Kale crashed through the bushes, cursing because of the extra noise, but unable to do anything about it in the near-complete dark.  There was no time to make course-corrections: no time, even, to plan a course.  They were after him - they were right on his heels - and he was running for his life.  

    The ghostly trees appeared in his path faster than he could take note of their existence, rushing at him with the speed of his own flight, and each time he barely managed to avoid them and find a path between their trunks.  Behind him, he could hear the sounds of his pursuers, just a handful of yards behind him.  They were everywhere, almost surrounding him.  He was sure there were two running abreast of him, and a few running behind him, right in his heels.  They weren't gaining, but neither was he, and he knew his strength would give out any time now.  It was a miracle it hadn't already.  

    Tree.  Bush.  Duck.  Jump.  Dodge.  His breath pounded in his lungs, and the fear and panic gave a whine to every time he exhaled.  His muscles burned, but his fear gave an edge and a push that he didn't have normally, and it drove him onwards, farther than he would have been able to normally.  He tripped, fell, rolled, and was on his feet again, driving his feet against the earth the same way he was breathing.  There had ceased to be any sort of grace or exhilaration to running, and now all it was was throb, throb, throb, with each step wondering if he would be able to take another one. 

    They were gaining on him.  That twig that snapped behind him had been closer than the last one.  He thought he could see the two next to him now - between the flickering trees, he caught glimpses of long tangled mats of hair whipping in the wind behind big, burly heads.  They knew, he thought.  They could sense he was giving out, and they were moving in for the kill.  

    Hurry.  Hurry.  Hurry.  He wanted to lay down and die, but he drove himself onward with that word, pouring into it all the fear of the past few months, forcing himself to push even though there was nothing left to push with.  One more step.  Two more steps.  Three more steps.  Must not let them take him.  He must not let himself die - although with every step he took, it became more and more clear to hm that that choice was no longer in his hands.  

    And suddenly... a clearing.  The trees parted, and before he even realized it, he was sprinting across and open space of grass, the moonlight pouring upon his flying feet.  He cried out in surprise as a pale ray of hope entered his mind, and he turned to face his pursuers, raising his sword as he did so.  Let them fight him in the open.  At least then he would be able to see their faces, and he would have some slight, frail chance.    

    They followed him into the clearing, as he had hoped they would, and his spine straightened as he finally was able to see them clearly.  There were five of them, as he had thought, and they were all big and burly, with wicked axes in their hands, and terrifying half-grins on their faces.  They advanced on him in a horseshoe formation, striding up quickly, undaunted by the sword in Kale's hand. 

    Somewhere, some bird of the night cried out in a loud, mournful voice.  Kale listened to it, his heart rate slowing as he did, thinking that the bird might be the only one to ever mourn his death.  And in some strange way, he was satisfied.  Enough that he should hear one last beautiful sound before he died. 

    They were upon him.  In one instant, he had moved from standing still to ducking, parrying, trying to keep his body as far away from the murderous axes as possible.  From time to time he struck out with his own sword, but it was always in vain, for an axe blade always blocked his blow, and he found he had to move will all his speed just to avoid the blows that his attempt had cost him. 

    Something glistened darkly on the grass.  Kale realized with half a thought that it was blood, and he wondered briefly if it was his.  But there was no time to wonder or to even care: he had become an animal of prey, moving because he knew there was nothing left to do but move.  He barely felt human any more.  The axes swung in deadly circles, pursuing him, with the certainty that sooner or later, one of them would find him and cleave him in two.  Would his dead body be anything to them once he was dead, he wondered?  Was he worth anything alive, in fact?  Though he was breathing harder than he had ever breathed in his life, he found space between breaths to laugh bitterly.  Of course not.  Nobody cared about him.  He was worthless, nothing, a no one.  What did it matter if he died? 

By some wild chance, one blow from his sword landed where he had intended, and one of the men fell with a cry to the ground.  He raised his axe in an attempt to protect himself, but Kale slipped his sword past and slew him quickly.  There was only a moment in which to marvel at his good fortune when he was once again running for his life, twisting, turning, ducking, leaping. 

    Something struck the back of his head, not sharply, like the blade he had been expecting, but dully and brutally, like a hammer.  He fell to the grass, wondering what it was that had struck him without killing him, but knowing that it didn't matter now.  Just a matter of seconds, and he was dead anyway. 

    But he wasn't.  He counted to five, and he was still breathing.  He tried to raise his head to try and find the explanation to the seeming lack of activity, but the effort proved too difficult for him.  Apparently, he was wounded worse than he thought. 

    A rough hand reached down and rolled him over onto his back, and in another second, Kale felt a cold blade pressed to his throat.  He opened his eyes, and found himself looking into the face of one of the men, who he assumed must be the leader.  The thing pressed against his skin, he saw, was not an axe as he had supposed it was, but a sword. 

    "I didn't know Howlers carried swords," he said before he could think better of it. 

    The man above him frowned darkly.  "Now is not the time to say stupid things, boy," he said, his voice thick with an accent.  "I'm going to kill you." 

    "You are?" Kale replied.  "Then why haven't you done it already, instead of telling me that you are?"  He squirmed, wishing the sword wasn't so close to his neck so that he would have more room to breathe.  "What do you want with me, anyways?  I've never done you or your people any harm!" 

    One of the men laughed, but the chief moved his hand and silenced the man.  "What does it matter to us what you have or have not done?  We are not concerned with things like that."  He pressed the sword a little harder against Kale's skin.  "What matters is that we want you.  Now choose, boy.  Would you rather die, or are you one of those cowards who would sell his life to prevent his death?  We are always have room for another slave." 

    Kale didn't know if he could breathe.  He supposed he was doing it without thinking about it, but it seemed to him like an impossible action, as if he should have ceased to breathe long ago.  "Neither," he whispered.  "I choose to live as a free man." 

    The chief frowned at him.  "Then I will kill you," he said simply. 

    Kale closed his eyes.  He had been a fool.  He didn't know why he had said what he said, except for the fact that his energy was completely spent, his limbs had worked until they could work no more, and there was no strength left with which to think.  Which, he supposed, meant he was ready to die.  But his heart wasn't ready.  He still resisted it with a furious passion and a despair that made him want to weep.  It was so unfair. 

    "That can't be the reason," he burst out suddenly.  "That can't be the only reason you want me.  There's another reason you want me, isn't there?"  

    He could almost hear the man stop short, even though he made no sound.  "You ask too many questions, and you're a fool to boot," he said.  "If I'd known you would be so much trouble, I wouldn't have chased you so far."  

    "But you did chase me," Kale said.  "And you're not going to kill me.  You know you aren't."  

    The chief cursed violently in some language Kale did not know, and he felt the blade leave his throat.  "No!" he spat out.  "But of course I'm not going to tell you the reason, you dog!  I only wish I could kill you, and silence you forever!  You've been more trouble than I bargained for already!"  

    A kick landed on Kale's side, knocking the wind out of him.  His eyelids fluttered open, and he saw the chief talking quietly with two of his men.  They moved towards him and began to bind his arms and legs.   Kale let them do it without protesting, thankful in a small, absurd way that he wasn't being forced to move.

    After they had finished tying him up, they picked him up roughly and began to carry him out of the clearing, through the forest, in some direction that Kale could not tell.  He drifted in and out of consciousness, so he did not know how long it was until they finally laid him down to rest and left him without bothering to cut his bonds. 

**Note: As my story is still in the making, all names, places, and events may be subject to change.** Copyright 2008 Cherise A. Do not reproduce at all without my express permission. If you like what I do, you can link to me instead.

Here's a story that I started on a whim, based on a crack novel that dear Pip is writing.  I don't know why, but it inspired me for a story, and I decided to write it down.  I hope you enjoy it!  *grins evilly*   

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**Note: As my story is still in the making, all names, places, and events may be subject to change.** Copyright 2009 Cherise A. Do not reproduce at all without my express permission. If you like what I do, you can link to me instead.

“Wyreya!”

            Lloyden ran to her side and jerked her arm, startling her out of her frozen state.  Lloyden began to pull her as hard as he could towards the stable, and she had no choice but to follow.

            The man-bulls began pouring into the tiny clearing, and their soulless cries echoed through the trees, distorting and shattering the silence of the forest.  With each moment they were coming nearer – Wyreya could hear their muffled steps, moving faster than they could run.  There was nothing left now but to pray that they would get to the stable in time.  The little hutch building came closer and closer to them.

            They were through the doors!  Before Wyreya could realize what was happening Lloyden was swinging her up onto one of the plow horses, and climbing on the horse himself.  Wyreya grasped her brother’s back and buried her face in his shirt as Lloyden kicked the horse into a gallop.

            A leap, a charge, a howl form the monsters, and when Wyreya lifted her face again a few seconds later the man-bulls were behind them, pursuing then into the forest.

            The horse was galloping as fast as it could into the forest, yet every time Wyreya looked over her shoulder the creatures were a little closer to them than they had been before.

            “Faster, Lloyden, faster!!!,” Wyreya screamed, even though she knew it was no use.  Lloyden was already urging the horse to its limits. 

            Without warning Lloyden reigned the horse to a complete stop, smashing Wyreya into her brother’s back.  She recovered instantly and looked over his shoulder to see what the matter was.

            Before them was a wide, deep ditch, which would be impossible to cross in a hurry.  They were trapped.

            “Lloyden,” Wyreya started, but before she could finish Lloyden wheeled the horse around to face their oncoming attackers.

            “Lloyden!” Wyreya said again.  “Have you gone mad?” 

            “No,” Lloyden said.  He yanked his scythe out of his belt.  “There is no other way.” 

            And with a violent war-yell, Lloyden began galloping the horse towards the man-bulls. 

            Wyreya screamed as they plunged into the midst of the beasts.  Lloyden began wielding his scythe like a sword, severing heads from necks and causing other such damage to the creatures.  The monsters were so unprepared for Lloyden’s action that they had no time to defend themselves or move away from his attack.  Lloyden reached the far side of the group and whirled around to go at them again, but by this time the creatures were wise to his attack and had begun to move into defensive positions.  Lloyden saw that it would be no use to try and fight them now, so he galloped the horse back toward the clearing. 

            The first thing that met Wyreya’s eyes as they reentered the clearing was the sight of the house and the stable, both in flames.  She had no time to weep, for the second thing she noticed was that there were still some of the monsters left in the clearing. 

            “Lloyden!” she shouted, but it was too late.  The twenty-odd man-bulls had already seen the horse and its passengers and were leaping toward them.  Lloyden changed directions for a third time and the horse fled into the forest again. 

