[Story] Evermore

The day was full of contrasts. It was the first day of autumn in the Kar’lel Prairie and it was the final day of the harvest. The sun was in full glory having risen above the Riscindor Mountains far to the east. However, dark clouds lingered over the prairie from the previous night’s rainstorm. With the exception of the most stubborn, all the leaves had fallen from the trees at the edge of the darkened wood, leaving them bare and ugly. But creeping along their trunks in full bloom were clumps of laterose, as beautiful a flower as there was in the land of Evermore.

By no means were contrasts limited to these works of nature. In the small farming village of Sor’lel there was a strange combination of dread and excitement. Excitement due to the fact there was to be a ceremony that day. A foreshadowing was to be held in the village plaza. But alongside the buzz of excitement walked a muffled distress. The villagers instinctively knew that this foreshadowing would be different because of the child involved. But none could imagine how different it would be.

Councilor’s Residence
30 Miles North of Sor’lel

“Morlen, you disfigured inbred, why isn’t my mount prepared?” commanded a gruff, heavy voice that was accustomed to giving orders and having those orders carried out.

’Pol’gies, sir. ‘Orse cou’n’t choose a sa’le,” was the soft reply.

“Morlen,” came the response, dripping with impatience. “It does not matter what the horse chooses. Just pick a damn saddle and be on with it.”

Morlen, after a slight sigh and a bit of thought replied, “Aye sir.”

As stableman to the councilor, Morlen was in charge of keeping the horses healthy and fit as well as preparing them for the councilor’s many obligations in the small villages scattered throughout the Kar’lel Prairie. His master oversaw the province and represented the sparsely populated farming communities at the twice-yearly Asteran council in the royal capital. Councilor Grisselle was a retired war general, and at one time one of the most cunning military minds the Asteran army had to offer. Among those who knew, he was often credited with single-handedly bringing an end to the Fifty Years’ War. Though that was a slight exaggeration, his creativity was instrumental in concluding that brutal conflict. But that was long ago, and with a change of regime in the Asteran government came a change in lifestyle for General Aktem Grisselle. The new government knew that the public would never stand for Grisselle’s outright dismissal. So they did him the “favor” of giving him a seat in the Council and governing one of the poorest provinces in Astera.

Being a military man, Grisselle was used things being done promptly. He often took out his frustrations on Morlen verbally and, in the past, physically. No one knew where Morlen came from because no one bothered to ask. He was of smallish stature, coming up only to the councilor’s shoulders, and as thin as a toothpick. It was apparent from his facial features that Morlen was of Elven descent; the long, thin nose and slightly pointed ears gave that away. But none were able to tell which of the seven tribes Morlen belonged to because of the physical abuse apparent on his face. It was a face weathered from time and the elements. He had lost many of the child-like features so evident in the elven face. He bore a long, wicked scar curving from the crow’s feet of his left eye, across his cheek and ending at the middle of his upper lip. This gave him a perpetual smirk that often got him into more than a bit of trouble. People often mistook him for mocking them or for withholding some sort of vital information.

But Morlen had never been mistaken for a scholar since he showed up at the councilor’s gatehouse seven years ago, just days after Grisselle had received his post. And since the councilor was still in need of hired help around the estate, he allowed Morlen to live and work on his property. Morlen had eventually proven himself skilled with the horses and Grisselle gave him the title of stableman. And outside of Morlen’s eccentric ways with the animals, Grisselle had had few, if any problems with his mounts. Over the years Grisselle learned to have a little patience with his stableman.

Morlen returned from the stable with the councilor’s show horse. A beautiful chestnut brown gelding standing fifteen and a half hands high. This was the horse the councilor used for the myriad ceremonies and rituals he was required to attend in all of his villages. Required not only by law, as were all councilors, but required by a personal sense of duty as well. It was something that not all councilors shared. Councilor Grisselle climbed into the saddle and trotted toward the main gate of the courtyard. As he approached, the massive oak gate was slowly lowered. At the same time, a dusk elf dressed in a flowing white robe drew up alongside the councilor mounted on a gray horse. “Korya, are you ready?” asked Grisselle to his riding companion.

