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    Argovayne
    Argovayne
    Argovayne
    Ebook575 pages14 hours

    Argovayne

    By GJ Kelly

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    About this ebook

    The Shi'ell Book One

    Eighteen years have passed since the second fall of Pellarn. Callodon struggles to hold the line against the Goth-lords of the west. Creatures of the Toorseneth roam the wilds, seeking the white-haired, hunted by Kindred Rangers. And Last Ridings does what it can to maintain order and to live up to New Raheen's noble tenets; friyenheth, ceartus, omniumde.

    In the down-below of Crown Peak waits a Morgmetal casket, a relic more than two thousand years old. In a slim wooden box waits the key to that casket, a key passed to Elayeen, Queen of Raheen, through sixty-two generations of ladies of elfkind.

    And in the haven of Last Ridings waits Argovayne, son of Gawain, for the day which will see his hand turn the key, and see him become the Shimaneth Issilene Merionell of prophecy. The world awaits the wolf of Issilene reborn, the Shi'ell of Minyorn myth.

    The waiting is over.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherGJ Kelly
    Release dateDec 2, 2014
    ISBN9781310112287
    Argovayne
    Author

    GJ Kelly

    GJ Kelly was born near the white cliffs of Dover, England, in 1960. He spent a significant part of his early life in various parts of the world, including the Far East, Middle East, the South Atlantic, and West Africa. Later life has seen him venture to the USA, New Zealand, Europe, and Ireland. He began writing while still at school, where he was president of the Debating Society and won the Robb Trophy for public speaking. He combined his writing with his technical skills as a professional Technical Author and later as an internal communications specialist. His first novel was "A Country Fly" and he is currently writing a new Fantasy title.He engages with readers and answers questions at:http://www.goodreads.com/GJKelly and also at https://www.patreon.com/GJ_Kelly

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      Argovayne - GJ Kelly

      Prologue

      People think me cold. Uncaring. Heartless. I am not. My mind is simply fixed and bent upon the task before me, and I cannot abide distractions. Besides, why should I care what others think of me? They should be far more concerned with what I think about them.

      Argovayne Justinnian Seraneth Varan Raheen, Son of Gawain,

      as told to the Bard-Chronicler Lyssa of Callodon

      1. Nine Bells

      I am not my father, Argovayne declared, his voice flat and disinterested. It usually was, though there was always the faintest hint of an Elvish lilt to his speech.

      Indeed you are not! Kamryn snorted. His Majesty Gawain your father is a wonderful man, wise and strong and fair, sharp of mind and with a delightful sense of humour. He is bold, and tall, and in every respect, heroic. If I were bolder myself I might be tempted to remind him of the old kings of Raheen and their customs in respect of concubines, but he still thinks of me as a child in spite of the fact that I am a woman of eighteen years; lithe, lissom, fit, athletic, graceful, well-trained and well-educated, and in all ways the stuff of which concubines are made.

      I notice you chose to omit ‘modest’ from your list of qualifications. Not that it would aid your ambition, my father loves my mother still, and deeply. And she him, in spite of his scars.

      Pfft. Scars. Three proud stripes across a noble face which merely add character and lend strength to his kingly aspect. That they were inflicted by a Grimmand’s claws in the course of a ranger’s duty only adds to the attraction. Is that the boat, on the horizon? Kamryn shielded her wide blue eyes, her hand taming stray locks of ink-black hair which stirred restlessly in the early spring breezes.

      No, Argovayne announced, eyeing the broad unbroken Sudenstem from their vantage on the battlements of the roundtower, the waters roaring and churning against the rocks below the western promontory of Last Ridings. And my mother remains far from impressed by my father’s carelessness years ago when he obtained that disfigurement which you seem to find so alluring.

      "It is not altogether alluring, Kamryn insisted, I am merely pointing out that even with the stripes you seem to regard as some kind of hideous ruination of his kingly features, your father remains a handsome man who still turns the head of every woman who sees him, young or old. You do, too, but in your case, they turn their heads the other way."

      For which I remain grateful, as you well know. Why you persist in attempting to annoy me with your girlish teasing I cannot fathom.

      "Girlish?" Kamryn declared archly, folding her arms beneath her bosom as if to emphasise some of the qualifications she had alluded to earlier.

      Indeed, Argovayne announced, his eyes fixed on the horizon, squinting against the glare of early morning sunshine sparkling in the fast-flowing waters, searching for the sail they were expecting. You have known me all the days of my life. Yet you persist with your goading. Hardly the behaviour of an adult.

      "I persist with your education, your highness, in the futile hope that one day you will become something of a pale shadow of the splendid and much-loved man your father is, rather than the cold and solitary gargoyle you make of yourself, and seem to prefer to be."

      Why?

      Kamryn blinked. Why what?

      Why do you wish to change my nature, and why do you expend such effort in vain? You know who and what I am.

