“I cannot guarantee that where we are going, but you shall enjoy a feast in the land of my people,” promised Aiovel.
“Well, well, I do look forward to that!” said the dwarf.
“Who are Elwellyn Elves?” Asked Lilia. “Your goods are rare and costly, if they truly hold magical properties.”
“Then treasure them and use them as protection where we are going. You will not find me so generous in time, I fear.”
“You look tired, master.” Observed Culan.
“It is nothing.” Said Dylan.
“I shall not keep you much longer this evening,” said Aiovel. “Prince Dylan, you have a fine sword. But I wager even in the palace at Dunlaith, you will not find anything such as this." Aiovel withdrew a small gold wand from her sack. The wand was adorned with snaking golden tree branches. She put it lightly on the table.
"This magic wand was forged in dragon fire." She explained, with a penetrating gaze, as though she knew of Dylan’s secret yearning for magic. “To use it, point it to your enemy and speak the incantation, Dragoras Rasar! From it will surge a beacon of flame as hot as the flames of a dragon's breath. Take the utmost care with it, for a dragon’s fire will melt through solid rock.”
“I thank you, lady,” said Dylan courteously, keeping his voice artfully calm. The wand seemed to burn his hand for but a moment. As he grasped it, he felt a tingling sensation in his fingers that penetrated into bone. A hidden fire coursed through him. His heart thumped in his chest, and in his mind’s eye, he saw an image of his brother Nolan, laughing above the parapet. As he thought of his brother, his anger flared, and the blood boiled in him, swelling the vessels of his reddening right hand.
Aiovel watched Dylan closely. “On second thought, good Prince, I have something better to give you, I think.”
Dylan put the wand down, but the fire in his hand took some time to dissipate. And yet he was immediately relieved, for the wand had incited a curious temperament in him that he did not like.
“Here,” Aiovel said. She passed to him what looked to be nothing more than the twig of a silver birch sapling.
“This wand holds the last of an ancient magic.” She explained. “It was once far more powerful than the other wand, but its power is all but faded. Do not use it except in great peril. For once used, its power will be further spent. I do not know how little of its magic remains. Four dragon spells there were contained within this wand.”
Ronan's brows drew together. "I've never heard of dragon spells before." He commented, a note of skepticism in his voice.
“What does it matter what you have heard or not?” she asked, but not unkindly. “It is a gift. Dragoras Ombera!” She said, and this time, her voice took on an unimaginably low gutteral sound, like thunder. The sound was primeval, ancient, and it sent a jolt of instinctive fear through every human who heard it, except Galinor.
“That is the language of the dragons.” He explained. “It means, ‘Dragon Breath.’ Another magic spell. But there are other magics within that wand, if I’m not mistaken.”
“Yes,” said Aiovel. “Arcaen Ellera.” She said, and the sound was not thunder, but a low, resonant music, haunting like a wood instrument. “Ancient Language, a spell of understanding far more priceless. Galadon Dragor Brio!” She said, and now her voice was clear and hard and proud in that thunderous tongue. “Dragon Shield. Something our friendly dwarf will not need—a spell that protects its bearer against dragons; and, which conveys a dragon’s invulnerability."
“Do not tell them of the last spell, Aiovel. They cannot pay the price of the Death Curse.” Galanor said.
“There is no telling, Galanor, what price a mortal might pay, and what effect it may give. I do not counsel the Prince to use the spell. I give him only the means to choose whether he will or not.”
Galanor stiffened.
“The words are Vitrii Mordren.”
She had not touched the wand, and, though she only whispered the words, several patrons in the Pegasus clutched at their hearts, as though affected by a life-numbing shadow. The laughter in the room died out. Underneath it a sound resounded hissing low, and it was at once like a horrid screeching terror, colder than the lash of a whip or the sting of a blade, and then all at once like a mournful wailing. A sharp argument broke out at the next table, and a sword was drawn. Galanor leaped over to intervene. He returned a moment later, breathing heavily.
“I would have advised you against intoning those words here, Aiovel.” He said sharply. “There would have been more than one death among the innocent.”
“I shall summon a spell of blessing in amends, Galanor.” Aiovel returned, her eyes flashing without remorse.