“Aye my lord. I am prepared.”

“Then let us get this over with.”

The Home of Crudale the Blacksmith
Sor’lel

The preparations for the ceremony were simple. The boy wore a plain brown tunic. Around his neck hung a piece of leather string. A chunk of leather hung from this and showed a branding of hammer and anvil as befit the son of the town’s blacksmith. A foreshadowing always created a buzz in the household of those involved. However, in Crudale’s home, the buzz was a little more subdued than normal. Crudale’s father, and his father before him, and his father’s father, and all the male ancestors in Crudale’s lineage, had taken part in the foreshadowing. And in all their cases, the results were the same. His family had been metalworkers since before they came to the Kar’lel Prairie. The continuity of profession dovetailed neatly with the continuity of the men themselves, as the men in the family all looked strikingly similar. All were big and strapping, built as strong as men came, with hands thick and rough making them perfect for facing the heat and strain of working the forge. Each had dark brown hair and eyes as brown as mud. Except for the newest addition. Crudale’s first son after two daughters was a little different from his father. His facial features were as eerily similar to his ancestors as his father’s features were. And he had the same thick brown hair. But even at a young age, it was easy to see that this young boy would not grow up to be as burly as his father. He was slighter of stature. Thinner, and lacking the brute strength of his father, he possessed a different kind of physical strength. It was of a wiry type that allowed him to wield the blacksmith's hammer with, even at his young age, nearly as much force as his father while adding an amount of dexterity that his father could not match. But the most alarming difference was not his build. His family was known for its dark brown eyes. This one had eyes like the sky just as the sun was beginning to creep out of the east. Eyes of such a pale blue they almost looked gray, and at times it looked as if his eyes had no color at all.

Despite these differences, he was still his father’s son. Crudale began teaching his son the tools of the trade as soon as the boy could pick up a pair of tongs. He often sat on one of his father’s workbenches and observed everything his father did. He studied every blow of his father’s hammer. He counted how long his father kept the metal in the furnace. He noticed what types of metal Crudale used for each job. He absorbed every bit of information with his pale eyes.

As midday approached, the blacksmith’s son- now nearly a man in his own right at age thirteen- and his family made their way to the plaza in the center of the village.

The plaza was little more than a wooden dais sitting in a muddy clearing in the heart of the small town. This was the core of the community. It was where the market took place. The tiny village chapel was located at the north end of the plaza. And the dais saw all of the important ceremonies of the township. Weddings, funerals, and even town meetings -- if the weather cooperated -- all took place there. But today there was to be a foreshadowing.

It was a warm and somewhat humid autumn day. The rainstorm from the night before had left puddles strewn haphazardly about the central square. The villagers, numbering a few over one hundred, stood on the ridges around the puddles. On the dais, Korya had finished his preparations for the ceremony. Front and center on the south side of the dais, a small bonfire had been lit. Korya stood slightly behind and to the crowd’s right of the fire, a small table in front of him. On Korya’s left, in a special high-backed chair specially made for him by the village carpenter, sat Councilor Grisselle, whose role in this ceremony was strictly observational. He was required to attend by Asteran law. To the right of Korya, on the other side of the bonfire, gathered the families of the three children who had reached the age of the thirteen since the last foreshadowing ritual. Those three would have their future standings in life foretold. Never had a foreshadowing proven to be inaccurate in its predictions. Nor had the interpreter, the man in Korya’s position, ever misread the colors of the flames that shot out of the bonfire. The three children who were to have their future foretold were Crissa, the daughter of a farmer, Vaughn, the carpenter’s son, and Luca, the son of the blacksmith.