“Lloyden,” Wyreya said as they crashed through the trees.  “We’ll never make it.  They run faster than the horse can.” 

            “Let’s hope they wear out faster than the horse does,” Lloyden replied.  “Use the kitchen knife.” 

            The kitchen knife?  Wyreya remembered and fumbled to untie the bag without spilling its contents onto the fast-moving ground.  She pulled the knife out and held it in her right hand, gripping tightly to Lloyden with her left hand.

            “Now what?” she yelled as the sound of the man-bull’s pounding feet came closer. 

            “Try to turn around in the saddle and jab at the monsters!”  Lloyden yelled back.

            Wyreya twisted around as far as she safely could and held her knife at the ready.  The creatures were right behind them, almost close enough to touch the horse’s galloping legs.  One of them reached out a clawed hand to grab Wyreya and pull her down, but Wyreya stabbed at the hand with her knife as it came close.  To her surprise the hand came completely off, and the beast fell to the ground, howling in pain.  The bull-men fell back a little, startled at their comrade’s injury, but before long they were back, running right behind the flying hooves of the horse. 

            “Lloyden!” Wyreya screamed.

            “Just keep swinging it!” Lloyden yelled.  “Don’t stop, Wyreya!  Don’t stop!”

            Wyreya slashed at the nearest pursuer, doing significant damage to the beast’s face.  Wyreya screamed at the sight, but she continues slashing.  She stabbed one of the creatures in the chest and he fell down dead.  Another received a severed throat, and yet another lost several fingers on the hand that bore his weapon, yet still the ghastly faces came ever closer to her own. 

            One beast reached up his weapon and dealt a glancing blow to Wyreya’s face.  Wyreya yelped with pain, but she stabbed nonetheless and gave her attacker a mortal wound.  The creatures were suffering greatly, but Wyreya’s arm was getting tired. 

            “Lloyden!” she yelled.  “Lloyden, I can’t do this anymore!  I can’t!”

            Lloyden wheeled the horse around, preparing to give one last attack, when a man with dark red hair and a drawn sword leapt out of the woods and started fighting with the beasts.

            “Flee!” the man shouted.  “I will take care of the monsters!”

            Lloyden obeyed and rode some distance into the woods, where he stopped and swung Wyreya onto the ground. 

            “Stay here,” he said.  “I’m going back to help.” 

            He drew his scythe and rode back the way they had come, leaving Wyreya standing alone in the woods.

            “Lloyden!” she called after her brother, but he was already gone. Wyreya could hear sound of fighting coming from the distance.

            Wyreya reached up tentatively and felt her face where the beast had struck her.  It was bleeding all right, but it didn’t appear to be more than a scratch.  Wyreya opened her eye cautiously: she could still see just fine.  She would probably only have an ugly scar after a while.

            Wyreya clutched her knife and stumbled back towards the fighting.  She still had a weapon, and she wasn’t going to wait for the bull-men to kill her brother and then come find her. 

She arrived at the edge of the place where the fight was going on, being careful to stay hidden between the trees.  There had been at least thirty bull-men pursuing them, but now there were less than twenty.  Lloyden and the strange man stood with their backs against a stout tree, surrounded by a ring of the foul creatures.  The men were fighting splendidly, but it looked like they weren’t going to last much longer. 

            Wyreya crept as close to the bull-men as she could without being seen, and then leapt out of hiding as quick as a snake and stabbed the nearest beast in the back.  He fell down dead, and his companions turned, shocked at this new development.  Wyreya sprang back, but she had forgotten how fast the monsters were.  As fast as she could she clambered up the nearest tree, the bull-men on her heels. 

In the tree she had a bit of an advantage: the monsters evidently were not as good at climbing as she was, but even still they were not far behind.  Without thinking, Wyreya stabbed down at the head of one of the beasts as he came climbing up the tree.  He died instantly and fell, pinning two of his companions beneath him.  Four more bull-men started scaling the tree from the other side, but Wyreya knew better than to let them come.  She knocked the first one’s weapon out of his hand before she stabbed him in the gut, he also fell and took is comrades with him. 

 The bull-men became wise to her defense and began scaling the tree from all sides, but by that time Lloyden and the strange man had leapt to her rescue.  They cut the creatures down from the tree and killed them swiftly. 

Wyreya climbed down from the tree and looked around, realizing that all those who had been pursuing them were dead. 

“Come,” the strange young man said.  “There will be more of them if we don’t leave quickly.” 

“Who are you?” Wyreya asked.

“That can wait for later,” the man said.  “But for now, my name is Erion.  Grab your horse: we must ride out of these woods and reach the main road by nightfall.” 

Lloyden found their horse hiding in among the trees and brought her out.  Erion left for a moment and reappeared with his horse, a trim-looking stallion, and the three of them rode off toward the north with Erion in the lead. 

**Note: As these stories are still in the making, all names, places, and events may be subject to change.** Copyright 2008 Cherise A. Do not reproduce at all without my express permission. If you like what I do, you can link to me instead.

I thought I'd post more of Enchantress, since y'all gave me such positive feedback on the prologue.  (And thank you so much, by the way!)  Now, please note, this has not been edited yet, so there are sure to be typos, and I know for a fact that there a few threads started here that I accidentally drop in later chapters.  Please forgive me for that, and I hope you enjoy it.  Don't forget to give me your honest feedback!  If after reading the prologue you were disappointed by this chapter, please let me know.  I appreciate your thoughts on it!

Chapter 1

It was only after Everlyse had the dream the third time that she woke up.  Three times she had thought she had heard a knock at the back door, and had got up to open it.  But right as she opened it, the vision disappeared, and she was back in bed again, hearing the knocking. 

            She knew when she awoke for real because there was no sound of knocking – just plain silence.  She lay huddled under the covers for a full minute, staring at the ceiling, just trying to reassure herself that this wasn’t another dream.  She was about to go back to sleep, when for an instant she became fully awake and her mind cleared.  Of course, she should have known – a dream repeated three times could not be an ordinary dream. 

            Everlyse rose, wrapped herself in the old green jacket that she had draped over the back of her desk chair, and quietly tip-toed through the house to the back door.  She paused as she rested her hand on the knob, thinking of how foolish it was to act upon a dream, but then reassured herself that if there was nothing there, she could just go back to bed and forget about it. 

            She opened the door, and at first the dark figure outlined against the stars made her jump in surprise.  She took a step backwards in surprise, nearly falling down the stairs at her back, before she realized who it was. 

            The young man in the black cloak bent so that he could speak through the screen.  “It’s Andrew,” he said.  “Can I come in?” 

            Everlyse was puzzled, but she saw he was shivering and opened the door.  He stumbled in, nearly collapsing in a heap on the floor, and started rubbing and blowing on his fingers. 

            “Please, shut the door – my hands are nearly frozen,” he whispered.  He shivered, and then sighed.  “Oh, it’s so warm in here.  Thank you.” 

            Everlyse silently continued to watch him rub his hands together for another minute, sizing him up, before she spoke. 

            “Andrew, what are you doing here?” she asked in an irritated whisper.  “It’s the middle of the night, for pete’s sake!  You, a grown man, would come here in the middle of the night to visit me, a teenage girl?  Methinks I shouldn’t have let you in!” 

            Andrew winced.  “I know,” he said.  “I knew you would say that, and I am sorry.  I didn’t want to come, but I ran into some trouble.... and I was wondering if you could help me.”  

            It was only then that Everlyse noticed the blue bruise on his left cheek.  Instantly, her tone changed.  “What happened to you?” she asked, concerned.  “You didn’t get yourself into trouble, did you?”

            Andrew shook his head.  “Not exactly,” he said.  “Just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, and run into the wrong kind of people.  Don’t worry, they didn’t hurt me too bad or take anything from me – magic is helpful in that regard.  But they did manage to give me a few scrapes before I got away.”  He sighed.  “I guess the inner city is just not the place for me.” 

            “Inner city!  What on earth were you doing there?” Everlyse asked in surprise. 

            Andrew lowered his head a little bit.  “If you want to know, I was playing a bit of a prank.  But it cost me, and I won’t do it again, I swear.  At least, not the exact same thing.” 

            Everlyse shook her head.  “Andrew, you are your own worst enemy, aren’t you?” she sighed.  “Now, what do you need help with?” 

            Andrew pushed up the sleeve of his coat to his shoulder.  “This,” he said.  “I need you to bandage it up, if you could.” 

            Everlyse couldn’t see very clearly, but what she did see was a long, dark streak running down his upper arm.  “Dear me,” she whispered.  “You did get in a bad straight, didn’t you?” 

            Suddenly, the kitchen light was flipped on.  “What is going on?” a deep voice asked suspiciously.  Everlyse turned to see her father standing in the doorway of the kitchen, his arms folded, a half-angered, half-worried look on his face.  He stared at Andrew.  “What are you doing here?” he growled.  “Don’t you know it’s indecent to go visiting teenage girls in the middle of the night?!  What are you doing?” 

            Andrew’s face went white, and his attitude instantly became repentant.  “I am most sorry, sir,” he stammered.  “It’s really not what it seems, and I didn’t want to....” he scrambled, at a loss for words. 

            Everlyse walked over to her father.  “He got beat up, Dad.  He just wants me to bandage up his cut.”  She looked over at Andrew’s arm, and gasped in horror.  “Oh Andrew,” she cried.  “It is bad!  If it’s as deep as it looks, we need to take you to the hospital!”  She went up to him and reached for his arm, as if to search the wound.” 

            “It’s nothing,” Andrew protested.  “I – please don’t touch it.”  He pivoted on his foot so as to be out of her reach.  “You really don’t need to go to all that trouble for me.  Just put a bandage on it, and it’ll be alright.” 

            Everlyse’s father still looked suspicious, but his face had softened.  “Young man, that wound is worse than you think,” he said gravely.  “We really ought to get you to a hospital.  Something as large as that could easily get infected, especially since you got it in a fight.  How did you end up in a brawl like that?” 

            “No fault of mine,” Andrew said in defense.  “Downtown is not exactly a nice place.” 

            “And you walked all the way here?” Everlyse asked, shocked.  “Andrew, don’t you know to use a phone when you’re in trouble?” 

            Andrew pressed his lips together.  “Phones work fine,” he said.  “But they’re expensive these days, you know.  Besides, I’m used to walking.” 

            Both Everlyse and her father stared at the young magician.  “You’re broke, aren’t you?” Everlyse said. 

            “Same as always,” Andrew said mournfully.  “Being a street performer doesn’t pay as well as it used to.  People have computers and movies, and they don’t need wonders.  They have mp3 players, and they don’t need music.  It’s shameful the way the world has gone.” 