The company kept silent. At last the realization penetrated their collective understanding that this was a demonstration of far greater power than any they had known.
“Tell me,” said Dylan at long last, “this magic is but a taste of the dangerous powers lurking in the world beyond?”
“It is but a taste of the powers that once possessed this land. Your idyllic kingdoms were founded on the ashes of dragon cities. But the powers that governed opposing forces in an ancient war still linger at the boundaries of your pristine cities, waiting to reclaim the lands that were lost to men. Man was the interloper in Daegoras. The history of your kingdoms can be measured as the short lives of children. There are creatures, not the Dark Wizard, who is not human, and not Elves, as old as Elves are, who would take back the lands stolen from them.”
As Aiovel spoke, Dylan and Lilia began to wonder at the small silver ring Aiovel had dropped on the table. It was made of the purest silver and engraved with strange runes.
"That cannot be given to any ordinary man.” Said Aiovel.
“What is it?" Lilia asked in wonder.
"A magic ring. A ring of dragon tongues," Aiovel said. "This ring was crafted in the city called Dragoras. There were but three of them ever made."
“What can you offer our mercenary?” asked Galanor, deftly changing the subject.
“For our young treasure-hunter, I think—the wand of fire.” Said Aiovel. “I suspect you, Lilia, will need its protection more than the others. Do you accept it?”
Lilia took the wand up in her hand, and as she did, she felt less irritable in the heat of it, for it seemed to draw out an inner strength and hardiness from her human half.
“I am delighted.” Said Lilia with a genuine smile. “And yes, I accept this gift, along with the promised gold we shall expect when we reach Gildoren. I shall endeavour to earn my rewards.”
“Good,” said Aiovel. “Now shall we all get some sleep? We have an early start tomorrow morning, if we are to acquire provisions.”
"Yes, plenty of water, confound this drought." Dylan added.
“Good evening to you all, then," Mygdewyn said, rising, and the company made ready to part ways.
"What are you doing there, boy?" Suddenly the voice of the stout innkeeper echoed across the room, directed to the spot where Gil sat secretly crouched under the table next to Dylan. Dylan and the others watched the boy rise, his face flushed with fear.
"He was attending me," Dylan said and quickly strode forward to the bar ahead of Gil, where the angry Innkeeper appeared ready to bust a vein.
"Oh? And who are you?" Marnat demanded gruffly.
“Dylan, Prince of Dunlaith. Prince Cormac’s young cousin. Forgive me, but I required the services of an attendant. The boy was obliging me. Can you spare him?”
* * * * *
Marnat dropped Gil.
"Prince Cormac…” He began in the manner of a man looking over his shoulder.
“Sends his best regards to the people of Gyfen," resumed Dylan. “His highness spoke highly of The Pegasus for the fine quality of ale. His guardsmen enjoy the refreshments, I take it. I have enjoyed
them myself.” Dylan’s voice and manner had reverted to the impeccable manners of a nobleman. Marnat took no notice of his dull attire.
"Forgive my rudeness," Marnat said graciously. "I thought Gil was idling away there while my customers waited for their refreshment. If you wish Gil to serve you, I will dismiss him to your charge." Marnat's beady eyes blinked with elaborate cordiality. And yet his gap-toothed, wide smile was genuine.
Dylan fished out the last of his gold—five coins—and passed it to the Innkeeper.
“Your fairness shall be remembered.” Said Dylan.
Marnat took the gold coins and drew his body upright. “My pleasure, sire.”
Dylan returned to the table, where Culan sat shaking his head.
"Gallantry like that deserves a reward," Galanor declared. He handed the serving-man Culan a small bag of gold under the table, a token he himself would not miss.
A moment later Gil returned with the ale.
"Sit down with us, Gil, and have some ale," Dylan invited him. “Marnat will not require your services further this evening, and we can all stay a few moments longer. How old are you, boy?”
“Seventeen.” Gil's bright green, gold-flecked eyes wandered to Aiovel's map. They grew round with curiosity.
“Seems a bit scrawny for his age,” remarked the dwarf with pity.
