Wild Ones

The Wild Ones is my second novel. It is quite different from anything else I have written as it is a story that takes place in a fantasy world.  I loved Tolkien and Brooks as a kid and began this project in 2008 as a way of expressing ideas with the total creative freedom that the genre allows.



 

 

Chapter 1

     The boy stood outside the wood, holding a sharpened staff. He waited for the butterflies to settle and inhaled deeply when a breeze emerged. Spring was coming and the rain. He could smell only trees and soil but he knew that many beasts in the wood would likely detect him before he would be aware of them. From somewhere far above he heard the flap of wings. The beast was circling over him and had not yet begun to dive for its prey.

     We are not strong or fast. We have no fangs or talons and we can survive only if we follow the rules. Discipline, patience, awareness and calm, his teacher told him. Now he was reminded of an old lesson learned. At twelve, he stood at the top of a cliff and peered over. The water below looked so distant he knew that he would have to throw himself off without thinking if the dive was to happen. His teacher’s hand on his shoulder kept him from leaping.

     Anyone can exhibit impetuous courage. Wait until you are ready.   He waited a good portion of the morning until his mind was clear and his nerves were steady, then he jumped. Eight years and many more tests had come and gone.

     What will you have to do in the forest? His brother and sister asked. Find the Heart of the Wood, he answered. Raol smiled and suggested that the Monks would tie him to a tree, starve him for three days and beat him with sticks to keep him awake.

     They would need no ropes, his sister said. Our little brother would stand firm against the tree and beat himself when they required it. Will they keep testing you until you die? His sister’s admonition echoed in his mind. He smiled to himself. And will you eat something? She had cried. You look like a skinny, hairless dog.

He smiled again. A dog has no more than it needs, he said. You are the first born, Raol. It is for you to be King. My job is to be less…less noticed, less nuisance.
     Lance lifted his spear in his right hand, too short for the common defense from aerial attacks, but it would do for a distraction. He drove the end into the soft earth and angled it up and slightly behind him as the shadow of the beast grew around him.   The creature made no sound as it approached. At the last moment, Lance lunged forward with his left foot and touched the earth beside it with his right hand. The movement drove him forward and he rolled onto the ground between two trees. The burst of wind from the creature’s wings seemed to drive him forward and it screamed as it barely avoided impaling itself upon Lance’s spear.

     The youth had seen the carcasses of jao-wey’s, or lizard-bird’s in his people’s tongue. This one was young. An older, more experienced bird would have followed the movement of the prey into the woods and crashed into the trees, still a better option than being gored by a spear. The creature got to its feet and backpedaled away as Lance lunged forward to take up his spear. The preferred tactic of the bird once on the ground was to lower its head and move forward to throw off the balance of its prey and then hop into the air to attack from above.

     Lance shouted and drove his spear at the creature’s talloned-feet and then swiped at its lizard-like head to keep it from attacking his legs. His spear smacked against the ground back and forth, driving the creature backwards and allowing it no time to launch its own attack. Lance paused for a moment as it flapped its wings toward him, which were partially feathered but made mostly of thin skin. The creature was trying to lift off and Lance could have driven his spear into its exposed belly although it would place him close to its large mouth, filled with teeth. The jao-wey’s body seemed like a giant lizard’s in the form of an eagle. Feathers emerged from its neck and lined the top of its wings and legs and it possessed a long tail with feathers clustered around its end. He crouched lower and continued striking at its feet, encouraging it to go higher. Lance remained low to the ground, spear at the ready as the creature flew off towards the mountains in the east. Fat Northern horses made easier targets.

     In the past the creatures were not considered much of a threat unless one was caught in the open. They were easy to avoid if one was paying attention. The Northerners considered them dangerous and offered a bounty for their heads. Some Wild Ones had taken to hunting the birds in their mountain homes as they preyed upon Northern horses, distrupting their caravans through the mountain passes.

     Lance sneered at the individuals who hunted the various beasts for Northern rewards. Some train to kill, and give themselves titles like hunter or soldier. They deal in death for their own profit or pleasure. They are not hunters, they are murderers. There is a difference, the Monk’s had told him.

     Like the time on the cliff, Lance recognized that it was time for him to take that leap. Being aware that he could die, without fear of it, was his signal to begin. Crouched low, spear ready, he entered the woods.

Every memory of what he had done before shone in his eyes and in every muscle. Day long runs, surviving on the plains for days at a time with only a stone knife, training with the spear or blade until he was too tired to do anything but lie down.

     There are times when one’s mind is free from fear, anger or daily troubles. Perhaps this freedom comes through meditation or some work or practice. As he walked through the woods, Lance found himself so absorbed in the task that he was free from his mind’s constant preoccupation with himself.

     The call of the jao-wey brought answers from the creature’s ground-bound cousin, the dai-wey or demon bird. These smaller, flightless brids were sturdier and often responded to the call of the jao-wey in order to steal its meal. Lance spent some time in a tree as a pack of the dai-wey’s charged into the clearing where he had battled the bird. He knew they had a poor sense of smell and as long as he was quiet the animals were no threat to him. Lance relaxed in the tree, aware but not anxious and waited for them to leave.

This mission was not a race or test of strength. After hiking for most of the day he spent time sitting against a tree and was so relaxed the creatures of the wood took little notice of him. A pack of wolves approached him and regarded him silently before following a scent trail. On the third day he approached a clearing with a small pond. As he stepped out of the trees, his teachers appeared on either side and behind him.

     “The Heart of the Wood,” he said. The place was now a mere legend among his people since they abandoned the wood with the coming of the Northerners. The woods were no place for a civilized people.

     Yes.

     “The Home Tree.”

     Yes.

     Lance was not sure which of the Monk’s were speaking. Their ability to direct their communication to just one person, even in a crowd was a mystery to him. “Ancient home of the Wild Ones, before the split.” Lance was confused when his teachers laughed. “Before the shame of Northern subjugation. The true Wild Ones lived here.”

     We are all true.

     We can choose to be.

     “I want to follow the old ways.”

     Then where is your faith?

     “I have faith, we all have faith that the Wild Ones will return some day.”

     Many have faith, but no obedience.

     Faith without obedience is useless.

     The Wild Ones did not leave us. We left ourselves.

     Lance stood and stared at the tree that grew from a small rise beside the pond. The trunk was as broad as the North Tower. Lance looked up and could not see the top clearly.

     Go to the water.

     Lance stepped to the ponds edge. Usually communicating with the Monks was confusing to him. He much preferred the physical lessons as he felt that their riddles were wasted on him.

     Look.

     Looking down to the water he noticed that his reflection was joined by the images of several men, women and children. They appeared to be a thin and rugged people who made their living from the land. Like him, they were brown skinned with dark hair and simply dressed.

     “Are you ghosts?” Lance said. The reflections stared in response and Lance could not tell if the images were moving or merely floating on the surface of the water. He recalled the talk about the Monk’s ability to predict the future. “Is this an image from the future? Are they coming back?” He gasped as the images faded away.

     They are here.

     Lance stared at his solitary reflection. He turned to face the three Monks that had been responsible for teaching, guiding and protecting him and his siblings since their birth.

     You are a Wild One, in the woods and on the plain. You are a Wild One with a knife in your hand. Now the test is to see if you can maintain the way in court, in the villages and in your life with others. If you have mastered the Way, then you must show it in everything you do.

     Lance stood for some time staring up at the massive tree his people referred to as the Home Tree. Most had lost hope and did not even believe that it existed. He had seen it finally and the images of his people although it brought him no comfort.

     What is wrong with you? Ed-Gan said.

     Lance blinked and turned to the Monk. “I am alone, as usual. Where are these folk you speak of?”

     The movement under the Monk’s mask betrayed his smile. There is no horn to be sounded which will bring them back, charging hard to our rescue. There is no date in the future for their return. You will see them when our folk have taken up the old ways. You are simply the first.

     “And with C’rele, we are the only ones.”

     Raol’s response to you recently, indicates that he may join you.

     “And C’rea?”

     C’rea has a mind for court. Her heart however, is for the wild.

Chapter 2-C’rele

     C’rele had heard herself described as odd. While she did not know exactly what they meant, she believed it. Her own folk looked at her as if she was the other, the outsider. She had been given a key to the inside recently. The invitation might be a way of proving that she was not so different. King Roin’s moody daughter who generally was always on her own had been invited to a celebration. She had shown the invitation to her sister.