            “Why not get a job?” Everlyse’s father asked, as if stating the obvious.  “If you would work, then you would have money to support yourself, and you wouldn’t get in such deep trouble.” 

            “I know.”  Andrew sighed.  “But I’m afraid of being trapped behind a counter or a desk, and besides, I have more important work to do.”  He shrugged his shoulders and smiled shyly.  “It doesn’t pay in money, but it has a chance of giving the world a future it won’t have otherwise.” 

Everlyse’s father nodded gravely.  “I understand,” he said.  His face became concerned suddenly.  “Sit down, please, before you fall down!  What a fool I am to keep you standing while you’re wounded.” 

            Andrew smiled gratefully and sank into one of the chairs at the kitchen table. 

            “Now,” the father directed, “get some peroxide, Everlyse, and the first aid kit.  If this man wishes to risk getting an infection by staying out of the emergency, then I won’t get in his way.  But the least we can do is bind it up.”

            Everlyse ran to do as she was bid, and was back in a minute with the requested objects.  She found her father bending over Andrew’s chair, inspecting the wound with his fingers while the magician looked the other way and try not to flinch or cry out. 

            The girl set down the things she was carrying on the kitchen table and looked at her father.  “If you would like,” she began, “I could try…” 

            Her father looked up at her, as did Andrew.  “Do you think you could?” he asked.  “Or would that tax you too much?” 

            Everlyse hesitate.  “I don’t know if I could heal the whole thing,” she said.  “But I think I could help it along.”  She thought for another minute, and then shook her head.  “No, not the whole thing.  I haven’t been at my full strength ever since two days ago, when I… but never mind that.  It’s not important.” 

            Everlyse’s father nodded.  “I’ll clean the wound and bandage it, and after that you can do as much as you feel inclined to do.” 

            He proceeded to do just that.  Andrew looked away during the whole procedure, and to distract him Everlyse pulled up a chair and sat where he could look at her easily and converse with her. 

            “This isn’t the only reason I came to you, you know,” he said.  “I found something important out today, and I thought I should tell you.” 

            “Really?” Everlyse leaned forward.  “What is it?” 

            Andrew licked his lips nervously and looked around.  “I don’t think I should tell you here, or now.  Not that I want to keep you out of the secret, Mr. Hannigan, but….I’m sure Everlyse has told you the importance of secrecy in this matter.” 

            “Yes,” Everlyse’s father said.  “She has.” 

            “Oh,” Everlyse’s eyes went wide.  “You mean…”

            Andrew nodded.  “Yes, news of that nature.”

            “Oh,” Everlyse said slowly.  “Not bad, I hope.” 

            Andrew bit his lips and didn’t reply.  His knowing gaze was suddenly interrupted as he winced with pain and gave a small cry.

            “There,” Mr. Hannigan said.  “I’ve finished wrapping the bandage.  Now I leave you to work you magic, Everlyse.” 

            Everlyse rose and took her father’s place beside Andrew. 

            “Now remember,” she said.  “No guarantees.”   

            She wrapped her fingers around the bandage and closed her eyes in concentration.  After a minute, she released her hands and looked up at Andrew. 

            “There.  That’s about half of it, but I can’t go farther.  Does it feel better?”

            “Yes.”  Andrew smiled.  “Thank you, Enchantress.”

            Everlyse smiled back at him, and then looked concerned.  Without speaking, she rose, went over to the cabinet, and pulled out a bagel.  With Andrew looking on hungrily, she toasted it, covered it in a thick layer of cream cheese, and then set it before him. 

            “There,” she said, “Eat it.  I know you’re hungry.”

            Andrew looked up at her, his large, pale-blue eyes full of gratefulness, and then dived into the bagel, relishing it as if he hadn’t eaten in days. 

            Everlyse would have been content to watch him eat it, but she saw her father looking at her out of the corner of her eye, and when she looked at him he motioned her into the adjacent room.  Everlyse followed him, and they moved to the far end of the room where Andrew would be less likely to hear them. 

            “What is it?” Everlyse asked. 

            Her father glanced toward the kitchen to make sure Andrew was still busy eating.  “What do you think we should do with him now?” he asked.  “Does he have a place to stay?”

            “No,” Everlyse said.  “Not that I know of.  If we let him go, he’ll probably end up sleeping underneath some tree.”  She bit her lip.  “I don’t know.  What do you think we should do?”

            “With that arm of his, I don’t want him sleeping out in the open,” her father replied.  “I’m inclined to let him stay here for the night – but I’m not sure if that would be a wise decision.” 

            “Just for tonight,” Everlyse said.  “He could sleep in the basement on one of the old couches.  He would be content to sleep on the floor.” 

            Her father nodded.  “All right, then.”  He sighed.  “I don’t completely trust him, Everlyse – as I could never completely trust any young man who comes to our house in the middle of the night asking for shelter – but I am inclined to think that, despite his strange habits, he is honorable.”

            “He is,” Everlyse said.  “He just hasn’t gotten used to the world.  It’s always going just a little too fast for him, and yet in some ways he’s always a step ahead of it.”  She shook her head.  “At least he came to us for help this time, instead of trying to bear it all by himself.  He’s done that before, and sometimes it’s nearly cost him his life.” 

            “Yes,” her father nodded.  “How did you know to get up to open the door for him?  I didn’t hear anything, and you know how lightly I sleep.” 

            Everlyse smiled, her eyes thoughtful.  “He used his magic to influence my dreams.  He talked about trying that trick before, but I’ve never actually seen him use it until now.  It was quite interesting.” 

            “Hmmm.  Interesting.”  Her father looked like he had more to say on the subject, but he kept silent.  “For tonight, then – or what’s left of it.”  He glanced at the clock, which read 1:30 am.  “We’ll send him on his way in the morning.” 

            Everlyse nodded.  “I’ll go offer that to him now.” 

**Note: As my story is still in the making, all names, places, and events may be subject to change.** Copyright 2008 Cherise A. Do not reproduce at all without my express permission. If you like what I do, you can link to me instead.

Hello again!  I was looking at this poor, abandoned story blog, and I was reflecting on the fact that for the first time in a very long while, I actually had something that might be worthy of posting.  This is the prologue to a new story I'm writing, which I'm either calling Magician or Enchantress.  It sort of depends on what mood I'm in.  Anyway, this section of story is definately in its rough draft, so don't critique me too harshly!  I started this story six days ago because I couldn't help myself, and for that reason, I'm still trying to work out the plot.  If you guys really like it, I might be convinced to post more.  *grin*  Enjoy! 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The Annual Magician’s banquet was the event that most of the performing Magicians around the metropolis looked forward to every year.  All of the elite in the realms of slight-of-hand were destined to be there, decked in their most mysterious or professional-looking outfits, charming the ladies with bouquets of roses hidden up theirs sleeves.  For one evening, all magic makers would be able to relax and talk freely with one another, laughing and joking the night away. 

            They could not have guessed that there would be a real magician in attendance this year. 

            His long, thin frame was clad simply in a black, shapeless coat that might have once been a cloak, and tight, forest-green pants and boots that made him look like Peter Pan gone awry.  His face was young – almost too you – but something about the look in his eyes was old, as if he had already seen everything life had to offer.  He laughed much but said little, sat at the end of a corner table, and was mostly unnoticed, except by the few who happened to look his direction, only to find his large, pale-blue eyes staring at them from under his dark, wavy locks.  He would tell jokes to those near enough to hear him, and they would laugh, but when the conversation ended those who had listened in realized that they still knew nothing about the man. 

            There were the usual honorary speeches, to which everyone listened patiently and politely, and the guest speaker, who set the audience laughing so hard with his witty phrases that he would have to wait several minutes for the laughing to die down so that he could continue.  Then there came the favorite event of the night: all who wished were asked to present their newest and best tricks to their fellow magicians, to showcase their talent. 

            The man in the black coat was the first to rise, and without waiting for permission he walked calmly up to the podium.  Everyone stared at him, and some whispered to their neighbors, inquiring who he was, but no one could make anything of him. 

            “I would like to thank you all for allowing me to come,” the man said into the microphone.  “This has been such a wonderful honor.”  He smiled, and something about the curve of his lips unsettled most of the audience members. 

            “Great magicians are both born and made – you can’t have one without the other.  A man can work for years to acquire the magician’s touch and perfect timing, but he will always lack that inbred sense of magic that a natural magician has.  But a man with talent that does not use it – he is the greater folly.  As is the man who pretends to be what he is not, which is the third thing a true magician must never make a habit of doing.” 

            There was a moment of silence, and then a few people started clapping, which set the rest applauding at length.  They were still trying to figure out what exactly he meant. 

            The man raised his hand.  “I am going to present you with my latest trick,” he said simply.  “I hope you all enjoy it.” 

            This was familiar turf.  The applause flowed easier this time, and the crowd of magicians waited expectantly for the illusion to begin. 

            What they did not expect was that all their wine glasses would slowly rise into the air, form themselves into a circle, and whirl around above their heads. 

            Some of the ladies fainted, while most of the gentlemen stared in shocked silence, wondering what kind of illusion this was.  Someone in the back of the room shouted for the glasses to stop, and when he did the circle slowly stopped rotating, and the wine glasses returned to their proper owners – all without spilling a single drop of wine.

            The guests turned to the man at the podium, demanding him to explain this devilry, only to find that he was no longer at the podium.  Those who had been watching him out of the corners of their eyes stood up in shock, because they hadn’t noticed him leave at all.  But he was gone, and though a search was made of the building, he was nowhere to be found. 

            The magician, standing in a corner behind a large shrubbery, watched the growing mayhem with an unquenchable grin on his face.  He giggled to himself in the carefree way of a child, and made his way unnoticed to the door.

            Once he was out in the parking lot, he completely lost control of himself, laughing so hard that the tears streamed down his cheeks, doubling over and clutching his belly in a hopeless attempt to still his mirth. 

            “Ah,” he said, finishing at last.  “Now that’s a good joke.  Nothing baffles a fake magician quite like real magic.”  He chuckled again, but his stomach was sore from his laughter, and he fell into silence presently.  He looked up at the stars, which shone clearly on the chill spring evening, and had just decided on trying to sneak back in to finish his glass of wine, when a voice shouted across the parking lot:

            “There he is!  Look, come here, I’ve found him!” 

            The magician turned, saw two men near the entrance of the building who were pointing his direction, and decided that he had lingered long enough.  He whipped back around, and his long scarecrow legs carried him swiftly into the night. 

**Note: As my story is still in the making, all names, places, and events may be subject to change.** Copyright 2008 Cherise A. Do not reproduce at all without my express permission. If you like what I do, you can link to me instead.

