ã€ŠThe Rhythm of Revolution - A Savage Symphonyã€‹


 Prologue and Chapter 1 - The Throne of Shir

    The walls of black stone shone beneath sickly emerald flames which hovered about the ancient sanctum of the Dinistrwyr. Four pillars, hewn of midnight crystal, stood in the center of a boundless expanse. They rose ever skyward into an inverted abyss. Amidst the shifting luminescence knelt a man in a robe of scarlet and gold. Scrawled over the floor were ancient, broken symbols, jagged arcane glyphs that shed darkness visible. All was still.

    For minutes, hours, days ¨C what length could hardly be known as the depth of concentration bent time to the power of perception.

    After an age of golden calm, the man in scarlet inhaled. The force of that breath, taken in preparation for speech, rent the walls. The floor of granite began to writhe and heave and splinter. With a deafening crash the four pillars shattered into countless shards of jet black that reflected the grisly patterns and lights of the room and sent them sprawling only to be arrested in space a moment later. All power to progress had been stolen away by an intense and binding curiosity. Every piece of stone, every gem and every particle of dust stood in hallowed, reality defying reverence to listen to what might be said.

    Adamant darkness become my armour,

    a cov''ring to bear anew the burdens

    of life set against the power of heav''n.

    Capricious tyranny unrestrain¨¦d

    Rules the mortal races. Time bends its knee

    to the maddening folly of Angels.

    So flame become wholly my shield and sword,

    the core of my essence be couched in pow''r

    thus unbridled and great as to oppose

    the Author of life; the unrighteous god.

    No more shall The POET''s power hold sway

    over me or my ilk. We shall drink deep

    of the fountain of immortal chaos,

    and steer the world to blissful anarchy.

    By silence long endured and stolen gift,

    force of creation bear me hence upward

    above the throne of the Almighty Lord,

    and fashion me the Herald of Discord,

    a dragon immortal, god of chaos!

    All light and heat fled from the room as a whirlwind of darkness enveloped the man in scarlet. The tornado of shadow sundered the man''s weakened frame beneath its weight. His eyes rolled back into his skull, and a spectral wail reverberated off every unseen wall without the least shred of humanity. His flesh tore from his bones with the sickening sound of a vicious beast ravaging a carcass. A hungering void assaulted what was left of his physical form, dissolved his bones and incorporated his essence into itself. The outcry ground to a halt as the last of his being was swallowed, and the storm of sable night ceased its turnings and took shape.

    The darkness formed the silhouette of a great serpent with spikes of obsidian jutting from the tail, then grew powerful hind and forelegs on which to stand. From its back the tendrils of black wove together to form massive, effervescent wings. The serpent''s head sprouted ten horns of obsidian arranged as a crown. The eyes opened, pools of magma glowing amidst and through the shadowy figure. A deep rumble emanated from the belly of the dragon, and its mouth opened wide to display teeth of black adamant. Noxious fumes escaped its gullet and poured upon the sundered stone ground forming a miasmic cloud of poison. The wings rose high above the dragon''s form and, with a sudden downward burst, sent it rocketing through the chasm in the ceiling towards the world far above.

    <ul>

    <li>CHAPTER I</li>

    </ul>

    The king slouched on his gilded throne eyeing the room with the wary enthusiasm of a fully-fed hawk. His eyes shone through the sockets in his carved golden Masekha. The gilded mask bore a steady expression at total repose and was almost featureless save a single flawless ruby inset like a third eye over the brow. He wore a silver robe with an embroidered lion in gold over his heart and on his back, and he fiddled with the lion''s-head pommel of his sword. The great doors to the hall opened and a hush fell over the crowd as a weary wreckage of an old man came forward. Mareth¡¯s skin sagged as if trying to escape the muscle which had long-since atrophied atop brittle bones. Yet, he staunchly refused to die.

    He padded in on soft leather soles, the flow of his deep purple robe a train behind him. People moved around him like little human waves from the keel of an ancient boat. His simple staff resounded off the stone floor with each step. He passed between twelve pairs of stone columns which held the weight of the great mass of stone which was the roof. Dragons, angels, demons, legends, fables, timeless, and gods were captured there in engraving and painting. Their aspects bowed, some willingly others by unyielding force, to the Great being that was a mere silhouette in the blinding brightness set in the center of a weeping sky. The shades and colours of the painting showed it to be the eventide, the time of dusk just before the setting of a crimson sun.You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

    Each strike of Mareth¡¯s staff resounded across the floor made of marble which bore a series of ancient flowing glyphs in black etching upon it. Beside each pillar stood a crystal statue of an armoured man resting on his sword. The statues dwarfed even the largest of men in the hall a small envoy of the Orias, half-giant tribes living far in the north. The King sat on a marvelous throne with six steps to its peak. It was crafted of granite overlaid with pure gold.

    Inlays of ivory with the same arcane sigils that marked the floor of the great hall flowed across the gold of the throne. At either end of each step sat a golden lion in regal splendor facing the room. Their eyes were precious gems, ruby, sapphire, and diamond. Two more lions were formed into the seat itself and sat on either side with their heads as armrests for the King. Nothing like it had ever been made for any other kingdom known among men.

    A low hum filled the hall as all the men and women were engaged in their varied conversations. Attendants and councilmen either stood in clumps or sat on the benches which lined the edges of the Great Hall. Some fifty advisors and the four councilors of the realms had gathered in session with the King at the behest of the Old Man Mareth who finally reached the foot of the throne and spoke in a guttural rasp,

    Wisdom is hidden, must be discovered.

    She cannot be taught, only uncovered.

    As mistress she reigns o''er all and o''er naught,

    elusive to men, by child may be sought.

    Beseech her in silence or all in vain.

    From pleasure she flees, while dining with pain.

    Ev''ry hardship bears you closer to her.

    For the darkness of men, she holds the cure.

    Mareth finished, and the hall stood still. After a time, the King spoke, weariness a weight on every syllable.

    "Mareth, why do you tire me with your ceaseless riddles? I do not know how my forbearers ever bore your cryptic counsel..."

    "But, my Liege, you are Mishorer-Rex, King of the Shir, Speaker of Truths, Master of Verse, why should you be weary of the very power that gave you that Mask of Command and holds your kingdom in peace? You, more than any man living, should deign to hear verse and apply to its teaching."

    "Oh, Mareth, why can we not speak plainly? Why can you not simply tell me of wisdom and of this ''darkness of men'' which has so consumed you of late? Surely a far better explanation could come if you lay to rest the restrictions of verse and spoke plain. This Kingdom has already stood nearly one thousand years. What could possibly threaten what we have accomplished?¡± Here the King paused, his gaze rising from the floor and out across the room full of his advisors, past them to ponder the crystal statues which lined the hall. Their regal splendor paid homage to times of great tumult, but also great honor for which the King longed. He spun the hilt of his sword again. Its scabbarded tip whispered against the stone floor.

    He continued, staring off at the statues, his questions hollow, "Are not our laws complete, fair, and just? Does not justice stand exalted in our midst? Are not men already of sound mind to be governed with ease, or even to govern themselves in far affairs? We have not been given over to barbarism, chaos and savagery for more than an Age of the living world, why should we fear or fret? The Shir made and remade the world. In less than a year''s time we will celebrate the Festival of Ages, another millennium passed, this one an Age of Song, of the Shir. Should we not expect a steady growth and progress in mankind? Men are, after all, basically moral and upright creatures, are they not?"

    "You pepper me with questions to which you have already devised answers, Your Highness. Folly asks what it dares not hear, and hears only what it wishes. I do have a task for your court, Sire..." Mareth''s voice was cut off by the sternness of the King''s response.

    "Task?" The King raised an eyebrow and ceased spinning his sword. "I am King and do not take tasks from lessers in my court, nor suffer my musings to be called folly by any man. Not even my former teacher. You misunderstand your place."

    "Sire," Mareth began but was stopped by a raising of the King''s hand.

    "Your counsel is noted, but ignored outright, Mareth Timedodger. I don''t need riddles and games. No quests or tasks." A deep sigh escaped the King, "The days of battle are long gone. The time for delighting ourselves with talk of knightly deeds and vain hopes for glory in hard times are past, faded into a waste of peaceful years. I doubt I even need this blade any longer."

    The King stood. His silver embroidered robe hung just above his knees, the dark leather of his greaves revealed simple, protective functionality. His chest plate of dark steel shone beneath the robe. He pulled his blade from its sheath and raised it skyward, twisting it in his hand as he inspected the folds and craftsmanship. The warm affection from its core was tangible, a wave of fellow-feeling which had bonded them for years, ever since he had completed the keening as a young man. That such a blade should go on in disuse, caged to a scabbard for eternity, was a brutal wrong. His eyes were drawn into the labyrinth path of its temper patterns, the layers of Adamantine folded in and through and between one another.

