn. Just one of the names that stuck around me. Before that I was called prince. They call me a druid now, but I even passed myself off as an embalmer once. But who am I really?”
It was with that last question that Nhalbar's intense pupils, framed by blond irises like crowns of sunbeams, planted themselves in the king's soul.
"What is your name?" the other asked, vaguely disturbed by that mystery.
“That's the wrong question, sir. Do not be misled by who I am, but try to understand in whose name I have come. Because I do not come for myself but on behalf of another".

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sebastiano B. Brocchi
• Release date: Aug 15, 2023
• ISBN: 9791222436968

Book preview

Sebastiano B. Brocchi

PIRIN - BOOK III - THE GESTS OF NHALBAR

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I dedicate this book to my mum.

who is one with me

as this book is one with the story of my life,

not because the book tells one

about the people I met

or the events that occurred to me, not at all.

One may think it is an autobiography

when a book tells the reader about the author

through the tale of his experiences in the world,

but this book tells my story

through the tale of my soul.

It is the narrative of an unfathomable journey.

To you, reader, I say:

in this labyrinth of tales

lost and found again,

perhaps somewhere

also you and your journey

are being told.

NOTES

This romance is a work of fantasy. Any possible reference to names of actual people, places, events, historical facts, past or present, is completely unintended and purely fortuitous.

Sebastiano Brocchi

Pirin – The Gests of Nhalbar

First Italian Edition November 2017 – Second Italian Edition June 2019

© Sebastiano B. Brocchi

contact: [e-mail]

Translated into English by Giovanni Carmine Costabile

Reproduction and translation rights are reserved. No portion of this book can be utilized, reproduced or disseminated by any means without explicit, prior authorization in writing by the author.

Lyrics, cover and illustrations by the author.

BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES

Sebastiano B. Brocchi (Author) was born on 18 March 1987 in Montagnola (Switzerland), where he currently lives. He left high school to become an independent writer and researcher in the field of Art History, Hermetic Philosophy, Sacred Symbology and Inner Alchemy. In 2004 he published his first work, the brief treatise Collina d’Oro – I Tesori dell’Arte. In the following years he also published Collina d’Oro Segreta (2005), a book causing amazement in the Canton Ticino local press, and Riflessioni sulla Grande Opera (2006), considered by specialists as a masterwork on Alchemy. In 2009 he dedicates the essay Favole Ermetiche to the esoteric interpretation of traditional fairy-tales. In 2011 the historical detective-story L’Oro di Polia is published, while in 2012 he presents to the general public the first Italian edition of the first volume of the Pirin fantasy saga, thereafter titled in English Memoirs of Helewen. The second volume, in English Hairam the Queen, is first published in Italian in 2016.

He is also the author of several articles, studies, and interviews to important international characters, published on journals and web-pages, both in Switzerland and Italy.

Giovanni Carmine Costabile (Translator, MPhil) born in Italy in 1987. Independent scholar, translator, writer, teacher. He presents at conferences in Italy and abroad, and published on Tolkien in academic journals Tolkien Studies (2017), Mythlore (2018, 2022), Settentrione (2020), Inklings Jahrbuch (2017), Journal of Inklings Studies (2022) and Journal of Tolkien Research (2022). He contributed to Tolkien Society's Roe series (2017, 2019), to the 2021 Italian volume on Tolkien by Aracne, and to Walking Tree volumes (2019, 2022). He was finalist at Medieval Philosophy Arosio Award 2019. He published a monograph on Tolkien in Italian, Oltre le Mura del Mondo (Il Cerchio, 2018), and a commentary to Tolkien's essay on Fairy-stories in English, The Road to Fair Elfland (Phronesis, 2022). He writes for the Maryland foundation Fellowship & Fairydust, and he published the fantasy trilogy Cronache di Arlen (Phronesis, 2022-2023).

He translated and co-translated twelve books, both fiction and non-fiction, and both from English into Italian and from Italian into English. He is the official translator into English of the Pirin fantasy saga by Swiss talent Sebastiano B. Brocchi.

Read more about the author and the Pirin saga on websites and dedicated social channels:

Sebastiano B. Brocchi, the official site

https://sebastianobrocchi.blogspot.com/

Author's Facebook page

https://www.facebook.com/sebastianobbrocchi

The Pirin saga, the official site

http://pirinsaga.blogspot.com/

Official Facebook page of the Pirin saga

https://www.facebook.com/pirinsaga

Official Pirin Saga Fandom Facebook Group

https://www.facebook.com/groups/469416968052926

Official Instagram profile of the Pirin saga

https://www.instagram.com/_pirinsaga_/

TRANSLATOR'S PREFACE

I offer you the tale of The Gests of Nhalbar

The art of storytelling is reaching its end because the epic side of truth and wisdom is dying out wrote Walter Benjamin in the twentieth century. And now we, men and women of the twenty-first century, are being told that the process Benjamin described already would be over and, as the only logical outcome following from such premises, storytelling would be effectively dead. But is it? Are we really allowed to think of a world devoid of narratives in any meaningful sense?

Maria Konnikova instead said: Storytelling is the oldest form of entertainment there is. From campfires and pictograms – the Lascaux cave paintings may be as much as twenty thousand years old – to tribal songs and epic ballads passed down from generation to generation, it is one of the most fundamental ways humans have of making sense of the world. Therefore, to say that storytelling is dead would be like saying that humans ceased making sense of the world. And did we? I certainly don’t think so.

Writing in the New York Times on December 8, 2022, Paul Blow expressed himself in similar terms: We have been telling stories since our beginnings. Some researchers posit that the origins of language date back more than 20 million years, while writing surfaced around 3200 B.C. Today, elaborate cave paintings, ancient parchment scrolls and centuries-old poems have evolved into literature and operas and Twitter threads, but our innate drive to recount narratives about who we are, where we come from, and what we mean to each other remains an essential trait of being human. In the rest of his NY Times article, Blow reports the opinions on the subject of why stories matter collected from a variety of writers. Answers range from The universe is a story that exists from start to finish (Michelle Thaller) to We tell stories to build dynasties of meaning (Amy Chua), passing by We tell stories because we are human (Amanda Gorman), Storytelling is the gateway to truth-telling (Wendell Pierce), Stories are life’s inheritance (Naomi Watanabe), and Storytelling is how we make ourselves whole (Diana Gabaldon), among others.

