The Faerion (5 page)

Rumors flew wildly in the air; birds came to Ian and spoke of the wild world. King Yeates had in his possession the Faerion, a book of power, once belonging to the Daerlan. Many coveted the book, including Baron Treteste, the sorcerer Blackthorne, and King Yeates' own sorceress, Wynne, a beautiful young woman, flush with newborn magic, eager to learn, but unwary of the dangerous side to her arts. She would need to learn caution before she reached her potential. How the Daerlan lost the Faerion was never clear. They wanted it back and offered a fortune in gold.

Word came to King Ian that Baron Treteste would not wait to starve King Yeates out. The battle had started. There would be more death in the coming days, said the birds. Baron Treteste would take the castle by the full moon. So King Ian merely nodded when he heard Tomen's report.

Two days later, a tattered human stumbled into Paglo and fell exhausted near the house of Culver, a young Tuor whose parents had died years earlier, leaving him to fend for himself. He did remarkably well with the help of an older cousin, Tomen, of the Border Guard, and Elise, a comely young lass who had already claimed young Culver for her own.

Culver had seen few Men close up but knew this one was in serious trouble. He watched the figure, dust settling on the still form. He nudged it with his foot. The human still breathed, but wheezy and weak. He ran for Avolan's hut, a wise and learned Tuor.

The pounding of his feet on the dirt wove an urgent rhythm not often heard in Paglo. Faces peered out of windows; gardeners paused in their work to see the figure racing by.

"Avolan! Avolan!" He burst through the door. The old Tuor sat at his table sipping some broth. The interior overflowed with books, boxes, and glass jars and smelled like a tobacco merchant's stall. Avolan's curved pipe sat in its holder, still smoking as he ate.

"Be still, Culver."

"But.."

"Quiet." Avolan inhaled deeply, remembering all the effort used to train Culver to contain his emotions. Avolan shook his head. Perhaps it is for the best. Culver was a poet and not a Wiseman. Avolan sought an apprentice and believed Culver the one, but the young Tuor brought chaos with him.

"I saw.."

"No more until you have calmed yourself. It is a wonder you can write your poetry at all. How do you still yourself enough to hear your inner voice? Now, wait until I give you leave to speak."

Avolan watched Culver calm himself, but the young Tuor still shifted his weight from foot to foot. Avolan shook his head, slapping his chin with his open hand.

"What is so important?"

"A human is lying in the road near my house."

"A soldier?"

"A woman from the siege. Must have walked through the mountains. A lot of dirt and pine needles."

"You may be right." Avolan's mind raced through the implications. Would Treteste follow his enemies to finish them off? Who was the woman? How did she get through Treteste's soldiers?

"She appears injured."

"A female? You are sure?"

"Yes. I nudged her with my foot and she moaned. We must help her." Urgently, Culver tugged Avolan's sleeve.

"We will if we can. Let me gather a few items." Avolan found a couple small amulets and put them in his knapsack. He grasped Culver's arm and they departed.

He hobbled back to Culver's house leaning on his cane and Culver's arm. Avolan leaned over the girl, for that was what she was, counted her pulse, checked her eyes and sent Culver to the King.

"Sorceress Wynne, if I'm not mistaken," said Avolan, after Culver was out of earshot. He looked long at her. He exhaled. "The Baron took the castle, it appears. The poor thing barely escaped with her life." He began setting out his herbs, mixing them with a stone cup. He lifted her head and poured the mixture down. She coughed then swallowed the entire cup. She tried to sit up, but small firm hands held her down.

"Good, good. Just relax. That potion will help you sleep and heal. You need to regain your strength before your journey continues."

She tried to speak, to tell him something, but Avolan would not listen. He put a hand to her mouth, shushing her. She fell silent as the potions took effect.

Shortly, King Ian arrived with several retainers in tow. Culver trailed the group, for the moment forgotten.

"Who is she?" asked Ian.

"I believe she is Wynne, the Sorceress."

Ian nodded his head. "I heard the Baron did not believe that Blackthorne had stolen the Faerion from King Yeates. He must have tried to force the truth from her. I wonder how she escaped."

"Get rid of her," said Marco, one who accompanied the king. "Her presence will bring Treteste here. We cannot have it."

"Easy, Marco," said Ian. "We shall do nothing rash, but we shall not abandon Wynne. He turned to another Tuor. "Bring Tomen to me. Will she live Avolan?"