    When the King tore his gaze from the sword and looked up, he found the room empty of all men. Mareth, the counselors, every advisor or friend vanished from his sight, and only the torches hung upon each pillar while a deepening silence remained to keep him company. The King gawked, straining to see what had just been present a moment ago. His restlessness was stolen by shock as he stood before the throne and clenched his fists against his fear. Shadows grew out of the runes on the marble floor and crept towards the torches in steady strides. The flickering torchlight shifted with sinister intent as long black tendrils swayed and stretched over every wall. The sable fingers closed about the ceiling and the floor. The lights waned with every passing moment as shadow waged war on what little glow remained. In a matter of seconds, the King was plunged into pitch; an abyss of unearthly night. For the second time in his life he felt the fangs of fear pierce his throat, their poison paralyzing his muscles. Then came a whisper in the dark, the accent foreign to the living realms,

    You seek a man living long in a tomb

    humbled by sorrow and shackled by doom

    He is not of this world, nor of the next.

    No man could slay him or lay him to rest.

    In silence, of betrayal he does sing,

    and tortures himself with thoughts of his King.

    He tells hard tales of man''s true desire,

    the blade he holds can quench the coming fire.

    #

    "Sire?" the pause lengthened like the shadows in a growing dusk until the steward placed his hand gently on the King''s trembling shoulder. "Sire, are you well?"

    The King''s eyes were dark, pools of black that betrayed no sense of sight. Slowly, the black gave way to the natural platinum of his eyes and he turned slowly to gaze at his steward. The room was full of his counselors, advisors, and friends. A nervous servant filed into the room with a goblet of wine for the King while Mareth trudged toward the door preparing to leave. The King stood with cold sweat dripping off his brow¨C horror etched upon his face.

    "Keep your sword, My King." Mareth breathed as he paused before the lofty doorway, "By Eternity, you''ll need it." The King tried to reply, but the words perished in his throat. Silence hung like millstones upon the room until the great door slammed shut behind Mareth, and the King¡¯s breath returned.

 Chapter 2 - The Swordsman

    A small inn sat huddled between two large willows, relishing the wispy shade off their boughs. It was a rest stop for travelers to and from the great city Irshirana along the Derekh Shir.

    The Swordsman had been travelling north upon the Poet''s Highway and came to that quaint little inn. His vigor waned as his body rebelled against the insane pace he had set over the past few days. His horse was nigh dead from the pace he had set. And the man¡¯s own saddle sores were aching, young though he was. Six days and nights he had rode in great haste to reach the King of Shir''s court and deliver his message. He had little further to go, but he might need a new horse to make it in the agreed upon time.

    He was not a man of any superior qualities or handsomeness. His plain appearance was neither alluring nor ugly, merely simple. He was not tall or short, only average in almost every way save for his thinness in which he could not have weighed more than ten or eleven stone. Though he had gathered no more than twenty winters to his life, his deep black eyes held the weariness and weight of many more. He wore a robe of simple, dark wool and underneath a tunic of finely embroidered blue and silver. Atop it all was a hauberk of black leather, well-fit to his slender frame. His sword hung in a curved scabbard on his right side from a thin piece of tanned leather slung over his shoulder. He strode towards the inn desperate for at least one full night of rest before he reached the King''s palace.

    As he opened the door, the innkeeper met him with a bright, though toothless, smile.

    "It''s a fine morning, like, isn''t it suh, a fine ''un to be sure! What can Old Martha do ya fer? We got food, drink, women if yer so inclined, and proper warm beds, ya know what I mean, suh?"

    "A room would be appreciated, Miss, and a good stiff drink to send me off to dreaming." The swordsman responded.

    "Miss?" Martha screeched, "Don''t ''miss'' me young un, I''m as old as the world, or near enough makes no difference. But yer mighty polite, it''ll be two copper foots fer the room and ya can talk to Fat Boris over der at da bar and he''ll fix ya up right fer a drink, like."

    Without another word the Swordsman pulled a small pouch from a pocket in his robe and handed Old Martha four copper feet, smiled, bowed, and headed to the bar while Martha yelled something about him grabbing whichever room he liked.

    Fat Boris eyed the stranger with the same mild dislike that he held for all his patrons. The title was little more than a poor attempt to quantify the morbidly obese being that was Fat Boris. The Swordsman was too weary for revulsion. "A Nightcap please my good man."

    "Nightcap?" The walrus snorted through a gargantuan nose, "It ain''t yet half ten in the morning, boy. You got a problem, son?"

    The Swordsman drew a silver trophe from his sleeve and placed it on the table, sighed, and stared down Boris. The barkeep stood, as quickly as he was able, poured a small tin of pure black liquor for the Swordsman, pocketed the silver and then busied himself pretending to wash mugs with a filthy rag for the evening''s inevitable festivities.

    The Swordsman downed the Nightcap in a single gulp and swayed as the alcohol sent a tingle of warmth through his road-weary body. The burn in his throat and the sting in his eyes transitioned to a wry smile as he floated to the nearest room he could find, slammed the door behind him, tossed the lock into place and abandoned himself to the feather bed. Soon enough, he wandered the vast Dreamscape of distant plains, other worlds.

    #

    The banging at the door to his room rode violent into his dreams. The Swordsman opened his eyes to eerie slivers of light that lanced through the cracks of the rot worn door. There was commotion as a multitude of men trampled the floor outside his room. Cries of alarm and pain were clear amidst the cacophony. The Swordsman drew himself up, still weary, focused himself and grabbed his sword and hung it with the curve down across his lower back. He gripped the hilt with a reverse grip in his right hand and took a fighting stance. The familiar grip sent waves of calm through muscles preparing for they knew not what. He waited, his focus strained upon every sound, every vibration, every imperfect image captured through the narrow slits of the door.Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

    With a massive thud something heavy hit the door on the opposite side and shrouded the room in total darkness. The wood and the hinges creaked and warped under the weight. Suddenly, a man''s enormous backside burst through the center of the door sending splinters and shards of wood rocketing past the Swordsman''s face and neck. He shifted just enough to dodge the worst of them and let the remainder bounce harmless off his leather hauberk. The door tore from its hinges with a giant man''s rear still caught in it, and the Swordsman watched as the strange melding of man and wood crashed to the ground. Light poured into the room forming a striking silhouette around a brigand who stood a full head taller than the Swordsman, wore tattered leather military armour, wielded a knotted club, and was spattered with fresh blood.

    "What''ve we here? Someone we missed. Give me yer valuables and I''ll make yer death a quick ''un fool." The man spoke with a smile twisted across his face that turned his otherwise handsome features hideous.

    "Here is a pouch of what little valuables I have, good sir," the swordsman said as he loosened his left hand to snatch his pouch and toss it at the brute''s feet in the doorway before resuming his stance. "Now leave, it¡¯s your only warning."

    A prodigious peal of laughter echoed from the man''s lips as he eyed the young man with a mix of astonished affection and deep loathing. "Ye''ve got stones, lad, but I cannae'' let ya go now ye''ve had such a good look at me. Nothing personal ye''ll understand, but only death has any more need of yer company.¡±

    The man stepped forward and raised his club. Three paces. He took another step and wiped his mouth with his off hand and then licked his lips. Two Paces. He began to take a third step and brought both hands together on the haft of the club. Now.

    The blade was a lightning flash from the Swordsman''s sheath and struck the giant man in an upward arc from his left hip to his right shoulder cleaving straight through his leather armour and sent deep red in a great spray onto the low ceiling. The Swordsman stood serene, sword cradled in a reverse grip in his right hand as the brigand fell to one knee and dropped his club with a dull thunk onto the wood slatted floor. Crimson streamed from the fresh wound and pooled beneath him. He touched his hands to his chest and pulled them away, his face filled with confusion. He looked up at the Swordsman, his eyes losing their light.

    #

    The brute stared dumbly as a being of terrifying form materialized behind the Swordsman who ceased to move but stood as a statue bound in time. The colors too faded into shades of grim grey. The being that appeared wore a robe of darkest black and had no flesh upon his bones. His eyes were glowing fire, and his breath sounded labored. His scythe was pure obsidian and dripped with blood. The brigand tried to force out a scream, but his lungs were useless as the Reaper''s scythe made the final stroke, passing harmlessly through the Swordsman''s hazy body on its path, and bore the wicked murderer into the Timeless Realms, with only dread to accompany his sundered soul.

    #

    The Swordsman watched as the surprise in the man''s eyes transformed into a pure, sickening terror. As the man slumped and gave up his spirit, the Swordsman wondered in what form Death came to this man who so clearly had fled from him for fear his whole life. The Swordsman stepped over the warm corpse, knelt down and placed the back of his hand against just above the mouth and nose of Fat Boris. Nothing.  The Swordsman closed Boris¡¯ eyes and said, ¡°Go, and may The Master receive you.¡±

    He left the battered remains of Fat Boris and walked into the main tavern area to further assess the carnage. The room was full to the brim with thieves and scoundrels. They had cudgels, maces, sickles, and other crude weapons, though a few had blades and spears of kingdom make ¨C standard issue for the Shir soldiery. The brigands sat among the few bodies of those who had tried to resist and helped themselves to the mead behind the bar as they laughed and counted the spoils of their assault. They¡¯d left none alive. The sounds of screams and blows had died away with the last of their victims and transformed into profane revelry. None noticed the Swordsman until he reached the door to try to exit. One yelled a curse at him and they all sprang up, weapons in one hand and pints in the other with murder burning in their eyes.