In this respect, one is also reminded of the outstanding incipit from one of Neil Gaiman’s stories, Tales of Sand, from his Sandman collection of comic-books:

"There are tales that are told many times. Some tales you tell children, stories that tell them the history of the tribe, what is good to eat, what is not. Cautionary tales. There are the tales the women tell, in the private tongue men-children are never taught and older men are too wise to learn, and these tales are not told to men.

There are tales men tell each other, in the men's hut at night; crude raucous tales of the lizard who lost his male member, or of the malabayo, the trickster, who sold ape dung to king lion, telling him it was the soul of the moon. There are tales the whole tribe tell each other, at the festivals, at feasts: The story of the Rook that jumped, of how fire came, a thousand others.

One tale is only ever told once."

So, Sebastiano B. Brocchi has given us a tale. I have the honour to be the English translator of his stories, and in some ways I have become a part of it. I can say I am giving you this tale as well, although not in the same sense in which the author is the author. And it is a splendid, grandiose, magnificent tale. One that is certainly worth telling, and one that is certainly worth reading. By the time you are reading these words, it is probable that you have already come to appreciate Brocchi’s writing, although it is still conceivable that this may be your first read. In any case, this is where tables are turned and we come to the final showdown, when the forces of good and evil are going to clash in their epic battle for domination over the whole world.

Do not be afraid, then, to turn the pages and get lost in the overwhelming storm of words and swords that is going to rip your heart and mind apart. There will be tears of sorrow, tears of joy, a few times you may find yourself yelling at the pages, or sighing from relief, but I promise that you will be enriched intellectually, emotionally, and, why not, spiritually, when the tale is over. But the tale is not over, it is just going to start, and so, dear reader, I am leaving you to it.

I offer you the tale of The Gests of Nhalbar. May the glimmer of the Shining Sword Nhirgal always flicker in your eyes, so that we meet each other in some far place over the sea, along the streets of a crowded city, or on the paths of our dreams, and we will be able to tell it’s us when we see that glimmer. It is the light of Lothriel and the God Ghaladar, that was given to the one whom they call the White Thief in order for him to bring it to you. By the power of this light, he will steal your heart and vanquish any evil that may oppress you. And so, even now, in the times of darkness, when twilight falls over the whole world of Gaimat, in the language of the Pirin people we may still say Remember, Dawn: Atthùdimth, Nhalnar.

Giovanni Carmine Costabile

Moncalieri, 18/06/2023

...THE STORY INSOFAR…

Book I – Memoirs of Helewen

The young scribe named Nhalfòrdon-Domenir, an olive-skinned boy forced by leg paralysis to use a wheelchair, is entrusted by his parents to the fostercare of Helewen. The latter, having retreated to a great river mansion called Magnolias Estate, is a man of astounding looks and a troublesome past: his white hair and golden eyes reveal him to belong to a race of demigods, the Pirin, a thriving civilization which once flourished upon the high peaks in the East, whose King the very man was.

Their land, Lothriel (meaning 'The Realm of the Lotus Flowers') was a mythical, glorious Kingdom, a verdant paradise preserved by glaciers, defended by the snowy peaks encircling its boundaries. During his first few days at Magnolias Estate, Domenir soon gets familiar with his new environment and his mysterious, yet fatherly and caring landlord. In order to get to know his foster-child better, and also to preserve knowledge and memories otherwise soon lost, King Helewen decides to dictate Domenir his memoirs, as much as the general account of the legendary past of his people.

Among many episodes recounted, one in particular shall constitute the main thread, not only in Helewen's personal vicissitudes, but also in the general plot of the whole of the peoples in the known world: during one of his journeys, Helewen, accompanied by his dearest friend from his childhood, Hairam, eventually gets to the royal court of the wide underground Kingdom of Hagardtyh.

The Queen of Hagardtyh gives to Helewen as a gift the first half of a secret item, invisible until the second half is found. A little while later, Hairam asks Helewen to join her on a journey in search of a lost hamlet nowhere to be found on maps. Rirhos, Hairam's grandmother, wrote her grandchild a letter confiding her to have left her an important legacy, having hidden it in the aforesaid village, more precisely in the saffron field of a local farmer named Ofat.

Having finally come to the village after their share of adventures, Helewen and Hairam shall actually find a chest buried in the saffron field, and within it no less than the second half of the secret item given them by the Queen of Hagardtyh. Contrary to their expectations, though, the item is neither finely-wrought nor precious: they have only gotten the two halves of a cheap, rusty metal circlet. Even so, Rirhos' journal, also found within the chest, shall reveal to them the nature of the most ancient relic: the metal half-circles belong to the Crown of Sibereht, the King of the World announced by prophecies, who shall defeat the dark power of the fallen God Belhagard.

A God of War and Chaos, Belhagard had been thought to have been vanquished many centuries earlier, during the latest War of the Gods, having been imprisoned within the ice at the bottom of a chasm, and yet, for unknown reasons, it seems he still secretly rules the fates of peoples. Only once the Holy Crown comes into the hands of the Chosen One, the rough iron in which it is made shall turn into bright gold, thus putting an end to the dominion of conflict and hatred. In order for that to happen, in the first place they shall find a way to reforge the broken crown: since in their journeys Helewen and Hairam had already come into possession of the Fiery Hammer of the Alliance, which would allow them to weld once more the two shards, still an item is missing in order to perform the ritual: an anvil fit for the holiest of relics.

Before the two Pirin may get in search of the anvil, though, an unexpected tragedy upsets their existence: King Osondel, Helewen's father, dies, thus compelling his son to take the throne of Lothriel instead.