“Dear people of Sor’lel,” Korya began in a voice as smooth as silk, “I am here at the behest of His Highness Tezzio, who sends you his best wishes and hopes that you find yourselves well. Today is a wonderful day. It is a day in which we will discover what the future holds for these three beautiful young people. We will find out what talents the gods have bestowed upon them. We will find out how they will serve each other, how they will serve you, and how they will serve their country. Without further fanfare, let us begin the ceremony.” Korya crossed the dais behind the bonfire and approached the group of families. “Who will be first?” he asked with a smile on his face. Crissa, the farmer’s daughter, eagerly came to the front of the group. Her bright blue eyes showing not the slightest hint of fear or shyness, she stated, “I will.”

Laughing, Korya took her hand and led her to the fire. “Of course you will, young lady.” He stopped her a few feet in front of the fire, reached into a pocket of his robe and withdrew a small vial of oil. He poured a small amount onto his forefinger and traced a hexagon on Crissa’s forehead, then placed three dots of the oil inside the shape. The symbol represented the pantheon of gods that presided over Evermore. Replacing the vial, Korya reached into another pocket and withdrew a small leather pouch. Undoing the drawstring, he dipped his hand into the pouch and took out a handful of a glittering, grayish dust. An expectant hush came over the assembled villagers as Korya tossed the dust into the bonfire. Almost immediately after the dust hit the bonfire, a flame of the purest white shot up. So brilliant was the flame that it was nearly invisible to the naked eye. The white fire danced for several seconds before abruptly disappearing. Korya waited a few moments, then began his interpretation.

“Burning flames of purest white,
Penetrate the deepest night.
Bandages and balm and salve,
The healer’s touch this one will have.”

A few words of approval were spoken throughout the crowd. The village would be in need of a new healer at some point in the near future, as Brother Maynerd, the wizened white cleric, was advancing in years. Crissa would be the one to take his place once she was trained by the Brother himself. She went back to where her family stood and embraced her father, whose pride in her daughter’s future station was clearly apparent on his face.

Korya turned to the families and beckoned Vaughn forward. He was a well-built young man with broad shoulders accustomed to felling trees and hauling timber. He had the hazel eyes and sandy brown hair of his mother and two sisters. Most of the young girls of the village had some form of crush on him. Korya repeated the ritual, tracing the symbol on Vaughn’s forehead and taking another handful of dust from the pouch. This time, when the dust hit the fire, the flames shot up a dark red color. As soon as the red faded, a second color sprang up from the bonfire, this a rich purple.

Dual flashes were fairly common. In fact, they were the case more often than not. In this case, it meant that Vaughn would be leaving the plains in due time. Korya again interpreted the ritual.

“Red, the color of blood,
And purple of fealty,
Loyal, royal,
A soldier, he will be.”

A smattering of applause came from the gathered crowd, as a royal soldier was a highly respected position. But concern was etched on the faces of Vaughn’s parents. Even in this remote community, isolated on the plains as it was, word had reached of the mobilization of the troops and the increased amount of practice drills they had gone through. The threat of war weighed heavily on the people of Astera, exacerbated by the fact that they had no idea why the threat existed.

As Vaughn returned to his family, Luca, the blacksmith’s son came forward to take his turn in the foreshadowing ceremony. The boy’s eyes locked with Korya’s as the elf went through the preparations for Luca’s ceremony. As Korya reached his hand forward to place the oil on the young man’s forehead, he paused as if stunned. After several moments, Councilor Grisselle leaned forward in his seat. “Korya? Is everything all right?”

Shaking his head slightly, Korya came out of his stunned state. “Yes, Councilor. Everything is fine.” Continuing the ritual, Korya made the symbol of the gods on Luca’s forehead. The boy watched his every move. Korya tossed the dust into the bonfire. Immediately the orange flames expanded and grew, then turned a dark gray; it was the color of tempered steel - the color of a blacksmith. Crudale, Luca’s father, was not one to let his emotions show. True to his nature, he showed nothing of his feelings but for a slight nod of his head. For all the differences Luca showed, he was still his father’s son and would be a blacksmith.