     “Geshwin’s son?” C’rea said. “Older or younger?”

     “What?” C’rele said and dropped the thin parchment as she offered it to C’rea. “The older one.” She forgot about the invitation before it hit the floor.

     C’rea gasped and clapped her hands then sighed and dropped them. “You are not going, are you?”

     “I do not believe so.”

     “What then?” C’rea said. “What will you do? Sit and sulk through the spring as you did through the winter?” C’rea advanced on her sister and slapped her shoulder. “You are tall, fit, yet aloof…and folk believe it makes you even more beautiful!” Another slap on the opposite shoulder. “You have dark, liquid eyes that folk find entrancing yet terrifying and yet you are completely disinterested and unaware! You make me ill!”

     The sisters had argued for years it seemed to C’rele. She knew that she would not win any argument with C’rea. Sit and sulk? She had to admit she had done a fair bit of that. She had also sat with the old ones and learned the old songs. She knew about the healing plants and many other things now forgotten by most. C’rele simply turned and left the room as C’rea was threatening to use her fist.

     Outside the Keep C’rele paused and smiled to herself. She shifted her quiver and satchel on her back. The rain was light this morning so she threw back her hood to feel it on her face. It had taken some doing to sneak out of the Keep without notice although she had seen Lance do it often enough. The rules were different for females than for males. Yet she could breathe here without the pressure of four walls and a roof, so deeply it felt as if there was no end.

     C’rele hefted the bow in her hand and checked the long knife at her waist. She had learned many things from her brothers and shot as well as either of them. There were rules however and she hoped it would not mean trouble for her guards. She stuffed her cloak into her satchel when she found that her young brother had been right. The clumsy garment was more suited for ceremony than the wild. She stayed off the main trail to avoid the folk traveling towards the Keep for the spring ceremony. Occasional groups of Northern soldiers appeared as well, grim faced men who seemed wary of everything.

     By the late afternoon, C’rele paused, concealed in a group of trees and watched another Northern patrol ride by. A patrol that seemed unable to notice anything they were so focused on their destination. She then figured that she had not had a despairing thought all day. She remembered a conversation she had with Lance.

     “All that time in the wild,” C’rele said. “Lots of time to think.”

     “No,” Lance said. “I go so I do not have to think.” C’rele laughed when he had said it. Although now she understood. Early on her journey she had come across fresh wildcat tracks and had been watchful all day. There were too many other things that required her attention in the wild.

      C’rele watched for a while after the patrol passed. Creatures often followed the Northerners as the foreigners and their horses made easy targets. She was about to rise when the heard a child scream. It seemed to come from the south and soon she could hear horses. Two more soldiers appeared on the path. They paused on a small rise and looked behind them. One had a rope attached to his saddle and tugged on it which made both of them laugh.

     Discipline.

     Whenever she had asked a Monk for advice, the answer was always the same. Discipline. How do you deal with the Northerners? How do you counter their cruelty? How do you restrain yourself from attacking them? C’rele found her ability to exercise discipline tested often although never like it was at this moment. The soldiers guided their horses down the short slope and stopped again only a few paces away from her position. She recognized both of them.

     C’rele could not tell whether the child they were dragging behind them was male or female. The child’s clothing was in tatters and their face was down against the ground. Only the child’s desperate breathing let her know that there was still life in the body.

     “Greetings!” C’rele called out when she emerged from the cover of the bushes. She had left her bow and quiver hidden and her long knife was tucked into her belt against her back. The soldiers reigned in their horses and then looked carefully around them. It took a moment for them to recognize her. Their initial surprise turned to anger and then to wariness.

     “Princess, how have you come to be so far from the Keep?”

     Do not give them time to think. They are careful plotters although freeze when presented with anything spontaneous. They are frightened of having to make any decisions on their own. C’rele’s mother had told her that.

     “What have you trapped here?” she said. C’rele walked quickly and knelt by the child. She cringed when she saw the position of the child’s shoulders. Both arms were free from the sockets. Her knife was out in a moment and the rope was cut. There did not seem to be an uninjured part of the child’s body. C’rele was hesitant to touch anywhere. “Oh,” she said and stood quickly with the knife in her hand. “It is only a child. Not even enough for a meal.” The soldiers turned their horses to face her. Both looked around them not believing that the princess would be out in the wild alone. They exchanged glances and then turned to look at her. C’rele could feel the electricity in the air, she waited for the right moment and shouted at them, “Go!” The thunder and lightening in the sky behind her added the exclamation for her. The soldiers went, in a hurry.

     The boy’s last memory was of the pain and cold. He had known degrees of each every day of his life. This day they had become more pronounced after he was trapped by the Northerners. When his father died, he was sent to live with cousins up north. Wiley, everyone called him, due to his talent at pranks and hunting. You are up north now, he was told. There is no cover for your pranks here. The Northerners are everywhere. Wiley balked at this as he had never been caught.

     The first time I am caught, he thought to himself, and I had not even had time to do anything. That was the last thought he remembered before the pain started. The beatings were not severe and he did not begin passing out until they began dragging him on the ground behind their horses.

     “Where is your father?” They said.

     “He is dead,” Wiley said, thankful that his father at least would escape the consequences of his son’s mischief. This did not satisfy them so the torture continued. Wiley opened his mouth and took a deep breath when consciousness returned. The pressure on his shoulders was intense and he felt as if his arms might fall off. His scream was cut short when he felt the fingers on his cheek and heard the soft voice. Then he noticed the absence of one of his friends. The cold was gone.

     “I am in the trees…” the boy said, the expression people used to describe what happened when they died. The spirit leaves the body to float among the trees.

     “No, no, you are safe,” C’rele said and checked the bandages on the boy’s body, holding his arms tight against his torso.

     “The Northerners?”

     “Gone,” C’rele said. Wiley seemed to doubt it then looked at her face. Perhaps it was still kind although firm. She put her hand upon his chest and took a deep breath. He breathed with her. His body felt so light that he could hardly feel the ground. He was wrapped in a cloak. The warmth made the pain tolerable.            
     “What is your name?”

     The boy closed his eyes and said, “They call me Wiley.”

     C’rele smiled which confused the boy. Usually people looked at him strangely when he introduced himself. This pretty girl laughed and covered her mouth. “Wiley, I am C’rele.” She watched him mouth the word to himself several times. Then he smiled and took a deep breath through his nose.

     “What is that?” Wiley seemed delighted. “I cannot usually smell…things, my nose was broken and…”

     “I was able to fix it…it seemed only clogged.” C’rele had always healed quickly. If she was injured or cut she could sit and watch the wound, feel around it and speed the healing. Shortly after discovering this she found that she could do it to others. She had searched over Wiley while he slept. She sang to him, keeping him asleep and addressed the injuries to his shoulders as well. They would always be sources of weakness although he would be able to use them after a short time. “What you smell is dinner,” C’rele said and motioned toward the small fire.

     “You made a fire?” Wiley tried to sit and moaned and fell back with his eyes closed. He tried to look around. The woman seemed to have no sense. Their position was hidden and offered a view all around them. He looked up at the night sky and tried to calm himself. “You will attract beasts…”

     “One has become dinner,” C’rele said and showed him her bow. She had it next to her with an arrow. “We have to eat. If another comes, it can serve as breakfast.”

     “What?” Wiley said and shook his head. His fear was making it difficult for him to understand her.   
     “What…what are you cooking?”

     “Bird…demon bird. Do not worry. The rest of the carcass was deposited far from here. The wood I use makes little smoke and herbs on the fire disguise the scent.” Wiley looked down at his arms. “I will feed you…with your permission.” He nodded his head. She had to be careful of her fingers as the boy ate as if he had not in quite a while.

     C’rele had at first thought him younger than he now appeared. The boy’s build was slight and he was short although developing muscles and a hardened face meant he had more years than his size implied.

     “I have thirteen years,” he said with a full mouth and spit food out on to his chest. He looked at it and sighed at the waste.

     “Do you?”

     “I do! Folk always think I am younger.”