      "I know what the Kindred Rangers say you are, and I know what you would have others think you are. But my father taught me years ago that still waters run deep, and he being a master boat-builder should know. I know you are not the heartless wolf others, and yourself, would have us all believe."

      Argovayne sighed as he had done a thousand times or more in the past whenever Kamryn had prodded him thus, and turned to face her. He was days from his eighteenth birthday, and as tall as his father; perhaps an inch shorter, but no more than that. Blond hair, which in certain light seemed almost silver-blond like his mother’s, thanks to fine white strands which close scrutiny revealed growing in amongst the darker hairs on his head. Fine features, intelligent, observant, and with only the subtlest hints of his elven heritage about the ears and eyes; eyes which possessed an eerie and uncommon quality: the left eye steel-grey, the right, hazel-green.

      For the briefest of moments, the pupils of those unsettling eyes snapped shut, sending a shudder the length of Kamryn’s spine. The Sight of the Eldenelves, a gentle reminder that perhaps the old prophecies of Minyorn were not merely simple crone’s tales, and that perhaps he was, in fact, the Shimaneth Issilene Merionell, nature’s very own wolf re-born, sent to rid the lands of darkness and to liberate Elvendere.

      The Sight of the Eldenelves, which held others paralysed in their unbreakable grip, and which could see the light, or the darkness, of all things living. The remarkable ability passed like an infection to those of elfkind worthy of it, and in the lands east of the great forest of Elvendere there were currently one hundred and twenty eight such elves, Kindred Rangers, who roamed the wilds seeking out foul creatures in the hope of destroying them.

      Occasionally, an elf so ‘gifted’ might succeed in fleeing the well-guarded forest, and survive to reach the sanctuary of Last Ridings, there to take the Ranger’s Oath, and thence to serve Gawain and his queen, Elayeen. Occasionally, a ranger might fall in the course of that duty. Their numbers varied often, sometimes from month to month. It was why the stuttering and faintly comical wizard Stentenenn kept the register of rangers and wizards in the small library here in the roundtower.

      Argovayne shifted his right hand to rest it on top of the bleached white baton jutting from a tubular leather sheath hanging from his belt, and turned his attention back to the river and the western horizon. Four inches of that curious white wooden rod were visible there at his hip, waiting like the hilt of a sword to be gripped and the mystic tool drawn. In deference to the wishes of both his mother and his father, a shortsword hung in its scabbard at his left hip, and behind his back angled to the right, a quiver of arrows.

      He had been well-trained in the use of the sword and of Raheen arrow-throwing by his father, Gawain, King of Raheen, but while arrow-throwing was indeed useful, it and the sword were little used. The Prince of Raheen much preferred the elven longbow for range, power, and accuracy, and the white Dymendin baton for closer work. That baton was some two inches in diameter and two feet long, as light in his hand as a feather duster might be, and for all intents and purposes, unbreakable.

      Kamryn, of course, had seen Argovayne wield that Dymendin rod, the Sceptre of Raheen. She knew its history, they all did here in Last Ridings, and she knew Argovayne’s mystic power. She had watched him often enough during his long hours of practice with Sardor Allazar, First Wizard of Raheen, watched them both spewing torrents of white fire with iron-heavy Dymendin, though Argovayne favoured a lash of fire, wielding the sceptre as though it were the handle of a mystic whip.

      And yes, there was something of the wolf in him, and in the cold regard with which those odd-coloured eyes beheld the world around him, as though he were judging everything he saw, and found everything he saw wanting.

      I wish you wouldn’t do that, she pouted, feeling sheepish and almost betrayed, as a child might be who has been well and truly chided by a beloved grandparent.

      Then do not goad me thus. A child continually ignores warnings until the inevitable outcome of a parent’s patience worn thin reminds that child not to exceed the set boundaries it well knows but foolishly ignores. An adult usually requires only one warning against a dangerous course, and proceeds only after the risks have been assessed. You know the risks.

      So then, my friendship is dangerous, and I deserve to be pinned by your Sight for it?

      "I have no friends, Kamryn. I am the Shi’ell. My doom was foretold by seers dead two thousand years before my father met my mother. Only a fool would ally himself, or herself, to a wolf of Issilene re-born."

      Your sister doesn’t think so.

      Sirina is a child.

      She’s but a year and a half younger than you, Kamryn sniffed haughtily, still clearly annoyed at having been pinned by the Sight. There were many in Last Ridings who considered it extremely rude for the Sighted to use their gift other than for locating or pinning enemies. Kamryn herself was one of the many.

      It is not my sister the world has been waiting for since the second falling of Pellarn. Nor is it she who is expected to scythe the lands of darkness like a reaper in the fields.

      "I’ve seen her beat you with blade and with bow often enough. Is that the boat?"

      It is a wading bird moving further upriver. Remind me to speak to Captain Wex concerning the folly of posting you on watch atop Crown Peak. And you have only ever seen Sirina best me with a blade twice, and that was two years ago.