Book II – Hairam the Queen

Given the situation, Helewen decides to stay in Lothriel and stop searching for the anvil. This is the reason for a heated quarrel with Hairam, who believes that the mission entrusted to them by destiny should take precedence, and therefore decides to leave alone to carry it out. During Hairam's absence, Helewen is confronted with the need to designate a Queen to honour dynastic traditions: following a long selection, the ideal candidate is then identified, Lady Dharjadis, who despite being blind seems to reflect the ideal in everything of the perfect Queen. However, an inconvenience prevents Helewen from getting married to Dharjadis: the door of the tabernacle, in which the crown destined for the queen is enclosed, seems mysteriously blocked. When asked about it, the oracle of Faiev reveals that the tabernacle will open only upon the return of the one whom fate has indicated as Queen of the Pirin, and just at that moment Hairam's return to Lothriel is announced. However, she is in a very serious condition, due to numerous injuries sustained in a foreign land. The healers manage to save the girl, and Helewen asks her to marry him. Before the wedding Hairam tells Helewen what happened to her during the time she was away from her realm. Her wanderings, threatened by more than one mortal danger, had brought her to the city of Adar Mòrnoth, in the crater of a volcano, where an ancient parchment revealed the story of the origin of the Fiery Hammer of the Alliance and of the mysterious Anvil of Elpur. This last relic seems to be the only anvil on which it is possible to reforge the Sacred Crown of Sibereht.

After getting married, Helewen and Hairam then decide to travel to Pegmenjaba, the Valley of Giant Mushrooms, the last place where the chronicles claim that the Anvil of Elpur had been conducted, before getting lost. In the valley the two Pirin are brought before one of the revered talking heads, who reveals to them that the only way to obtain the Anvil of Elpur (whose name means Anvil of Trust) is to face and overcome three tyrants, called Doubt, Jealousy and Pride. It is also impossible to continue the search, since the Anvil cannot be sought but only found. The Pirin therefore return to Lothriel, where they spend a few years forgetting their mission.

One day Helewen is summoned together with other rulers to the sanctuary realm of Medul On, where the priests reveal to the Kings that a sacred object has been stolen from the temple of the God of Love: it is the ceremonial blindfold that covered the eyes of the God. A vision reveals that the stolen bandage was brought into the Thinking Woods, a wandering forest that continually moves between the various districts of the earth. Having arrived there together with the other kings, Helewen discovers a forest devastated by an invisible evil, which only later will be revealed to be caused by a real invasion of worms. Once swarmed out of the trunks, the woodworms of the Thinking Woods unite to form a monstrous and gigantic creature, a scorpion who turns out to be none other than the first of the three tyrants the talking head had talked about: Doubt. Only after facing and defeating the monster, Helewen can take back the blindfold of the God of Love and bring it back to the temple of Medul On with utmost confidence. Helewen thus takes the first step in the direction of the Anvil of Elpur.

Some time later Helewen and Hairam are hosted at the imperial court of the great city of Sandovelia, where King Tharaus asks the ruler of the Pirin for a personal and strictly confidential favour: to convince Lady Herwion of the Mandrake, Tharaus's lover, to mitigate her claims and stop discrediting Empress Tewirneh. Having gone secretly to Herwion's abode, Helewen falls irremediably victim to the charm of the young woman, whom he falls in love with. Upon Helewen's return to Sandovelia, Hairam discovers his betrayal and goes mad with jealousy. She is about to leave the city when Empress Tewirneh asks her to follow her on a delicate mission: to accompany a large wounded tiger to the land of the Elves, the only ones able to heal her. The tiger, in fact, had been wounded by a bewitched dagger to defend the Empress from the attack of a dark assassin. Hairam accepts, so the two Queens embark on a long journey on the Path of Solitude, followed by the powerful and restless feline, in whose fury Hairam recognizes a reflection of his burning Jealousy: here is the second tyrant.

The Elves explain to the Queens that the tiger can only be healed by one antidote: the Flower of Forgiveness, which grows on the top of Mount Pride in the rocky desert. On a winged mount given to her by the Elves, Hairam arrives in the land of the Gnomes. Here she asks for and gets a guide and a donkey to reach and climb the steep cliff face of Mount Pride. It will be the little gnome designated as a guide for Hairam who, during the climb, will make the Queen reflect on the possibility of returning to trust the one who betrayed her, and this is how Hairam will be able to overcome even the obstacle of Pride, the third tyrant, and reach the plateau on which the Flower of Forgiveness grows. Seizing it, Hairam regains confidence in her husband, thus precipitating the appearance of the long-awaited Anvil of Elpur.

Simultaneously with the Hairam expedition, Helewen receives a new mission from Emperor Tharaus: to investigate the assassination attempt in which Empress Tewirneh was involved and the great tiger was injured. To shed light on the story, Helewen goes to the fortress of a Hagarbor, the head of a sect of sorcerers who worship Belhagard, the fallen god of war. Here he discovers that the sect - the Brotherhood of the Black Cornflower - is indeed implicated in the attempted murder of the Queen of Sandovelia.

While still trying to investigate the matter, Helewen is suddenly recalled by Tharaus near the border with the kingdom of the Dwarves, who, with an armed action, have appropriated an important iron mine called The Smouldering Doors. There is a first battle - with a catastrophic outcome for the empire - following which Tharaus agrees to stick to the strategy proposed by Helewen, thus obtaining victory in the second battle. Strengthened by that military success, Helewen therefore goes as ambassador to the court of the King of the Dwarves, engaging in fruitful peace negotiations.

Upon returning to Sandovelia, Helewen, seriously worried about the fate of Empress Tewirneh and Crown Prince Dhorin if they remained in the capital, proposes to Tharaus to implement a drastic but effective solution to protect them: when the Empress returned from the realm of the Elves, Tharaus would repudiate her, accusing her of having left Sandovelia without her consent. Upon the return of Hairam and Tewirneh, the latter and little Dhorin are then arrested and placed in the carriage that would escort the Pirin back to Lothriel. Mother and son are hidden in disguise at the court of On-Ifar, the City of the Waterfall, located not too far from the realm of the Pirin.