“Is there enough spare water in my rooms for a bath, boy?” asked Dylan.
”Yes,” said Gil. “But you and your servant have to share it.”
“Then get yourself in it first.” Said Dylan.
“Yes, sir,” Gil said, realizing how he must have appeared. His face had been stained with splashes of food and dirt from the mop he had been using. His filthy apron was cinched tightly about his waist. His short hair was usually a fawn brown, with a hint of gold and red. But at present, it clung to his skull from standing over long near the heat of the kitchen fires.
"You were eavesdropping, weren't you, Gil?" Aiovel asked.
Gil nodded.
"I am sorry. But it is small pleasure to listen to the doings of others, and I am very curious about magic. I am very curious about, about dragons..." Gil ventured, but his voice cracked.
"What do you know of dragons?" Galanor asked.
"Very little.” Gil said, his eyes clouding with a memory. His hand clenched, holding the edge of the tablecloth.
“Yet you react as though you have reason to be afraid of them,” Galanor observed. “As though you had seen one.”
“I have,” said Gil, with a curious stutter.
“Where?” Asked Dylan.
“I don’t remember. I was a child. It happened long ago. Before I came to live with Marnat.” Gil said, scratching his head.
“Here? In Gyfen?” demanded Galanor.
“No, we lived outside the city.” Answered Gil. “Then one day, a dragon killed my mother.”
Dylan said nothing, taken aback.
“It was black, blacker than coal. A horrible beast. I could feel the heat from its wings. And that is all I remember. And… and my mother screaming.”
Galanor bowed his head low, his fingers lightly touched to his forehead.
“Do you have ties holding you here?” Said Aiovel. “Family?”
“None,” said Gil. “Marnat took me in, but not as an apprentice. I do his work and I keep a roof over my head, and food in my stomach.”
“Yes, I see,” remarked the dwarf.
"Have you any skills apart from working for your dinner, Gil?" Galanor asked.
“None—I am good with horses, and I can cook.” Said Gil.
“Good enough. I am considering apprenticing a warrior.” Said Galanor. “Are you interested?”
“I can leave tomorrow.” Said Gil.
* * * * *
"I'll need you to go back to Dunlaith, tomorrow," Dylan said to Culan once they had reached the top of the stairs.
"Sir, you would have me leave you?" Culan asked, affecting an injured tone. Dylan crossed into the large room the serving girls had so recently prepared, somewhat disappointed that they had already left.
"Yes, Culan." Dylan said kindly; after all, he did not wish to hurt Culan's feelings. But in truth the loyal old servant wouldn't last a day in the wilderness. "You must take a message to my father. Tell him to tighten his borders and prepare for a war. If he asks, do not mention that you were here. The enemy is unknown, and he would do well to make peace with his other enemies. We will need every available ally.
"Yes, sir." Culan nodded.
"Sir?" Gil said. "Please don't tell Marnat I'm leaving with you."
"Not a word." Dylan agreed. "Boy, where was your father when your mother was killed?”
"I think he is dead. My mother told me he was a warrior, though not from Gyfen. We went in search of his people. But the dragon found us."
"How old were you when she died, boy?" Culan inquired.
"I don't know—about nine." Gil replied.
“I am sorry.”
“I don’t remember much about it,” said Gil. “Thank you for what you did.”
Dylan laughed. “Sleep well.”
* * * * *
“Gil, if you are to be apprenticed to Galanor, you will have to learn to carry a weapon.” Aiovel said the next morning. “Dylan tells us your father was a warrior, and that you also wish to learn the sword."
"Prince Dylan has offered to help me teach you,” said Galanor, “if there is any spare time on the journey.”
“This is yours. I trust you will earn it.” Said Aiovel.
Gil looked at the sword that Aiovel handed to him. The embroidered scabbard had darkened with long use. The embroidery had turned an oily black. The hilt was a pure silver, unmarked by scratches. Though simple in design, it held the light hypnotically as Gil turned it over in his hands. As Gil pulled on the hilt with one smooth motion, the blade whisked lightly from the scabbard, easily as magnificent as the hilt had been, its keen sharp edge undulled by the years.
"Be careful," Dylan admonished. "Remember the training blade, first."