"Yes, sire. We must get her to a bed, where I can administer to her. My hut is too small and we should not move her too much."

"My house is right there and I have room," said Culver. Marco frowned. Culver came forward to help carry the Man inside. Culver, the King, Avolan and two other Tuors were needed to keep Wynne from dragging on the ground. Elise waited with the door open and a bed freshly spread. She had been on the porch, listening, and pleased at the development. Her eye was always on improving Culver's standing among the Tuors. She saw him as a future leader of their people, constantly alert for opportunities for him. She was slightly shorter than Culver; her black hair contrasted his sandy hair. Her braids rested on her broad shoulders framing her rosy face and bright eyes.

"Good," said Avolan. "I was hoping you would offer."

Macro looked meaningfully at Culver and sniffed. Elise threw an apple core at Macro. King Ian pretended not to notice and covered his smile with his hand.

Wynne lay on clean linen and most of the Tuors left the house, except for Ian and Avolan. Elise busied herself at her loom.

"Culver, if she speaks, remember her words," said Ian. "She may say things of importance to our safety, especially if she escaped and the Baron is searching for her. We cannot have the Baron's riders assaulting us for sheltering her."

"We can't just give her to them," pleaded Culver. "Sire," he added.

"Nothing is decided. Just keep her here, and be attentive," said the King.

"I've given her a potion," said Avolan. "She should sleep for several hours. If she is feverish, call for me, otherwise just feed her and make her rest. Remember what I taught you. You must be calm to think clearly. This is a delicate situation. If she wakes find out what she has to tell, but don't offer information on your own."

Culver nodded as he listened to his instructions.

After they left, Culver drew a tankard of ale and stood in the doorway. He felt proud to have helped his king. He drank slowly, his body relaxing, happy to be alive.

For the remainder of the afternoon Culver sat on a chair, watching the large girl breathe. At first, Elise smiled at him; but by dinner, she frowned.

"She'll be fine, Culver. Just let her sleep in peace." She pulled his arm.

"She's so large." His voice was soft.

"Ha! She's small by human standards. Why are you so attentive? Do you favor her over me?" Elise grabbed his ear.

"What? No, no, of course not. King Ian said to watch her."

"Watch her, yes. But you have become enamored of her. You haven't eaten anything since she got here and you will soon fall down in a faint. Then what will King Ian think of you when he returns."

"I understand, I understand." He walked to the kitchen but couldn't resist a glance back to the auburn-haired sorceress. Elise rapped his forehead with a wooden spoon, his legs nearly buckling. He did not look again for some time.

Culver awoke in the night. He sensed a change in his house. The air was cool as usual but there was a fragrance in the breeze, soothing yet alarming in some unnamed way. He sat up. He looked at Elise, still sleeping, and walked out in the main room. Wynne was not on her bed. He looked around wildly and saw the silhouette near the window.

"I thank you, little Tuor," said the sorceress. "I guess I owe you my life." Her voice was soft and purred over Culver's ears. He just stared. Her skin paled in comparison to his ruddy brown complexion and her hair shocked him with its redness. Her eyes were piercing like a hawk waiting for the moment to kill. He stepped back.

"Have you a name? My name is Wynne."

"Culver. I'm Culver."

"It's a pleasure to meet you. What is your mate's name?"

"Mate?"

Wynne laughed. She had the same effect on human males and felt delighted to know it transcended species. It felt good to laugh again. Still the memory of her lack of laughter in recent days sobered her again.

"The female in your chambers? Do you know her?"

"Oh, Elise. Yes, Elise. Very fine, very nice. Takes good care of me."

"Good. I am glad for you Culver. Not everyone has someone to care for them."

"How did you come to be here?" asked Culver. "You stumbled out of the woods."

"Yes. I ran from the Baron He killed King Yeates. Killed him in cold blood." Her mind recalled the image clearly. Treteste laughed at the sight of Yeates' head rolling on the ground." She debated whether to speak the entire truth.

"Yeates had surrendered and handed the crown and scepter to Treteste to protect the rest of us in the castle from further harm. Treteste motioned with his hand and a knight beheaded the king, blood sprayed the Baron but he merely chuckled. The king's head was raised on a pike and his body thrown into the courtyard where it still rots, by the Baron's command. Then he sent his soldiers to bring out all the people of the castle and his soldiers questioned everyone. The Baron tried to be diplomatic, for after all, they are now his subjects, but the thinly veiled threat of death did go unnoticed. He wanted the Faerion that was clear, and asked each one about it.