     C’rele turned to the fire and removed the spit and meat. She cut off another piece for him. Something about the boy was unsettling to her. There was something about his thinking and manner that she wanted to change. “I will admit that I did as well. Until I got a closer look.” C’rele waited and stared back at him until he had to look away.

     Wiley’s stomach filled quickly and he fought the urge to gorge knowing it would make him ill. C’rele offered him water and then noticed he was crying. “No, it is nothing…” he said and turned away. He gasped turning on to his left shoulder, away from her and had to remain on his back and turn his head. He slammed his right shoulder against the earth and shuddered with the pain.

     “Easy,” C’rele said and felt the side of his cheek. Wiley had never been touched in such a manner. He had only thirteen years yet had accomplished enough to feel that he did not deserve to live. He looked back at C’rele and hated her composure and her kindness.

     “I…I have done evil…”

     C’rele nodded her head and gave him a half smile. “Is that so?”

     “I am not a child! I do not refer to some prank…”

     “Tell me.”

     Wiley sat up and tried to scream. Thankfully, no sound emerged and he struck his forehead against his knees drawn up to his chest. “I killed my father…” Wiley took a deep breath. “I have the Sense. My father separated us from our village to protect me from being found out. Others did find out…” He paused as the layers of guilt he was contending with were many. “Our Elder and his sons wanted to profit from selling me to the Northerners.”

     C’rele shivered and drew her knees up to her chest. “Yes…” she said to encourage him.

     “He hurried home one day, in a fury. He told me to gather all I could in our satchels and be ready to leave by dark. Then he left and I followed. He met a stranger, a Wild One from the north, dressed fancy, like you. He was telling my father he had made a wise choice, gave him a spear and blade. My father nodded and hung his head.

     “When he returned home he was without spear or blade. He ordered me about, hardly looking at me. I was being sold, by him. We were heading west, away from our village. It did not make sense. He was anxious of pursuit. We did not stop until morning. So at the morning fires…I did it…with a big rock. After, he stood and turned so quick that I backed away and dropped the rock. Blood poured down his face and he fell backwards on the fire.

     “I was not certain which direction to go so I ran, switching directions many times until I ended up back at the camp where…the Elder and his sons had followed us. They were standing over my father’s body. The smell was…then I…I heard them talking. Blaming my father for not being sensible. He had not been trying to sell me…he was taking me away to protect me.”

     After a long while, C’rele touched the side of Wiley’s head. She was not certain he was still awake. “You have done what is necessary…when a mistake has been made. What follows confession among our folk?”

     “No…no,” Wiley said and struck his head against his knees. “I will go to the Keep, accept the punishment.”

     “That is not our way. I ask you, what follows confession?”

     “Who can forgive me?” Wiley said and screamed up at the sky. If a beast was alerted to his position, being eaten would be a fitting consequence.

     “I have forgiven you,” C’rele said and touched his head again. “You can forgive yourself. Live the life your father would have wanted you to.”

      “And to suffer? Live just to suffer? Best to go to the Northerners, live their way. That is what my Elder was doing. Numbed by their riches and poisons…”

     “There is not always value in suffering,” she said. “Sometimes, the only alternative is a numbing. Suffering is a great teacher and without it how would we know anything about ourselves? I am alive, my pain tells me. I am authentic, human. I can sit in it and feel the life of every man and woman come before me who has chosen a beautiful life. I will not be numbed.”

      C’rele had lost her own mother when she was Wiley’s age. She too had suffered. Her folk compared their own short lives to a bolt of lightening. Live your life boldly, beautifully because it will be over quickly.

     The next morning, Wiley was up and testing his shoulders. His muffled gasps got C’rele’s attention.  
     “Easy,” she said. “It will take time.”

     “What time?” Wiley said. “I need them now.” He smiled with her as she was reassured by his speech.

     “You can recover in the Keep with my family and then go when you are ready.”

     Wiley seemed to consider this and asked if she could make him slings. He was silent while she worked and then asked her to stand with him. “I have the Sense…do you remember?” The pair stood in a small clearing only a few paces across, on a small, narrow rise surrounded by bushes and small trees.

     “I remember…” C’rele said and looked confused when he stepped back into the brush. She gasped when he seemed to disappear. C’rele whirled around and laughed. “Where did you go?”

     “Here I am,” he said and was all of a sudden beside her, holding her hand.

     “How was that possible?”

     Wiley shrugged. “I know how to hide. I do not know how it works. This is where I belong. Out here.” The boy disappeared again after stepping next to a tree. C’rele laughed and then his own laughter was heard.

“Thank you,” he said. She could tell he was some distance away. C’rele considered that she had seen what she had come for. Sitting in grief with another had been healing and so much more welcoming into the world than a celebration with the Hunters.

Chapter 3

     Raol knocked on C’rea’s door and then rolled his eyes as he heard a bout of laughter followed by silence. Someone trying to be quiet was creeping up to the door. The voice was close. “Who is there?”

     “The Northern King, hurry, we are late!”

     “Your Majesty will not be late, what is the password?”

     Raol clenched his fists as he was tired of his sister’s antics. Their father had just started speaking to them after her last prank. “I know who took the King’s seal and forged the letter…”

     C’rea opened the door quickly. “That is not the password.”

     Raol pushed the door in and three of C’rea’s friends ran to sit on her bed. “It opened the door,” he said to her and shrugged.

     C’rea looked at her brother with distaste noting his attaire. “Breeches and a simple tunic? You are hardly dressed for the Hunter’s banquet,” she said. C’rele reached to touch his swollen lower lip with her thumb. She also noted that gauntlets covered his wrists, one of which was bandaged underneath. “Quick! We might have to hunt something along the way! When have you eaten last?”

     “My spear is waiting outside.”

     “Excellent! Perhaps you can hunt down their meal as well. Before we leave, Ayne had a question.” Her friend blushed and looked from Raol to C’rea. C’rea sighed, “Oh, she wanted to know if you were to be referred to as Captain Prince Raol or perhaps it is Prince Captain Raol?” C’rea stood with her feet close together and the palms of her hands resting against eachother in the proper court pose.

     “Raol will do,” he said. C’rea saw that she was at the point where her brother’s patience was at its end and offered her arm for him to take.

     Brother and sister walked slowly through the courtyard to the front gate of the Keep. C’rea took her time, hopping from stone to stone with no pattern that Raol could determine. The sun was about to set and it had been a rare sunny day for the spring.

     “Why do you test me so?” Raol said.

     C’rea smiled. “It is part of your training. You will need to deal with irritation and anger in a better manner. You are too easily disturbed.” Raol gasped when he tripped on a raised edge of stone.

     “Much has disturbed me lately,” he said.

     C’rea laughed. “Do you see? You were not paying attention and missed something important. Oh, come now. You will have to be used to the council’s antics. You are Captain now…make them regret it.”

     Raol focused on the stone walk way for a moment. “Hmmm.”

     “See! You think of nothing!”C’rea said. Raol paused for a moment and lifted his face up to the sun.      
     “Careful, your skin may brown!”

     “I see that you too are without your cloak,” Raol said. C’rea smiled and took his arm again. “Think of how brown Lance will be when he returns.”

     “How distasteful!” C’rea said. “Our brother will be fine,” she said, responding to his concern for Lance.

Raol glanced at her then looked away. Perhaps it was eye contact that allowed her to read his thoughts.  
     “There was nothing to do about it. Father sent him off despite my words.”

     C’rea smiled. “You are concerned about him all of a sudden?”

     “He is my brother, the consequences of these tests…”

     C’rea laughed and said again, “You are concerned about him all of a sudden?”

     Raol grunted and balled his hands into fists, “Yes, I am.”

     “Our Lance has changed, perhaps you have as well. You used to be at each other’s throats. Now there is all this brotherly concern…hmmm.” Raol opened his mouth and then shook his head. When he did not respond, C’rea said, “What happened in the training hall? What led to our brother being sent off?”

     “It was…” Raol stopped himself as he was not prepared to explain what had occurred between them to C’rea. He let her believe it was some incident at training.

     “Ah, you will not violate the sanctity of the hall by discussing what occurs there. How noble of you,” she said and patted his arm. She let the matter go for a moment and recognized that something had changed about Raol. Her brother generally showed good sense about politics although it seemed to tax him. Now he appeared relaxed. C’rea would have thought it was due to being free of Lance and having to look after the trouble maker. Now, however, he seemed concerned about their brother.

