The Winds of Crowns and Wolves (6 page)

“
Such a strange name for a
street,” he thought aloud.

However, he could not argue with its
connotation as he was sure that he would find someone in this
general direction. The city beckoned for him to enter its grasps
and he headed down the street to do just that.

So away he went, down into the heart of the
city.

He couldn’t help but notice the
extraordinary architecture which surrounded him with every step.
The buildings looked like something out of a story conjured up by
someone with an equally extraordinary imagination. On either side
of the street, a line of buildings complete with ivory and gem
encrusted edifices ran parallel to each other as if they were two
rivers of wealth and glory running simultaneously.

His feet clanked along the cobblestone as he
made his way further into the city. Even on its outskirts, Leirwold
was a truly remarkable place. People, elderly and children alike,
comprised the entirety of the walking space and gave birth to the
city as a living organism.

He had walked for nearly half a mile before
something caught his eye on the right side of the street.

There, nestled amongst the vast expanse of
shops and eateries, was a shop that was simply titled “The
Musician’s Room”.

The only person whom Neach was aware of that
may or not have been living in the city still was the man from the
story his father had told him. This “Daniel” was the only inkling
of hope that Neach had of navigating the city and he had put every
single ounce of effort into finding this man.

As he entered the space, his gaze was met by
the steely reciprocity of who he could only assume was the owner of
the store.

The man sat, crouched beneath the counter,
but just visible enough to ward off potential shoplifters. He was
wearing a raggedy shirt and had a prominent beard hanging from his
chin. The beard was one of the first things that Neach noticed.
Since his childhood, he had hoped to grow a massive beard like
those of his ancestors.

He strolled around the shop looking at the
various instruments which were on display. Fiddles of oak and
guitars of mahogany littered the walls in a collage of musical
beauty. Their craftsmanship evident in the multitude of delicate
cuts made into each one individually, the instruments acted as a
representation of the man’s life. Each one personified a specific
event that he held dear within his heart.

Neach seemed to have lost himself in the
dazzling aesthetic pleasure of the instruments as he found himself
drifting into a daydream once more. Thoughts of his family back in
Spleuchan Sonse glided through his head unfettered by the gale
winds also occupying the space. He was quickly brought back to
reality by the shrill, yet quiet voice of the owner of the
shop.

“
What is it you want, boy?”
he asked.

The people here were better spoken than
Neach’s family, but Neach identified with this lack of
colloquialisms more.

He had spent a fair deal of time in his
younger years reading through the texts that his village housed.
Tales of fiction, historical significance, and simple education all
intrigued his budding mind. Through his consistent application of
these texts, Neach developed a much more advanced style of
speech.

He was often harassed for it by others in
the village. His father and brother, as well as, his mother had
grown up with the minimal education and desire for further
knowledge that would be feasible in the village. There were many
instances where he found himself ostracized from the community
because of the way he spoke.

Calmly, Neach responded in a respectful
fashion.

“
Sir, do you know of any
lute players within the city?” Neach queried, unsure of the
impending response.

The man seemed perturbed by the question and
his response was equally agitated.

“
Boy, there are hundreds of
lute players in this city, possibly thousands. Get out of my shop
if you’re going to waste my time” he reprimanded.

Neach was taken aback by the anger in the
man’s response.

His hesitation was met by a prompt physical
response from the old man as he attempted to push out the door and
back into the street.

He thought as quickly as possible before
uttering a single sentence.

“
His name is Daniel!” he
exclaimed, hoping to trigger a response from the man.

The man pondered this statement and retorted
with less vigor than the first time.

“
Daniel, eh, now we’re
getting somewhere. I’m still going to need more information than
that, but it’s a start.”

A sense of hope was instilled inside Neach
as he was guided back into the shop.

The man ventured behind his counter and
retrieved two chairs. He brought them forth to the floor of the
store and invited Neach to sit down.

“
So tell me boy, what’s
your name”, inquired the old man.

Neach,” he responded quietly. The confidence
he had mustered up to get to this point seemingly gone from his
every orifice.

“
Neach, you aren’t from
around here are you?” the man asked with a quizzical look on his
face.

His appearance must have been striking to
anyone. The tattered dress her wore was representative of people
from outside the city. He humored the old man with a response.

“
Out in the countryside, a
village called Spleuchan Sonse,” Neach offered with a tepid
tone.

The man’s face lit up. His satisfaction was
evident as the corners of his mouth curled upwards into a wrinkly
smile.

“
Ah yes, Spleuchan Sonse,”
the man repeated in a smooth tone that seemed to comfort Neach,
“now I know which Daniel it is you’re looking for. Quite a talent,”
the man concluded. A serene silence hung over the two as the man
gazed outside without saying another word. His age was carved into
his very flesh in the form of careening valleys and riverbeds in
the wrinkles of his face. If you didn’t know better you could
mistake it for a map of a rain deprived place.

The man stood up and ventured slowly back
behind his counter. Not sure of what his sudden departure meant,
Neach reciprocated the man’s first question.

“
W-well, what’s your name,
sir?” he asked, his confidence gaining with each
statement.

He stopped at the corner of the counter and
turned back toward Neach. The counter was carved out of a reddish
wood and had intricate patterns etched into its side. A masterpiece
of craft, it was common for the insides of buildings in Leirwold to
be furnished with such things.

“
My name is Lucas,” the man
started, “and I am the instrument craftsman in this great city of
Leirwold.”

Neach remained seated and awaited the return
of Lucas anxiously. He had gone past the counter and was rummaging
around in the back of the store. Things were falling and it was
apparent that Lucas was not the most organized person who had ever
held residence in a shop.