Korya stepped to the front of the dais to give his explanation, Luca’s eyes never leaving him. Just as Korya opened his mouth to speak, a bright blue flame flashed up from the bonfire, startling everyone in attendance. Korya had seen late flashes before - though never quite this late - and was about to explain this the crowd when the bonfire flared yet again. And it kept flaring. Every imaginable color shot up, along with several different shades of individual colors; black, white, a blue the color of the sky, a light brown like the prairie grass that surrounded Sor’lel, a soft purple, a deep blood red, green like the leaves of the Nachten Wood to the north, and many other colors spewed forth from the fire. During the display, the crowd in the plaza, as well as the families, had all taken several steps back in wonder and not a little bit of fear. All except one. Korya turned to where Luca stood and found an unintimidated, almost challenging stare looking back at him from the boy’s eyes.

A hush fell over the crowd as they waited for Korya to explain to them what had just transpired. But Korya shared their confusion. Grisselle, who had risen to his feet during the succession of late flashes, took a step in the elf’s direction thinking he would give Korya a moment to compose himself. But before he could get there, Korya shook his head, calmly placed his leather pouch back in the inside pocket of his robes, and walked off the dais. He made his way behind the platform, unhitched his horse and rode out of the northern end of town, leaving a village in complete confusion behind him.

Tezzio’s Private Quarters
Tezzio’lel
6 Days Later

“My Lord, I tell you, nothing good can come of this.”

Having ridden hard in his return from Sor‘lel, nearly killing his horse in the process, Korya now stood in the quarters of the King of Astera, his calm exterior belying the storm of thoughts passing through his mind.
“Explain to me, Korya, why this isolated incident in a backwater little village on the prairie deserves my attention.” Tezzio did little to hide the boredom in his voice. Korya had arrived at the Asteran capital late in the evening, well after the King had retired to his chambers. But as Tezzio’s highest-ranking advisor, Korya enjoyed almost unlimited access to his regent. Even if that access required him to meet Tezzio in the king’s lavishly appointed private quarters as a warm fire blazed in the hearth. Tezzio sat in a plush chair with deep purple velvet cushions.

“Because this has happened before. Not all that long ago in a human village on the outskirts of Soliness, my homeland, there was a man to whom the boy today bears a striking resemblance. It is the eyes, mainly. But this man was born during an eclipse. Some say he was favored by the gods, and the eclipse was them heralding the man’s entrance. This man led an uprising against our rule of the humans in Soliness. His band was a ragtag, motley group that fought from the shadows. He nearly single-handedly took several provinces out from under our noses and evaded us for ten years. The only reason we were able to capture him is because one of his own betrayed him. Were it not for that, the gods only know what would have happened, how far he could have gone.”

Tezzio sank back into his chair and scratched his cheek absently with one hand. “A nice bedtime story, Korya, thank you. I will sleep better having heard it.”

“My Lord, I beg your leave to handle this situation as I think it needs to be dealt with. It will be completely out of your hands.”

“Fine,” Tezzio waved a hand dismissively and stood, heading toward his bed. “Do what you will. I want this to be the last I hear of it.”

“I hope it will be, my Lord.”

Councilor’s Residence
Two Months Later

The sounds of swordplay rose from the bailey yard. Metal clanged against metal. Grunts of effort and shouts of encouragement emanated from the throats of the two pitted in battle. “Good Luca, again! One, two, three, parry, swing!” Councilor Grisselle laughed softly as he blocked the young man’s overhead swing. “Very good. You strike under control now, not reckless and wild like a sailor returning to port.” Taking a defensive posture, Grisselle enticed Luca to approach him. Luca did cautiously, probing for an opening with the tip of his practice sword. Grisselle offered him a leg and Luca took the bait, aiming a downward swipe at the knee. Though he was near seventy years of age, Grisselle had not lost much of his agility, nor his combat instincts. Deftly sidestepping, he batted Luca’s sword, causing a stumble and allowing Grisselle to follow up with closed mailed fist to the back of Luca’s helmet. Stunned, Luca fell to the ground. He stayed down, physically exhausted from the two hours of exertion in full mail.

“Get up.”

Luca punched the hard-packed dirt of the yard in frustration.

“No one will have any pity for you. Get up.”