     Raol resorted to his usual tactic with sparring with his sister. “Quiet! You know nothing of what goes on there.”

     C’rea gave him a distasteful look and said, “All that goes on is boys at their play. All to give them something to exercise their mouths about when they leave. How you all love to boast.”

     Raol smiled at her attempt to goad him. “That is an old trick, sister. One that has not worked in quite a while.”

     “You are learning,” C’rea smiled and patted his arm. “Now, we will enjoy this evening with the Hunters. They have been working very hard.”

     Raol laughed. “Who would have thought that you would put them up to such a trick?”

     “The court needed some new intrigue, Captain.” C’rea smiled and smacked him on his shoulder.

     Raol grimaced and gave her arm a squeeze. “Father is furious!”

     “Perhaps…who do you think allowed me access to the seal?”

     Raol stopped in his tracks and turned his sister to face him. “What are you saying?” Raol had been surprised when his father had suggested that they leave the mission to C’rea. He knew what she had been involved in and struggled to keep the satisfaction from his face. These arrogant Northerners had been taught a lesson and he was going to enjoy it.

     C’rea shook her head at him. “You have much to learn. Father is brilliant, stop thinking of him as a grumpy old man. Some things are handled in a direct manner and some are better handled indirectly…now to the Hunters…”

     The Hunters were a group formed to serve the council and preserve the old ways. The rumor was that it had been a Northern idea. The group was generally made up of favored sons of councilmen and a few Wild Ones from the villages who had participated in poaching and tracking down refugees or escapists. The Hunters performed tasks for the Council or for the King although he had made no use of them until recently when a message was delivered, ordering them to participate in an exercise that ended up serving no purpose but to embarrass them and infuriate the Northerners.

     “Where is C’rele?” Raol said. “I suppose I should worry about her as well.”

     “C’rele needs your worry no more than Lance does. She has found her stride, as the savages used to say.” C’rea smiled. “Perhaps she has sense enough to find other things to do on these occasions.”

     While relieved that she would not be attending, he said, “And we do not?”

     “I enjoy these gatherings! Without our…rougher siblings, things should go smoothly.”

     “C’rele worries father,” Raol sighed. “If she had been born to someone else…the Monks would have taken her in.”

     “She is a healer, loved by children. Why she is so feared by politicians, I cannot say.”

     Raol shrugged and kept his opinion to himself. “C’rele will not be here to provoke anyone. Lance will not have to fight with anyone. It should go smoother. Although it has been some time since Lance has been in trouble.”

     “He will learn to respond better,” C’rea said. “Although our siblings will always be who they are. Wild Ones. It will be for us to lessen the damage.”

     “Are we not Wild Ones?” Raol said. C’rea merely shook her head at her brother. What a trick the Northerners have played upon us. We have come to despise what we are or what we were. Raol nodded to the guards as they approached the front gates. The current group on duty was all from the southern tribes and he was familiar with them. No one would openly be disobedient yet their greetings were all too loud although not quite mocking. He had difficulty making eye contact with any of them.

     “You see, that was very well done,” C’rea said after they passed through the gates and turned towards the hall occupied by the hunters.

     “You did not notice the condescension?”

     “Of course I did. Your job remains the same. You are worthy of the rank and all you have to do is show them.”

     “Their last Captain was perhaps…more worthy.” Raol stopped short of the steps leading up the the door.

     “Yes, his treatment was unfortunate. However, who will better protect the men that remain? You or one of these so called Hunters? Or some councilman’s son? The council will try and get rid of all the Wild Ones at the gates. They will not rest until it is the Northerners themselves who are responsible for our security.”

As Raol took his first step, a tingling sensation shot up the left side of his neck, causing his head to jerk in that direction. C’rea remained smiling and took her brother’s hand. Raol gasped and fought the urge to whirl around as if someone was behind them.

     “There is no one around us. No need for alarm.”

     Raol shuddered for a moment. “Someone means you harm…” he felt instantly foolish for saying it and wished that his brother had been born with the gift instead of he.

     C’rea frowned and paused with him on the steps. “Of course, this is court, most mean someone else harm of some sort. Let us get inside before you start howling at the sky you savage.”

     “Wait,” he said and turned to look back at the gates. A group of Northerners were heading there from the embassy. The seven men were clustered together oddly and while they always seemed wary, their conduct made Raol suspicious. Without explaining himself he told C’rea to remain where she was and hurried to intercept the group.

     Two guards had come forward out of the gates and the Northerners paused to present the ambassador’s seal which would allow them entry. Raol recognized the Northern commander, Leysin, who was waiting with a smirk on his face as the guard examined the seal. Raol could almost read his mind. These savages cannot even read yet make me wait to examine the seal. The guard handed the short parchment back and moved to allow them in.

     Consequences of trouble at the gates involving Northerners would be toughest on the guards. Raol chose his words carefully when he moved to delay their entry and asked to see the seal. Something about the group made him uneasy. The tingling in his neck was running down his shoulder and into his left arm. He made a brief inspection of the seal and tossed it over to look at the other side in order to conceal the shaking in his left hand.

     The left arm is the blocking arm, his teachers had instructed. The right is the killing arm. Someone in the group was plotting an act of violence. Raol decided that he would find out whom. “What is your purpose here?” He handed back the parchment and dropped it at Leysin’s feet and then moved to pick it up with an apology. It was a tactic to get closer to the cloaked man. The pale Northerners were particular about their personal space and did not like to be touched.

     As Raol expected, the man was armed. Northerners were not permitted to bring weapons into the Keep. Raol could see the tiny arteries through the man’s pale skin. Dark lines were forming at his temples and down his throat. Northerners did not express much emotion and one had to look for other signs.

     “We have been summoned by the Ambassador…you have seen the seal,” Leysin gestured with his arm for Raol to move and he tried to continue forward. Someone in the back of the group whispered something.

     “Dirt dog.”

     Raol smiled and cut Leysin off, again bumping into the man and letting him know that Raol knew that he was armed. “What was that?” Raol said and looked at the other faces. He stopped at the man in the center of the group. The soldier was nearly a head taller than the rest and even under his cloak seemed powerfully built. “You will have to check your arms here, at the gate.” Raol paused while five other guards came out to stand with him.

     “That is unnecessary as the Ambassador…”

     “Your weapons,” Raol said and held out his hand. He had to tense the muscles of his left hand to keep it still. Leysin was watching him while the others kept their eyes on their taller companion. Leysin too turned back to look at the man when a growling noise came out of the group.

     “Your conduct will be reported to the Ambassador…”

     “The Ambassador does not govern here. I report to the King. You will not enter here with arms.” All eyes went to the tall soldier as he made a chuckling noise. Raol was as puzzled as the others as the Northerners did not seem to laugh at anything, ever. This unsettled the rest of the soldiers who grabbed the man by the arms and made to move back to their embassy. “Shut the doors,” Raol said to one of his men who moved quickly to have them shut. Then he stood with his hand on his knife, watching the Northerners direct the tall one back inside the embassy.

     “Did you see his teeth?” a guard said.

     “Those were fangs,” another said. Despite their unease, the men spoke lightly. Theirs was the third generation of Wild Ones to endure occupation by the Northerners. The tall, cruel people were brutal in their dealings with them and to have one shown up by one of their own was an experience to be savored. By the end of their shift, everyone at the gates would know about of the conduct of their new Captain.

     “Keep the doors closed. If someone from the embassy approaches again, I will be at the Hunters’… hall,” Raol said. He sighed and rolled his eyes, letting his men know that an evening with the priviledged youth was little better than a banquet with the Northerners.

     “Aye Captain.”

     Raol nodded to the man whose tone had been respectful. He glanced at the others and then went to C’rea’s side. She had watched everything from a distance. Raol had grown to be what her folk referred to as a Stone of the Council. Men adept at politics, showmanship and when necessary fighting. It was a compliment for a politician. Others considered it an insult as these stone men were useless in the wild. Remove them from the stone walls and they were no better than a Northerner.

     “Hmmm,” C’rea said to herself and shook her head at him when he was close enough to notice. Raol had lost weight recently and even moved differently. She figured that it was the extra time with the Monks.