Faeryn knocked lightly upon her brother’s door.  She knew that at this hour he would be deep in studying lessons of his own.  Whenever Faeryn saw him she was glad that she was not destined for the throne, for who could envy him the many hours of study that were required every day?  Besides the basic affairs of court, he had study battle plans, the use of weapons, the complete history of Orotaek and the surrounding nations, how to command men, how to raise or lower taxes, how to set up a draft when needed, how to attack an enemy’s castle, how to defend one’s own castle, the proper incantations to use when venerating all the gods, the proper ceremonies, what honors to accord a knight for brave service…the list went on and on.  Faeryn was glad that she only had to learn the basic knowledge required to become a counselor to the king.  Being an inquisitive person who enjoyed learning, she had picked up a lot of what her brother knew without being taught it, but that was different from being forced to learn it.  He was given strict tests every day to make sure that what he was learning was always at the forefront of his mind.  Being a woman might have some disadvantages, but she was grateful for the freedom she had.

            Eranhart opened the door, and the light from is study lamp spilled out into the hallway.  The light coming from behind was not enough to illuminate his face, but his silhouette looked hunched and tired. 

            “Eranhart,” Faeryn whispered, “I need to speak with you.”

            “Faeryn,” he said, just realizing whom it was, “Come in.”  He stepped aside to make way for her, and when she stepped past him he closed the door.  Faeryn turned toward him and studied his face, unable to discern from his expression whether her interruption was welcome or not.  Perhaps he himself was still trying to figure that out. 

            “What is it you wish to speak to me about?” he asked. 

            “I…I’m leaving.”

            “Leaving???”

            “Leaving Orotaek.  Eranhart, I went to talk to Byerron – “

            “That treasonous scoundrel who was imprisoned today?!”

            “Yes – no, I mean, I was there, and he isn’t like that!  He only cares about the people and sees that they are oppressed.  Any other ordinary person could have said the same thing and gone home a free man.  He says that things are changing here, and that Orotaek is growing darker, and that our father is under the influence of a sorcerer!”

            “That can’t be true!  Our father is a just and good man; he would not become a puppet of some religious manipulative priest.”

            “But Eranhart, our father imprisoned Byerron simply for saying the people were oppressed!  What if he is right?”

            “Faeryn, you are listening to the rumors spoken by a wandering troublemaker.  You are my sister, and I will not have you follow him into the wild simply because you feel that he might be right.” 

            “Oh, but Eranhart, if you had only been there!  He talked of his god, and he said that there is only one God, and that we have all been walking in darkness!   And he said that his god actually spoke to him, when he was in the mountains!  Oh Eranhart, to have a god actually speak to you!  I want that more than anything else in the world!  I asked Byerron to take me to his god, and he didn’t want me to go at first!  He said that it wouldn’t be right, a man traveling alone with a woman.  Does that sound like the kind of man who would lead a girl astray?  But I told him I would help him escape if he would promise to take me, and he finally said yes.”

            Eranhart’s eyes narrowed.  “This is foolishness, Faeryn.  Gods don’t speak, and we are not ‘walking in darkness’, whatever that means.  We make sacrifices to all the gods, known and unknown; we have priests and seers of every kind, and enough books of wisdom to fill a dozen rooms.  No, if anything the light shines in Orotaek.  You shall not go with the man who speaks such folly!  I will prevent it!”

            “Eranhart!”  Fear gave a harsh edge to Faeryn’s voice as she realized that it might have been a bad idea to come to her brother, who could easily bring her before the king and accuse her of treason.  Then she would never be able to go.  “Eranhart, you stop and think for a moment!  You are denying all of this is false without even investigating it!  You still haven’t answered my question; what if he is right?  Wouldn’t that really put us in a bad position, if there really is only one god and we deny his existence?  And how can our father be just if he threw Byerron in prison?  You are avoiding the point!  This isn’t like you, you should be listening to me!”

Eranhart turned around and walked away from her without answering, but then unexpectedly he turned back. 

            “I will come with you to see this man,” he said.  “Then I will judge for myself whether he is honorable or not.”

            Faeryn lead the way, feeling less apprehensive about the journey down to the dungeon now that she had her older brother behind her and a glass lantern in her hand to illuminate the previously dark and ominous passageways.  The realization that she had nothing to fear on this journey through the castle flooded Faeryn with relief.  She dared not think ahead to Eranhart’s meeting with Byerron, lest worry crowd out her momentary peace. 

            The guards at the dungeon were less suspicious and far more respectful when Faeryn came down the last stairs, leading the real prince Eranhart.  Both guards kowtowed before the future king of Orotaek and hastened to open the doors for him, paying little attention to Faeryn beyond a respectful nod. 

            Faeryn strode quickly down the corridor to where Byerron was, and Eranhart was not far behind.  Byerron was kneeling in a corner of his cell.  He looked up when Faeryn approached, and when he saw who she was leading he rose hastily to his feet.  He bowed deeply before Eranhart, in his gentlemanly way, but he did so in such a way that he seemed to maintain his own dignity while doing so. 

            Silence followed as the two young men studied one another through the bars, a small glimmer of kinship in their eyes.  Both were between the ages of twenty and twenty-five, and life had already laid heavy responsibilities upon both their shoulders.  Neither was inclined to think of the other as less than himself, for they saw in each other the same solemn, dignified responsibility: one standing proud in the glory of his future kingship, and the other resolute in his status as the prophet of a God who claimed to be the only God, and determined to follow Him, though the cost be death.  Finally, however, Eranhart turned away, as though he couldn’t bear to look at Byerron any longer.

            “You may go with him,” he said to Faeryn.  “He is an honest, upright man.”  Eranhart looked one last time at Byerron, who stood silent in his cage.  In that moment Eranhart’s face betrayed more pain than Faeryn had ever seen in her brother.  

            “More so than I,” Eranhart murmured to himself, and he turned away without having spoken a word to Byerron. 

            Faeryn let her brother walk down the hall alone, and she stared after him, not sure what to make of the whole situation.  She turned to Byerron, and found that he was also watching Eranhart leave. 

            “He is close in coming,” Byerron said suddenly, half to himself.  Faeryn looked at him quizzically, but he gave no explanation.  After a minute he turned and walked to the other side of his cell, as if he had forgotten Faeryn altogether.  Faeryn watched him resume his kneeling position on the floor.

            “Byerron,” she said, staring at the floor, feeling that somehow it was wrong to stare at him as he knelt on the floor.  She couldn’t explain the feeling, but she sensed that whatever he was doing was not for her to know. 

He looked up.  “Yes?”

She raised her eyes to him.  “We leave tomorrow night.  I’ll try to have everything ready.” 

He half-smiled.  “Good.”

Byerron turned his face away from her again, but still Faeryn lingered.  She didn’t know what she wanted, really.  Encouragement, advice…anything.   The planning of a grand escape was left entirely to her, Faeryn, a sixteen-year-old princess who knew almost nothing of the outside world.  Anyone who helped her could be convicted of treason.  She had never felt so utterly alone. 

Byerron ignored her, whether intentionally or not, she could not tell.  She was forced at last to return to her room. 

She slept little the rest of the night. 

**Note: As my story is still in the making, all names, places, and events may be subject to change.** Copyright 2008 Cherise A. Do not reproduce at all without my express permission. If you like what I do, you can link to me instead.

Goodness!  I have abandoned this blog for quite a long time!

I thought it would be best to give brief summaries of the stories I have been posting on here, tell about where they stand now, and discuss my plans for them.  Something like this has been long overdue, and I don’t want to leave you in the dark about anything that is going on. 

My works, in order of importance:

The Prophet of Einehrowaye – I have been posting this story a lot, so hopefully you have some idea now what it is about.  For those of you who don’t know, it’s basically about a princess who goes in search of God with the help of a prophet.  Hence the title. 

First of all, Einehrowaye is difficult to spell and almost impossible to pronounce.  I am thinking I am probably going to rename this work so that my readers can at least say it without tripping over themselves.  Any suggestions would be appreciated. 

This novel still has 64,000 words.

I haven’t been working on this story for over a month, and I am not exactly anxious to return to it.  I don’t know what exactly is keeping me away, but I’m not even trying to get past it.  I am too busy trying to finish Tears for the Silent Lands. 

I have an announcement to make concerning this story: because of copyright issues, I have decided not to post any more of this story.  I will post the final piece of chapter 2, but after that there won’t be any more.  I am sorry, but there is really no way around this.  I want to publish my story sometime in the future, and to post more of it now would be to violate future copyright agreements. 

Tears for the Silent Lands – My NaNoWriMo 2008 novel, which won with 68,000 words!  It now has 73,000 words, and I am still trying to get it finished sometime in the near future.  It is the story of Mirriae, the last of the elves.  Unfortunately, I won’t be posting very much of this story either.  However, I will be posting a few excerpts, just to give you an idea of what it is like. 

The Heart of the Wyrkind – If you recall, I posted the first chapter in its rough form.  Last time I saw it, it was 5,000 words long, riddled with clichés, and devoid of any redeeming characteristics.  I may keep toying with it, and if I do I will be sure to post more of it.  I don’t have a very high opinion of it, so don’t expect much.  I can’t even tell you exactly what it’s about.  I think it’s about this girl with magical capabilities.  I would be hard-pressed to tell you anything else.   

The King of Writer’s Block – This is a story I started right before NaNoWriMo, that is at 3,000 words currently.  It is a humorous story about a king who outlaws teenage authors because he believes that they produce literary junk, and the 15-year-old girl brave enough to defy him.  I plan on posting it, because I think you would enjoy it! 

The Absence – This is a fanfiction oneshot for A Tale of Two Cities that I recently wrote!  I posted it on fanfiction.net, and you can see it by going to my fanfiction profile, or by just clicking this link.  Be sure to leave a review! 

And now for those stories that are currently just ideas floating around in my brain:

Iacopo – The story of a fat Italian prince.  More I cannot say, because it would ruin the plot, but it is better than it sounds!

The One that was Left Behind – A fanfiction story about Susan Pevensie after her whole family was killed in the railway accident. 

There are many ideas that have been rolling around in my head, but they aren’t clear enough to tell you about.  Anyhow, that is the basic overview of my writing life at the moment!  There is much I have done, and much that I have yet to do!  Please bear with me as I try to discern what course my writing life is going to take!

Blessings,

~Cherise

**Note: As my story is still in the making, all names, places, and events may be subject to change.** Copyright 2008 Cherise A. Do not reproduce at all without my express permission. If you like what I do, you can link to me instead.