Back home, now possessing both the Hammer and the Anvil, Helewen and Hairam can finally perform the ritual of forging the Crown of Sibereht. Once the ancient and sacred artifact has been reassembled, the fair judge Desisida is designated Herald of the Crown and charged with setting out in the various kingdoms of the earth to allow anyone who wants to gird their head with the diadem, in search of the predestined. After some time, however, any trace of Desisida and the Crown mysteriously is lost.

In the meantime, Hairam gives birth to three twin sons, whom various omens and prodigious signs seem to indicate as the Sons of Prophecy who would bring the greatest disaster and the greatest salvation into the world. Two males, Nhalbar and Nothal, and a female, Iriah. The former two display diametrically opposed characters from childhood: while Nhalbar expresses an extraordinary goodness, Nothal on the contrary seems to be possessed by a cruel and perverse soul. Nothal's dark nature attracts the interest of the High Priest of the Kingdom, who is secretly devoted to the God Belhagard and will lead Helewen's son into the paths of dark magic, preparing him to orchestrate a coup. A few years later, when Nothal's training is completed, the conspirators arrange for the mercenary militias stationed to defend the Kingdom to unleash an armed revolt. In the ensuing hustle and bustle, Nothal enters the palace where he has the other members of the royal family arrested and imprisoned in dungeons. Then he goes down to the square where he pretends to fight in defence of the citadel: his powers, combined with those of other sorcerers, are able to easily defeat the mercenary troops, sedating the revolt. In the plans of the High Priest, the coup should have served - as well as to oust the rulers and allow the accession to the throne of his apprentice Nothal - to stir up public opinion by inciting the Pirin to go to war to assert their superiority over the races of the lower world. In reality, the plan encounters unexpected events: Helewen and Nhalbar manage to escape from the dungeons and, even worse, Nothal betrays his mentor, killing him. The only interest of the young prince is, in fact, to obtain power, without the intention of sharing it with anyone.

Informed of the escape of his father and brother, Nothal obtains the bodies of two guards, which were charred during the palace fire, and passes them off as the remains of King Helewen and Prince Nhalbar, celebrating their funeral.

PART ONE

THE WHITE THIEF

You, your bow, your arrow and the target

CHAPTER I

It was in the nineteenth year of the Eighth Age of the world.

A magnificent boat emerged with great pomp from the cloud of confetti and flags, amidst the cheering voices and the blare of trumpets; followed by an equally sumptuous parade of other boats with bright enamels and fine bas-reliefs. On those gaudy wooden swans (or maybe Dragons?), which plowed the lake with sails swollen by a wind of hope, champions came from all over to try their hand at one of the most acclaimed tournaments hosted by the capital. Sandovelia, like a lady dressed up for a reception, was about to become the scene of the challenge between brave knights, skilled swordsmen and skilled archers. A tournament in which anyone could participate, simply by registering with the city chancellor in charge, provided they had their own equipment. Whether you were male or female, young or old, Human, Giant, Elf, Dwarf, or of any other lineage, everyone had the right to try their hand at the fight.

Domenir, who looked with admiration and awe at the imposing canopies all draped with curtains, banners, shields and spears, already imagining the stands packed with crowds and the judges seated on thrones of silver and orange velvet, tried to mask his great agitation. Helewen's warm, reassuring hand, wrapped in the white glove, took his shoulder with paternal firmness. Their eyes met. Your time has come, my son.

Being called a son gave Domenir a pleasant feeling of belonging to that man who, despite not having any blood ties with him, was now, in fact, his only family. Helewen continued: The tournament will start in eight days. And you will have the opportunity to prove to the world that you are the worthy son of your mother.

This was perhaps what worried Domenir the most: What if I disappoint everyone? What if I am not worthy of my mother? She has become a legend, but I may not have inherited her talent. I could be a normal person, without being destined for fame and acclamation.

Now Helewen crouched down in front of her godson, staring at him intently, without worrying that his white and flowing robe could get dirty or crease on the ground of straw and sand. Listen, Domenir: you are here above all for yourself. To try your hand at a goal. During the test it will be you, your bow, your arrow and the target. It does not matter what others see and how they judge you. When faced with the challenge, the challenge you have chosen, if you see the arrow striking the centre of the target, that happiness will be yours alone. Nobody will be able to understand it. The crowd will be able to admire or mock you, ignore you, cheer you or judge you. They will be able to criticize the shot, compare it to that of other archers. But no one, no one will know the joy that your heart will feel seeing that arrow reach its target .

Yes, but what if I do not make it? What if I miss the shot and the arrow does not hit the target, or sticks to the outer edges? What would it have been worth being here to try the enterprise, if I failed and were considered by all to be inept?

But tell me, Domenir: do you really believe that every champion, the author of every masterpiece, those who excel in all fields, have succeeded in the first attempt at what made them great? Victory, the achievement of an objective, most of the time passes through a road strewn with small and large defeats.

Yes, but there are also streets strewn with defeat that only lead to defeat, the boy replied.

See, Domenir, defeat is never something objective. It is rather an impression, an angle from which things are observed. There is no definitive defeat, as most paths that are interrupted to take new and perhaps better ones.

You are telling me this to encourage me, my Lord, Domenir complained shrugging and looking down.

No. You are wrong, Helewen denied resolutely. He stood up again and now his gaze was lost in the horizon of memories. No, Domenir. If I tell you these things it is because I have had the most terrible, grandiose and extraordinary demonstration of it in the events I have witnessed. The history of the Crown of Sibereht, the whole history of my life, was a demonstration of this. One can believe in an objective for years, only to discover that failure is nothing but the most subtle disguise of a victory, while certain victories are the most false masks of true defeats… .

What does that mean? Domenir asked somewhat bewildered by those words.

You will understand when I finish dictating my memories to you.

And when will you finish? When will you tell me what happened after funeral pyres were burned in Lothriel, proclaiming your death, yours and your son Nhalbar's, while who knows whose bodies were burned in your place? What happened after your son Nothal came to power?