Raol had confided in C’rea that he had what his people referred to at the Sense. The ability was different in each individual. At times, Raol could detect the intentions of others, particularly violent intentions. He had not told his sister that he used the ability in court to guess the motivations of the council members. He was no court sophisticate as he led on. His talent in court was due to his special ability that was shunned by the more civilized members of their folk.

     “Was all that necessary?” C’rea said.

     Raol grunted and made a face at his sister. Her position on the steps above him along with her tone irritated him. It was as if she were lecturing a child. Then he considered that no one played the game as well as C’rea. “Sister, none of this is necessary,” Raol said and gestured back to the Northern embassy. He reminded himself that the games should be left to C’rea and while she rolled her eyes at expressions of their former wild selves, Raol considered that under her civilized exterior she was a living example of why other tribes had referred to the Wild Ones as the Pranksters.

     The slender girl was considered a beauty, even by Northern standards. Like Lance, she had enormous brown eyes. While Raol felt he could see into Lance’s mind through his eyes. C’rea’s seemed to be able to bore into his with hers. She stood with her hands on her hips and shook her head at the young man who would one day be King. “Father will hear of this,” she said to chide her brother.

     “Let us speak to him together! You may start with how you duped a group of Hunters to steal a herd of horses from one Northern patrol to deliver it to another! Fantastic! My little Prankster!” Raol said and stepped to offer his arm.

     “Do not call me that!” C’rea said while taking his arm, pinching it when he neighed and stomped at the ground with his foot before they proceeded.

     Raol felt the back of his neck and looked back at the embassy and then to the gates. Both were closed tight and quiet. Sister, you hide yourself well, yet you are just as wild as the rest of us. “I think I am going to be ill,” he said.

     “Quick, inside,” C’rea said. “We can blame it on the presence of the Hunters! Perhaps we can leave early.”

Chapter 4 The Hunters

     Raol stepped into the room slowly, letting his eyes adjust to the dark. He resisted the urge to wave his hands in front of his face as if the anger, contempt and fear in the air could be cleared away like smoke. There were three long tables in the hall, the first two occupied by young men, the third by women. C’rea took her brother’s lead and would have followed him back out of the hall if he had turned to leave. She assumed with his Sense that he must be aware of the tension that existed. She smiled in place of a sigh and went to take a seat at the women’s table which had plenty of room. There was very little room at either of the men’s tables.

     As he eyes adjusted to the dark, she was as surprised as everyone else to see Raol smiling. He took a heavy chair from the wall and dragged it to the head of a table. No, no, no, C’rea said to herself. The table closest to the door would have been preferred as it was occupied by some of his friends. Instead, Raol moved to occupy the head of the other, where the son’s of their father’s main adversary in court sat.

The grumbling added to the thick air. No one was to occupy the head of the table of the Hunter’s. The lone chair was ceremonial and a reminder that they all served the King. All are equal, it was said among the Hunters, though no one believed it. Raol imagined it had taken some time for the privileged youth to arrange themselves in the proper order along the benches.

     Raol managed to seem surprised and said, “All are equal,” motioning with his hands as if to encourage comment. “At the table…and in the bath, if I am not mistaken. What is that smell?”

     “Ah, perhaps we forgot about your renowned…senses,” the man on his left said. Ashen was the second son of his councilman father, yet acted as if he were the rightful heir. He was referring to rumors that Raol possessed some of the more savage traits of their folk. I would rather be lame from birth than striken with the Sense and madness, Asher said often, to any who would listen.

     Asha, the first born and supposed heir had never acted as if he cared to follow his father. He was beginning to enjoy the banquet. He noted that his brother sat up straight in an attempt to match Raol’s height. It did not work. “It is not Ashen,” he said to Raol and pointed to the far wall. “Not this time.”

     “Interesting,” Raol said and looked at the wolf pelt hung on the wall in between two large targets used for throwing knives. Raol and C’rea offered quick prayers, both thankful that Lance was not present. Upon seeing it, heir brother would have started striking whoever was closest to him and not stopped until the unlucky Hunter who hung the pelt was identified. For a moment C’rea thought Raol would assume their brother’s role himself.

     “Who is the brave Hunter who accomplished such a feat?” C’rea said. She knew that the pelt was likely provided to them by the Northerners and sought merely to embarrass the Hunters.

     Asha smiled at the comment and even more so at the grinding of his brother’s teeth. “A valiant Northerner managed the feat,” he said.

     “Wolves, dirt dogs, know better than to come close to the Keep,” someone said.

     “Otherwise, many would hang from our walls,” said someone else.

     “Northern habits, and Northern speech in our hall,” Raol said and looked straight at Ashen. “The council would be proud to hear such talk,” he said. Smells from the kitchen drifted out into the main hall and hungry stomachs were weary of the talk and ready to begin the meal.

     Milsa sat at watched the interaction between Raol and Asher until the fear in the room became naseuating to him. He could usually detect fear on another, like a scent. Even more, he could root out the fear, identify it and use it to his advantage. Now, however, he was just hungry so he brought down his palm hard upon the table initiating the signal that the Hunters were ready for the meal. Others joined him and soon the platters of food were brought out.

     C’rea swallowed when she noticed Milsa. She had not known he was present until he began stomping his hand on the table. She did not take part in the gesture. Among her folk, the meal clap was a means to give thanks that the food was available and for those who had prepared it. It was corrupted now, like many old traditions. The Hunters used it to signal that the meal should be provided. She shook her head. If we are going to pretend to follow the old Ways, get it right. Mocking ourselves is not becoming.

     Milsa smiled at her from across the room. He knew better than to read her. There were strict prohibitions on his behavior if he was to remain around the Keep, and remain alive. The Monks had had a talk with him. He still wore the thin rope around his neck as if it were jewlry.

     Three years ago he had stood on the platform with a noose around his neck with five other Wild Ones. Each had been found guilty of some transgression against the Northerners. Families wailed and Northern soldiers had to hold people back. Capital punishment had never occurred to the savage folk and the Northerners knew no other type of punishment. Recollections of the event varied although many reported seeing the five other youth hang before the pair of executioners reached Milsa. He stood upon his stool, looking up at the sky. Some said that they saw him smile.

     One of the Northerners turned and stabbed the man he was with to prevent him from kicking out the stool under Milsa’s feet. Then he cut down the noose and jumped off of the platform, falling onto his own blade. Milsa had seemed as confused as everyone else but while they stood with open mouths, he quickly ran away. Now the thin rope was worn like a badge. I have escaped the Northern noose, it said, reminding everyone of his triumph over death.

     C’rea knew the truth. Milsa was alive only because it suited the Northerners. He was mistrusted by his own kind and made no secret that he had the Sense. He served as a convenient example of why Wild Ones should shun that reminder of their more savage past. Politicians tolerated him as C’rea was certain that he was selling his talents to them at times. Knowledge of your enemy’s fears came in handy in court. C’rea also knew that he was working for different sides and when that was discovered; his usefulness would come to an end.

     “Princess,” Milsa said to C’rea as he approached the table. He walked straight to where Ayne was sitting across from her. Ayne turned and then jumped and brushed at something on her shoulder which C’rea could not see. The girl went white and leaped out of her seat just in time for Milsa to sit. He did not even look after the girl as she fled.

     C’rea shook her head. “That was unkind, Milsa.”

      Milsa liked it when she spoke his name. “I could never be unkind,” he said. They both laughed at that. “It is no matter. I have something important to discuss with you.”

      C’rea knew something about the nature of what he had to say. Often he had hinted at providing her with intelligence. She knew what he offered was a trap. Politicians love power and what they fear most is losing it. Milsa did not offer relief from the fear but instead nurtured that fear and helped it to grow with his poison.  
     “Thank you, however, I will have to refuse.”

      Milsa attempted to appear concerned for her. “As you wish…”

     “If you attempt to…do what you do to Ayne again or anyone else…I will have a talk with my friends.” He nearly mouthed the word, Monk. Milsa attemped to read her for just a moment and he cringed. There was nothing he could determine. She was as blank as a Monk. He was not discouraged as everyone was afraid of something. When he found her fear it would be delicious.

     “Ofcourse,” Milsa said and stood. “Princess, enjoy your evening.”