    "No one else need die, friends." His voice was the eye of a storm. The boorish brutes mistook his confidence for cowardice. Slowly they advanced and the Swordsman sheathed his blade, shifted it to the right side of his body, and sank low seizing the hilt with his left hand. The whole room stood still until the closest man incited the others against the young swordsman. They were nearly twenty, after all, what could one scrawny swordsman hope to accomplish? They moved forward as one. Bloodthirst rose in their hearts. Six paces. Weapons of all sorts were brandished. Five paces. Men laughed and sneered at the Swordsman and bumped each other as they surged forward. Four paces. "Gut him lads!" roared one particularly foul man as they took another step forward with wicked intent. Now.

 Chapter 3 - Memory and Meeting

    Mareth breathed out a deep, exasperated sigh, filled with all the care and frustration of his duties as the young Prince''s teacher. "How many times must I tell you, my very young friend? Theo you cannot be too careful in choosing your words. Every word, in its most exact meaning must be considered. The denotation is not enough. The connotations too must be given sway in your mind as you select words that will sunder and shape the world. Poetry is not purely a smattering of pretty words, nor is it so crass and complex as to require a perfect science. It is balance, delicate as an envased rose in its beauty and fragility. One cannot be too careful, can never be too careful, in choosing one''s words."

    #

    King Theon strode through his dream-memory as if reliving it from without, his older eyes fixed on a younger self in a lesson with the Timedodger.

    #

    "Yet you pester on, Seer, on and on. How much heed do you give to your words?" young Theo said.

    "A teacher cannot be so meticulous in his words as he would wish to be, young Prince. It is the cost of the profession that one must prate in multitudes in the vain hope that foolish young men and women, yes even foolish princes who are soon to be kings, might catch a word or turn of phrase that breaks through the thick mist of their own ignorance and shines a pinhole of enlightened light into their otherwise void little minds." As he said this, Mareth drew up his staff and gave a gentle stab into the Prince''s forehead, agitating the boy, and then continued, "If I spoke to you in a princely fashion you would learn nothing but to esteem yourself higher than you ought."

    "I am sorry, Mareth. It seems you do have some wisdom in you." The sly grin on the young man''s face betrayed his pretension to cunning.

    "Oh?" said the ancient man, his eyebrow raised in tell-tale expression of perfect skepticism.

    "Yes, yes. You do prate on terribly."

    Mareth huffed, "I won''t dignify your rudeness with its typical course. Come back to our practice. Sculpt the stone."

    A long sigh was young Theon IV''s only response, next in the line of Song Lords, Kings of Shir. On the long table rested a series of materials. On the eastern end was a bowl of water, then some softened clay mixed with mud, then a lump of talc. Next there sat a stone of granite followed by a bar of gold, a bar of iron, and an ingot of steel. Then came obsidian crystal followed by emerald, sapphire, ruby, and, finally, diamond. The boy stared down at the table, gazing at the crystals on the far end while Mareth let his expression wander as was his way. With renewed hopefulness, the king-to-be looked at the stone in front of him. He placed his hands on it as if it were fragile, closed his eyes, and exhaled.

    Yield this weak stone to my soul empowered

    Enlivened by the blood of kings and gods.

    Yield and be remade, be reborn anew

    As a great knight armoured as the Kingsguard

    Beneath his hands the stone shifted and flexed, shuttering as if life were in it. The young Prince opened his eyes to watch the expected transformation, but, as he did so, he saw the mass begin to melt away into a viscous lump.

    Mareth simply shook his head. "What mistakes did you make this time?"

    The young Prince couldn''t help the frustration from rising red to his face and setting a fatal fury in his eyes. "The words. What was wrong with the words? Surely that is all... just words. This is hopeless." The young man tried to leave but felt his limbs seized.

    "Not just yet, Theo." Mareth''s voice was stern. "Before you can leave you must know what you have accomplished and what you have yet to accomplish. Since you are in such a foul mood, I suppose I will lay down my prating and speak plainly. Your words were almost perfect, save one - reborn. You are working with stone that has never felt the breath of life. It cannot experience a rebirth before it first experiences a birth. Furthermore, you did not maintain the image. What are the three elements of the Spellverse?"

    The boy spoke the words as if they had no meaning. "The verse, the image, and the soul."

    "Good, and what are the elements of the second: the image?"

    Biting his lip, the boy turned his head, his body still heavy under the spell of Mareth''s professorial will. "The image is held in the mind. It is a picture of what the mishorer wants the world to be. It is the intention and invention that the words of the verse are meant to describe. A firmer image can overcome careless words in the verse, but the greatest power comes when the two are in harmony."

    "Marvelous, Theo. You have been paying attention. Here I thought we''d been going on in vain. Your temper and rudeness do you no credit. You have the gift of one out of every one-hundred thousand in this world, and in more abundance than any other currently living, save your father. You cannot afford to squander it."

    "Can I go now? Blademaster Zimossa is meant to train me more on the sword today."

    "Not yet. You must expound upon the soul. Look at that puddle and tell me what you have accomplished today."

    "Nothing, Mareth, I accomplished nothing. I couldn''t sculpt the stone. I couldn''t even give it the slightest semblance of what I wanted it to be. You keep telling me my power will be great, but my soul isn''t even unyielding enough to shape stone much less metal or gems or adamantine like my forefathers. I am either a disgrace to this power or you lie when you tell me I have it. Please let me go to the sword. There I can learn." The boy''s face had fallen, his frustration and anger crumbling into pride-wounded grief.

    Mareth stepped forward, and with a wave of his hand the boy felt the weight slip from him. Just before he could dart away Mareth laid a bony hand on his shoulder, more lovingly than Theo thought the old man capable of. "Describe the element of the soul, Theon." The old man put his arm around the boy and pointed at the amorphous mass on the table.

    "The soul provides the force. A soul can only affect that which it is more unyielding than, what it is firmer than. To affect diamond one''s soul must be more unyielding than diamond. To affect a stone one''s soul must be..." a dawn of recognition rose in his eyes.

    "There it is, Theo. Go on." Mareth said.

    "The soul! It melted the stone. The soul!" The boy said pointing and looking back at Mareth with unabashed joy, "My soul!¡± The boy stood tall and beamed as he finished. ¡°Is stronger than stone."

    "Indeed it is, young Prince. Do not be discouraged. You''ve greater things in you than you realize, as do most. Now, off to Zimossa with you. Be back here tomorrow at noon to continue your training."

    As the boy sauntered away with the pep of newborn confidence, Mareth shook his head, pride smiling through perpetual sadness.

    #

    The King awoke, the dream still vivid, his memories of youth sharp as broken glass cutting against Mareth''s more recent explanations. Another lecture, another lesson. When will they be done?

    Theon IV lay abed, the joy of his childhood a counterpoint to his encounter with the supernatural vision of devouring darkness in the throne room. Fever had taken his otherwise powerful frame and reduced his normal vigor to naught. Neither food nor drink enticed him in the least. He lay for nearly two days in that stupor while obsessing over the vision he had seen and the warning task he was given. He had only once before felt so helpless as he did standing in the presence of darkness personified and wondered if it were Death himself who had given so clear a prophetic glimpse.

    He did not deign to speak. There was something hateful about breaking the silence that had attended him like a lover over the past two days. He wanted calm to grow, not vanish at the crack of words spoken. Beseech her in silence. Mareth''s words drilled into the King''s mind, and he began to heed them even as the toil of sickness wracked his body. The words of the poem matter. He learned that as a boy. So, these words must be important. Elusive to men. What was it of age and manliness that drove away wisdom and her power? By child may be sought. The innocent graces of a child so pure and without the bitter poison of pretension or self-doubt must hold some secrets to wisdom, but the King had long lost his child-like wonder. Perhaps he never had it, the memories of his own training revealed long-hidden scars. Now, he had a vast empire to rule and could not do so with the naivety of a boy. He must be cunning, sometimes cruel, often merciful, but never na?ve. Ev''ry suffering brings you closer to her. Children do not suffer over much, so where is the balance then that illuminates the path to Wisdom? Balance, Balance, Balance, Balance. The word began to drum his brain, a strange, methodic union of thought, but he still did not comprehend. All he knew was that as the silence lengthened, his thoughts grew more lucid. He longed to never leave its embrace.If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

    BANG! BANG! came a cacophonous knock at his chamber door made ever louder by the two days he had spent in seclusion of quiet thought. "Sire, there is a messenger here to see you. He claims to have news of vital importance for ''the King''s eyes only.''" The castle steward, Itaru, made his plea with a far greater volume than the King thought necessary, as if he were screaming across the full courtyard of the keep not simply speaking through a few measly fingers'' widths of mahogany. The King sat for some seconds, letting the silence spread afresh, trying to ignore the man at his door.

    The Steward hollered again, "Sire! The man is stained with blood and looks to be battle-worn!"