Here's an excerpt from my NaNoWriMo novel, Tears for the Silent Lands!!!    (Note, this has not been edited at all, and it was written at midnight, so bear with me!  No stealing allowed!)

“Despite what you think,” Attalnys said, “the elves are not as strong as you suppose.”

            Lonirael looked up from his papers, surprised.  “What are you saying, my friend?” he asked in surprise.  “Are you doubting our health or our defenses?”  He laughed, a deep, ringing laugh, deeper and yet at the same time higher than any mortal’s.  “Truly, Attalnys, are you giving in to these doomsday theories?”  He rose from his ornate oak desk where he had been writing in elvish and walked over to where Attalnys stood. 

            Attalnys remained firm.  “I am a physician among our people,” he said.  “If there is a weakness, I know.” 

            Lonirael looked at his friend, trying to decide if he truly believed what he said.  “Attalnys,” he said.  “Just because you are a doctor and wise among elves doesn’t mean that you know everything.” 

            Attalnys raised his hand and rested it on Lonirael’s broad shoulder.  “Lonirael, my friend,” he said, “You are a leader of one of the seven ruling houses.  Everyone respects you, and if you speak they will listen.”  Attalnys looked at the ground in his grave, immortal way, weighing his words.  “I wouldn’t bring this up if I didn’t think a serious matter.” 

            Lonirael stared deep into Attalnys’s gray eyes, and then paced to the other side of the desk.  “I see,” he said gravely.  “How do you think the elves will be defeated?  By an army a thousand times greater than the whole host of men?” 

            “No,” Attalnys stated emphatically.  “You know that we could never be overwhelmed by any army, were it a million times greater than the sand on the sea shore.  No,” he said, shaking his head and looking at the ground.  “Not anything like that.  When our doom comes, it will come in the form of something that seems so insignificantly weak, and yet has strength beyond measure.” 

            Lonirael looked up.  For the first time, there was a trace of fear hidden behind his impassive face.  It was a strange feeling to him, like a taste of a bitter fruit that he had never bitten into before.  Elves like him didn’t know fear.  They were used to not knowing fear.  Could it be that he was really more afraid of his fear than of the possibility that what Attalnys said was true. 

            “Attalnys,” he said, “come with me.”  He lead the other elf out onto the balcony that looked out over the elven city of Talmere. 

            Talmere.  City of the Immortals, city of Legends, a city that seemed to be a dream, and yet was more than real.  It was like living inside a jewel, inside a velvet dream, inside a hope-filled imagining, and yet it lay before them.  Graceful arches and towering spires, all in light, brilliant white marble.  The sun caught the glittering stone, making it live and breathe with the immortals that walked the streets.  A moment, a fragment from heaven, somehow caught within the realms of earth. 

            Walking in the streets and looking out of windows were those who lived in the city, elves of the highest order.  Their faces were unblemished, every one of them, and each individual walked with a marked, soothing grace, beauty in motion.  To a human eye, the elves could do nothing that wasn’t beautiful.  Lonirael stood with his hands on the rail, breathing in the air that smelled of the sweetness of the wildflowers, and knew that everything before him was a part of him.  The city, the people, the buildings and the trees that grew between them, and even the air.  He was Lonirael, high elf, greatest of a great elven house of Idraglori, which extended back 10,000 years.  He did not know that he was the last to rule over his house. 

**Note: As my story is still in the making, all names, places, and events may be subject to change.** Copyright 2008 Cherise A. Do not reproduce at all without my express permission. If you like what I do, you can link to me instead.

Hello all!  Just for fun, I decided to post the first draft of a new story I'm working on, The Heart of the Wyrkind.  I hope you like it!  Please forgive any mistakes or weird grammar: like I said, this will need editing.  Please comment and tell me what you think!

Chapter 1

“Lloyden!” fifteen-year-old Wyreya called out the open door.  She stepped out of the cottage and smoothed her auburn hair behind her ear, worrying at the fact that her brother was late.  Wyreya knew that Lloyden couldn’t be counted on to keep perfect time while he was out working in the fields, but she still could never get over her fear that something would happen to him while she wasn’t there with him.  Today especially she had had the feeling that something evil was impending.   

            “Lloyden!” she called again, a half-second before her older brother jogged out from under the trees into the clearing that surrounded the cottage.  The late-afternoon sun flitted through the trees and glinted on his golden hair, and Wyreya forgot her worries about him as she paused to admire his handsome features.  Surely if they had lived in a more populated area Lloyden would have been married by now.  In a way she felt sorry that he was stuck here on a remote farm, taking care of her.  She wished she could make things better for him. 

            “What is it?” Lloyden asked as he ran up.

            “Supper is ready,” Wyreya replied, motioning inside.  “It’s been ready for a while.”

            “Well, I can’t always have fabulous timing,” Lloyden said with a smile.  His face grew serious as he stared into her eyes.  “You weren’t worried about me, were you?”

            Wyreya hung her head.  “Oh Lloyden,” she said.  “You’re all I have now.  If something happens to you…” her voice trailed off. 

            “You shouldn’t worry about me like that,” Lloyden said gently.  “You know there is nothing to worry about.” 

            “Yes,” Wyreya said, looking off into the distance.  “I wish Yis was still here.  Everything felt safer when he was here.” 

            “I know,” Lloyden agreed.  He put his hand on her shoulder and tried to shake her out of her melancholy mood.  “But as he said: it was the right time for him to go.  We’re practically grown up.  He said we didn’t need him to take care of us anymore.”  

            Wyreya smiled sadly at him, still thinking of the old man they had both loved so much. 

            Whe shooke herself and returned to the present.  “Well,” she said, “supper is ready.  We should eat some of it before it grows cold.”  She turned, and walked into the cottage, trying to ignore the feeling that something disastrous was about to occur. 

*   *   *   *   *   *   *

            “Why are you so tense?” Lloyden asked during dinner.  His sister still seemed a little on edge. 

            Wyreya sighed and put down her fork.  “I don’t know,” she said.  “I just feel like something bad is about to happen.  She rubbed the small bump in the middle of her forehead.  As far as she knew, she had had the bump since birth.  Mostly it wasn’t noticeable and she ignored it, but sometimes it would begin to pulse and hurt without warning.  It had begun to ache during the afternoon while she was cooking dinner, and the pain had continued to grow until now. 

            “Why do you feel that way?”  Lloyden asked. 

            “I don’t know!” Wyreya shouted, suddenly irritated.  The pain in her forehead had become almost unbearable.  She stood up, feeling that she needed to take action of some sort, all the while rubbing her forehead furiously. 

            Lloyden sat back, shocked.  Wyreya was almost never angry with him. 

            “We…we need to leave…now,” Wyreya said, beginning to pace.  She didn’t know what to do with the panic that was suddenly overwhelming her. 

            “Now?” Lloyden shook his head.  “Wyreya, you’re not thinking clearly.  You’re overreacting.” 

            “No!!!” Wyreya screamed.  “We need to leave now!!!” 

            From outside the cottage came the sound of something crashing through the underbrush, followed by a snort and a loud wail.  Wyreya and Lloyden both froze. 

            All of Wyreya’s irritation suddenly melted into fear.  “What is that?” she whispered.

            Lloyden did not reply, but instead rose and went to the window.

            As soon as he looked out he jumped back as if he had been stung.  “We need to leave now,” he whispered urgently as he sprung into action.  He dumped what remained of his dinner into a sack at his waist, and stick the sickle he had used that day into his belt.

            “What are you doing?” Wyreya asked.

            “Gather what you need to leave,” Lloyden said, not taking his eyes off what he was doing. 

            Wyreya still remained frozen.

            Lloyden looked up at her.  “Move!!!” he shouted. 

            Wyreya ran around in confusion, grabbing what she could.  An apple, a kitchen knife, a ring…until Lloyden grabbed her shoulder and began moving her towards the door. 

            “When I open the door,” he whispered, “run to the stable.  Don’t stop, and don’t look back.  Now!”

            He opened the door, and Wyreya ran, too terrified to do anything else. 

            When she was halfway to the stable, she heard a roar like nothing she had ever heard come from behind her.  Forgetting Lloyden’s warning, she stopped and looked over her shoulder. 

            Crashing into the clearing were a dozen creatures with human-like bodies, gray skin, and the heads of bulls.  One of them looked straight at her with his glowing red eyes and raised the thing he held in his hand, which Wyreya now saw was a spear.         

            Wyreya screamed. 

Copyright 2008 Cherise A. Do not reproduce at all without my express permission. If you like what I do, you can link to me instead.

**Note: As my story is still in the making, all names, places, and events may be subject to change.**

“I have come to speak to you,” she said at last, wishing she sounded just a little more intelligent.   She had come to respect this man for standing up to her father, and now his presence was rather intimidating.  Faeryn berated herself for this small cowardice, trying to remind herself that she was the princess, she was royalty, and this man was a beggar behind bars, a wandering no one.  But despite her impressive bloodline and Byerron’s shabby one, Faeryn felt that outward rank didn’t really matter any more.   

            “About what?” Byerron asked, dropping the note of cynicism now that he knew she hadn’t come only to stare.

            “I…I wanted to know more about the things you spoke of up in the Great Hall.  I have never heard anyone say anything remotely like what you said today, about the taxes and the sacrifices, and about there being only one god.  And you seemed so confident, I…I believed you.  I want you to explain more to me.”

            “I will.  Ask me what you wish.  It is not often that people wish for me to tell more of matters such as this.  Mostly they are reviled by what I say.  They have convinced themselves that they are unable to accept anything but a plurality of gods.”

            Faeryn couldn’t help but think of her father as Byerron spoke those words.  Now more than ever she wished that her father had listened.

            She paused, trying to pick one question out of the many that swirled in her mind. 

            “Are things really as you said?  Are the people really starving because of the taxes?”

            Byerron’s face grew grave.  “They would be able to survive if it were only the taxes.  The tax is very heavy, but they could survive it if it weren’t for the daily sacrifices to the gods.”  He shuddered.  “One bull and three goats for each of the main deities and two goats for each of the lesser gods, every day, provided for by the people.” 

            With thirteen main gods and dozens of others being worshiped in Orotaek, this added up to a staggering number of sacrificial animals. 

            “You have to be lying,” Faeryn said.  “The people of Orotaek could not survive under those conditions.”

            “They can’t, and they aren’t.  If you merely walked through the streets you would see.” 

            Faeryn grabbed one of the bars to steady herself, reaching for stability as her mind whirled in a confused vortex.  “How can my father do this?  He has always been a just and upright man, who works to do what is best for the kingdom.  How can he allow this?”