     “I will,” C’rea said. He paused a moment as if waiting for something else. His fists were clenched and he snarled to himself as he walked away. It was always this way with her, he left feeling less than when he always felt more than when dealing with anyone else. People were drowning in their fears and he could often make them feel that he was their only hope.

     “Eat!” Asha said to Raol, noting that he had eaten half of what the others had.

     “You resemble a dirt…a Wild One,” Ashan said.

     Raol ignored the bait and remembered what his brother had recently said. “A Wild One has no more than he needs. I have been stripped…of my excess…” Raol said and cast a disapproving look at Ashan. Asha smiled to himself. Raol had always been sharp and recently had become hardened as well.

     When the meal was finished, Hunters stood and howled. Providing their best impression of the beast they showed such disdain for. Laughter and praise followed each bellow until Raol stood. C’rea bit her lip and wondered what he was up to until he stood, cupped his hands to his mouth and did his best impersonation of a Northern horse.

     The neigh was followed by silence. If Milsa had been reading C’rea at that moment he would have discovered her fear. Raol went across the floor and cut down the wolf pelt. The Hunters looked from one to another but said nothing. Raol then dragged the stinking pelt to the fireplace and tossed it on the logs. This brought many gasps although no one stood to challenge him.

     C’rea was at his side as he headed for the door. She hissed at him when he turned to address the group again. Raol held up his hands and looked around the room as if to dare anyone to say anything. Asha stood, still chewing on a bone and laughed to himself as he followed them out. His Hunter’s scarf was left at his table. Five other youth left with them. Milsa soon followed as the anger and fear in the room was enough to overwhelm him. Everyone had to follow eventually as the stench from the burning pelt became too much for the hall.

Chapter 5

     Tracker had not been seen in the village for three days when he reappeared. He had almost forgotten the stench of the goat pens. Children at play noticed him first. They had been taking turns portraying the man everyone referred to as Tracker, as he hunted down the wildcat that had been preying upon their livestock. Instead of running to alert their parents, the children fell in line behind the man as he strode to the villages central square.

     There was unusual activity in the square and Northern horses were tied outside the main hut. The village councilman was present, preparing for the spring festival and assessing the goods to be transferred to the capitol. Due to his presence, many in the village avoided the square.

     Children sought to model the tracker’s posture and conferred with each other about the pouch tied to his waist and why his tunic was wrapped around his midsection. Most were holding sticks across their backs with their arms draped over either end to mimic the way Tracker held his spear.

Asher, councilman for the village, emerged from the main hut and paused when he saw the thin, half-naked man standing in the square next to the speaking stone. A village elder quickly informed Asher that the man had been employed to rid them of a wildcat. The Elder stepped back as Asher became angry. He was embarrassed the Northerners would be subject to a primitive. Everyone else in the village was properly dressed when he visited, even the children.

     The councilman scowled as he approached the man. How does he not feel that smear of dirt on his right cheek? Asher was aware that the Wild Ones were commonly referred to as dirt dogs, by the Northerners. This tracker was an excellent example to reinforce the prejudice and his skin was even darker than most.

Asher recovered and addressed the man. “Success?” he said. His voice was loud enough for the entire square to hear. The large man strode forward to employ one of his favorite tactics and grab the man and put his arm around his shoulders. Then, taking advantage of his weight, tow the person around to unsettle them. While this frequently worked in council, Asher changed tactics quickly when he got close to the man who seemed made of hard angles and muscle.

     “Success,” he said.

     “And where is the skin of this goat-slayer? Or it’s claws?”

     “With its body at the bottom of the ravine,” Tracker said. He did not hunt for any Northern rewards, only to protect the villages.

     “How do we know…of your success?” Asher said. He then walked around the speaking stone, a heavy boulder nearly his own height. It was a joke in the community that they would never have to endure a lecture from their councilman as he would never be able to get his bulk up upon the stone.

     Tracker sighed and considered turning around and leaving. To assure the villagers, he drove his spear into the ground in a gesture that startled Asher and unwound the tunic from his midsection and allowed his pants to fall to the ground. Three parallel claw marks ran across his lower back and down his left thigh. The wound was packed with dirt and moss but everyone understood what had made them. To Asher’s horror the bare-chested man was now completely naked and slowly turning around to that everyone could see the evidence of his meeting with the cat. The villagers gasped and exclaimed excitedly. This was proof enough as everyone knew that if a person met a wildcat only one of you survived the meeting. The assembled Northerners laughed awkwardly and looked away.

     “You are lucky,” Asher said so that only the tracker could hear.

     “I have been so until this point.”

     “You survived the meeting with the cat so I would say your luck continues.”

     “I was referring to this moment. I have lived my life without having to meet a councilman. And now here you are.” Tracker pulled up his pants and wrapped his tunic around his midsection.

     Asher smiled at the challenge. “Everyone contributes to the spring festival. The skin of a wildcat would have been a grand contribution. Perhaps you should accompany us and tell stories of your exploits.”

     “I would rather you take my skin, instead. I will not go to the Keep.”

     “A dirty, scarred skin in exchange?” Asher’s men and the four Northern soldiers recognized the change in Asher’s tone and approached the two. Tracker also felt the press of the villagers. The Elder was trying to calm the crowd and himself. Asher told him to be quiet when he approached him.

     “Everyone contributes.” Asher said.

     “That is the law,” one of the soldiers said.

     “Take in my place a stinking goat. I was owed more for hunting the wildcat.” Tracker said. He closed his eyes and sighed. No violence, he reminded himself. There would only be retribution upon the villagers if he killed the fat man. Just run away. When a politician begins speaking of the law, it means a noose to everyone else.

     The tension in the square was relieved somewhat when a youth appeared atop the speaking stone. No one had noticed him approach the crowd and no one recognized him initially. Tracker noted the youth’s simple dress, right down to the long, thin rope wound round his waist. These days most men wore ropes as decorative belts and would not know a rope snare from a Northerner’s whip. The youth’s physique was similar to that of the tracker’s and only his red-dyed tunic set him apart from anyone else in the village.

     Asher held up his hand to block out the sun. “Why Lance, it is you.”

     “Councilman Asher,” Lance said and sat down on the edge of the stone.

     “Why from up there, you could address the men folk.” Asher saw the young Prince as a symbol of everything wrong about his people. Lance unabashedly lived under the sun with the minimum of clothing so that his light brown skin turned even darker. He was said to practice the old ways but was easily manipulated and acted out aggressively when taunted. Lance was an embarrassment to the King in court. Asher laughed with his men and turned his back on Lance.

     “The stone would be heavy to carry around,” Lance said. “As a member of court, might I use you, Asher?” He jumped off the stone and landed on Asher’s shoulders, sitting with his head between his thighs. As the man doubled forward, Lance pushed off from the man’s head and landed lightly in front of him. As Asher stood, Lance embraced him. “Good to see you Councilman, shall we hold court on this matter?”

     Asher fought to compose himself and held his belt with both hands to avoid going for his knife. After a few breaths, he adjusted his tunic and cape and combed back his hair with his fingers. “Court? Here?”

     “This man deserves a hearing,” Lance said. “If there has been a transgression.”

     Asher’s jaw was trembling. He was being bested by the King’s foolhardy son. One that members of the council referred to in private as, the pup-prince.

     “I have had my turn on the stone,” Lance said. “Would you like to address the village first? You are the senior councilman,” Lance said and patted Asher’s belly before stepping back to stand beside Tracker. A few people in the crowd laughed softly and Asher’s men looked around angrily. The laughter stopped.

     “There has been no transgression as of yet. The tracker’s claim will be investigated by me personally.” He stopped when Lance put his hand on Tracker’s shoulder. Who taught this fool the law? Asher swore to himself. “You are taking responsibility for this man?”

     “Take your goods, enjoy the spring festival,” Lance said.

      Asher opened his mouth to speak and then noticed the rolled parchment tucked into his belt. He looked at Lance who winked at him and held up his own copy. Asher knew that he was finished. There was no way to save face although he comforted himself with immediate plans for revenge. “May we enjoy your company, back to the Tower?” Asher said to Lance.

     Lance glanced at the assembled villagers. They were all as frightened as Asher was angry. “I will stay here for some time. Our people have worked hard and deserve some respite, do they not?”

     “They do,” Asher replied.

     “Good, then you are satisfied with what has been provided? Excellent!”

