Whill of Agora Trilogy: Book 01 - Whill of Agora (40 page)

Tarren looked up into Whill’s eyes. “I want to start my training today.”

Whill met his gaze. He understood, and he nodded.

Whill honored Tarren’s wishes and let him begin his training. He then met Zerafin in the garden once more for his own training. He found the elf in the meditative pose he’d used the day before. Whill copied his pose and let himself fall into a state of relaxation. For more than fifteen minutes he meditated, awaiting Zerafin’s instruction.

Open your eyes, Whill.

Whill looked around but saw no one, only the lush, empty garden. Zerafin was gone.

All living things are made of energy, from the frog to the squirrel, from the flower to you and I. Today your training is to pinpoint my location.

“How do I…?” But Zerafin did not answer. Five minutes came and went. “How do I…?” he said louder.

You start by keeping quiet. I am addressing you through your mind. If you wish, I can hear you as well. Simply think what you wish to say, and focus on me…project.

Whill closed his eyes and thought of Zerafin.
How do I…?

Much better. To find me you must first decipher the beings around you. Close your eyes and focus on the energy that flows within and around yourself. See with your mind.

Whill did as he was told and imagined that he could see the energy around him. For more than ten minutes he could decipher no more than the blackness beyond his eyelids. Then he saw something.

I see swirling light, Zerafin. It has no color I can place, but rather it is all colors, swirling into itself all around me.

Good, Whill, very good. What you see is your own life force. In essence, it is you. Now focus your attention outside of your own life energy. Look beyond it. But do so slowly, and do not be startled.

Whill focused on his own life energy and then slowly peered past it, through the clouds of swirling light to the world beyond. He gasped as the energy of the garden hit him all at once. An ocean of swirling colors and light met his mental gaze and blinded him. In the confusion he opened his eyes.

I warned you not to be startled, Whill. But take heart in knowing that all elves open their eyes at first sight. This we call Aquilla Tel. You have done that which takes many elves hours to achieve. Do you require a break?

Whill shook his head and closed his eyes once more.
No.

Very well. See your own life energy again, and once more go beyond it. See what is before you, the life energy of the garden.

All around him was light, light in the form of life energy. He saw plants and flowers, trees and insects, all with their own distinct auras. At first it seemed like a blinding ocean of color, with no distinct shapes or features. But the longer he viewed the garden in this manner, the more clearly it all became. Unlike normal sight, mental sight had far fewer boundaries. Nothing was solid; rather, all things appeared to be translucent light. This being so, Whill could see beyond the large akella plant before him, and the rose bush beyond that. Then he gasped as he saw Zerafin, seated in the meditative position about twenty yards away. His aura was bright white at the center and gradually turned to yellow and then orange as it dissipated.

I see you.

“Very good,” said Zerafin aloud, as he rose and came toward Whill. “Now come back and see with your eyes. Mental viewing takes more energy than you think, especially from one such as yourself.”

Whill reluctantly pulled back with his mind and found blackness once more. He slowly blinked and rubbed his forehead as he became dizzy. “Yes, I guess it does. I am a bit worn out, and have a slight headache.”

“As well you might. I would suggest you get some rest, but there is another lesson I want to teach today. Here, this will help.”

Zerafin lifted his hand. Within his palm, a small ball of pale blue light formed as if from mist. He pulled back his hand slightly and then pushed the ball forward. It floated quickly through the air and hit Whill in the chest. Instantly Whill was revitalized. His headache vanished, and all weakness left his body.

“That was amazing. But…didn’t it weaken you? Giving me your own energy?”

Zerafin shook his head and raised his hand, pointing out the ring on his index finger. It was silver with a small blue gem the size of a cranberry at the center.

“The energy came from this.”

Whill reached out and touched the ring. “You can store energy in things other than your swords?”

“Of course we can. The energy from our swords is stored in the gems within them. Long ago we discovered that gems like this one could be used to store energy. When a sword is made for an elf warrior, a gemstone much larger than this one is stored within the hilt of the weapon. The stone within can hold an untold amount of energy, and so almost anything can be a host for the energy stones—swords, knives, axes, rings, bracelets, and so on. In fact, many elf warriors have gemstones imbedded within their own flesh, in case they are stripped of their weapons.”