We have a few days left before the tournament. If we are lucky I will be able to conclude my story. In the meantime, let us get to our lodgings. After we have settled down, I will resume narrating those dramatic events...

Unleash the ghost wolves

CHAPTER II

Thus the memoirs of Helewen continue, as he dictated them and the scribe Nhalfòrdon-Domenir wrote them.

The smokes of our fake funeral pyres still had to completely clear in the sky, when Nothal reached with some excitement his group of hooded men, who had gathered in secret on the heights near Thalabain. Nothal took off the Sun Mask, which he had worn to deliver his speech to the people gathered for our funeral. The Hooded Men, each of whom displayed the tattoo of the two chameleons, symbol of their secret Order, were ready to put their dark magical arts at the service of the new master. Their tall pointed hoods and long iridescent cloaks, just like chameleons, took on the colour of the surrounding landscape. Each sorcerer had received an initiatory name that only the members of the Brotherhood knew. Five hooded men stood in front of Nothal that day. Their initiatory names were: Cloud, Shield, Storm, Wind and Voice.

My son addressed them in a tone that betrayed all his disappointment with the situation: How is it possible? How did they escape the dungeons? This will not do! My father and brother still alive! We cannot afford it. They could screw everything up. And we cannot afford it!

Storm spoke up: Master, we will find them!

You will see, they will not escape us, Vento supported him.

They will be dead before night falls, Voce also agreed.

Nothal blurted out, drawing the black and terrible Dofendoari and pointing it at the throat of the last sorcerer who had spoken: They should be dead already! Every moment that passes is a breath that they should not be able to breathe. So make sure you deliver them to me even before a moment has passed! Turn 'it will be done' into 'it has already been done'!

Then he moved his sword, now aiming at the expressionless hood of another warrior priest: Cloud, I want you to unleash the ghost wolves!

Meanwhile, after having crossed the border and covered most of the road in the Nhirklordi mountains hidden on a cart crammed with goods, Nhalbar, cold from the storms and trembling with fear from that completely unexpected escape, heard the veil of fog of that frozen winter that encircled the mountains being suddenly torn apart by the terrifying barking and sinister howls of a pack of wolves. Those ghostly verses, which seemed to tear the wind, the mist and the snowstorm, came closer and closer. It did not take long for my son to realize that those wolves were looking for him. He realized that the freight wagon was too slow and soon the hungry pack would be upon him. He had to find a quicker way to escape! So he quickly pushed aside the crates and heavy blankets that sheltered the back of the wagon and, jumping on the driver's seat, silenced the poor fellow with a hand over his mouth before he could finish his But what...?

I am Nhalbar, the prince! I am sorry, but I have to steal one of your horses, Sir!

The merchant's wide eyes wanted to express an: are not you dead, my Lord?.

Please: you have never seen me. My life is at stake! .

The other nodded, always with a dismayed expression. So, thanking him, Nhalbar leapt into the saddle of one of the four steeds that pulled the heavy gig and loosened the bonds that held it. He launched the draft horse into a gallop, darting through the blizzard. Snow and cold air lashed his face, so Nhalbar tried to cover himself with his cloak. He rode down the steep mountain-sides, riding at breakneck speed as the pack got closer and closer. He could feel it looming, although he could not see it. He rode until he entered a forest, a black colonnade of fir trees that supported a leaden sky. The snow was shallower under the trees. Whenever he heard a howl cut through that damp, swirling sleet-laden mist, Nhalbar turned, but he never saw anything but small ice crystals forming clouds behind him. Then, suddenly, a bitter surprise: the wolves had surrounded him.

Yellow eyes like burning torches and sharp-eared shadows stood out in the mist of the undergrowth, in the livid light of that fir wood. Rattles, growls and barks mingled with the wind and the night that was now falling, enveloping everything. Those were not wolves. They were shadows. Evanescent ghosts. Eyes that searched Nhalbar straight into his soul, clutching his chest in the grip of terror. The pack had circled the prey, staying within an arrow's range. Further upstream, a sorcerer, astride an equally ghostly steed, observed the scene from a distance. He held in his fingers two citrine diamonds in which the flames of an unknown and tormented afterlife seemed to burn. Those were the eyes that allowed the sorcerer to see through the same eyes as the wolf pack, and they were also the will of the pack. Holding those diamonds, Cloud, the hooded one, could command the pack of ghost wolves.

Nhalbar trembled, shaken to the bottom of his spirit by a panic that he felt seizing him like an invisible hand. The pack could have driven him mad. This was its power. Although my son did not know it, those wolves could not have harmed him in any other way than by devouring his mind. Their shadow jaws could only feed on what was related to them: fear. This was their substance and their nourishment. They had killed many men before that day, driving them to madness, to suicide.

Even the horse went crazy, violently kicking Nhalbar out of the saddle and running away in madness. It did not know where to go, it only knew that it was afraid of wolves, and fear led it to ruin: the ghosts followed it up to a high steep cliff. The horse fell with a neigh that echoed like a desperate scream in Nhalbar's head.

Not being able to flee in any direction, now fallen on the white and cold surface of the snowy blanket, Nhalbar closed his eyes and tried to escape on the only paths that were not, at that moment, barred by the growling pack: the silent and lonely roads of the heart. He remembered that day when he was in the temple with his sister Iriah, and they had discussed the magic of lotus flowers. That day Nhalbar had urged his sister to place her tired fingers on its white petals and allow herself to be pervaded by the serenity emanated by that flower. I do not know why the flower has this magical virtue, my sister. But I believe that this same capacity also exists in us, somewhere, lodged in the folds of our spirit. There must be a flower that cannot be seen, yet germinates and blooms by a mysterious grace when we remember to look for it. It must be that invisible flower that, if we can touch it with the fingers of thought, makes sadness pass from our hearts.