      Only because you’ve refused to practice with her since.

      Argovayne sighed with all the patience of a teacher explaining elementary mathematics to a class dunce. Sirina is gifted with the foresight of the Shitheen Issilene of Minyorn. To compete against one so gifted is futile.

      It’s odd, Kamryn sniffed again, But you’re the only one in Last Ridings who believes that. Not even Sirina lays claim to such foresight, and not one of the rangers of Minyorn have ever heard of the Sisterhood of Issilene being able to foretell an event scant moments before it occurs. The Shitheen’s dream-seeing reveals far distant futures, not the next stroke of a swordsman’s blade.

      Times change.

      Times cha… Now you sound like Sardor Allazar! Kamryn declared, and then lowered her voice theatrically. Times change, Longsword, the world is changing, the wheel turns, it is for other spokes now to bear the load…

      I would strongly advise you to cease your mocking of the Sardor instantly, Kamryn Crownguard, Argovayne growled.

      And there was a distinctly wolf-like timbre to his warning. It was a mystic device he used from time to time, she knew that, but she also knew she was perilously close to crossing a line which only the foolhardy or ignorant might consider overstepping. She was neither.

      "Even you cannot deny that Sardor Allazar says such things, and often does he say them. And not since I became aware of the world around us has it changed much at all. Callodon still holds the Jarn gap. Though barely, I grant you. The Goth-lord’s raiders from the Old Kingdom still cross into these eastern lands through the South-halt and southern forest of Pellarn, and sometimes they enslave whole villages until ousted by allied forces. Seekmaws and other foul creatures dark wizard-made roam the wilds, sent by Pelliman Goth or the Toorseneth, and Juria is still allied to Elvendere in spite of Tamsin’s coming of age a decade ago by the clock of their protocols."

      Juria shall right itself in its own time.

      They’ve been saying that at the long table in the great hall for the last eighteen years. For as long as Juria depends on elves of the Tau to keep dark raiders from the west at bowshot’s length from its borders, its people will never rise up against the influence of Thallanhall and of the Toorseneth. I’ve even heard it said that if or when Mad Queen Hellin finally shuffles off this mortal coil, Tamsin will wed Insinnian the moment the funeral is over.

      That is a grotesque suggestion, and nothing but idle gossip spread by bored and fanciful boatmen.

      It is a grotesque relationship, and there’s no smoke without fire. Tamsin is said to possess her sister’s younger beauty. She’s twenty-six now and still unmarried, how d’you account for that, other than she’s waiting for her dribbling sister to die so she can marry the former Steward of Juria who’s groomed her so well these past eighteen years and still lurks behind her throne? Mad Hellin may be old and have one foot already in the royal crypt, but Insinnian her husband is only seven years Tamsin’s senior.

      Argovayne squinted against the glare, and scowled. Hellin is hardly in her dotage. She’s not much older than my mother. Besides, it is not our place to interfere with Juria.

      "Or any other land, yes, I know. Yet here we all are in Last Ridings, training hard and waiting for calls to come for our aid. They don’t want us ‘interfering’ with them until a Seekmaw or worse is devouring their livestock or their people, and then it’s ‘oh please come and save us again, Raheen!’ Or when one of their villages has been occupied by a band of Pelliman Goth’s raiders. Then they’re perfectly happy for our rangers to die in their lands on their behalf."

      Argovayne sighed again, and turned to face her, his own expression impassive, his eyes coldly inquisitive, regarding her the way wizard Corax might study a rock passed to him for identification.

      Can four weeks have passed so quickly since last your calendar was marked for poor humour and ranting?

      Kamryn flushed, first with embarrassment and then with anger. And that remark is but one of the reasons I have been obliged to waste so much of my life in your entirely disagreeable company, your highness! Long have their majesties your parents hoped you would develop some sense of social awareness and propriety! Long have they remained disappointed, though never more so than I! By your leave!

      And with that, and without waiting for a reply, Kamryn spun on her heel, and strode a few yards along the parapet walkway to the staircase leading down into the courtyard, Argovayne watching her go.

      For so long had he watched her, and others, he could almost hear the seething hiss of her breathing simply by noting her posture and her gait. He snapped his pupils, summoning the Sight, watching the brightness of her life-light as she strode, her white-knuckled fist clutching the hilt of her shortsword, heading towards the archway of the tower’s only gate. Martan’s Gate, named after the old dwarf miner who with his band of aged pensioners from Threlland had built this place.

      Their names were graven on the keystone of the arch, and as Kamryn strode down the cobbled road and through the archway she let go of the sword at her side and reached up to touch that keystone lightly with her fingertips, as did all who passed out from the tower and into Last Ridings. It was, he knew, a gesture of respect. He knew it, as he knew the sun rose in the east and as he knew the stories told so often by Lyssa, the flame-haired bard-chronicler of Callodon. He knew it as a fact, but the fact touched him not, nor did he ever touch that stone himself.