"Thank you, Aiovel," Gil said sincerely.
“Put it on the wagon. You best not use it until you know how.”
“By all means.” Gil nodded.
"Mygdewyn and Ronan are not so early to rise," Lilia said, looking about. When the serving girl came by, Lilia ordered more fresh fruit.
"Perhaps we should wake them," Galanor suggested a few minutes later.
"Aiovel, are we going to require horses?" Dylan asked.
"No, we’ll make our journey on foot, with a pack donkey for the first leg of the way," Galanor said, picking meat from his teeth with a shard of wood. "We’ll leave the donkey behind when we reach Elwellyn Forest, but he won’t cost much."
"Who is that?" Gil asked suddenly, as Mygdewyn appeared at the table with a stranger, a tall, darkly handsome human dressed in a coal black cloak.
“Who are you?” Asked Lilia. "And where is Ronan?"
The stranger’s dark amber, mercurial eyes flashing congenially.
"You can call me Rodruban," he said in a smooth voice, tucking the long black strands of his hair behind his ears.
Mygdewyn sniffed derisively. "You can call him whatever you want, if you ask me. Confounded druid can't make up his mind."
"What?" Dylan asked, perplexed.
"Rodruban is Ronan," Mygdewyn said.
"Are you a shapeshifter, then?” asked Dylan.
“No,” Rodruban returned, sitting down.
“How then can a man change completely overnight?" Lilia asked, pointing a knife accusingly at the dwarf.
"It's his own choosing, to be sure," the dwarf stuttered. "Or lack of choosing, to be more precise. Ronan is more than a mere priest healer. His training is in healing arts, but he
is a wizard. A wizard of a line of ancient magic. But he is cursed.”
“A priest cannot be cursed.” Said Dylan.
“But a wizard can. Ronan was never able to choose his calling. All priests are required to choose their calling before they begin training for orders."
“Where did you meet Ronan?" Lilia asked.
“Years ago I came to live with Fildenod to teach his son the dwarvish tongue and the ways of a warrior," the dwarf paused. "Fildenod was the son of Myrddin. He adopted me into his house and home, though his son never took to a warrior’s life. As it turned out, Ronan was born a wizard, like his grandfather Myrddin."
"So, Ronan, you are half human, like me." Said Lilia in surprise.
"The grandson of Myrddin.” Said Galanor. “I noticed how ill you took the news of his disappearance.”
"Yes.”
“You still wish to go with us, rather than look for him?” asked Aiovel.
“Yes,” replied Rodruban. “For I believe that is what he would do in my place.” They were silent for some time.
“Ask Mygdewyn what happened when he went looking for his people." The druid grinned. "He says I can't make up my mind, but he's not even sure he's a dwarf."
Mygdewyn was not amused. "I traveled many years. When I returned, Ronan was already well into his training with the ancient priests of the Summer Isle. And already cursed. When I met him, he was this fellow Rodruban you see before you. The most arrogant, obnoxious ruffian ever to foul the name of—"
"We came to blows until I recognized Mygdewyn," Rodruban interrupted.
"And took your time doing it, fool." The dwarf snorted derisively. "You knew me from the moment you saw me, but I didn't recognize you—"
"Yes, I admit I was playing around with you that day." Rodruban chuckled congenially. "Ah, but how could I resist? Mygdewyn never did care much for games." He explained to the others.
The dwarf glared at him, not sharing the druid's mirth. "At first I was skeptical to believe Rodruban's strange tale," Mygdewyn continued.
"Who cursed him?” Asked Lilia.
“Why, his own grandfather, Myrddin, of course.” Said Mygdewyn. “To try to help him, I can only presume. Ronan could never decide which order to choose." Mygdewyn explained. "On the Summer Isle, there are two orders: the priest healers, who create and follow the laws, and the druids, who maintain touch with the more chaotic elements of the land. The druids answer to no manmade law. Their secret devotion is to the natural balance, but rational men will call it chaos. Ronan had a great love of healing, and of the land, but little respect for the law. He was always up to mischief. So Myrddin cursed him. Split him, as it were, to make the choices he faced more clear.