     Asher opened his mouth to shout at Lance then turned quickly and strode to the main hut shouting orders at his men. The village had only begun to display what they would be required to hand over to Asher to take for the spring ceremony which had become a pretense to collect more taxes from the people.

The village Elder and Tracker turned to Lance at the same time and said, “Who are you?”

     “More important, is who my father is,” he said.

     The village Elder smiled, “I recognize you now. From last year’s spring festival. How is the King?”

     “The King is well.” Lance handed the parchment he held to the Elder. It was a short writing on a treated piece of leather that contained the King’s seal.

     “We have his protection?”

     “You do.”

     “That is fortunate,” the Elder’s hands shook as he rolled up the parchment and tucked it into his shirt. “I have no children left. Asher saw my last son sent to the mines last fall. However, there are still ways to hurt an old man. The villagers are my children now.”

     “You are merely a short walk to the Tower. I will be the King’s eyes here.”

Chapter 6

     C’rele stepped through the gates and her guards fell in behind her. Being assigned to the elder princess was difficult. She did not walk with any particular purpose and she seemed distracted by everything. Children loved her and as she strolled down the main street they seemed to flock to her. It was said that C’rele had the healing hands and although she was mocked privately by many on the council and by the Northern physicians, parents knew who to bring their children to. The Princess was kept busy during her days in the villages. Now the people were coming to her for the spring festival and she was busier than ever.

     Ketwin and Meko had been assigned to her through the winter and they were anticipating reassignment soon. Both were related to Asher and constantly questioned by him as to her actions. C’rele also made it difficult to maintain the formality demanded by court. She had helped Ketwin’s wife deliver their first child in what had been a long and difficult labor. Meko had been injured as a child and his left leg bothered him for years until his assignment with the princess. Although he denied any discomfort, C’rele watched him and recommended things he might do to help his stiff ankle. Meko thanked her and reported that there was no need for treatment, although he had been following her instructions nightly for the entire winter and he had not suffered any pain in the ankle since the last snow.

     Despite Asher’s agitation, the two felt oddly proud of the princess. She did not try to curl or dye her hair in the Northern fashion and she did not seem to hide from the sun as many did to avoid its effect on their skin. Yet the two men welcomed the relief of reassignment. Asher had questioned them both the night before.

     “She left the border of the Keep?”

     Exhausted, Meko looked to Ketwin who said, “Hardly, she was with a new family here for the spring festival. She looked at their young daughter who could not keep any food down. She gave them some tea and waited with them through the night. By morning the child was eating everything put in front of her.”

      “I remain suspicious that it might have been a plot against the council,” Meko said. He had always struggled to maintain his patience with Asher. He found that a barb delivered at the right time would often get them dismissed from the overbearing councilman’s presence. “A healer, we are to be afraid of a healer?” Meko said as Asher dismissed them. Asher raged for a moment about the dark arts and how Meko should avoid their influence.

     Ketwin had grabbed Meko’s upper arm to make sure that his cousin made it out of the room without further incident. They had had this conversation many times and knew there was nothing rational about Asher’s fear of the princess.

     The guards smiled when they heard the Geguin. The ‘madwoman’ appeared at the end of the main street and strolled down the middle of the road. Geguin was perhaps the only woman in the villages that attracted more attention than C’rele. Sightings of her were generally preceded by her shrieking. She used the old Wild One tongue and was generally ranting about the smell of the Northerners, their horses, the weather or instructing nature to do her bidding. Under the weight of Northern occupation, the humor offered by the madwoman was welcomed by the villagers.

     Ketwin and Meko were relieved when C’rele stopped and stepped aside to watch the old woman pass. She seemed to be arguing with the clouds who were insisting it was time to rain, according to her. As she passed, the people smiled and shook their heads and got back to their work. C’rele however, kept watching the woman and seemed puzzled to see her stroll right through the main gates after haranguing the guards who attempted to question her.

     “How old must Geguin be?” Meko asked Ketwin.

     “I remember her when I was a child, ranting and cursing all creation,” Ketwin said. “She looks the same.”

The laughter from the Northern ambassador’s building distracted them all. C’rele paused and watched the group of soldiers emerging from the heavy double doors. The men seemed relaxed and one gestured to the others about the building. C’rele held her hands in front of her, tight against her abdomen. The cause for Northern laughter was always intriguing for her as the tall, pale people seemed incapable of understanding humor.

     The princess closed her eyes for a moment and was not aware of the words her lips formed in the wind, only that the wind aided her and brought the soldiers words to her over a distance no human ear would normally be able to detect. C’rele no longer questioned how or why she could do such things any more than she would question her sense of touch or smell. She hurried in their direction.

     “We have been here a generation or two and have built more than they did the entire time their culture has existed,” one said to the others. He was instructing two new recruits on the important aspects of Wild One culture. “You cannot get more than two to walk in a straight line let alone to work with stone!” His comments brought more laughter from the others.

     “It is easy to be led off a cliff, walking in a line behind others,” C’rele said as she approached the soldiers. Ketwin and Meko exchanged looks but stayed close to C’rele, one on either side of her. The Northern soldiers looked at one another. “Ah,” C’rele said noticing the man’s embarrassment and anger. “You forgot to tell them how well we hear. Let us look upon your walls…” she said as the man began to say something. She walked to the embassy steps and slowly went to the doors and ran her fingers against the stone walls.    
     “Why will we not come to your residence?” C’rele turned and addressed the soldiers. “Tell them,” she said. The man’s anger seemed to bring some color to his face, she observed. Her folk knew that while a Northerner never told the truth, they could not hide their anger. The thin, dark viens showed prominently when they were angry. C’rele stared at the lines forming along his temples and neck.

     “There are…prohibitions…your people have about this building…” the man began. C’rele smiled and looked at the new soldiers who did not know who she was to be afraid of her and saw only a Wild One to be despised.

     C’rele nodded and finished for him. “Apparently, my folk believe that the souls of our forebearers reside in the stones, here. This prevents us from entering the building as we might upset them…correct?” She finished and looked to Ketwin and Meko. Her guards were using all of their will not to smile. Meko shook his head at the soldiers. “That is nonsense. It is true that our culture does not come close to your level of achievement. For instance, we have never had slaves. Tell them why the building is painted twice each year…”

     “Well, there are the elements to contend with here…”

     “Wrong…again wrong,” C’rele smiled and advanced on the man. Ketwin and Meko would swear for the rest of their lives that the hardened Northern soldier actually backed away from her. “My folk made up the bulk of the slaves that allowed this structure to be built. We provided not only the means so that you could share your culture…our blood, our bones, provided the mortar. Without the paint,” C’rele turned to the building and ran her finger tips between two stones, “the mortar retains its original red hue.”

     C’rele went to the top of the steps to stand between her guards and held out her arms, motioning for them to descend with her. Both were standing as if ready to charge the soldiers at any moment and their hands were near their weapons.

     “Let us find where the Geguin made off to,” she said. Before another word could be spoken C’rele guided them down and made for the main gate. She took her guards by surprise who were dreading a long day in the villages. They instead were entertained by an interaction which would be spoken of for years and allowed to wait at the main gates while their Princess entered the Keep.

     “Did you see her eyes?” Meko said. “What happened to her eyes?”

     Ketwin waited until C’rele was further on into the courtyard and they were alone inside the gate. “They say she has found her stride,” he said and shrugged. “I try not to look at her eyes. Remember the day she thought you and I had taken the Northern commander out to trap?”

     Meko’s eyes went wide with the memory. “I was thankful you could speak so quickly to clear our names.” Meko shook his head. “I would have run, had she looked at me that way. And I know her to be kind. That soldier will not forget this day.”

     “I have decided. I am volunteering, to stay with her through the spring…”

     “What?”

     “Listen Meko, who is next to accompany her? Geshwin’s pups…” Ketwin waited while Meko made a disgusted noise in his throat. “Yes, I think that after today…she might need us.”

     Meko was looking out towards the Northern embassy. The soldiers had left to wander through the village. As always, he said a quick prayer for any who would have contact with them. He was avoiding his cousin. “Do you think she knows? How she is feared?”

     Ketwin shrugged. “I have my Alla and my boy, thanks to C’rele. I know that she is loved as well as feared.”

     “Ahh,” Meko said and waved Ketwin away. “I am certain that will make the difference.”