    The King rose from the silks and linens of his bed and strode to the door stark naked, flipped the lock and swung the door open hitting his steward right in the side of his face and body and knocking him squarely on his bony rump. Blood began to flow from the steward''s nostril as he tried to compose himself. The King towered over Itaru, a weasel of a man with a hunchback and far too many warts for anyone to ever call him comely. Initially, in his impatience the King did not realize the blow he had struck. Roughly, but not without compassion, the nude King took the Steward by the shoulders and hoisted him up to his feet, looked him dead in the eyes, and said in a whisper, almost playfully, "Where is this messenger?"

    The Steward stared in shock at his naked liege lord. The King''s skin was of a deep copper tone, as were all the Kings of Shir before him, and his eyes were a striking platinum colour. His head was covered in bristles of dark red hair, cut short, almost to a shave. On his jaw was a beard of crimson, a bit wild, and of medium length. The King''s height was just above the average man, but his build was as hard-hewn stone like the statues of great heroes which lined the courtyards. Years in peace had left his skin without mark or blemish or scar, but he refused to allow himself to become complacent in his physical prowess even with the rigors of lordship.

    The Steward was so dumbstruck by his King''s inappropriate lack of garb that he failed to answer the question and gawked while the King awaited a response. After too long a time, the King hastened into his chamber, threw on a long silver robe with a lion embroidered across the back, swung a wide belt about his waist, donned his sword and stepped by the still-enamored steward towards the throne room, expecting that any messenger would surely be there. He strode through the broad corridors of his castle as the setting sun cascaded through small windows on his right. He made a quick left turn and descended the spiral staircase that led away from Shir''s Overlook where his chamber, library, and personal armoury were located, and towards the Great Hall.

    Upon entering the throne room, the King saw a plain young man standing calmly with his hands folded. The only thing that made him seem intriguing was the visible evidence that he had taken part in a battle. His hair was matted and knotted, his boots stained the deep, dark burgundy of dried blood. His hauberk and tunic were torn and life-stained. Only his sword and scabbard showed no signs of wear, betrayed no discolouration or marks that might show them to have been employed in combat. The saya was ivory, and the hilt was wrapped with fine white silk that made a diamond pattern over thin, jet-black leather. The guard was a six-pointed star enclosed in a circle and appeared to be made of pure ivory to match the scabbard. Where the hilt and sheathe met was a thin ring of obsidian. The sword''s beauty held the King''s gaze in morbid fascination as he noted every detail. The blade in his own scabbard sang and writhed with excitement as the King approached the Swordsman. The King often thought it strange that he could feel emotions from his adamant sword, but at times like this it gave him insight that he would not otherwise have. His own blade, Peacebringer, knew this sword, and emanated the excitement of the reunion of long-lost friends.

    The Swordsman did not move as the King entered the hall. Only his eyes followed as the distance between them closed slowly. His sword quivered and hummed in its sheath, an expected occurrence that bore the brotherhood of all swords forged of Adamantine. He eyed the King with a searching and perceptive eye, hoping that this message, whatever it was, would fall upon ears that would hear and a mind open to take the proper actions. When the King entered ten paces, the Swordsman kneeled.

    So this is the King of Shir. The Swordsman pondered as he rose, bidden by the King to do so.

    The Swordsman''s voice was measured as he presented a small parchment sealed with wax bearing an ornate eight-pointed star. "Sire, I have traveled far and fast to reach you with a message from the head of my order."

    The King tore off the seal and began to read to himself, mumbling as he went.

    From The Knight-Commander of The Order of Adamant to His Grace, Mishorer-Rex, Theon of the Ruby Soul, Fourth of His Name, Emperor of the Realms,

    May you live long under the refuge of the Author of Life and bear true faith to His Holy Name. Elohei Shir be praised and exalted!

    Long ago, under the command of King Telopali the First, our order was formed as the most elite of fighting forces to engage in quests in protection of the King and Kingdom that no other could bear. Chaos, in all of its myriad forms, we battled from near the dawn of this age and have done so even when our names and deeds have been stricken from the histories. You may have let the memory of our order fade, Sire, but our oaths still pledge us to you and your throne, and this letter serves as reminder of that pledge that we may once more aid you in any way you see fit.

    I received in a vision a message of a great darkness to come, of the fall of the nation by fire and darkness and a task to seek out onewho could aid us. I am led to believe, Sire, that you have received the same vision.

    Sire, the swordsman who delivered you this message is but one of my knights, a man of unsurpassed prowess with a blade and a keen intellect for advising on any and all matters of importance. Take this swordsman for now, as pledge of our commitment to combatting this evil. I ask that you test him, and, if wisdom dictates, that you place him on your council and take him into your trust.

    With Fealty, Respect, and Love,

    The Knight-Commander, Order of Adamant

    The King¡¯s voice was laced with skepticism. "Swordsman, do you know the message that you carried to me?"

    "No, Sire, I was bidden to carry it here in great haste as if my very life and the sake of the realm depended upon my swift arrival, nothing more."

    "Are you not trusted with such knowledge, Swordsman? I find any man suspect who will not give me his name upon our first meeting."

    "Sire, my order was placed in disrepute nearly 500 years ago, when one of your ancestors was allowed to be assassinated under our watch by..."

    The King interrupted, "Yes, yes, I know the history swordsman, of the Order of Adamant who failed to defend the King they swore to die for. I know the true history as well." The King paused momentarily as if caught in a dreadful memory, and then continued, "It does not explain why you have not given me your name, Sir, if you are even a ''sir'' at all." The King made a marked emphasis.

    "My liege," the swordsman bowed lower as his tone shifted to one of utmost respect, "when I became a Knight of Adamant I cast aside my name and was only known as "Knight" or "Swordsman" until such time as the King himself would grant me a new name. You see, Sire, I have not given you my name, because it is yours to give. My name, my very life, belongs to you."

    The King stood in silent reverence for a moment for this young man. "To give up a name is not a simple thing." He mused aloud, "Nor to give one.¡± A long pause interposed between the two before the King responded. ¡°This letter bids me take you into my confidence and place you on my council. Do you believe yourself worthy of such an honor?"

    "Worthy? No, Sire, but skilled enough to be so, I am sure I am.¡±

    "You are quite young to hold so firm a claim to wisdom aren''t you, boy?" poetry echoed in the King''s mind "certainly no man is wise without his share of winters."

    The Swordsman recognized the beginning of a test. "Truly said, My King, but some winters bite more deeply than others."

    "Indeed, young sir, for now I freely grant you the title of ''sir'' after such a reply.  Yet time, I hold, is the greatest of teachers."

    "Sire, if I may, time in what condition spent? A man, of ancient years, who lived in naught but peaceful, untrying days could not hope to gain much wisdom in his pleasure." Memories swarmed the King as the young man went on. "Days and years spent in wretched toil, suffering, hardship, and anguish are the greatest progenitors of wisdom. Is it not so?"

    The King was struck by the boy''s adherence to Mareth''s poem and continued. "Yet, strife comes unto all men, in many forms no doubt, so only time creates the difference."

    "Truly, Sire, strife burdens all. Yet the measure of that burden, if greater, may speed the growth of wisdom just as training with a heavier blade will speed the growth of strength. Though not always skill."

    The King pondered all that had been said, the letter, and the young man''s strange, unnerving calm that permeated all that he seemed to be. Without wanting to, he trusted the boy, and as he continued to muse a great grin spread across his face. "Well spoken, sir. I would be delighted if you would add your voice to my council. As to your name, that is a more difficult burden. Would you wait a while longer? For now, you remain the Swordsman, and you possess the gift of Shir too if I am not mistaken?" The King knew he had judged the young man''s talents rightly at the Swordsman''s clenching of a worried fist. A mishorer indeed. Intriguing.

    The King let the silence swell before continuing, "But we will address all that later. First, where is the hospitality of my hall? I will call for some servants to set a bath for you and make up a chamber. In the meantime, I will not keep you from my table, I am sure you are stricken with hunger, and while we dine you can regale me with tales of the battles you have fought to come to me."

    The Swordsman kneeled again, grateful but filled with an eerie unrest that he could not place. He gazed down in contemplation and whispered to the marble floor, "As you wish, Sire."

 Chapter 4 - The Princess and the Pond

    A young woman danced into the palace gardens. She wore a blue silken robe embroidered along its seams in silver with marvelous floral patterns. A single white rose, masterfully woven into the silk, lay upon the left breast covering her heart. Beneath the silk could be seen a thin linen undergarment of similar craftsmanship, yet simpler. She wore nothing on her feet and let her bare skin revel in the texture of the soft garden grass. It was evening and some important visitor had come to beseech her father. She cared not for the politics or pooling of power that lay in the King''s mighty halls. She far preferred the company of Nature and of song. The beautiful pond that her father had made for her gave both at once - its clear waters reverberating whenever she might play her violin nearby and morphing with vibrant colours at every weeping note of the instrument.

    She glided, the spinning flow of her movements painting swirling patterns in the moonlit grass, toward the center of the garden where a massive sycamore stood towering over all the minor foliage beneath. The springtime brought the lilacs into bloom surrounding the courtyard, but it was the tree that she most enjoyed. She would climb up almost every evening, as the sun, ever courtly in his manner, left sway to his blushing bride, the moon, for the whole of the night. Only, it seemed to the girl quite unfair that as the warmth came in springtime and persisted in summer that the sun became greedy and mastered more of the days'' time leaving his lovely bride to hide her face more often than she ought.