Luca tried to push himself up, but his arms were too tired to support the weight of the mail. His arms buckled, and he fell back to the earth, lifting a small cloud of dust.

“If I were your enemy, my sword would be through your neck right now.” Grisselle poked at the nape of Luca’s neck with the blunted tip of his training sword. “Right about here. Straight through your throat. Now get up.”

Luca dragged himself to his weary feet and once again faced Grisselle. The old warrior adopted a similar defensive posture and again tried to bait Luca into attacking his leg. Luca took the bait once more, apparently repeating the same mistake. This time though, Luca’s downward swipe was only half-hearted, and when Grisselle sidestepped Luca redirected his sword, bringing it back in an upswing directly to Grisselle’s armpit. Had the swords been edged, the Councilor would have had to pen his next correspondence with his left arm, because his right would be absent from his torso. With the blunted swords, however, Luca’s blow only served to knock the Councilor off balance. Luca took full advantage. Before Grisselle could recover, Luca landed a sword blow across his back. Then Luca kicked the back of Grisselle’s leg, driving the Councilor to his knees. Luca then pressed the point of his sword to the back of Grisselle’s neck, imitating Grisselle’s earlier gesture.

The Councilor laughed gruffly. “If I were your enemy, I believe I would be dead right now.” Luca lowered his sword and the Councilor stood and faced his young battle partner. “Good for me we’re on the same side.”

On the other side of the yard, a chime rang loudly. “Time for lunch, my boy. And a well-deserved one at that.” Griselle clapped his charge on the shoulder as they walked around the manor. Immediately after Luca’s Foreshadowing, Grisselle had approached the boy’s parents and offered to take Luca to his manor, where he would educate him in various forms of combat, as well as politics, rhetoric, mathematics, history, and anything else he felt the young man would need. Luca’s parents were hesitant to let go of their only son, but Grisselle impressed upon them the importance of a strong education and good training for a young man. That, combined with the knowledge that Luca was not to be a blacksmith according to his Foreshadowing, pushed them to let Luca grow under Grisselle’s tutelage. Luca began his training as soon as he arrived at the manor, and had been hard at work in the two months since. He had proved to be an apt pupil, and Grisselle was privately amazed at how quickly he absorbed, understood, and applied both the educative materials and the combat skills he was taught.

“Councilor,” began Luca, hesitantly. “I think I’d like to visit my parents.”

The Councilor gave a low, rough chuckle. “Fed up with me already, are you boy?”

“No. No sir. I just-” Luca broke off without completing his thought.

“I understand, Luca. It’s been a long time since you’ve seen them, and I’m sure they’re dying to know how you’ve been carrying on. I’ll arrange something before too long here.”

Luca nodded. “Thank you, sir.”

Luca sat at his desk, finishing an essay on the history of the Fifty Years’ War. Placing his pen down on the desktop, Luca leaned back in his chair and stretched. It was late, and he had been working on the document for nearly two hours. A plate of apples and cheese sat untouched on the small table next to his desk. Luca considered eating, but decided against it, rose out of the chair and turned toward his bed. He glimpsed a sudden movement of the corner of his eye, coming from behind one of the long curtains draped over the window in his room. He immediately crouched in a defensive posture and grabbed a small knife from the plate, but relaxed once the figure behind the curtain came into view.

“Morlen! You nearly sent my soul to the Nexus and back.”

The stableman’s expression was one of sympathy and apology, but his countenance also was noticeably strained by urgency and worry. “Luca, you must return to Sor’lel immediately. There is trouble.” The elf took Luca by the arm and guided him through the manor and out to the bailey yard where a horse stood, saddled and ready to ride.

“What is going on, Morlen? What is the trouble?” Luca questioned intently, still stunned by the suddenness with which the elf moved.

The stableman helped Luca get astride the horse’s back then unbuckled a scabbard that was looped over his shoulder. He handed the scabbard to Luca, and said, “Use this sword. When it is time, return here. Do you understand? You must return to the manor.” Luca nodded silently, confused. Without another word, Morlen led the horse to the gate and sent Luca on his way to Sor’lel.