     “I will see that it does…”

     “Ahh,” Meko said again and waved his hands in the air to silence his cousin.

     “Meko!”

     Meko turned and snarled at Ketwin. “Yes, I am in with you! Now, leave me be.”

     C’rele entered her father’s hall and hugged herself due to the chill. The large fire beside the dais and all the torches along the walls were out. Only her father and the monk, Nur-Gan was in the room. The two men were crouched on the balls of their feet on the floor as Geguin stood on the dais. From a distance, C’rele would have thought that the old woman was a child. She had at some point cast off her ratty cloak and stood before them in a black robe. The woman turned to C’rele who gasped and thought to herself that only a short time ago she would have run from the woman.

     Dark eyes dominated her pale face. Her tiny mouth did not move as she communicated with C’rele. The princess was used to the Monk’s ability to direct their speech so that only one could hear it. This woman seemed able to send her thoughts to C’rele’s mind.

     Here is C’rele, our odd girl.

     “Who are you?” C’rele tried to look at her father but she could not turn away from the woman. Slowly, a dark hand emerged from the cloak. Her skin was brown and firm and smooth, like that of a child’s.

Gan.

     “Gan?” C’rele said. The name meant monk in the Wild One tongue.

      Will you come with me?

     “For what purpose?”

     To learn. You have some skill as a healer. You honor the old ways, like your young brother, yet you know so little of it. So ignorant. The woman sighed and shook her head.

      C’rele smiled. “When do we begin?”

     “This is your first lesson. Our people knew no other time save now. So we will leave, now.” Gan was nearly taken aback by C’rele’s presence. I am a puddle of water, she thought, C’rele is a river. I should have come sooner, she thought, although C’rele was not ready until recently. Too busy with her own grief to help others. Gan would offer the young woman no pity as she knew what was ahead for her.

Chapter 7-Roin

     Ed-Gan knelt before the dais. “My King.”

     Roin chuckled in response and rose from his bench. He enjoyed the hoarse speech of the Monks. “You Monks despise Northern custom, yet you honor me with it.” Roin’s father and grandfather had distrusted the Monks although he saw them differently. The King sat down on the edge of the dais and motioned for Ed-Gan to sit next to him. “Where is my wild boy?”

     “Becoming a wild man.”

     “Is he? He has discovered humor. He bested no less than Asher yesterday. Is he fit finally, for our court?”

     “Raon is passed the point of insults. He will not overreact to threats.”

     “Is he still insisting on being called ‘Lance’?”

     “Yes. Although, for him, it is a way to possess his past, reclaim it. It is also his way of honoring our people.”

     “Honoring our past,” Roin said.

     “The way he sees things.”

     Roin sighed and stood up. “You Monks, you offer no advice, proposals, make no requests or demands yet you never fail to irritate me.”

     “We are allowed one request during our term of service.”

     “Yes, you are able to request your retirement.”

     “That is usually the request. Although we are permitted to request anything we choose.”

     Roin turned to Ed-Gan and folded his arms across his chest. He experienced a rush of excitement such as he might in court while winning a debate with council or exposing a threat. “Ed-Gan, do you wish to make a request of your King?” Most politicians hated the Monks as the Northerners did. They seemed to want nothing and it was not possible to corrupt them.

     “Lance has requested to take part in the Run.”

     “Wait! Ed-Gan, you will waste your one request on a matter concerning Lance’s participation in a ridiculous ceremony?”

     “It is mine to choose.”

     “And when you are done with your service and retire to where ever you retire to, what will you do…unless.” Roin paused and began to pace again. A Monk may make one request of a King although they may live to serve more than one King over the course of their life. Monks can see into the future, it is said. Another reason for the strict guidelines concerning their conduct in court. Perhaps my time on the dais is short, Roin thought.

     Ed-Gan closed his eyes. The King would not be able to see them under his hood but he wanted to withdraw for a moment, into himself. To collect himself and determine what to do next. My King cannot see beyond the walls of his court, he thought. He is thinking of politics when he is being asked to think of his people. Conducting himself in the council chamber was the most difficult aspect of the Monk’s work.

     “There is one reason for a King to leave the dais. Either to be taken to the funeral pyre or to be put under the knife. I would prefer the pyre of course for if there is a coup…my children will have to endure the knife as well.”

     Ed-Gan stood and was comforted that his King seemed to be thinking of his children. “I do not believe that I will need to make the request for retirement. My service will end in another manner.”

     Roin sat as the Monk stood. “I see.” Roin paused to cough and rub his eyes. The headaches were getting worse. He wondered if the Monk knew his King was dying.

     Ed-Gan knelt again, surprising Roin. “I can see what may be…but never when or how…or who. Our time is coming to an end.”

     “What of my children?”

     This question reaffirmed Ed-Gan’s belief in his King. “Your time is ending.” Ed-Gan said. “My time and that of my order is ending as well.”

     “You are leaving?”

     “No, My King. We will serve you until the end. However, we will be the last. No more will be taken in for training.”

     “The Monks will disappear?” Roin could not prevent his sigh. With their guardians leaving, what would become of his people?

     “In a manner of speaking.”

     “How do you mean?”

     “One of our purposes was to maintain the skills our people needed when we lived in the Way.”

     “Before the Northerners.”

     “Yes.”

     Roin blinked and was able to surpress his smile. “Will the Wild Ones be coming back?”

     “No. Not in the way you think.”

     Roin frowned. “You speak vaguely of our doom. There are so many mysteries in this life. Is there nothing to hope for?”

     “I hope we are here long enough to see what your children will bring. The last task of my order will be to aid them and see what they are capable of. One day, all the mysteries will be answered.”

     Roin took a deep breath and closed his eyes. “I have lost my father, brother, my mate. Not even the exact circumstances could be determined except for in the case of my father; I know only that they are gone. These mysteries have weighed on me, heavily.”

     “Nothing remains hidden forever.”

     Roin did not look at the Monk and kept his eyes on the doors to the council chamber. There was no one he revealed his doubts to except for the Monks. “I think of my brother, frequently these days.”

     Ed-Gan’s face remained blank. Thinking of the dead was an expression used to refer to one’s own passing. He waited for Roin to look for some response thinking the question was a politician’s trick.

     “What happened to him?” Roin said. “That haunted my father until his own death.”

     “We are old,” Ed-Gan said. “There is more past than future to consider.”

     “Well, my friend. It is for us to decide what we do with our last days. I thought, I sometimes dreamed to go out leading a rebellion. Pity, I do not think us capable of it.”

     “There are many ways to rebel.”

     “I will leave that to my children.”

     The Monk nodded and did something he had never done before. He remained kneeling and placed his hand on Roin’s forearm. Roin tilted his head to the side. “May Lance participate in the Run?”

     The King had to swallow as his throat had become dry. “Yes. My children must have opportunities…to exercise their new roles. They will find their own way to rebel. Do something I could not. Lance has changed. C’rele is off to endure…her training.”

     “She will return. She is ready…for Gan.”

      Roin was relieved that C’rele would be occupied. He was not concerned about being unable to protect her, just of the consequences of having to do so. Politics, he thought to himself. He was glad that his wife was not here to see his shame. “My daughter will return, you say. In what condition?”

      “In a condition to survive what is next for us.”

     “Yes?” Roin said after a pause. The Monk was not staying for his company; there was something else on his mind.

     Ed-Gan smiled beneath his cloak. “Milsa…”

     The King sighed and began to pace, hands clasped behind his back and head tilted downward to watch his feet. “My boots are worn…”

     "Milsa.”

     “What of Milsa?”

     “I am asking you. What are we to do with Milsa?”

     “I should turn you loose on him, is that what you want, you savage?”

     “The savage way, our old way was kinder. If someone was not fit to be around others they were driven off. If they returned still lacking the required fitness, they were killed. Better for the pack.”

     “Yes, I imagine that it was. However, he keeps the council on their toes and away from me. Unless he oversteps his boundaries, leave him be.” Roin took a deep breath when the pain struck him just behind his eyes. When his vision returned he stepped up on to the dais. He walked around and focused on the large tapestry that hung behind his bench. It depicted the Home Tree with a group of Wild Ones and wolves in a circle around it. Then he sighed and turned to find that the Monk was gone.