            “I will tell you why.”  Byerron began pacing slowly in his cell as he talked.  “Now, I may not be completely right on all I say, but I believe my guesses will be close.  I have been watching for a long time.”  He paused and stood still for a moment, and then began to pace again.  “Your father has come under the influence of a new sorcerer by the name of Sarvoniere, who comes from the east and has brought with him the religion and worship of a new goddess: Ryselleacar.  It is Sarvoniere who has imposed the high sacrifices, and your father has listened.”

            Faeryn was at a loss for words.  She was horrified, but not as shocked as she thought she should be.  “How,” she asked grimly, still wondering if she could really believe everything that Byerron said, “could my father listen to such a man as Sarvoniere.  Surely a man such as my father would see the folly of all this?”

            Byerron’s face was sullen as he paced.  “Anyone,” he said, “who is not always alert and on guard may be deceived, if the deception is woven slowly and carefully.”  He stopped pacing for a second, one foot half-raised as if he were going to take a step, and looked over at Faeryn as if to say, “believe me, this is real”.  He then resumed his pacing.  “As for Sarvoniere, he had the aid of his dark magic.  Your father is really an incredible man, and he would have seen and put an end to all this by now if it weren’t for the spells that Sarvoniere has woven over him.” 

            “Dark magic…exists.”  Faeryn found herself clinging to the minor points Byerron had said, as if trying to avoid thinking about the points he had made. 

            “Yes,” Byerron answered her.  “Somewhat.”  He came to a rest in front of Faeryn.  “The effects do actually exist, but they are not accomplished by the means told of in the folklore.  Spells are not composed of powerful words that work the magic themselves, but they are actually, in their truest form, prayers to summon up dark spirits, who then do what the magician asks.” 

            “So…the spells control the spirits.”

            “No.” 

            “Then…why do the spirits do what the magicians ask?”

            “Because the evil spirits are working to control the minds of men,” Byerron answered.  “Carrying out a task for a magician is a small price to pay for ruling over his mind.”

            Faeryn’s eyes went wide, and she shuddered. 

            “Sarvoniere’s mind is now almost completely controlled by those demons,” continued Byerron, “and that makes him very powerful, or rather, the demons are powerful through him.  What they will is what he wills.  And now that he has the ruler of Orotaek under his thumb, there is no end to the damage he can cause.”

            Faeryn rested her forehead against the bars.  Her strength seemed to suddenly have slipped away.  “Can anything be done?”

            Byerron sighed heavily.  “I tried,” he said, his voice filled with sorrow.  “I did.  I thought that perhaps I could convince the king.  He…he has listened to me in the past, when I came the other times to warn him of danger to the kingdom.”  Faeryn looked up at him, surprised at his sudden emotion.  He didn’t seem to be speaking to her anymore. 

            He raised his hand in the air.  “I thought…I thought that I could do it, and that he would listen to me.  I had this chance – I should have been able to convince him!  But I couldn’t.”  His hand fell to his side, and he hung his head in despair.  “I tried.  And now I’m here.  Now I can’t do anything.  I could be killed, for all I know.  Not many who have been imprisoned here have ever become free men again.”     

            Faeryn stood speechless.  She could not find any words to comfort this caged man, who had tried to stop the evil in the kingdom but had only brought trouble down upon his own head.  What could she say?  How could she do anything to help him?

            But perhaps there was something she could do.

            “I’ll get you out,” she said. 

            Byerron looked at her, startled.

            “I’ll set you free.  If you promise…”

            “Yes?” Byerron asked.  Hope had returned to his voice.

            “If…” Faeryn thought for a moment.  “Byerron, tell me about your god.”

            A far away look came into Byerron’s eyes, and light seemed to radiate from within them.  He stared over Faeryn’s head at the wall behind her, seeing neither her nor the wall of the dungeon, but something Faeryn could only guess at. 

            “Faeryn,” he said.  “I…it was…He…” the prophet groped for words.  “I cannot…I can’t find words that will convey…the power, and the love, and…oh!  The task is beyond me.” 

            “What…happened to you?  Just tell me that.” 

            Byerron relaxed somewhat.  “I was staying with the elves…”

            “Elves?” Faeryn laughed.

            “Faeryn, they’re real.  I swear to you, am not lying.”

            The princess stopped laughing.  She wanted to believe what Byerron was saying.  She had never been able to completely deny the existence of elves to herself, and she dared to hope that perhaps Byerron was not lying.  Her heart had leapt within her when he had mentioned them.  But she had to admit, it was easy to doubt a prophet when he started speaking of mythical beings. 

            “Where do they live?”

            Byerron hesitated in answering, and Faeryn could tell he was debating whether or not to give away the location. 

            “They live at the far end of the forest behind Mount Liathan.”

            “You mean…the Forest of Mist?”

            Byerron laughed.  “Is that what they call it in Orotaek?  I had no idea.  The elves call it Aenywroe, which means ‘jewel’ in their language.”

            “Aenywroe.”  Faeryn liked the feel of the name.  “So…you were staying with the elves…”

            “Yes.”

            “In…Aenywroe?”

            “Yes.”

            “What happened?”

            “Well…I was wandering in the woods behind the lake in Raendolin, when I came upon the entrance to this canyon.  I was curious, so I walked down the narrow path until I stood at the bottom of the canyon.  On both sides were steep cliffs, and the only way to get out was to go back.

            “I was just standing there, looking around me, when suddenly there was something like a great flash of light, and I fell down.”

            Faeryn gasped.  “What happened then?”

            “Nothing happened for a great while.  I felt that someone or something was near, and I waited for it to make a move.  I tried to get up, but I couldn’t move.

            “The waiting was so unbearable, and I felt so helpless.  When I could stand it no longer I cried out, ‘Please, take me!  I am helpless, and I would rather die now than starve.’

            “And then – and this is so strange, I can’t understand or explain it, even though it’s been years since it happened – I felt, as if out of no where, that someone was standing directly over me, but when I looked up I saw nothing.  At that moment I was so terribly afraid that I closed my eyes.  And then…”

            Faeryn stared motionless at Byerron’s face, silently begging him to continue. 

            “…I…I heard a voice.  It wasn’t like a normal voice, that you hear first with your ears and then inside your head, but it seemed to start from within my head and work it’s way outward to my ears.  The sound of it was deep like thunder, but it was melodious too, like the voice was more used to singing than to speaking.  I felt myself shaking.

            “The first thing it said to me was my own name.  ‘Byerron.’  As the voice said it, I felt that it knew everything about me.  I cowered in fear, as much as a man can cower when he’s lying on the ground and can’t move. 

            “ ‘Byerron’, it said again, and then it asked me, ‘why have you come?’ 

            “I didn’t know if I dared to respond.  It repeated the question, ‘why have you come?’ 

            “I saw that I would have to say something, and I responded, ‘I found the entrance to this canyon, and I came down to look at it.  I didn’t think I’d be intruding.’

             “I don’t think that was quite the answer the voice was looking for, so it asked another question.  ‘Why did you come to Raendolin?’

            “I replied that the elves had found me wandering in Aenywroe, and they had let me stay. 

”It asked a third question.  ‘Why did you venture into Aenywroe, leaving behind all you had ever known?’

            “ ‘I had nothing at home,’ I said.  ‘Everyone hated me.’

            “ ‘Why did you decide to go where other men dared not to go?’ it asked.  

            “ I replied, ‘I was tired with my life.  I wanted to find something…spectacular.  Something that was beyond the ordinary.’ 

            “The voice asked, ‘Did you find what you wanted?’  Now the question surprised me.  I thought that the speaker, whoever it was, would have figured out by now what it wanted.  I was tired of the questions.  They were digging deeper and deeper into my heart, and I didn’t like that.

            “ ‘I found the elves, didn’t I?’ I responded.

            “The voice repeated the question, ‘Did you find what you wanted?’

            “ ‘No!’ I shouted.  I was shocked by what I had said.  That response hadn’t been anything like what I had planned.  But I continued without stopping, as if I couldn’t stop.  ‘I didn’t find what I want,’ I said loudly, my voice echoing in the canyon.  ‘I thought that when I found the elves and saw all the wonders of Aenywroe, I would…I would feel different.  But I don’t.  I’m the same as I was before.  There’s nothing left for me, you see!  No matter how hard I search or where I travel, I’m never going to find something more spectacular than what I’ve seen!  I don’t know what I’m searching for, and I’m never going to find it!’  I was so scared by how blatantly rude I’d been, and I started weeping.  I hadn’t wept since I was three years old, and I thought I wasn’t able to anymore.  I dreaded to see what the voice would do to me, now that I had been so irreverent.  I had decided by that time that I must be speaking to one of the gods that I had learned about when I was young, and I was more terrified than at the start of the incident.  I waited to see what it would do to me.   

“It seemed like an eternity before the god spoke, and when he did, his answer nearly broke me. 

“ ‘You came to Aenywroe,’ he said, ‘because I drew you.’

“There was nothing I could say.  Every time I tried to speak, I choked on my own words, so I remained quiet.  I heard someone wailing in the canyon, and it wasn’t until I put my hands to my face and felt the tears that I realized it was me.  Faeryn, I have never felt so weak as I did at that moment, when he spoke those words.  In my mind I kept fighting against what he was saying.  My mind didn’t want it to be true, but I knew…somehow…I don’t know how…that he was right.  And you know, while part of me didn’t want it to be true, the rest of me longed for it to be true, in a way I can’t describe.  I struggled, and then gave up fighting with myself.  I asked the first questions that came to mind.

“’What do you want with me?  Who are you?’

“He answered the last question first.  ‘I am,” he said, pausing just for a moment.  “I am the one who created time, and I am the one who will end it.  I am the one who imagined the sky before any even dreamed of it, and I am the one who formed the stars out of light.  I placed the earth below the stars and gave it being, I shaped the waters of the deep and of the heavens.  I created the winds and the mountains, the forests and rivers, the plains and all green things.  I gave to the day the creatures belonging to the day, and to the night the creatures belonging to the night.  I gave life to the elves and the nymphs, to govern the earth and belong to it.  And,” he said. “I am the one who, when creation was nearing completion, breathed life and a spirit into humankind, to which you belong, for myself.’

“I trembled, Faeryn, as He spoke, and as he named each successive thing His voice grew louder and louder, and my shaking grew greater and greater until I was certain that I would never recover.  As he spoke the final words, ‘for myself’, I felt a thrill run up my spine, and I fell flat on my face. 

“ ‘Lord of the Universe,’ I screamed.  ‘Do what it is you want with me!  Please do not delay my death, if that is what you wish!’