“Have you done this?”

“Do I look like a fool?”

Of course, Whill thought. A warrior would be a fool not to do such a thing. “So…where is yours?”

Zerafin only smiled. “When you have practiced mind-sight a bit more, you will be able to find it yourself. For now I would like you to try something else.” He looked around the garden for a moment as if seeking something he had lost. “Ah, this will do.” He picked up a rock that was about the size of a child’s fist and set it between him and Whill.

“You have exhibited a vast amount of abilities and powers that most elves do not begin to acquire until they have practiced the ways of Orna Catorna for years, sometimes decades,” Zerafin said. “Now I would like you to try something else that I do not doubt you have the ability to do. I want you to move this stone without touching it.”

Whill awaited further instruction but none came. He shook his head. “But how do I…?”

“How did you heal Tarren? How did you heal the infant? Tell me, how did you use the energy within your father’s blade?”

Whill thought for a moment. “I don’t know. I just…wanted things to happen. I wanted Tarren to be alive, I wanted the child to live, I…I wanted the Draggard to die.”

“Well, then, there you have it. You must
want
to move the rock.”

Whill focused on the rock and envisioned it moving. Nothing happened. He asked it to lift. Nothing happened. He tried to rock it back and forth. Nothing, Zerafin only gave him a blank stare and lowered his gaze to the stone.

For more than twenty minutes Whill tried to move the stone, but to no avail. Finally, with a frustrated sigh, he gave up. “I can’t do it. I—”

“Stop right there, before you say something foolish and ridiculous. You can do anything you believe you can. That is not some inspirational babble meant to give you confidence, it is the absolute truth. You, me, we—all beings possess the ability to do incredible things, but not many have the belief that allows it to happen. You humans are taught at a very young age by your elders the so-called laws of nature. All you have learned is what they have been able to do or not do. The possibilities are never practiced because a wall of doubt lies before your imagination. But what does it take for a possibility to become a reality? It takes one person doing it—and then, then, my friend, it is a law. It is real.”

Zerafin focused on the stone and instantly it rose into the air. It hovered above their heads, less than four feet off the ground, then slowly floated above Whill.

“Look at me, Whill.” As Whill did so, the rock fell and hit him on top of the head.

“Ow!” Whill protested as he rubbed the bump.

Zerafin laughed. “Now you know it is possible, else your head would not hurt.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

The Meeting of the Kings

T
he following day the sound of trumpets assaulted the morning tranquility of the courtyard. Whill arose to discover what the noise was about. From his window he could see that someone had just arrived, someone of great importance.

“Tarren, come quickly, you must see this!”

The lad hurried to the window. “Is it the king of Shierdon? Has he arrived for the meeting?”

“I believe so.”

A small army of soldiers entered the castle gates, marching in a line five abreast and ten deep. They wore full armor, silver with a flowing purple cape that stopped at the knee. At each man’s side hung a great sword, with a purple-fabric-laced hilt and a purple gem set at the base. At the head of the troop walked two soldiers carrying the flag of Shierdon. The flag was also purple with a silver hawk at the center. The hawk, Whill remembered, was a beloved pet of the Shierdonians. They had taken the creatures as pets and hunting companions over six hundred years before. The hawks were used to send correspondence in times of war and peace. They could deliver a message in one quarter the time a horseman could; they could silently find prey miles away, and catch a fish twice its size at their master’s command. The great hawks could go unseen in the daytime as well as at night, for their feathers changed color to match their surroundings, much like a chameleon. They were named silver hawks because of all the colors, silver was the one they donned naturally when not trying to hide. One of Shierdon’s greatest strengths was its command of these great birds, which had been bred to reach the size of ponies, with wingspans of over ten feet.

The people of Shierdon had even trained a great number of these birds to carry the smallest of men, who were called the Hawk Knights of Shierdon. They were an elite army of specially trained soldiers, small but very strong and fiercely quick. In combat they carried a crossbow and a pair of long, thin daggers. Their armor was thick leather, three layers thick, with mail between each. Every inch of the knight’s armor was adorned with hawk feathers, and in this way the rider would change color along with his hawk, if the hawk permitted it. The knights were sometimes called the ghost assassins because of their ability to drop down on their enemies unnoticed and strike them dead in an instant. They could infiltrate enemy camps without so much as a sound. In battle they could rain hell from above.