    Such simple thoughts caressed the young woman''s mind as she alighted to one of the lower branches in the sycamore tree and sat down, her bare feet dangling as she looked up at the moon and stars through a veil of newborn leaves. She adored the night sky. She would often sit under these very branches and practice playing, giving herself over to the night, the mystique of the melody, the gentle hum of the strings drawn against the bow. Other nights she would sit and soak in the silence, letting it permeate her body. The symphony of the night would join her, cicadas, nightingales, the whistling of the wind, and brief moments of hallowed silence, first rate musicians all. Her music, and this pond, helped break the spell of despair cast by her mother''s passing.

    #

    Her mother was beautiful, never surpassed by any on earth, or so her father often said. She died giving birth to the King''s only son eight long winters past. The tragedy was compounded as the child was born and did not weep or cry at all. The midwife took the babe into a bundle of silken cloth and was quick to cover its face. The word hovered in the birthing room like a plague, a miasma of total dejection, "Stillborn." Not only had her mother passed, but her little brother too in the span of a few moments. How often do death and life so closely intermingle? Are they lovers too, she thought to herself, tears beginning to besiege her as the memory assailed her mind, like the sun and the moon?

    After her mother''s passing, the girl''s despair was absolute for a time. No joy could penetrate the internal armour she wore, and the walls she erected extinguished every flaming arrow of hope until her tenth winter, and the celebrated day of her birth came. A large party was engaged and entertainers were brought from all manner of exotic locations - knife jugglers and performers from the Buthani tribes to the South, Druids from the Highland Gaels in the Northeast, Bear-wrestlers and smiths from the Orias lands far in the north near the Crown of the World, even musicians and lords and ladies of leisure from the Gotei Islands to the Eastern most edge of the continent, sitting defiant on the Silent Sea.

    The King had doted upon his daughter all the more after her mother and brother''s passing. She alone remained as an object of affection, and he lavished every gift he could upon her. For him, her despair was akin to his own, and her joy the very joy he would open his heart to. Yet, all the feasting and gifting and jovial entertainment in the kingdom could not tear her from her despondent thoughts. It is of lasting and mortal lethality for one to be alone, and loneliness was as a garland about her neck in those days, one that she would not deign to remove. A funny thing, is solitude, when amidst a thousand one can feel more to themselves and rejected than sitting silently on a tree branch under the pale moon''s light.

    Only one thing among the broad swathe of entertainment held any sway with the princess. There was a man, mid thirties perhaps, though north or south it would not have mattered. She didn''t even see his face, nor would she recognize him were they to meet again. No, she saw his hands alone as he played a fiddle with gusto and force and filled the room with palpable joy at the highest moments, and shy sorrow in the lowest. His performance, while not enough to break despair, haunted Ariadne. When she thought of that music, the bow drawn across the strings, the reverberation of emotion made physical, she could not help but feel an inkling of longing.

    After the festivities, the King sent all of them away. Every guard, every well-wisher, every friend or acquaintance was ushered out and the King and his daughter were together alone. She remembered that day with more force and quality even than the day her mother passed, though joy is more fleeting company than pain. The fiddler''s performance had shaken up the walls around her heart, creating deep cracks in every battlement. Soon they would tumble, and she would emerge another thing entire, transformed.

    He father was gentle, his massive strength held in check as he took her tiny hand and led her into the palace gardens. He picked her up and set her in the giant tree and bade her listen and watch. "Be patient my little princess, and very still," He commanded with the utmost love. And then he began to speak, not to her but to the garden, the very land itself, to The POET perhaps...Find this and other great novels on the author''s preferred platform. Support original creators!

    Upon this placid lovely spot,

    Beneath the tree so old and tall

    Spring forth life''s ichor heav''nly wrought,

    To fill a pond not great nor small,

    With Peace Undying.

    The very form of passive grace,

    Manifest on this Hallowed ground.

    Joy leap forth beyond time and space,

    Nature''s glorious song resound,

    And silence sorrow''s melody.

    Serenity''s most tender kiss

    Upon my daughter''s tear-stained cheek,

    I bid you, Lord, be not remiss,

    To bear forth the comfort I seek;

    Lavished on my love.

    Defend her night and day, O dear Father,

    Her mind, body and soul.

    Let not despair extend his wretched hand

    Toward my darling daughter.

    Consume the darkness of the world below,

    And show forth sublime light.

    Forevermore.

    As he spoke, the ground beneath the boughs of the tree rippled like water. It lurched and heaved and retreated from a center point creating a perfect circle. About the circle, lilies sprouted in a rainbow of colour, shades of green and blue, orange and red, some purple, pink and white. The colours astounded the princess as she saw them grow and bloom right before her eyes as if time had put his chariot in gallop just for her. In the middle of the circle, water shot up in a spray of crystalline beauty and took the form of an eagle that rushed past her, brushing her hair with its wing. Then the eagle rose high and dove downward into the ever-growing pool of liquid to fill it the more. The water kept on for some time, taking forms and shapes of lovely birds and beasts that danced and played upon the pond then dove in to fill it ever deeper. A hare was chased by a limping wolf. A mother bear embraced her cubs. A pride of lions lounged upon the rocks watching uninterested as mercurial pronghorns galloped along. Each vision arose for mere moments, their shapes and forms always returning to fill the pool with life. She watched in silence for a long time but her sorrow broke finally and she giggled and cheered as two liquid foxes chased each other around the pond until one pounced on the other, and both splashed in to take their part in the greater whole.

    After a long while, the shapes and forms ceased and the pond, once thriving with all sorts of strange and wondrous shapes of life, took on a form of purest stillness. No bottom could be seen. From where the princess sat she thought that it must be infinitely deep. Then, when the moon''s light shone upon the water, its colours shifted. It became a light and playful topaz and stood still before her. Her father watched his princess throughout the show. It was his power that had created such stunning beauty, but it was her who had inspired him. Every giggle, smile, and tear she shed was his to share.

    "This is my gift to you, precious princess, a touch of tranquility in a difficult time. The pond''s secrets are for you alone to discover, as all poetry has its nuances that even the poet cannot know without further searching. It is your pond, yours and yours alone, Ariadne. I pray deeply that it brings you comfort." A single tear escaped his eyes as his daughter leapt off the sycamore branch, into her father''s arms and hugged him about his neck.

    "Daddy" she said, and nothing more, as the walls of her pain came crashing down in gentle sobs, and her father held her.

    #

    That was so many years ago, now, and she, seventeen winters old, a woman now, still held her love for music, now a vibrant musician and performer herself. Yet, still she could not escape her love for the pond. After a time, she chose a name for the pond, one that expressed just how she had felt upon the day her father had made it for her, something that the words of a little girl could not express. She called it Serenity''s Kiss, and ever it gave her peace.

    A voice spoke in the stillness,

    ¡°Peace surpassing comes

    Fostered by the cool water

    Raging Sorrow Stills¡±

    As the words were spoken, the sound of a foreign voice and a rising pressure startled Ariadne out of her nostalgia and into the present moment. She sat quite still and realized that a young man stood beside Serenity''s Kiss just beneath the tree where she sat. She could not see his face, but his hair was a dirty blonde and he wore very simple clothing and a sword in a white scabbard hung at his side. He seemed to exude an aura of power, it thrummed around him as if the very air mimicked his heartbeat. She was scared for a moment, until she began to think of what he had said. His aura felt calm, steady, gentle. It was gentle like her father, like a great ocean full of magnificent power held in restraint, but under its surface it was churning and dangerous. The thrumming subsided, breakers of power relaxed into smooth waters as he took deep breaths. He too sought peace.

    When did he get here? Ariadne thought. Was I so oblivious in my remembrances that I didn''t notice him? Does he know I am here? A slight twinge of fear shot up her spine again as she realized the possible danger but subsided as she continued to think. My father would not allow just anyone into the garden. He must be a guest of some importance. She sat in curiosity fueled stasis staring at the young man, staring at the pond. Time stretched as the two of them remained under the moonlight, each intent upon silence and stillness, each seeking answers to questions they dared not ask.

    Finally, Ariadne worked up the courage to say something to the man, to break the silence and satisfy her raging curiosity, but, just as she opened her mouth to speak, the man turned away from the pond and she caught a glimpse of him. Tears ran down the right side of his face, left crystal trails in their wake, broke free of his flesh beneath his chin, and fell onto the colourful tulips that surrounded the pond. She no longer had the heart to speak up, as the anguish in his soul seemed to buffet her with wailing winds of grief. Casting his eyes to the ground, the young man walked away towards the castle, composing himself and standing straighter with each step. When he was long gone, Ariadne placed her instrument to her chin, drew the bow with utmost care once across the strings, and began to play the pain she had witnessed in his eyes. She played until her vision clouded, until there was nothing to feel but the vibrations of the string, the resonance of the wood, the firm branch of the tree beneath her, and the taste of salt on her lips.