Now Nhalbar found himself thinking: maybe, if that flower really exists, somewhere, inside of us, then maybe it can make not only sadness go away, but also fear…

In those thoughts he found himself suspended as in a fleeting moment of absolute peace, but it was only a moment. Again the grip of fear assailed him, plunging him back into the chill of the forest. Opening his eyes and lifting himself up to look around, Nhalbar saw the wolves now just a few paces away. They advanced slowly, almost cautiously. Nhalbar, then, did not know why the wolves did not immediately pounce on him now that they were so close and he was practically helpless on the ground. He did not know that the only weapon at their disposal was fear. He did not know that their jaws had fangs of nightmare and their paws claws of illusion. Inconsistent like the shadows that disappear under the midday sun. At that moment, under the fierce gaze of those ginger yellow eyes that dotted the pale gray of the forest, surrounded by those black animals made of nothing, yet so disturbing in their belonging to the domain of the unknown, Nhalbar panicked wildly. He got up and started running at breakneck speed, almost closing his eyelids so as not to see all those wolves who, for sure, would have pounced on his flesh with greed. He counted the steps and beats of his heart, as if he were counting the moments that separated him from death. Instead, for the moment, nothing was happening. He opened his eyes to see where he was going and not crash into the imposing black fir trunks, and he saw no more wolves in front of him. He had them, of course, still on his heels. He could hear them running behind him panting menacingly. He ran, ran as long as he could. He thought he felt his lungs burst in his chest. A hammering increasingly heavy, made extremely pungent by the snow-soaked air.

The sorcerer, from the top of the promontory, was already savouring the moment when my son would give up the crazy hope of escaping the wolves. It would have been impossible to escape them. Escaping from the ghost wolves triggered a vicious circle that would certainly lead the victim to death: they would always have the impression of running faster than them, but they would never be able to distance them enough to be safe. Cloud considered Nhalbar's death to be a done thing. So much so that he put the citrine diamonds in a pocket of his robe and spurred the horse back to Lothriel.

Such a simple task

CHAPTER III

Nothal may have failed once, but he would not fail twice. When he had me arrested he had forgotten that I was protected by the power of Hèren's emerald, which protected me from all magic. Now he would no longer underestimate it. So he turned to Voice and Storm with these orders: You cannot use magic against my father. You will have to find him and kill him with your swords. Bring me his head, or whatever testifies that King Helewen has stopped breathing the air of mortals forever! The two warrior priests nodded solemnly and mounted their horses.

For my part, when I parted from Nhalbar I initially sought refuge in a cave, which could only be accessed from under the lake. It was a place we loved to venture into as children, Hairam, Ishak-Ghalam, Desisida and myself. You had to dive in, hold your breath for long moments, and try to keep your eyes open in the murky, greenish waters, making your way through the algae. Once you reached the crack in the banks, you had to go up a short distance and finally you could return to inhale deeply. The cave was small but sufficiently airy. Some cracks in the vault also allowed sunlight to illuminate, at least in part, that rocky womb isolated from the rest of the world. There I would be safe at least for a while, the time to think about how to leave the kingdom and study some counter-move.

Meanwhile, much further downstream, outside the borders of Lothriel, an unforeseen event happened. But as you know, dear Domenir, whenever we say unexpected we mean unexpected by mortals, since in the mind of our Heavenly Father Inkahal everything is foreseen from the beginning. Nhalbar had been running so fast that his heart would soon stop beating. His legs no longer supported him and every limb of his body caused him unbearable pain. However, the wolves did not seem to tire of him. Never. They kept chasing him without ever reaching him, but almost making him feel their warm breath on his ankles. At one point one of the wolves was pierced by a fiery-tipped arrow. The arrow pierced it without meeting resistance, just as a hand can cut through the air, but the flames took on that body of shadow. Then the wolf was heard wailing the agonizing verses of his undoing. There was a vigorous blaze and the ghost was dissolved. That sight greatly impressed Nhalbar, who could not distinguish the archer who had thrown the dart. Other arrows hissed from the unknown. Lights crossed the forest. None missed its target, and soon the ghost wolves found themselves decimated, melted like nightmares upon awakening.

Cloud was already in the presence of Nothal, when the latter perceived that something strange must have happened. Cloud, I felt my mind ripple. A thrill in the temples. What happened? What became of my brother?

And the sorcerer to him: Master, your brother must already be by this time finished, lifeless, in some ravine, or slumped dead under the impassive gaze of tall fir trees and cold mountains. Nobody finds escape from the ghost wolves.

Are you telling me you did not see it with your own eyes? Are you telling me, Cloud, that you are not sure of his death? Is that so?

Before the other could answer anything sensible, Nothal silenced him: The citrine diamonds! he demanded, opening his fingers and reaching out to his servant.

Cloud, with some hesitation, extracted the gems from the folds of the robe and placed them on the palm of Nothal's hand, who greedily closed his fist and then brought the diamonds closer to his face to contemplate their contents.

I see knights. From their clothes one would say they were brigands. They wear cheap fabrics and do not wear metal armour. Their cloaks have the dull colours of the forest. But a symbol with a lively, almost brilliant hue stands out. A bird. A blue bird. Those knights wield longbows and shoot fiery arrows at your wolves! How can it be? Who I am? How can they challenge your magic? my son barked, overcoming the limit of patience and throwing the two citrines at his minion.

Petrified, Cloud picked up the diamonds from the ground and watched as well. In a low and trembling voice, he reported to the master: The Order of the Blue Jay! I could not imagine that…

But the sorcerer's response hung suspended in the vast universe of unspoken words, half choked by the black sword Dofendoari. Stuck in Cloud's mouth, it had given rise to an unnatural blood, black as shiny obsidian, as the warrior priest slumped to the ground covered by his flowing robes, under the disappointed and contemptuous gaze of Nothal. My son withdrew the blade from the hood blackened with blood and replaced it in its sheath with a hiss that sounded like a curse.

Which of you will be next? Threatened the remaining sorcerers.

Shield and Wind shivered at the sight of their brother crumpled on the floor in that mirror-black pool in which they saw their possible fate reflected, but they tried not to show Nothal any sign of fear or weakness.