The Shierdonians had such control over the great hawks because they had control over that which the hawks craved most, hawksbane. A purple flower that grows only in the northernmost regions of Shierdon, hawksbane is the favored treat of the great silver hawk. For that reason it had been made illegal many centuries past to export even the smallest amount of the plant to any other country. With an abundance of hawksbane, the Shierdonians had trained the birds to do a great many things. The most impressive by far was the ability of the master trainers and hawk knights to communicate with the birds through an intricate form of code tapped out on wooden blocks, the human with the knuckle, the birds its beak. A trainer needed hawksbane at his disposal to tame the beasts, but over time, once the bird learned the code and could virtually speak to its master, a great bond was forged, and the Hawk served out of love and loyalty rather than simply for the flower it so desired.

Whill saw, as if out of thin air, and as silent as a mute’s cry, five Hawk Knights swoop down to the courtyard. He stared in awe at the legendary sight and was not at all disappointed. They had arrived virtually unseen because they had been as blue as the sky, hawk and rider. Four of the birds had landed on the grass and instantly changed to dark green, as did their riders. The other bird had landed on the cobblestone path, however, and had turned many shades of grey and brown. Being done with the mission, they now all in turn changed to their natural color, a most brilliant silver. Their feathers shone in the morning sun with the brilliance of a cloud’s lining. The great hawks folded their wings and settled to the ground as their riders dismounted.

Most of the hundreds of Eldalonian soldiers lining the courtyard took up clapping and cheering, only to receive a stern look from their respective generals.

Next in the entourage came a man on a brown steed, unmistakably adorned. This rider, at seventy-nine one of the oldest of his stature in the kingdoms, but riding like a man half his age, came King Ainamaf of Shierdon. Behind him followed his first general, three advisors, and fifty more soldiers.

“What’s all the ruckus about, anyway?” came a familiar voice from the guest room door. Roakore strode towards Whill and Tarren with all seriousness. But as he reached the window and his eyes caught the shining hawks of Shierdon, his voice failed him.

“King Ainamaf of Shierdon has arrived. The meeting will be this day at noon, as you know.”

“Why, yes, yes, o’ course, but—it’s just, do ye reckon—ye think them birds would become gold in me people’s halls—an’ like that o’ a diamond? I’ve heard o’ them plenty from me people. They can change color, ye know—never seen it, but it’s true, ye know. They been known to take on the ways of water if needed.”

Tarren was quick to concur. “Right, they can! They changed all kinds of colors they did, blue and green and grey and brown, it was amazing, and the knights too.” But Roakore seemed to not hear a word.

“I tell ye what lad, an’ mark me words—before my days are through, I aim to get me one o’ them hawks.” He suddenly lifted Tarren off his feet and began flying him across the room in his strong hands. “Can you imagine it, boy? Aside from a hell o’ a lot more muscle, I’m ’bout the same size as one o’ them riders. Them beasts’d carry me, no worries. Roakore the Silver Eagle Rider is what they’d call me, among other things.” He flew Tarren in circles and finally landed him upon the floor once again.

Whill smiled to hear Tarren laughing jubilantly, like he had before, like he would again. The lad can still find joy in this world, Whill thought. He will be alright after all. He would find despair in life, he would know grief again, but he had passed life’s cruelest of tests already, and he would be ready. He would survive.

The meeting of the kings commenced as scheduled at noon. It began with formal greetings and a feast fit for, well, kings. Whill was introduced to King Ainamaf by King Mathus. Ainamaf looked younger than his years, which rumors said was due to his dabbling in dark magic, but Whill knew better than to believe such things. A firm hand he had also, the grip of a swordsman, and a certain look about him when he met your eye, as if he knew something that remained a mystery to you. Whill was lost for a moment as he tried to discover just what that mystery might be, and was met with a laugh from Ainamaf.