    <hr>

 Chapter 5 - Strange Dreams

    Arthur found himself amidst a torrent of snowfall on a long mountain road. The path seemed to go on for miles beyond reckoning before and behind him. The gaunt features of his weary face mimicked the jagged cliff face to his left. He never was a handsome man, and here, as the snow performed its grand ballet across the sky, his features appeared ghostly.

    Arthur began a slow trudge up the mountain trail, pausing for a moment as he caught a glimpse of a familiar boy running on all fours through a forest trail. He shook his head then stared down the path lying straight as a rapier before him. Every step he took found the trail steeper than before. Soon he was forced to climb. What madness drove him forward or strange power induced his aching body to ascend he did not know, but, as he toiled, the earth itself seemed to tilt at an unnatural angle until he was no longer rising but clinging to a world inverted so as not to fall into the great chasm of the sky. All seemed as if the world were revolving around him. He was trapped in a wheel of immense stone, the whole of the earth wrapping around him as a center point, but he must follow the path. It called to him, a siren''s song that he dared not resist. Arthur pressed forward hoping to reach the end of the endless road. He knew, in his hollowing core, that something was wrong. His soul shrilled that all had gone awry. Yet his mind was bent upon that road, and around him the earth spun and spun until nausea induced him to cease his toil for but a moment.

    Each time the earth revolved his hair grew greyer, his face more worn and haggard. Again and again, time hastened to take its toll upon his body and yet he surged forward, walking, crawling, often inching his way down the cliffside path that had no beginning and betrayed no end.

    "FATHER!" the sky screamed at him through the growing layers of frost. He was startled and stopped. When he paused so too did the earth pause beneath his weary feet. He stood erect as the world was righted, and he gazed at the moon.

    "Don''t Go!" the moon blubbered in tones of fear laced with great sorrow.

    Then Arthur saw him, a being of surpassing beauty and strangeness. He appeared in a splendor of light that forced the moon to envy and the stars to fade for fear. He wore a cloak of pure, shimmering platinum clasped about his neck with an ethereal chain. His chest and arms were bare of clothing, yet tightly overlapping golden scales covered every inch of his flesh. About his waist he wore a wide belt of black leather and a kilt of crimson flames sewn at its seams with living shadow. It reached so low that the man''s feet were shrouded in its shifting conflagration. His right hand grasped a scythe that towered above him with a shaft of obsidian and clear crystal spiraled together uniformly until they met the edge of a curved blade forged of solid light. He wore a radiant helm which sent forth streaks of kaleidoscopic colour like sunbeams through a prism. The helm bore a single vertical slit down its center, and only darkness could be seen within.

    Arthur fell on his face, every fiber of his being knotted and wracked with terror. The being spoke in a whisper so soft and smooth in its intonation that all calmness seemed to reside within him. "Timeborn, are you prepared?"

    The earth quaked at the words, as if it too feared this alien being. The moon''s envy gave way to anxiety and she hid herself from view. The stars retreated with her leaving no light but the brilliance of the being. The entity reached out a golden-scaled hand, lifted Arthur''s face, and breathed on him. Arthur felt strength rise in his limbs for the first time in what seemed like centuries.

    "Prepared for what, my lord?" Arthur coughed, still battling the foreboding of his soul.

    "Come, come, my dear Arthur. Bid time a fond farewell!" The winds wept at his whisper.

    Arthur''s dread emptied like water from a spilt pitcher as relief overwhelmed his heart. No notion of sorrow or remembrance of pain crossed his mind then. One simple word escaped his lips, drenched in the dew of serenity, "Farewell..."

    #

    The whisper of his father came through faintly. Ariadne''s mind was pulled out of Arthur''s vision and into the hovel where sat the boy. Anger, terror, hatred, and sorrow made war in the young boy''s chest. Ariadne saw as sorrow prevailed, banishing its deadlier foes, and he buried his face in Arthur''s chest and wept bitterly.

    The morning found a young boy sleeping on the chest of a very old man who had passed out of time and into eternity. Rays of the sun pranced through the dirt sullied window slats and illuminated the dead face filling its eyes with a supernatural glow. The light crept its fingers across the rough wools and caressed the young boy''s face, gently warming a tear-stained cheek and drying solemn eyes. The sun increased its brightness by degrees to wake the child, who sat up and put a thin paw to his face to rub away the slumber from his eyes.This novel''s true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there.

    The boy''s hair was red as blood and very long. It shrouded his platinum eyes beneath its tussled locks. He was skeletal, his frame that of a beggared orphan. Around the room were tools and mechanisms for crafting of arms for war, but the old man looked too weak, even in life, to have made a hammer stroke in ages. Penury screamed its presence in this place, but the love between the boy and his father appeared strong to her eyes.

    That young boy sat alone in the rays of a spring morning ¨C destitute. Silence grew and wrapped itself in an embrace around the boy. After a long time, his features stilled like mirrored glass. Such calm overcame him that one would think he had lived ages beyond ages and held immeasurable wisdom. He rose from his knees and stood upright in the sun''s light. The tattered scraps of wool he wore did no justice to the immortal calm written on his face. His mien was of a king exalted not a ruddy orphan boy just shy of his ninth winter. Wordless, he turned and exited the hovel.

    As he gazed south over the Great Loch, he opened his mouth to comment on the glorious scene spread before him but stopped abruptly. In his child-like wonder and simplicity he realized what many wiser and more learned would never know, what Ariadne could now see burning brazen in his silvery eyes that seemed to bore a chasm through her dream-steeped mind: there is a deep well of strength only drawn by silence.

    #

    She opened her eyes. Still the boy''s face was etched into the stone of her memories. Too real. Too terrifying.<u> </u>She remembered the creature too, the intense being to which the old man had been speaking, his otherness a kind of haunting melody playing in the great hall of her mind. Yet even now, the details of the dreamscape began to fade, their clarity melting away into viscous pools and evaporating entirely as if baked beneath a relentless sun. But the boy''s eyes burned electric, hovering like knowing apparitions. My father''s eyes.

    #

    The moonlight bathed the courtyard and Serenity''s Kiss in an ethereal glow. The pond itself shone a stormy grey, the folds of its ripples mimicking a storm of confusion as Ariadne pondered those knowing eyes.  Merely a dream.

    The Swordsman strode into the garden, his gait confident at first, but slower as he noticed the Princess standing sentry over the water, not in her typical place among the boughs of the tree.

    "Does something trouble you, Princess? Would you like I should depart?"

    Ariadne did not even turn, but rather continued to peer into the stormy liquid, caged in thought.

    "I will go, my lady. Do enjoy your rest when it comes." He turned to leave but was interrupted midstride.

    "There is no rest this night. My dreams weigh heavy."

    He turned back to face her "Dreams tell us truths we often do not wish to face."

    "Why should that be so, Swordsman?" still she faced away from him, her hands behind her back, wringing her fingers together but looking down at the pond.

    He hesitated, the pacific glow of the night''s orb was dimmed by a passing cloud overhead which plunged the scene into a darker grey to match the stormy waters. "There is a belief among the wandering tribes of the Buthani that the Dreamscape is a vast plane of thought, Princess. It is shaped by and swarmed with the unconscious minds of all those who sleep, but those minds are not entirely separate. Dreams from one may bleed into another ¨C if there is a connection."

    Still she faced away, though now she raised her head to look across the courtyard, "To share dreams... It would be folly to share with one I have never met. Have you ever had such an experience, Swordsman?"

    "I cannot be sure, in truth, my lady. But I have dreamed of being in another form, another body. I have dreamed of being my father, his lithe form becoming mine as well, scrambling up a stone wall, murder in his heart. I have dreamt of shadows, and blinding light, of a hollow forgetting a slow fade of all I ever knew. Who knows if they have any real meaning, Princess, but it is not wise to ignore."

    Still she stood, staring back into the mercurial forms in the liquid. "Does time hold sway in the Land of Dreams, Swordsman?"

    "I am no expert in that plane, my lady, merely a sojourner who travels there often. A simple dreamer, like the rest." He took a tentative step toward her, still keeping his distance, but desiring a more natural exchange.

    "Then you do not know."

    "Cannot, in fact. What troubles you, Princess?"

    "I think I saw my father as a boy, but it made no sense. He was not raised as an orphan. And I saw the death of an old man I never knew, the being to which he committed his spirit something of a visage unlike any I have heard describing Death."

    "Could it have been otherwise, Princess? What was the quality of the dream?"

    "As if I could convey the quality of such a thing... No, it must be little more than wild fancies." Ariadne turned at last, and forced a smile as she looked at the Swordsman who stood a handful of paces behind her and to her left. "It has been a strange time with your arrival, and your training with my Father, joining the council. You''ve even taken a bit of the solitude of my garden."

    "My sincerest apologies, Princess, if you wish me to..."

    She interrupted, "No, your company is soothing in a way. You needn''t fret."

    "Understood, my lady. If you should change your mind, you need only ask."

    "Of course, Swordsman," she turned to look at the pond again, its colour shifting from a stormy grey into dark blue and finally turquoise as the passing cloud cleared the moon and rolled on to darken other regions of the sky.