He continued his monologue of lamentations: What should I do? Who can I still trust? Why is there no one by my side to whom I can entrust a task so simple that it would be understood by the mind of a mouse? My brother is just a boy! A scared, hurt, cold, weak teenager! Alone, lost among the snow-covered sides of inhospitable mountains. What was difficult about my request? Did I have too lofty ambitions? Did I ask you to chain the Emperor of Hagardtyh and lead him to my feet? Did I ask you to bring me the kingdom of giants? Did I ask you to capture one of Noghard's mighty Dragons that streak the sky? No, damn it! I asked you to kill my brother! I asked you, who are sorcerers and dominate ancestral powers! You, who wield the magic of Belhagard and know the ways of Hate! How could you have failed in such a simple task?

It was Shield who spoke: We will not disappoint you again, master. One of our brothers has failed, it does not mean that the mission will not be completed as soon as possible.

I hope so for you!, Nothal barked as if even the top of the mountains were to tremble in the face of that scream. And now go, get out of my sight! Nullity!.

Meanwhile, to my greatest amazement, I saw someone emerge from the water and join me in the cave. I promptly hid behind a pillar of stone, drawing his sword. I was expecting a sorcerer or a soldier, but instead I saw an unarmed man appear, handsome and with a peaceful expression. In his face I seemed to grasp something familiar, but at the moment I did not remember where I had seen him previously.

My Lord!, he began to call. Sire Helewen! Prince Nhalbar!

That man was looking for us. He knew we were not dead. Who was he?

Sire Helewen! Prince Nhalbar! he called again.

I decided to step forward, sheathing my sword.

I am here. Who are you? Why are you looking for me?

The man bowed reverently. My sister sent me. Lady Dharjadis, my Lord.

At that moment I remembered. That adult man who was now standing in front of me, I remembered when he was eight years old. He was the child who, lovingly and with great devotion, accompanied his blind sister everywhere. Dharjadis, the Lady I should have married. The Lady whom I had chosen as queen many years before, and whom I would have married if the omens had not hindered the wedding and if Hairam had not returned to me quite unexpectedly.

Dharjadis? How did you know I was here?

At the funeral, before the pyres were lit.

Funeral? What funeral?

A ceremony was held this morning. Your funeral… and your son Nhalbar's. They told us….

Who?

Your son Nothal, Highness.

What did he tell you?

He announced to the people that your bodies were found lifeless following the fire that struck the citadel. There was a…

A coup d'etat.

Nothal said you and your son Nhalbar died in the fire on the night of the coup. He said so.

And your sister? Your sister Dharjadis: How did he know I was still alive and had taken refuge in this cave? What about my son? Do you know anything about my son Nhalbar?.

At the funeral, before the pyres were lit, I said. My sister approached your body. I mean, I mean... The man stopped, embarrassed.

I know what you mean. Go on.

He caressed it. He wanted to give you one last...one last caress before…

How did she understand that that man was not me? That body had to be at least partially charred by the fire if they could mistake it for my corpse.

I do not know, sire. I just know my sister was not fooled. She understood that that body did not belong to you.

Even if it were so, then how did she understand that I had fled and found shelter here, in this cave? I have never told Dharjadis about this place.

No, in fact. During the funeral she managed to approach her queen, Her Majesty Hairam. She revealed her concerns about the identity of your corpse and asked her where you could hide if you were still within the kingdom's borders. It was her Highness, Queen Hairam, who suggested this place. So she sent me to look for you.

And did you make other arrangements? Did she give you a message, something?.

Her Majesty the Queen cannot expose herself. At least until the situation at court is clarified. The coup d'etat has displaced everyone, and now the climate is extremely tense. It is not clear who is with whom, whose real responsibility for what happened, who to trust now. Therefore Her Majesty will not be able to help you directly. My sister, however, has offered to hide you in our house until tonight. We will get you a horse and supplies and we will find a way to make you cross the border tomorrow morning, when the portals reopen .

It is dangerous. I do not want to put you in a risky situation. Thank you, but I could not forgive myself if something happened to you because of me. No, I have to find a way to do it myself.

Sire, you know very well that it is not possible. How will you go through customs? And above all, even assuming you can get past the Ektabanghal guard posts, how do you think you can reach another kingdom without having a horse, a wagon or provisions? You would face a quick death. Let us help you. I beg you.

Accepting the proposal seemed to me the most sensible solution. I followed Dharjadis' brother. However, after diving into the water, I noticed something that saved my life. My companion wore a long braid of hair that reached almost mid-back, but by swimming the braid he moved away just enough to allow me to glimpse a tattoo on the back of the man's neck. It was only a moment, a fleeting vision, but I was convinced that I had seen the same symbol that for many years I had continued to see on the forehead of my friend Ishak-Ghalam and that only in much more recent times had I learned to recognize as a signal of a mortal danger. Two chameleons looking in opposite directions. The symbol carried by the Brothers of the Chameleon. Who was really the man who swam in front of me and who had offered me his help a little earlier?

Disowned, lost, exiled

CHAPTER IV

Nhalbar remained unconscious for a long time, immersed in a tormented night in which the images of the forest and wolves were deformed, intertwined, merged, as in a whirlwind of shadows and eyes of flame, smoke of fire and snowstorms. And the face of his brother Nothal. He saw Nothal's gaze again when he had him arrested. The night of the coup. He also saw the pawns chasing each other on the table of the game of ibiga. He remembered the words he and Nothal exchanged: I will catch you, brother, you have no escape! Nothal had announced.

Nhalbar laughed with amusement, replying: I do not think so, brother. I will always escape you! Like now, do you see? You thought I was already doomed, but here, with this move I got free!

Maybe those phrases said for sport really contained the fate of the twins? At the moment the game seemed to be turning in Nothal's favour.