      They were all gone now, those dwarves who’d built this place and the little-known subterranean passage that linked the tower to the vault beneath Crown Peak. The last of them, Brakky Two-Kegs, had died two years ago, passing in peace in exactly the same way Martan of Tellek had before him, sitting quietly by the fireplace in The Orb’s Ending, a pint on the table, gently nodding off while listening to the tall tales being told around him, and never waking from that smiling slumber. Many had wept at the funeral, including of course Gawain and Elayeen.

      But not Argovayne. Argovayne had watched, silently, intently, noting the expressions on faces he knew well, noting the shuddering breaths and sobs, observing hands being held here, arms around shoulders there, lips trembling or jaws clenched firmly against grief and the sorrow of loss, all the outward signs of a pain inflicted by a much-loved life ended, a life now never more than a memory and a name on a keystone. A keystone touched lightly and respectfully by all those who passed beneath it. All those except Argovayne himself.

      He blinked away the Sight and turned to face the river again. In many outward respects he was very much like his father, who often stood in this same spot, gazing up the unbroken Sudenstem towards West Forkings and beyond. But there was no immense longsword strapped across Argovayne’s back, and likely never would be. Once, he’d tried to wield that impressive weapon, but found it clumsy, heavy, almost as if the blade were resisting him. The blade belonged to Gawain, King of Raheen, and was not for Argovayne’s hand to wield.

      Nor was the White Staff, the famed Dymendin carried with such ease by Sardor Allazar, First Wizard of Raheen. In other hands, even Argovayne’s, that ancient tree-trunk was heavy as iron. It answered only to Allazar Meritus. And, of course, in the same mystic way, the sceptre hanging at Argovayne’s hip answered only to the young man. Ancient artefacts. Ancient magics. Ancient prophecies binding all together.

      The sceptre had once belonged to the elfwizard Toorsen, who long ago helped bind Morloch beyond the Dragon’s Teeth Mountains in the far north; an elfwizard driven mad by Morloch in return, and the same elfwizard who had bequeathed that madness to those who still to this day followed his creed. It was elves loyal to the Toorseneth, the vast roundtower in Ostinath in Elvendere, who had rendered wizards of the D’ith all but extinct. Such lingering influence as Toorsen might have impressed into the sceptre was gone now, the mystic baton bleached clean and pearl-white by Allazar’s lustrous stave, itself once dark and wielded by evil hands before the Circles of Raheen had cleansed it.

      The sceptre was Argovayne’s, and the world was waiting for him to wield it, and bring down the Toorseneth, and liberate Elvendere from a perverted influence old as Morloch himself. Kamryn knew that. Everyone knew that. But still she, and all of them, would have him be someone else. Something else. Anything else. Anyone and anything but what he was: the Shimaneth Issilene Merionell.

      From behind him and above him came the clear ringing of a bell, three distinct peals, repeated three times, each chime coming only after the preceding peal had faded. The watchman’s bell, set atop the stone-built watchtower on the summit of Crown Peak, alerting the garrison, three bells thrice. Argovayne squinted, but the eyes on the hill had the advantage of height, and could see the sail which the prince yet could not.

      He waited until the bright yellow sail at last hove into sight, and when he’d counted the life-lights within the small craft he counted them again. Satisfied, he flexed his shoulders, glanced at his own shadow to gauge the time, and then turned away from the river and the boat fast approaching. It would be appropriate for him to be waiting in the hall when his mother and father returned from their journey.

      oOo

      2. News and Numbers

      Brock is dying, Gawain announced sadly, seated in his customary position with his queen beside him, at the head of the long table. Age and old wounds conspire to bring about his ending, and he knows it.

      Heads drooped at the table, eyes wide and blinking in shock and sorrow at this unexpected news. Argovayne stood silently, arms folded, leaning against the wall at the far end of the hall in the shadows behind a broad sheet of dusty light admitted by a window opened wide. He looked for all the world like an indolent boy, one leg bent, his foot against the wooden wall of the longhouse. Yet he was far from bored and idle, and studied them all intently, as he always did. He was not of age yet and had no place at the head of that table. His place, which he always eschewed, was beside his sister Sirina, who sat on the long west side to their mother’s left.

      Those at the long board were the King of Raheen’s friends and trusted lieutenants, wizards, men and women, elves and dwarves who had fought beside Gawain since Morloch’s Breath had annihilated that famed homeland atop a distant plateau. Their sorrow was shared and unashamed. Brock, the barrel-chested Callodonian king had always been counted a friend, and always trusted. Argovayne had met him once, years ago now, and seen the raw, honest and plain-speaking power of the man. It had been Brock who’d introduced Allazar to Gawain, and thus had set in motion events which had reshaped the world they all lived in.