“He did not respond immediately, and the skin on my back tingled, waiting for something to happen.  When he finally did speak again, his voice was like a whisper, whereas before it had been louder than thunder. 

“ ‘Byerron,’ he said.  ‘Be not afraid.  I am the one who made you, and who knows more about you than you yourself ever will.  And I know that you desire me, because that is the way I made you.  Do not be afraid.  I create no desire that I do not fulfill.  I love you like a father loves his son, and I am going to guide your steps.  I love you, Byerron.’

“I don’t really know what happened after that.  No one had ever told me that they loved me before.  I recall vowing that I would serve the Creator of the Universe with my whole life, but that memory seems distant to me.  All I could really think about was the fact that the God had said he loved me.”

Byerron looked up at Faeryn for the first time in a while, and he stared at her in an odd way.  Faeryn suddenly realized that she had been crying, and that Byerron must be seeing the tears streaking down her face.  She wiped her eyes, and Byerron continued: 

“He told me things, Faeryn, wonderful things, some of which I can’t even describe to you.  He told me to remember all of them.  I can’t recite them all to you now, but whenever there is a need for them to be spoken, they come back to me as if I had just heard them. 

“When He was done instructing me, he told me that I was to be his prophet, and that He would show me what to do.  And He commanded me to seek Him, and to look for Him in unexpected places, and He said that He would always be near me, wherever I went.  After that He told me to go back to the house of Anwyr, so I did, with great reluctance.

“I was afraid to tell the elves about my experience, so I didn’t say anything for a while.  But Anwyr could tell by my appearance that something tremendous had happened, and after a time he took me aside and asked what had happened.”

“Who is Anwyr?” Faeryn asked. 

“He is the lord of the elf dwelling of Raendolin,” Byerron replied.  “He befriended me when the elf scouts first found me and brought me to Aenywroe.  I don’t really know why.”  Byerron gave a half-smile.  “He has almost been like a brother to me.  I can’t really explain how it is.”  He shook his head, as if trying to clear his poor explanation out of the air.  “Anyhow, I eventually told Anwyr the whole thing, and he said that the elves had knowledge of the One and worshiped Him, but he also said that none of the elves had ever spoken with the One as I had.

“ ‘The Holy One has set you apart to be special,’ he said.  ‘I am anxious to see what will come of it.’

“After that, I stayed a long time with the elves, and then began to wander into the countries of men.  I have always felt the presence of the One God with me since the day that I first met him, but not always as strongly.  A few months ago I was staying in Raendolin when I felt that He was near, and He told me to come to Orotaek and tell the people about Him.  I came, and I saw that the people were oppressed by the worship of these false gods, and since I had advised your father several times in the years of my wanderings, I went right away to speak to him about it.”  Byerron sighed painfully.  “I didn’t expect things to be so bad – with your father, I mean.  I knew that Sarvoniere was gaining a hold, but I didn’t realize how strong it was until today.”  He bent over, discouraged. 

“Take me to see your God,” Faeryn said, her words appearing suddenly, as if out of thin air. 

Byerron stared at her.  “Take you to see Him?  He’s not a sightseeing attraction, you know.”

“No,” Faeryn said, her excitement growing.  “Not like that.  Take me to where you met Him.  Maybe He will speak to me like He spoke to you!” 

“Faeryn, I’m not sure…” Byerron fumbled for words, uncertain.  “You…you know, he set me apart to be a prophet.  I don’t know if He would speak to you in the same way.”

“But He might,” Faeryn said, pounding the bars in her excitement.  “He might!”  She thought quickly about the situation.  “I could set you free, and you could take me to Raendolin.”

“Travelling alone?”  Byerron shook his head violently.  “No.  I couldn’t do it.  It wouldn’t be right.” 

“Please!” Faeryn said. 

“No,” Byerron said, stepping backward from her as if she were a crazed woman, his face clearly expressing that he was against the idea.  Then his expression softened and his eyes refocused.  Faeryn felt that he was staring through her instead of looking at her.  Neither of them spoke for several minutes.

“Yes,” Byerron finally said, startling Faeryn.  “Yes.  You will let me out, and I will take you to Him.” 

Faeryn drilled Byerron with a stare, trying to get him to explain why he had changed his mind, but he said nothing about it.  Eventually, after waiting to no avail, Faeryn spoke.

“I will do what I can to get you out.  I don’t have any guarantees about how successful I will be.”

“That is fine,” Byerron said.  “Do what you can.”  He bowed to her.  “My lady.”

Byerron obviously thought the conversation was over.  Faeryn wished to keep speaking with him for hours, but, since she could find nothing else to say, she gave a nod to Byerron and strode back down the dungeon corridor, pondering everything that Byerron had said.  She barely noticed the when guards bowed to her as she exited the dungeon. 

It may be late, but Faeryn knew tonight’s work was not done.  

Copyright 2008 Cherise A. Do not reproduce at all without my express permission. If you like what I do, you can link to me instead.

**Note: As this is a rough draft of my story and still in the making, all names, places, and events may be subject to change.**

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

It was late when Faeryn finally tip-toed out of her room down the long spiraling staircases, dressed in a long dark cloak and hood to conceal her identity, and carrying a basket with some of the fruit from her dinner.  Not many were about the castle at this hour, and all the way to the dungeons no one saw her or stopped her.  It was unnerving, though, when a board would creek beneath her feet, or she would imagine that she heard footsteps behind her.  When that happened she would press herself into the wall, trying to blend into the shadows.  It would have worked rather well, had anyone passed, but no one did. 

            The dungeons were another matter though, and Faeryn had to draw upon her extra reserves of courage to even draw near to them.  They were always guarded, even though there were usually only a few prisoners, and the guards could be nasty at times, especially during the night shifts.

            Faeryn’s heart was racing as she approached the entrance, but when the guards stopped her and asked her business, she calmly replied;

            “My brother, Prince Eranhart, sent me to give these fruits to the prisoner Byerron and to relay a message to him in private.”

            The guards seemed to take that as a fair answer, and one of them removed his helmet and bowed.  The other one was a little more disgruntled, and he grumbled a little as he unlocked to door leading to the cells.  “He’s near the far end, my lady.”

            “Thank you,” Faeryn replied softly as she stepped through the door.  She had made it this far!  The rest of it shouldn’t be too hard.  Except, of course, trying to get back out again.

            She tread silently -- a little too silently -- down the row of cells, an overreaction caused by her fear.  Walk normally, she told herself.  Act as if you belong here, not like you are sneaking in.  She forced herself to resume a normal pace, but when she did her steps echoed violently off the harsh stone walls and low ceiling.  It seemed as though everyone in Orotaek should be able to hear her walking into a dungeon she didn’t belong in.  Her limbs quavered a little, and though she couldn’t quite stop it.  She was playing the part that she had set for herself, but part of her refused to pretend that she wasn’t afraid. 

            Though Faeryn had been expecting to not see very many other prisoners, she was still surprised at how empty the dungeon was.  She passed one old man in a cell near to the entrance, and by his unkempt beard she guessed that he had been there many years.  Upon searching her memory, she recalled that Rendreik had told her once that there was a man in the dungeon who had tried to lead a rebellion years ago.  He had been caught before anything serious had happened, and he had never left the dungeon after that.  Faeryn wondered if the old prisoner she saw was the same man. 

            As Faeryn came toward the end of the passageway she saw a hunched figure in the far corner of one cell.  The figure rose as she approached and startled her, and she saw that it was Byerron.  He came towards where she was standing.

            “Come to view the prisoner, my lady Faeryn?” he asked in a sad, almost cynical tone.

            Faeryn struggled to figure out how to answer.  “Ah…Yes.  How did you know who I was?”

            “The king makes it no secret that his daughter is the fairest in the land.  I saw you in the Great Hall and assumed you were the one he spoke of.”

            “You assumed correctly,” Faeryn said, stating the obvious in an attempt to cover her surprise.  Byerron had seen more than just the king when he spoke in the Great Hall, although to Faeryn it had seemed that his eyes had never strayed to observe anything but her father.  Faeryn wondered how he had managed it. 

            Byerron said nothing, following the custom of never asking a question of one of higher rank, and Faeryn stood there awkwardly for a minute trying to think of something to say. 

Copyright 2008 Cherise A. Do not reproduce at all without my express permission. If you like what I do, you can link to me instead.

**Note: As my story is still in the making, all names, places, and events may be subject to change.**

Cressida felt like weeping with Faeryn.  The girl’s despair was almost too much to take.  “But Faeryn, can’t you see that if you will choose to become a woman, you will be able to make the world a safe and happy place – a wonderful place – for others who will depend on you?  The love and the security you give will last forever in the lives of those you help.  It stays though outward beauty fades, and it makes you truly beautiful.  Think beyond yourself, Faeryn.  As long as you live to serve others, you will never be unhappy or lonely.  Don’t join with the women you know in being vain and superficial; be the difference.  Be the one that changes the world.”

            Faeryn lowered her head.  “I can’t,” she said.  “It is impossible.”

            “Do not think that,” said Cressida.  “Think back to when you were younger.  You pretended that you were grown up and were married, even though it wasn’t real.  But eventually you did grow up and get older.  Now, even though it seems futile, pretend that you can really make a difference, and head for that goal.  Even if you only go a little way towards it, that is better than if you just stood still.”

            “Yes,” Faeryn said.  “That is better than nothing.”

            “Now,” Cressida said, “choose the road that seems the best for you and for others, not just the one that you want.  In a way it is better that you truly desire neither, for your choice will be easier.”

            Faeryn stood up, to emphasize what she was going to say.  “I…I will go to Byerron and speak with him, even though it is not what my father would wish.  Perhaps he will show me what to do.”  Faeryn hesitated, all her weakness and fear coming back to her slowly.  “I don’t know how I can persuade my father to lower the taxes.  If I try to do that, he might throw me in prison like Byerron.” 

            “Courage, my lady,” Cressida said in a strong, hopeful tone.  “Things always work out for the best.”

            “Why?” Faeryn asked.  “Why do things always work out for the best when there is no one to make sure that they do?  How do you know?  The gods are not concerned with the affairs of men.”

            “I have seen it in my life and in the lives of others,” said Cressida.  “Everything that seemed a setback when I was a child has turned into a blessing instead.  Those things that were hard to endure have made me stronger.  And I am certain that the same will happen with those things that are a setback now.”

            “That cannot be,” said Faeryn.  “The gods are not concerned with the affairs of men.  If we do not sacrifice, they send destruction.  That is the extent of their affairs with us.”  Faeryn sighed, a long, heavy sigh.  “I have wished, you know, that the gods would be concerned with us.  That would mean that we mattered somewhat in the universe.  I wanted there to be someone else ordering things, not just us simple men trying to work our own way against all odds.  But no, the priests and elders of the people have always told me that they care not what happens to men.”