He emerged a few minutes later holding a
lute in his hands. Its oak body was brilliantly polished and it had
multiple knots carved delicately into its face.

Although Neach had never learned to play the
lute, his brother Ealar had frequently provided background music at
various festivals and town engagements. The instrument struck him
with its beauty and to his surprise; Lucas beckoned for him to take
hold of it.

“
This lute here belongs to
the Daniel you seek,” the man stated.

He held it in his hands and it was as if the
songs of a hundred musicians before him reverberated in his hands
and into his grasp.

“
Tomorrow I will tell you
of Daniel’s location, but for tonight you must stay here,” Lucas
said, “the snow has picked up again and night is fast approaching.
There’s a guest room upstairs that you can claim for tonight,” and
with that Lucas shuffled back behind the counter.

Neach couldn’t believe his luck. He had made
it safely to Leirwold and discovered the location of Daniel in such
a short amount of time. He hoped that the rest of his time here
would prove to be as rewarding.

He headed upstairs to the room which had
been pointed out by Lucas and placed his knapsack and the lute
beside his bed. The exhaustion from the day’s endeavors seemed to
be taking its toll on him and he slid beneath the sheets.

As Neach fell fast to sleep in the cover of
the shop in Leirwold, his mind ran and ran without his consent.

He was running.

He was running full speed through a forest
which he didn’t know his way around. But still, something was
pulling him through the thick of the wooded area and he was running
from something; something which wasn’t defined, a kind of
indistinguishable black fog chasing him from behind.

He continued through the forest and all
seemed to be pitch black except for the light of the moon above. It
shone through the cracks in the canopy of the trees and provided a
glimmer of sight for those below. The iridescent nature of the moon
bounced off of the fog which was encroaching upon Neach as he
ventured through the darkness.

His heart was pounding, threatening to burst
out of his chest with every palpitation; his breath was labored and
his legs were at risk of collapsing beneath him. It felt as if he
had been running for an eternity.

Unsure of how much further he could run
without collapsing from fatigue, what appeared before him was a
comforting sight. In the clearing ahead of him he saw a glowing red
light.

As he got closer to it, he realized that the
light was actually something he had grown accustomed to seeing. It
was a wolf, red in its body with small orange flames emanating from
its fur. Like a smoldering wood fire, the wolf stood its ground as
Neach ran past it. Its presence seemed to halt the progress of the
black fog, sending it back into the depths of the forest from
whence it came.

And then he woke up.

The heart palpitations and heavy breathing
were very real, as he woke up in a pool of his own sweat in the bed
of the shop where he had laid his head the night previously.

In a state of shock and disbelief, his eyes
darted to every corner of the room, hoping to gain his bearings
once again.

Everything was just as he had left it. His
knapsack placed perfectly, not moved an inch since his initial
rest.

He was confused.

Neach sat up in his bed, tearing off his
covers simultaneously. The labor of the dream which had plagued his
thoughts that night had taken its toll on him.

As he sat on the edge of his bed, he was
forced to confront the fact that these wolves kept visiting him,
both in his dreams and in his life.

“
What did it mean?” he
thought to himself.

Surely the recurring theme meant something
of some significance. But who could he talk to? Anyone who he made
privy of the information would deem him insane and simply a “crazy
young boy”. He would need to approach the situation in due time.
For now his focus would remain on finding out about his parents and
how he came to reside with his family.

He garnered the strength to rise from his
bed and descended down the stairs into the main area of the
storefront.

Downstairs, Lucas was awaiting his arrival
with a piece of toast and an egg. A traditional breakfast in the
countryside, it was obvious that he was doing his best to make
Neach feel at home.

The egg was runny, like the many rivers
which wound themselves through Duncairn. In combination with the
toast, it created a vat of warmth and comfort within Neach’s
body.

Outside a light snow was falling. Remnants
of the earlier storm, surely, it had left a slight coat upon the
surface of the road.

Ever since he was a child, Neach loved the
snow. Something about its simple elegance and reflective properties
made him feel at home, as if he belonged. He had spent countless
nights as a boy, beside the fire in the living area of his hut back
in Spleuchan Sonse with the snowing fall rapidly outside, covering
the valley in a blanket of white.

He was at peace when it snowed. The
homogeneity of snowfall gave a sense of order and rhythm to his
life. It was as if it provided a tangible heartbeat, of the world,
of his village, into the sky for all to see. The harder it snowed,
the more fragile their hearts; each passing storm a threat to the
very existence of the crops which provided them with
sustenance.

They ate in silence, not a word was needed
to communicate the sentiments that both held. They were strangers;
one had been gracious enough to let the other stay in his home for
the night to escape the snow, the other was hell bent on a journey
to find the truth behind what his father had told him earlier.

As the last bit of egg was mopped up by the
bread, Neach stood up from his stool. Lucas motioned for him to sit
back down again before making a statement.

“
I’m not sure why it is you
are here boy, but, the man you seek lives in a home about a mile
north of here. The street’s name is Tuler and it is a strange
yellow stone residence; you can’t miss it,” Lucas
proclaimed.

Neach mulled over the information for a few
seconds before posing a question of his own for Lucas.

“
Why is it that Daniel’s
lute was here, sir? As a musician, isn’t it critical to have your
instrument with you at all times?” he asked.

Lucas laughed to himself, a deep wholesome
chuckle.

“
Why, yes, son, yes it is.
Unfortunately there are times where the fates have decided it is
best we do not perform, only when nature allows the player free
reign over his instrument may he then perform to his full
potential,” Lucas concluded.