      I am sorry to be the bearer of such ill tidings as these, Gawain continued. Especially for our friends born of that southern land who didn’t make the journey with us. It is hard to imagine Callodon without seeing the great bull that is Brock, and his mighty arms folded across that immense chest of his. In truth, that’s how I’ll always remember him, though he was but a shade of himself when we took our leave of each other for the last time.

      The world turns, Longsword, Sardor Allazar nodded sadly, And the times are changing.

      Argovayne flicked a glance across the hall to where Kamryn stood on duty at one side of the great stone hearth, Steward Arbo standing at the other. She twitched an eyebrow in his direction on hearing Allazar’s pronouncement, precisely as the young prince knew she would.

      Alas, Brock leaves no progeny, this you all know. But he has named his successor, the son of a cousin who some of you might know. Brock’s failing health spurred his decision to abdicate the crown in favour of the new king, Brendin, so that all in the court would witness the coronation and Brock’s blessing upon it. Brendin is now Callodon’s new Crown. He seems a capable man, I liked him.

      He has fought well, m’lord, at Jarn and in the South-halt, Tyrane declared, the grey-haired officer seated beside Allazar, to Gawain’s right. And General Igorn holds him in the highest regard.

      This pronouncement was, Argovayne knew, intended for the ears of those who had remained in Last Ridings. Tyrane had been with the crowns of Raheen at Callodon, and returned with them. Heads nodded, and suddenly there was a palpable sense of relief in the air. Argovayne noted how quickly the dread had dissipated; a few well-chosen words from a much-respected man, as Tyrane undoubtedly was, and all fears of Callodon collapsing into civil strife and a fight for the crown promptly evaporated. People, the prince acknowledged to himself, were becoming easier to understand with each passing day.

      I have no doubt that Brendin and Callodon will remain the staunchest of allies, Gawain agreed. We need have no fear on that front. They do the best they can to hold Jarn and the Gap, and to patrol the South-halt with what resources they can spare and still have at their disposal. But the double threat from the west remains as ever, Pelliman Goth and his cadre of dark wizards in the Old Kingdom, and of course the Toorseneth, though they have been worryingly quiet of late.

      We have received but one call for a ranger’s aid since your majesties left for Callodon, wizard Corax declared. Ranger Nuriyan was despatched from East Forkings to investigate reports of livestock being harried at a village to the south of the town. We are expecting his report in due course, it has been but ten days since he set out.

      Thank you, Serre wizard. Wex, anything to report from the hall?

      No, sire. All’s been quiet, if a little nervous, awaiting your majesties’ return.

      Argovayne saw his father smile and brush away the concern with a gesture, though in truth it had been unusual for both his mother and father to undertake such a risky journey as they had together. In spite of Sardor Allazar’s presence with them, their insistence on travelling all the way to Callodon Castletown in so small a group as they had was responsible for far more than the ‘little nervousness’ Wex had alluded to. There had been a palpable worry, and many had discussed sending in secret a rearguard of Kindred Rangers in spite of the king’s orders to the contrary.

      It had taken some time for the prince to understand that people were concerned not so much for Gawain and Elayeen’s safety, not with the White Staff and Tyrane with them, but that should anything dreadful occur to their beloved monarchs, then the crown would pass to him…

      Serre wizard Stentenenn, Gawain announced, and Argovayne saw shoulders tense around the table as groans were stifled. Have there been any changes in the register while we were away?

      N-no, m-m-m-my lord, Stentenenn replied, his head twitching slightly with each stuttering syllable. The numbers r-r-r-… and here the wizard jerked his head violently as if to fling the words from his mouth, The numbers r-remain steady, m-my lord.

      Thank you.

      Th-there is wu-wu-... and with another jerk of his head Stentenenn continued, One thing, m-my lord. M-met Corax?

      Thank you, Master Stentenenn, Corax acknowledged receipt of the topic for the convenience of all in the hall, though in truth it was Stentenenn’s place to speak, the D’ith Sek wizard technically ranked higher even than Allazar. Word has been received of a wizard in hiding, my lord, allegedly in a cave carved into a cliff overlooking the Sea of Hope close to Raheen. We know neither the wizard’s name nor his rank, nor indeed whether or not the rumours have any basis in fact.

      The astonished expressions which greeted this news spoke volumes, until the king himself gave voice to all their doubts.

      How would anyone know if a wizard were living in a hole in the side of a cliff facing the Sea of Hope?

      Stentenenn twitched as if to speak, his pudding-bowl cut of white hair jerking like a mop being shaken out. But he spoke not, and simply nodded towards Corax again.

      My lord, the word which arrived here came from the river, from a boatman who spoke with another boatman whose brother heard it from a fisherman at Mereton on the Lake, who in turn had it from blah blah blah all the way back to crewmen aboard a fishing-smack which happened to be driven close inshore one windy night in early March. It seems they saw a light in this cave, which alerted them to their dangerous proximity to the rocky shore, driven there as they were by strong winds. They claim it is a wizard in hiding, for nobody else in their right minds would occupy such a parlous and inhospitable dwelling, and nobody but a wizard could keep a light burning in such blustery conditions as they experienced.