    <hr>

 Chapter 6 - A Foolish Wager

    The crash of blades, the keening song of swords, filled the main courtyard of the Palace of Shir. A large group of city watch, Kingsguard, and servants watched from the outer edges as the two master swordsmen clashed, one their King, the other a young knight who had only recently arrived. The King had the advantage in sheer size and strength, his muscled form titanic in comparison, but the young swordsman made up for what he lacked in strength through practiced skill. The blades flashed between the two with impossible speed. The King''s shortsword, Peacebringer, danced in tight circles before lashing out with pointed, deadly thrusts. The young man''s longer, curved blade moved with easy grace, parrying and transitioning to attack within the same breath. His movements were like the ocean swells, shifting to breakers, and back to smooth water to roil on, ever taking the path of least resistance. Some few of the Kingsguard, elevated from the ranks of the Legions of Shir, recognized the base forms of the Waterwalkers trained by the old blademaster.

    The King wore a broader smile than he''d worn in years. While this was mere practice, to the King it was closer to life than any moment of peace. He was reminded of his time training with Blademaster Zimossa, the elderly man a whirlwind of attacks and feints, so full of confusing skill as to force his opponent on the defensive. Here he was again, being forced to play the defender for the first time in near twenty winters. Brutal exultation consumed him.

    The young swordsman was without expression. His movements, the spinning blades, the dodges, blocks, and disengagements seemed as much a part of him as his own heartbeat. There was no wasted movement, not a single step out of place. Yet, he did not seem to be happy or sad, excited or in any way responding emotionally. If anything, he appeared cold, calculating.

    Ariadne watched with the Kingsguard around her, listening to their colour commentaries. "What a move! That kid''s got style."

    "Aye but look at the King. He''s not even trying. All skill no muscle. If''n he put some real thrust into it, he could force that bastard back."

    "Fools, the lot of you. They are evenly matched, and this ain''t a real battle. No telling."

    "What say ye, Princess, who do ye favor?" The Captain of the Kingsguard addressed Ariadne in a sidelong way. Lord Kerras was a hard man, simple, and straightforward.

    "I favor my father of course. This is only a battle of blades, after all. The Shir could change this all in mere moments. But the Swordsman is, well, he''s very skilled..." Her voice trailed off.

    "Fair enough, Princess. What say we make a wager then?" Kerras said, his fellow guards stopping their side conversations to listen in. "If they both get serious, I bet that the young Swordsman will overpower the King in a matter of seconds."

    Ariadne¡¯s blue-steel eyes flashed with a quick anger just, as soon concealed as it was shown, before she spoke. "I will take that bet. My father wouldn''t fall so easily. What shall we wager, Lord Kerras?"

    Whispering, "If I lose, I will teach you the sword like you have been begging me to do for so long. But if I win, I will reveal to your father your other evening escapades..."

    Ariadne halted and turned to look at Lord Kerras. The continuous clash of blades lent an eerie song to overlap with the rapid percussion tempo of her heartbeat.

    "What? Ye thought none of my guards noticed ye sneaking out of the castle grounds? Do ye think so lowly of our security?"

    "Why didn''t you stop me?"

    Lord Kerras laughed sincerely, "Farbeit from me to imprison my Princess. I am yer protector, not yer jailer. Besides, I always had someone close by to ye if need be, but I doubt yer father would approve."

    "So a bet that could imprison me, or give me my own set of skills. Hmm, intriguing." Ariadne glanced away, her eyes re-engaged in the practice session between her father and the young knight. She pondered for a while, then turned and looked directly into Lord Kerras'' eyes, a fire burning in her own. "You''re on! But I will change the bet slightly."Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

    "Oh," Lord Kerras said, his eyebrow raising with curiosity.

    "Yes, I bet that the Swordsman will let my Father win if they are asked to fight all out."

    "Ah... I am beginning to think that ye may know something that I do not. It''s hard to believe such a young knight would so humble himself.¡± Kerras surveyed the courtyard and then eyed the Swordsman with a measuring gaze that seemed cautious, like a man who didn¡¯t quite trust the scales. After a time he responded. ¡±I will take yer bet, Princess" He reached out his hand to her.

    Ariadne reached forward wrapping her hand around Kerras'' forearm just above the wrist and he grasped her forearm. "Agreed!"

    "Father!" She then called out, and walked out into the middle of the courtyard toward the fighting men. As she approached, both started to slow their assaults, and then discontinued. Theon IV stood with sweat dripping down his face, his light dueling tunic drenched, but his breathing was steady as he threw his head back and laughed into the sky above briefly then turned to face his daughter. The Swordsman maintained a low fighting stance, which he broke to stand and bow to the Princess as she approached.

    Theon looked out towards his daughter, "Yes, Ariadne? What would you like my dear?"

    "Father, Lord Kerras and I have made something of a bet on your training here. Would you be willing to settle it for us?"

    "A bet? Interesting. And what is this bet?"

    "I have bet that if this fight were to become serious, engaging all of your strength, you would be victorious, and Lord Kerras seems to think that this young Swordsman will overpower you in," here the lady paused, a wry smile on her face as she looked back at Lord Kerras, "and I quote, ''a matter of seconds.''" It wasn¡¯t strictly true, but what was one more fib between father and daughter?

    Theon IV''s mood could not be broken, and so he laughed again and turned to address the Swordsman "Well, young man, what say you? Shall we engage in a true battle?"

    The Swordsman merely nodded his calm unbroken, "As you wish, Sire."

    "Still so sullen I see, well then let us continue in earnest. Young Man, let us take a brief reprieve, and then we shall settle my daughter''s silly wager, yes?"

    "Yes, Sire." The Swordsman sheathed his blade and walked to the edge of the courtyard without haste. A throng of watchers looked poised to go to him, but his chiseled calm held them at bay. As much good it would do to speak to stone or a sea of glass.

    The King sheathed his own blade, took a deep breath and began to meditate on memory standing upright in the middle of the courtyard ¨C heedless of any watcher at all.

    The full brunt of my power, the whole of my soul...

    The King stood motionless. It had been years since he had actually Quickened. No one amidst his guard could have handled it. No battle was engaged that required it. This would be a marvelous opportunity to test his own strength. It had been so long since he felt this good. He raised his hands and stared at them, feeling out for his power with every nerve. He was ready. "Swordsman!" He called across the courtyard. All the spectators hushed and shuffled back from their various conversations to return to the battle at hand. "Let us begin."

    The Swordsman sat with his back against a wall, hugging his sheathed sword to his chest and dozed when he heard the King''s call. He opened his eyes and rose. Silence banished all and reigned over the courtyard.

    Lord Kerras and Ariadne stood in the middle now, their wager the impetus for a shift from training to real battle. The stern face of the King stood in stark relief to his earlier demeanor, though the Swordsman''s calculating air had not changed. Kingsguard gripped their swords or spears with white knuckles. Passing servants stopped and gaped. Lords and ladies visiting the palace on business paused in silent anticipation.

    There was not even the wind of a breath until Ariadne spoke, "All of your powers gentlemen, every tool at your disposal, but please... don''t actually kill each other."

    The Swordsman nodded, and the King spoke, "No," the King looked back and forth from his daughter to the Swordsman, "I won''t hold anything back."

    The Swordsman simply bowed and drew his blade.

    "Back up. All of you stand back!" The King cried.

    The air in the courtyard thrummed as the King drew his sword. The ground quivered. There was a pause as he took a deep breath inward, held it, and then exhaled. A wave of force roared out from the King. Spectators who stood too near fell unconscious, and those just beyond were shoved backward by the torrent that assaulted them.

    Ariadne''s breath caught in her lungs as she looked over at Lord Kerras. Their eyes met, fearful realization a brilliant fiery core in their pupils, though Kerras'' eyes were tinged with something of a wild recollection. Ariadne had felt something similar before, though not as harsh, not so uncontrolled and wild. Her father''s aura felt hot, wrathful, yet strong and proud. This was something different from what she had seen him do with Spellverse, something other than she felt from the young man in the garden. This held powerful intent, and she stumbled then steadied herself against Lord Kerras.

    She noticed the Swordsman, standing with his blade drawn. He seemed unaffected by the maelstrom of power, as if he stood in the eye of a terrible storm. As she watched, her father lunged, all his strength pressing him forward at great speed toward the Swordsman. The blade in his hand seemed to warp as if seen through waves of desert heat. Just as his blade was about to enter the Swordsman''s chest, there was a shifting flash of white light.

 Chapter 7 - Flashback to the Quickening

    The King moved past the Swordsman, pivoting hard to regain the advantage after the impossible parry. As he did so, Ariadne watched as the young man spun to face the King, dropped to both knees, his blade lain flat on the grass underneath his hands, his head bowed low to the ground in sign of surrender. It had been decades since Theo had felt so defeated and memories swarmed him.

    #

    "How did your training with Blademaster Zimossa go, young man?" Mareth sat cross-legged in a large well-cushioned chair by the fire in his study. Outside, the chill of an autumnal sea permeated the lands of the High King, leaving a brisk sharpness to the air. Inside the study the air was thick, almost muggy with the heat of Mareth''s overwrought fire.