When he opened his eyes, Nhalbar found himself in a camp deep in the forest. He must have been much further downstream from the pine forest in which he had lost consciousness, and he could not have said how long he had remained in a coma. Was it just one night, one day, one month? Now he was in a hardwood forest. The camp was set up in a well defensible and hidden natural arena: three large rocks dripping with moss and ferns emerged at the corners of a clear lake. Between one rock and another, pointed palisades were built, and inside the amendment, on the banks of the basin. The foliage of tall leafy trees rose all around. The field was a bustle of men, horses and carts. The men wore brown, green, khaki robes, in short, the various colours of the surrounding nature. Their armaments were the most diverse and mismatched. Hunters, lumberjacks, more than real soldiers. Only one thing seemed to unite the people of that small heterogeneous army: a symbol. A blue bird. It was outlined on the cloaks and curtains.

Where am I? Who are you? Nhalbar asked the man sitting closest to his cot, when he regained consciousness. The man sipped liquor from a flask and wiped his long moustache with the back of his glove.

Who are you? Nhalbar repeated. Who are these people? Why am I here? Where are we? What is this place?

Finally the man seemed to deserve his attention. Nobody here knows who anyone else is among those who are here, he replied evasively.

I do not understand, my son insisted.

Have you ever heard of the Blue Jay?

No.

They call us the Order of the Blue Jay as we were an ancient knightly order or a brotherhood of sorcerers. In reality, we are nothing more than a bunch of brigands and outlaws who miraculously escaped death. There are many who find themselves in the forest. Disowned, lost, exiled… Our company of fortune has sworn to help anyone in difficulty.

I do not understand, Sir. Are you a company of… brigands?

You are slow on the uptake boy. We save the wretches who are about to die in the forest. We do not care who they are and why they ended up in the woods. We do not want to know if they are wanted for stealing a treasury of taxes destined for the king or for killing their sister. Whether they are pilgrims who have lost their way or prostitutes. More or less everyone here has something to hide and does not like being asked questions about them and their past. Almost everyone has some bounty hanging over their heads or other reasons for disappearing. That is fine with us. We do not ask questions. We do not care what you did to be like this, who you offended or what laws you violated. We have few but good rules. If you want to stay with us you must know how to fight, and if you do not know how to fight, take a weapon and learn. If you have any wealth, get rid of it: it will be piled up in our booty.

So you pillage the possessions of whoever gets lost? Are you thieves?, Nhalbar suggested.

But do you see that you do not understand?, The other said almost annoyed. We rob people only after we have helped them. After saving her life, offering hospitality, protection. Even a new identity if needed. It does not seem difficult to me.

You rob the people you have helped...

In practice, it cannot even be defined as a theft. Rather the due compensation. Do you think it is not so?

Offering protection to the desperate who seek shelter in the woods and appropriating their wealth. I guess you have amassed a good fortune… has your Order been in existence for a long time?

Ouff! Much. A long time. We have become a legend.

Nhalbar felt his own body and realized he was almost naked, dressed in some rags.

Where now are the clothes and jewels I was wearing?

They are now part of our loot. It seems obvious to me.

There is one thing that I absolutely have to get back. A robe that was given to me by my father. A very important gift for me. The rest you can keep, I do not care. But that robe...that robe I'd like to have it back. I beg you.

The other chuckled heartily under his long moustache, spitting out his alcoholic breath. Follow me!.

It was at that moment that Nhalbar realized he was experiencing piercing pains in his back and ribcage. As if his ribs were lodged in his lungs at the mere attempt to stand up. His legs, equally sore, gave ruinously under the slightest effort. He was still too weak.

I cannot do it. It still hurts me too much, he admitted to the brigand. The man handed him the flask of his herbal liqueur. Drink!.

The drink gave him a cold heat that made him cough. The brigand taunted him: Drink up, little girl. Are you or are you not a real man? Or perhaps those of your race, the Children of the Fairy, are spoiled by a drop of brandy?

Nhalbar drank and coughed again, but his pain seemed dulled by a veil of weariness that weighed on his eyes. The other, who in the meantime had taken on a more fatherly tone: Sleep, now. You are not ready to get up yet. When you are ready I will take you to the treasury and there you will show me your beautiful dress.

Emerging from the lake, Dharjadis's brother suddenly found himself tightly in my embrace and Evmacanda's blade brushing his throat. Who are you really?, I whispered in his ear. And who is sending you?, I added, tugging at the white braid.

I am indeed the brother of Lady Dharjadis, sire Helewen.

Oh yes? And why do you wear the tattoo with the two chameleons on your neck?

It is true. I have betrayed you. I promised to hand you over to your son Nothal. He wants you dead.

Between one sentence and the next we rolled on the gravelly shore, entwined like snakes.

Do you not think you should tell me the whole truth now? I have unmasked you, in case you have not noticed .

Your son Nothal is very intelligent. Few things escape him. During the funeral he noticed that my sister approached her Queen whispering something in her ear. Dharjadis sincerely loves you, Sire. Despite what you have done to her. Despite the shame that she has publicly suffered because of you. But I have not had such merciful feelings towards you, my Lord. I have held a grudge against you for many years. I have always wanted in my heart to avenge my sister's honour. This is why I hated you. For this I have succumbed to the lure of Belhagard's dark magic .

Have you become a sorcerer? Did you meet the Genie of the Catacombs?

Yes. I read the Black Book and was initiated into the cult of Hate.

What does that book contain? What is written there that is so abominable that it can attract the minds of men like bees to honey?.

In it the fate of each is described. No one is ever named in the stories that are told there. But it is easy to recognize yourself in those anonymous protagonists. In my case, I found there the opportunity to remedy the offence suffered by my sister, delivering you and thus obtaining great honours from the new ruler of Lothriel.

The man managed to free himself from my grip just enough to get up on his knees, but before he could escape he found himself again at the mercy of my sword, this time aimed at his heart. So we were both kneeling on the shore, facing each other, with the silver waves that at alternate moments lapped our legs and then retreated.

What is your name?

He hesitated. He bit his lip.

What is your name, I said, I repeated.

I have lost my name. The name my mother gave me. I melted it with the wax of a candle on the Belhagard altar. Now my name is Storm .

I stood up forcing my interlocutor to lie on his back, with Evmacanda's toe prodding his chest and my boot on his belly.

"Storm. You will help me leave the kingdom. You will make