      Haven’t they heard of glowstone lamps?

      Corax shrugged.

      Very well. Thank you both. Does anyone have anything else to add?

      Again, Stentenenn’s head twitched, but a glance from Allazar was all it took to prevent any further comment on the matter of the supposed cave-dwelling hermit-wizard at the Sea of Hope.

      "Good. Well. At least now we all know the reason for the urgency of Brock’s message and his invitation to my lady and I to attend his hall. Word will come by bird I am sure when… in due course. This is a sad time for many of us. Losing a friend always is, and we seem to have lost so many over the years.

      There is more news from Callodon, though of a general kind. The Empire sent another emissary by ship, assuring Brock that they’ll continue their attempts to breach the barriers on their side of the Eramak, but that no military forces can be spared in any numbers. Which means, of course, no numbers at all. Theirs is a vast land, and Goth-lords risen and striving for power and dominion amongst themselves since Maraciss was destroyed and his forces routed. Hardly surprising, then, that the Emperor continues to give his full attention to his own problems and little if any to ours. That part of the world hasn’t changed, alas.

      Gawain paused, and eyed them all with renewed sorrow, the three broad scars across the side of his face glaring white in stark contrast to his weather-tanned features.

      Thank you all for attending at such short notice, and for your welcome on our return from Callodon. I know you all have much work to do. We all do.

      With that, Gawain and Elayeen stood, followed at once by all others, and when the crowns had retired to their private apartments, the gathering broke up, with much sorrowful muttering. Argovayne watched them go, catching a glimpse of rich brown almond eyes beneath a fringe of auburn hair as Treena, daughter of Rangers Meeya and Valin, flicked a glance his way. She was the only one, apart from Stentenenn, who looked at him at all on their way out of the hall.

      "Treena’s worried her mother will insist that she tries to get to know you better again, in spite of last year’s disastrous attempt, Kamryn announced softly, joining him by the window. Ranger Meeya and your mother have been friends from childhood, and I think they have secret hopes for the two of you."

      My father and your mother have a history which goes back to his childhood at least, and I suspect that they have secret hopes for you and I. What with you having Raheen blood in your veins and me being a prince of the realm of ashes.

      Alas, I grieve for their disappointment.

      As you grieve for Brock of Callodon?

      Kamryn shrugged. I’ve never met him. I wasn’t invited to the hall the one time he came here, and glimpsed him only from afar. He’s obviously much respected, and many will mourn his passing. The old die. That’s the way of things.

      And here stand I, the heartless wolf of Issilene, caring not for others.

      If you truly are nature’s cure for all the world’s ills, then you more than anyone should understand that the old make way for the young. That’s the way it’s always been, and always will be.

      There is a gaping chasm between my understanding the cycle of life and your hoping that the old will get a move on and clear the path for your ambitions, Kamryn Crownguard.

      Argovayne didn’t need Sighted eyes to tell him that the arrows of his words had struck the mark. Kamryn glared and saluted formally, somehow managing to make the gesture seem entirely offensive before striding away and out of the hall. He watched her leave before pushing himself away from the wall, and ambling towards the door.

      He thought briefly about following his sister into his parents’ apartments, but then decided they would likely rather rest from their travels than make light conversation for his sake. So he turned at the portals and stepped out into the April sunshine, squinting slightly as he made his way across the square and to the fields behind The Orb’s Ending. So often he’d stood in those fields as a boy, waiting for horses to choose him in accordance with Raheen tradition. But none had, and though Raheen mares had foaled, few now were the thoroughbred chargers for which the kingdom on the plateau had been famed, and those that yet lived were old.

      Gwyn, his father’s ever-loyal horse-friend, ambled towards him, blue eyes still sparkling but too old now for duty’s watchfulness or for thundering towards an enemy. She nickered a greeting, and in spite of his nature, or perhaps because of it, he reached out a clumsy hand to pat her on the neck.

      My father will come to see you soon, Gwyn he whispered softly, Of that I have no doubt.

      Gwyn’s head bobbed, and she turned, and nudged him with her hindquarters before ambling away. Argovayne had always felt something for horses, a fact which he coolly acknowledged as an artefact of his Raheen bloodline and upbringing. But no horse, he knew, would ever choose him as the chargers of old once chose their mounts in the Ridings of Raheen. For him, there was little mystery in any of those choosings which had taken place in these very fields; equine curiosity provided a more plausible explanation for such events than any mystic bond ‘twixt horse and rider. Gone were the days of Raheen, in spite of the few survivors from that land still clinging to its traditions.