    "It''s stifling in here, Mareth. How do you live in such heat?" Theon IV said, now no longer a boy but a young man, just approaching his twenty-first winter.

    "Stifling is it? Of course. Today we find out the true nature of your soul, Prince Theo. The thicker air will aid in my examination."

    The Prince raised his eyebrow and leaned against a nearby wall, resting his hand on his sword with the easy grace of a master. "And my training with the Blademaster is over now. He said he has nothing left to teach me. He called me a savant with the blade... though my father hardly seemed impressed." Theon''s tone was a comingling of doubt, fear and, strangely, pride.

    "Fathers never see what we want them to see, young Prince. They always have higher standards than we can fathom, and ways and paths we cannot decipher. Fathers are cryptic things, my friend. Aloof, powerful, terrifying, yet marvelous and loving." Mareth''s tone was wistful, peppered with longing.

    "You, the one we call Timedodger, who has lived since the very first of my line nearly a thousand years ago at least ¨C perhaps you¡¯ve been wandering since before the Ages of Madness? What could you possibly know of fathers?" Theon said.

    "We will not speak of history older than the dust in the core of Tilvaerelse. Suffice to say I too am a son seeking approval of a difficult father... But, down to business. It is time to see the make of your soul."

    Mareth stood, rickety yet sturdier than logic would dictate, as all ancient men who refuse to bend to the weight of years, and pulled a small wooden box from the desk drawer in his study. He placed it on a low table in front of Theon and opened the lid revealing three precious stones; a sapphire, a ruby, and a diamond.

    Mareth stood back, and said, "Take a deep breath, Timeborn." Mareth breathed deeply as well, and then exhaled with force. As he did so, the door slammed shut, and his eyes exuded shadow. The stagnant air in the room quaked. Theon felt pressure building beyond what he had ever felt from any other magic user, even his father. The sheer power drove Theon to his knees. Every fiber of his body began to ache and strain as he struggled to remain conscious. Blood dripped from his nose and spattered onto the stone floor as he was thrown forward onto all fours in order to keep from being crushed. He yelled but the sound was ripped away by the reverberating air. The weight forced every ounce of air from his lungs. His muscles ached. His joints popped and cracked. Pain shot through every muscle as he strained harder against the weight, as if his body weighed hundreds of times what was normal. His vision blurred and twisted. His jaw clenched with strength enough to chew steel. His vision narrowed. His breath caught. The pressure evaporated and the weight on him lifted, allowing air back into his lungs. The king to be threw up on the floor and struggled to his feet, every muscle already aching from the exertion. He took in breaths in great ragged gasps.

    "What..." the Prince began, heaving between words, "the Void... was... that." He stumbled forward and Mareth caught him, placing the young man back into a chair in front of the low table where the gems lay. There in the box the sapphire and ruby glowed brightly with their own shades of colour, but it was the Diamond that caught the Prince''s eye. It was shining with the brilliance of every colour of the rainbow broken into a prismatic effect and hovering a few inches above the box spinning slowly. It cast its light over the whole room.

    Mareth laid his hand on Theon and spoke softly, "That was the Quickening of a Diamond Soul, more specifically the exact power level of Theon I, Firstborn among the Gods, your forebearer and the first Mishorer Rex ¨C Sorcerer King. Your namesake, young Theon IV. No king since has achieved his power. Hardly a fraction in fact. And it was Theon who realized that by harnessing his Diamond Soul, combined with great emotional heights he could perform feats of magic unheard of. It was he who crafted the great castle in the North, Rimeward Keep, and he who sunk an entire Island in the East by the force of his power. It was he who, with nearly perfect vision, flawless words and a soul of Diamond managed to craft the first and most powerful of the Adamantine blades ¨C Peacebringer. The sword that you will soon carry." Mareth stood in silence, letting the words smother Theon.You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

    My father''s power is like a child compared to this. How could I?

    "Emerald was the last you achieved young Theon. It was the gateway to ensure your soul was strong enough to affect crystal. Now we will find the true, specific quality of your soul. You will perform the Quickening." Mareth''s voice was stern.

    "But, what if?" Theon''s face was buried in his hands as sweat continued to trace rivulets into his visage. He was too tired to be surprised at his candor. His whole body was shaking not only with exertion but with a poison of fear which pricked him with shooting pains.

    "Theon IV, Prince of Poets and future King, you will perform the Quickening. You must, for the sake of your Kingdom and your family line. Do not fear. I have set this room, in all its heat and stifling, stagnant air to be an insulator. Soul and spirit is breath and air and wind. You will perform the quickening. Now, I will reset the stones." Mareth simply reached out and touched each stone, first the Sapphire, then the Ruby, and finally the Diamond.

    With his touch each lost its glow and returned to its regular state resting in its respective box and casting only the natural gleams of flawless gems. "Now, you must Quicken your soul. The life of a man is ever internalized to produce enlivening power to the body and the mind. The Quickening is the release of that internal force to an outward force that will act upon the physical world to either create or destroy. We measure souls by their ability to affect different materials, as you know, measuring materials by hardness. Beyond that, the Quickening provides a measure for a soul''s weight ¨C though weight is a bit of a misnomer, but I will not prate on.

    This test will measure the particular quality of your soul. There have been powerful Kings, such as Telopali the Giver who was as near the level of Diamond in power as any since Theon I, but not in temperament. Between Ruby and Sapphire there is a minor distinction in power, but a larger distinction in personality, their hardness being almost equivalent. Do you understand?"

    Theon raised his head with a puzzled look, "I understand I suppose, but how do I actually perform the Quickening? I cannot will that my soul depart my own body."

    "Of course not. Even Theon the First could not quicken his own soul. It must be done externally by one who has learned. Then you must control it. After that point you will be able to Quicken and harness your soul like the flexing of a muscle.¡± Mareth''s wine-dark eyes looked heavy as if he were tired, yet inside there seemed to be a small fire burning.

    "Mareth, before we begin, may I ask a question?" Theon said, eyes fixed on the floor where he had vomited a few moments before.

    "Hmm, I suppose you may."

    "Why did you call me Timeborn?" Theon raised his face to look directly into the old Seer''s wine-dark eyes.

    "You wouldn''t believe me if I told you, young Prince."

    "Tell me anyway."

    Mareth stepped in behind the young Prince and placed both his hands on the young man¡¯s shoulderblades and began to hum softly to himself. The Prince felt power rising up within himself like a great geyser. "I am Marwolaeth, exiled of the Adeiladwyr, Timeless in Service to the True God of God''s the Great POET, Elohei Shir, whose true name cannot be spoken in mortal tongue." Mareth paused for a moment then forced his palms outward pressing into the Prince''s back and Theon felt a burst of power escape from him far beyond what he ever thought he could bear. A new agony tore through every fiber of his being and he thought he would black out. Where before he felt as though he would be crushed beneath the weight of the universe, now it was as if his body would explode outward leaving him in mangled pieces across the study. His life force became a great, raging lion tearing to escape from his flesh. He could not hold on long enough to hear Mareth''s final words. Oblivion consumed him.

    #

    The Prince awoke with a throbbing headache, sprawled out on the ground, his chest covered in his own spittle and vomit. He couldn''t remember anything except the rush of his own life force out from his body. It felt like casting a spell, or weaving a poem, but it was so much more than that. It was his very essence turned inside out, ready to make a mark upon the world. It was terrible freedom. As he slowly rose to his knees he looked into the box and saw the three gems. The diamond sat still in its regular state, untouched, unscathed, as did the Sapphire, but the Ruby hovered in the air burning with the incandescence of molten steel. It thrummed to the tune of his heartbeat. As he watched, the colour shifted to a stunning crimson and glowed brighter. He reached out to touch the stone and was greeted by a wave of warmth through his body. All of his senses sharpened as the stone''s colour faded, and it dropped back into the box with a dull thud.

    "A Ruby Soul... I could have guessed it. Fiery, impetuous and passionate. You''ve a soul more potent for war than peace." Mareth said, an odd look spreading across his face.

    "Seer, I seem to have forgotten something..." Theon was staring into the fireplace, now burning low in Mareth''s study. "What happened right before you Quickened me?"

    "Little, my Lord, little of importance. By the way, would you like to know how you measure?"

    The Prince breathed out and allowed his soul to flow, Quickening in a moment and harnessing it a moment later. "Just like flexing a muscle. You weren''t lying. May I guess? I''m of the Fifth Order, a middling Poet Prince by all rights..."

    "Actually you are of the Fourth Order, but only just. It is respectable, though. Still, you have a Ruby Soul, a Warrior''s Soul. Of the fourteen Kings to date, only two bore a Ruby Soul. One, Theon I, bore a Diamond Soul, a Timeless Soul, and the rest bore the Sapphire Soul, the Ruler''s Soul. Time shall tell what to make of all of this, but a Warrior''s Soul is not given lightly by the Great POET. It is a soul forged for combat, young Prince, forged for a time of war, a soul steeped in blood."