"Are they searching for you?" asked Culver, suddenly alarmed. The Baron's soldiers might ride into Paglo looking for Wynne.

"Yes, I imagine they are. Treteste is a vengeful man." Her eyes found a distant image, tears welling up inside.

"Did they hurt you?" asked Culver.

She shook her head. "They tried. Oh, how they tried, but I shielded my mind from them and they couldn't touch it. I swore never to use my power to kill and it proved difficult to keep that promise. Also, the Faerion's presence in the castle hindered my power. It pressed down upon me, suffocating my power. Even the simplest spell pained me. I could not completely cloak myself in shadow. I encountered difficulty eluding the guards."

"But your wounds?"

"Just flesh wounds. I was able to complete a couple spells to keep them off me but I took a beating. I wasn't raped if that is what you wondered, but I did see other women who's luck was not as good as mine. Let's not speak of that. Ever."

Culver waited several minutes.

"What shall we speak of?"

"I like the forests. I did not get a chance to enjoy your forests because of my haste and injuries. I have loved the trees since I was a child and do not know what calls me."

"The trees have solitude about them. They do not let the passing of days bother them. Rather, they become time; they do not pass through it." He suddenly realized Wynne stared at him. He fell silent.

"What is your calling, Culver? How do you live?"

"I am a poet, the only one in Paglo."

"Ah, I thought I heard your name in Nantitet. Your poems are read there. I'm afraid there is only a small audience in Nantitet, but it is devoted."

"I am pleased. My poems are not popular here."

"That is a sad thing. A poem is a glimpse of the heart. A shimmering brightness in the night darkness. Everyone should read them aloud under the boughs of a tree."

"I think you are a poet, Wynne. I could listen to you all day."

"Thank you, kind host," Wynne laughed. "I seldom hear such kind words. I am a useful nuisance in Nantitet."

Although his house found seclusion under the shade of the oak trees near the edge of town, Culver could sit on his porch and watch most of the activities in Whitehall. It was the larger of the two Tuor settlements and where King Ian made his home. Other than the crown on his head, there was little to set the king apart from other Tuors. Culver could see the palace, a house twice the size of Culver's. In the front yard, there was a vegetable garden with the gardener hard at work with a spade, his crown tilted to one side. Tuors were extremely partial to their vegetables and each gardener had their own secrets that they shared with no one outside their families. Gardening secrets were passed on as part of their family legacy and wealth.

Culver tried to regain the comfortable feelings he got watching the morning activities in Whitehall, but he could feel her eyes on him. The sorceress watched him and when he remembered Elise was still sleeping, he felt the eyes more.

He had dreamed of adventure, it was true, yet when adventure waited for him in his own home, it was quite different. He wanted adventure to wait for him outside and when he was ready he would go to it, and finished, he would return to his sitting room. He could not push aside the fear of Baron Treteste's knights riding into Paglo. He knew the Tuors would perish in a battle with an army of Men. He worried for Elise. She brought such happiness to his life, more than he deserved and he developed an irrational fear that it wasn't going to last. This fear hounded him in the cold hours just before dawn.

The main livelihoods of the Tuors were their gardens of course, and the colorful cloth found nowhere else. Excellent weavers, they sold their wares throughout Anavar. They did not sell directly to Calendia or Wierland. A trader came in the spring and fall, purchasing all that they had made and he spread their industry throughout the land, even as far as Mordyn.

Culver smiled. Elise was one of the best weavers in Paglo and enjoyed the respect of all Tuors. To say that he was surprised that a Tuor with such status gave her heart to him would not be adequate. She did, and many in Paglo wondered at that. Elise seemed levelheaded, so aware of what went on around her, not at all like Culver, the poet. The only poet in Paglo, Culver was the first one in over a hundred years. They thought his poetry pleasant but not as a way of living. Culver sold his poetry to the trader who had made Culver's name popular among the nobility of Calendia. The Daerlan were very appreciative of his talents. Still, his work was considered eccentric; not a practical effort for a Tuor. It was Elise's attentions that brought acceptance to Culver, not that he would have noticed.