      It was April 21st, and in three days it would be his eighteenth birthday, and doubtless once again his father would bid him stand in the field and wait with eyes closed for a horse to shove him, as he’d waited every dawn on every April 24th of his young life, save that of his birth. He’d be expected to face the sun and remember The Fallen, and more likely than not his father would tell of the time spent standing on the battlements of the Keep of Raheen, standing beside that nameless and long-dead one-eyed old soldier who’d taught Gawain the act of remembrance. In some respects, Argovayne knew, Kamryn was right; the old look back, and the young look forward if they look anywhere at all.

      This year, though, would be different. Already there was a buzz about the place, a frisson of anticipation, quiet mutterings in the taverns and in the fields and at the training-grounds. Raheen tradition, they said, and the banishment endured by all male royal crowns on their eighteenth birthday. No-one knew whether the tradition would continue, so much had the world changed since Gawain’s own banishment, he the last prince to endure by royal decree a year and a day in the lowlands. Now the lowlands were their home.

      But this year, Argovayne knew, would be different for reasons other than the fact of their dwelling at the first forking of Arrun’s southern river and not atop the plateau of Raheen. In the vault of Aemon’s making beneath Crown Peak lay a Morgmetal casket, silently waiting as it had done for more than two thousand years. Waiting for him.

      Of course he knew all the stories. Everyone had seen to that. His mother, her friends from Elvendere, his father and his friends from all lands, and the wizards Allazar and Corax, all had ensured he knew that the box was waiting for him there in the down-below, and why the key to that casket had passed to his mother. What no-one knew was what lay inside that box. He’d seen it often, sometimes as a boy sneaking into the great cavern through the dwarf-cut passage from the roundtower at the headland, there to sit and stare at the ancient artefact. He’d even in his curiosity hefted it a few times, and once, shook it to see if the contents rattled. They didn’t.

      Morgmetal, the hardest metal known to the kindred races.

      Nought short of a grappinbow shot from closer’n you an’ I can spit’ll open that without the key, young Serre.

      So had said Martan of Tellek, the dwarf sleeping in a new storage chamber he’d been cutting at Gawain’s request, and woken by Argovayne’s echoing footfalls. Morgmetal, from which the Orb of Arristanas had been fashioned. Morgmetal, uncommon rare, mined in the Black Hills, where dwelled the dwarves of Threlland.

      It ain’t goin’ nowhere, young Serre. Bin waiting a long time it has, won’t mind waiting a bit longer I reckon. Don’t tarnish, y’see, don’t rust none, looked just like that the day it were made. Same as that spike we found in that number six run below the farak gorin… ‘ard rock and pain that were, young Serre…

      And there in the dim orange light of glowstones in the cavern of the down-below, Argovayne had stared at the box, while old Martan had described once again the finding of the Morgmetal spike at Far-gor, and the digging of the web of tunnels which had led to the opening of the Avongard Canyon in the far north.

      Seamless. Heavy. Unadorned save for the inscription in gold on the lid, an inscription written in the language of the Eldenelves, which Allazar had taught him to read at an early age:

      She Who Wears The Horse Though She Be Born of Tree

      Is She Who Bears The Wolf

      And She Who Bears The Key

      For Argovayne, the box was merely a conundrum, and one shortly to be solved. For his parents and their wizards, it was a curse whose silent presence had weighed heavily on their lives since before his birth.

      Well. As the old dwarf miner had said, the box wouldn’t mind waiting a bit longer. No horses came to Argovayne other than Gwyn, as usual, though horse-master Lyas performing some remedial farriery away to the south noticed him and gave a friendly wave which, through the courtesy insisted upon by his father, the prince returned.

      Master Allazar?

      Hmm? Your highness?

      Why do people wave hello and goodbye?

      It’s a very old custom. It probably originated in barbarous days of yore, when people would show their hand empty of weapons when meeting and departing. Although, your father might say it was intended to show that a person wasn’t a whitebeard carrying a staff, rod, or wand.

      Is that why he doesn’t like me? Even though I don’t have a beard? Because you’re teaching me to use the sceptre?

      The young man shook off the boyhood memory and turned towards the headland and the great roundtower. For some reason he could never quite understand, he always felt he owed Stentenenn an apology after such gatherings in the hall, and though he never actually gave one, considered that his presence in the D’ith Sek’s small library would serve as such. Perhaps it was the wizard’s stuttering oddness which set him apart from others that gave rise to a kind of kinship, though perhaps kinship was far too strong a word. So too was sympathy, for of course wolves know not such feelings...

      Argovayne and all others with Sighted eyes could certainly see the brightness shining within the wizard who had endured much hardship in making his way, alone, from Norist Bay in northern Mornland to Last Ridings years ago. Some were of the opinion that the horror of being stalked by Seekmaws all the way was the cause of the wizard’s broken speech. Others still that it was the wizard’s escaping over the walls of the Hallencloister and the horrors he witnessed within them which had robbed him of articulate oratory.

      In some Mornland village in the north, the D’ith Sek wizard Stentenenn had doubtless been held in high regard, respected, perhaps even revered. Here though, in Last Ridings, he was regarded as something of a cruel joke, a promise broken, and being deemed of little value to the kindred races, commanded no more respect than common courtesy demanded. Easy for a bright light to shine when surrounded by dim ones, especially for a wizard hiding in a village sanctuary on a beach in Mornland, but alas, everyone in Last Ridings shone brightly; it was why they were all here, after all. A bright light kept shuttered is no light at all.

      Through the arch and its portals and defences, under the graven keystone, and thence to the right and the small stone-built library set against the northern arc of the wall. It had been intended as a stable, but later converted when it was felt that such a small building would be futile for the protection of so many horses now dwelling in the land without the walls. Argovayne pushed open the high door, and stepped into the gloom.

      Y-your h-highness, Stentenenn managed, glancing up from an open tome upon his desk.

      I am alone. No need for formality.

      W-what brings you here, Argo? the wizard smiled, and indicated the familiar and rickety chair on the other side of the desk.

      It seemed to me in the hall that you were about to speak at greater length concerning the alleged hermit-wizard dwelling in the cliffs below Raheen.

      Yes, I was, the wizard conceded, his head twitching slightly. But I get nervous with so many p-people around.

      Is there anything my father or the others should know? I’d be glad to convey your information on your behalf.

      Stentenenn twitched again, closed the book he’d been reading and put it away in a drawer before eyeing the leather-bound volume in which he recorded all the details of every wizard known to be living, and every Kindred Ranger. Though he still stuttered when alone with Argovayne, it was but occasionally, and was hardly noticeable, a fact which both had long ago given up the attempt at analysing; the wizard because it was pointless, and the prince because he cared not one way or the other.

      The report was clear enough, Argo, and made p-perfect sense to me. I know the terrors of the wilderness and the creatures lurking out there, wizards to devour. What better place to hide than a cave in a cliff, the sea before you, rock b-behind? No Seekmaw yet has been made can scale a cliff.

      I can think of many better places to hide, including Callodon Keep, which is hardly the other side of the world away from the foot of Raheen.

      Tell that to wizard Norinenn, m-murdered there in Brock’s hall by an assassin four years ago, and Stentenenn tapped the cover of the register.

      True, Argovayne conceded. Though a cave in the side of a cliff is hardly any better protection against agents of the Toorseneth.

      All the more reason to send rangers to investigate, in my op… in my opinion. But I saw the look on your father’s face, Argo. They believe it nothing more than a rumour.

      "Probably because it is nothing more than a rumour. The cliffs where this cave-dwelling wizard is alleged to subsist in his hole are at the southern foot of Raheen, yes? Beyond what was once the village at the foot of the Downland Pass?"

      Yes.

      "Close enough then to the South-halt and the woodlands of the Jarn Road to be crawling with raiders from Pellarn, or worse. And those enemies can scale the cliffs, should they be of a mind. For all we know, the light was lit to draw ships to their doom, who can say? Nothing more than a light was seen. If any were seen at all, that is."

      You are p-playing opposite’s advocate?

      I am. I know how few names there are in the register of wizards, and how strongly everyone hopes for more to be found still living.

      Forty-three. In all the free lands, forty-three, and all those of staff rank not here in Last Ridings now at Crownmount in Threlland since Norinenn’s death. I would that it were f-forty-four.

      I would that it were four thousand and forty-four, given what lurks in Pellarn and in Ostinath. It might spare all of us the need for me to go about the business of reaping darkness like some East Forkings sedge-cutter.

      I didn’t think I’d ever hear you bemoaning your p-plight, Argo.

      Argovayne shrugged. My doom, you mean. I’ve been raised for nothing but such reaping, and I have no other expectations for my life. I do, however, have an imagination, which sometimes when my mind is not otherwise occupied, distracts me.

      Stentenenn’s head twitched again, and he blinked and gazed sadly at the register once more. He did so, the prince knew, to avoid eye contact, fearing that a display of sympathy might arouse another emotion no-one had ever seen Argovayne express: anger. The wizard had experienced enough of both in his time at Last Ridings, sympathy for his broken speech, anger at his inability to chant white fire in defence of the realm because of it. The twisted staff that marked his rank, its end burned and cracked, was propped in a dark corner of the single room at the rear of the library where Stentenenn dwelled, the staff and the wizard both considered of little use in the battle against enemies of freedom.

      What else would you d-do, Argo? If you could, that is?

      If I could be anything other than that which I am, and that which I am born to be?

      Yes.

      A librarian, he answered immediately. Assistant to old Master Arramin in the vaults of Crownmount. Surrounded by the accumulated knowledge of the D’ith, and being disturbed not once in the learning of it all.

      That is a very lonely occu…pation for a young person to choose, Argo.

      It’s a very lonely occupation for anyone to choose, Sten.

      I am c-c-content.

      You stammer more when you lie.

      Bu-bu… B-b… bullkek!

      Argovayne’s face twitched, and then for a moment the young man grinned from ear to ear, as he always

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