            Cressida was lost in thought, hearing what Faeryn was saying but also wrestling with the issue in her own mind.  “I do not believe the priests and the elders,” she said at last.  “Have you ever noticed when you looked at a leaf that it had many tiny veins on it?  Or a bird in flight?  Or the way water flows over the rocks in the stream?  All of it is so amazingly beautiful and detailed.  I do not believe that the gods would make the world and make mankind and then abandon all they had made.  I have always felt a sort of attachment to everything I have ever made.  I think it must be the same for the gods.”

            Faeryn had never thought about the situation like that, and she desperately hoped that somehow Cressida was right.  She looked down at the floor, hands clasped behind her, as Cressida had often seen the men of the court do.  Surely she has been in need of feminine counsel for a long time, Cressida thought.  If only her mother had not died.

            “I will speak to Byerron about this,” Faeryn said.  “He seems to know something about the gods.  At least, he says that a god spoke to him.  Oh Cressida, I hope he is right.  The gods of this land are cruel and cold, ever demanding blood.  I –“ Faeryn jerked upright in anger.  “I hate them!  They frighten me!  They –“ Faeryn stopped speaking, dropping her head in her hands and sobbing. 

            “The world is cruel,” she said.  “I wish everything was different.”

            Cressida held out her hands, and Faeryn ran into her arms and cried upon her shoulder.  Cressida stroked her mistress’s long auburn hair and let Faeryn cry for a while.  When the tears had subsided, she spoke softly.

            “Faeryn, what you know of the world is cruel, but you do not know half of everything.  Could it be that what you do not know of the world is good, and that the cruelty you know is not much in comparison?”

            Faeryn wiped her eyes.  “I… I… I don’t feel it, but I will believe you.  I suppose in the end it will turn out that you were right all along.  I never can see very far.” 

“My lady,” Cressida said in a comforting voice, “you are yet young, but you have a sort of wisdom that many have not gained.  You will find a way.  Do not despair.” 

            There was silence for a moment as Faeryn pondered over what she had heard.  “Thank you, Cressida.  Would that you had been my sister instead of my servant.  I would have had a happier childhood, I think, if I had had you around.”

            The two girls embraced, and then Cressida was forced to depart to help in the kitchen.  Faeryn sat in silence for a long while, and then she made up her mind.

            She really would go to see Byerron.  She owed him that much, and it was the right thing to do.  Even if her father caught her and punished her, she could rest in the fact that she had done the right thing. 

            And, while she was at it, she would be able to satisfy her curiosity about this prophet who said he knew a god.

Copyright 2008 Cherise A. Do not reproduce at all without my express permission. If you like what I do, you can link to me instead.

            Right then Cressida entered the room with a tray of food and saw Faeryn standing at the window.  “My lady, are you alright?  Shouldn’t you be resting as your father the king said?”

            Faeryn turned back to the stuffy room, irritable at having been both interrupted and reminded of her father’s command.  Did everyone now know of how her father had gotten angry with her and ordered her to her room?  “Yes,” she grumbled, “I suppose.”  She couldn’t hide her frustration, and Cressida stayed, quiet but concerned.  “If I may ask, my lady, what is troubling you?”

            “Oh,” Faeryn sighed in frustration.  She was about to tell Cressida that she shouldn’t ask, and that she should know better than to ask, but instead she told Cressida what she was thinking.  “Oh Cressida, I don’t know what to do!  While I was in the throne room with the Chancellor a man named Byerron appeared before the king and complained about the way the people were being treated.  He seemed like a good man, just and honorable, but my father became angry and imprisoned him.  He then sent me here.”  Faeryn paused, painfully conscious that she was confiding in a servant, wondering what her father would think if he knew that she was speaking to her maid like this, and whether or not Cressida was that kind of servant who would tell all the other maids about the encounter once she got back to the servants quarters.

            Cressida seemed to read her thoughts, and said, “You can keep going ma’am.  I will tell no one what you say.”  She smiled her sweet, caring smile, and Faeryn couldn’t help but divulge all of her doubts and fears.  It was freeing, to have another soul hear her mental struggles and how she felt that her world was coming apart.  Cressida listened patiently and sympathetically until Faeryn had finished talking, and then she spoke; simply, yet her words were heartfelt and true.

            “It seems, my lady, that you fear that your world is changing, it is to some degree, but the change is not yet as great as the change in your mind.  You have seen things that you can’t explain with your old way of thinking, and being who you are you are forced to change the way you think.  It is a difficult thing to do.” She looked at Faeryn sympathetically.  “What you decide now will determine the course of the rest of your life.  Changing the way you think always does that.  And I know you don’t want to.  I know you feel that you are a glass vase at the top of a tall tower, and if you take a step in any direction you will fall into a million pieces, but that is not true.  If you choose rightly, you may yet find a safe path.  But you cannot stand still.  We cannot hold moments in time, we can only welcome them as they come, enjoy them while they are here, and let them go when they pass.  If you try to pretend that things will not change, then the change that has already begun will catch up to you in the end, and you will lose everything.”

            “I don’t want to decide, really,” said Faeryn.  Every time I feel that I’ve come to a decision, I immediately go back on it.  I hate change.”

            Cressida sighed mournfully.  “Everyone does.  No one wants to see a good thing slip away.  But life is change, and life is not always bad.  Change brings sweet things as well as bitter.  You can yet find a better path than the one you are on now.”

            Faeryn’s eyes began to fill with tears against her will, and she could barely whisper past the lump in her throat, “I feel that I am losing my childhood forever.  If I let go of what I have now, I will never get it back.  I have no guarantee of finding, only of losing.”  Two tears made their way down her cheeks as she gazed up at Cressida. 

She continued, “Either choice I make, I loose what I already have, and I still have to grow up.  I do not want to become a woman!  Womanhood is cold and silly and vain, and I don’t want that!  To merely stand around for show because of your looks, marrying and bearing children, and then pretending to still be beautiful even when you are rotting from old age, that is no life!  Where is the purpose!  Why be a woman at all?  Wouldn’t it be better to take a man’s role, and die fighting in battle?  I don’t want my value to only be in my looks!  What about my thoughts and feelings?  No one cares about that when you are a woman.”

            “My lady,” Cressida said, distraught that Faeryn should take such a condemning view of things.  “Why do you think womanhood is this way?”

            “I have seen it,” Faeryn said bitterly.  “All the wives of the courtiers, when they come for the yearly feast held in the Great Hall.  The young are vain and parade their fine gowns and pretty faces, and the old powder and paint themselves and pretend they are young.  All their words are idle gossip, and their thoughts are on themselves.  And they expect me, me, to do the same, to be the leader of the throng, even!  I must look finer than anyone else, and know all the latest gossip, and think of myself more than anyone else.  I will not do it!  I refuse!  I will cut my hair and pretend to be a man the rest of my days!  I…I will kill myself, so that I need not endure this!”  Faeryn fairly exploded in a sob of confused rage.

            “My lady Faeryn,” Cressida said slowly and gently, stroking Faeryn’s hand as she spoke.  “I think what you have seen is the worst example possible of womanhood.  That is not what womanhood is.”  Cressida smiled to herself, and then continued.  “A true woman is…gentle, and patient.  She knows when to speak and when to be silent.  She is merciful to all, and she is nurturing.  A true woman is a person, but she is also a place people can run to when they are hurting.  Oh Faeryn, life isn’t all about marrying and bearing children, but you cannot do a better thing than raise a child.  You are their comforter and their home, and they need you more than anyone else.  You make them into people who can love and care like you do.”  Cressida smiled, thinking of her own mother.  “Surely your own mo—“ Cressida cut herself off, suddenly remembering what she had forgotten, and desperately wishing she hadn’t started speaking. 

            “My mother,” Faeryn said, “is gone, and always has been, for me.  I don’t even have a memory of her.  When I think of her I think of sunlight through the leaves in the trees, and a cream-colored warmth, and the smell of vanilla.  Those who saw her tell me that she was beautiful, and those who knew her say that she was kind.  She is a vision to me, nothing more.  She died in childbirth a year and a half after I was born, and the baby died with her. “  Faeryn looked at Cressida, and the dim light reflected weakly in her eyes and magnified the sadness that was in them.  Her face was a haunting vision, plagued by a sadness that could not be amended.  “Don’t you see?” she whispered.  “Even those women who are truly beautiful die or are abandoned.  There is no happiness for a woman.  Only children are happy, and that is because they are too young to understand the cares of the world.”

**Note: As my story is still in the making, all names, places, and events may be subject to change.** Copyright 2008 Cherise A. Do not reproduce at all without my express permission. If you like what I do, you can link to me instead.

**Note: As my story is still in the making, all names, places, and events may be subject to change.**

Eventually Faeryn stopped crying and tried to get to sleep, but her mind would not let go of the issue of Byerron.  This is not important, she told herself, he’s just an unusual man with a nice face, one who speaks treason.  But it was more than that.  He had more than a handsome face, he…he seemed so sure that he was right, and he seemed to know the truth of the situation.  And – what was it he had said – that he knew the Living God.  How strange, she thought, that a man could know a god.  And why would one god matter?  Were there not many, and shouldn’t they all be worshiped?  Surely this was a man with strange ideas, a man set apart.  And, now that she thought about it, she couldn’t quite remember how criticizing the high taxes was considered treason.  Couldn’t an ordinary laborer do the same, in front of the king, even, as she had seen done before, without being thrown in prison?  There should be no exception for Byerron.

            Faeryn paused in her train of thought and found herself on her feet, pacing as she thought, up and down the room in some vain attempt to set the situation right in her mind.  She forced herself to sit down, reminding herself that her father had directly told her to rest, but as soon as she picked up her thread of thought she was on her feet again, pacing endlessly across her apartments.

            If Byerron had been thrown in prison when another man would have gone free, then that meant her father had treated him unfairly.  And if her father could treat Byerron, who appeared to her a just and upright man, then what was going to prevent him from mistreating another?  Could he, then, really be oppressing the people?  Was all as Byerron had said? 

            Faeryn walked over to the window and opened the shutters, letting the cool evening breeze cool her skin and her mind as she stared off into the distance.  The more she thought about Byerron, the more important he seemed, and the more she felt that the way he was treated by her father reflected the real state of things.  She hated the idea, for if it was true it seemed to upset her delicately balanced life.  Before this she had always trusted her father, and it had seemed that her trust in him was deserved.  Now reality was forcing her to rethink all that she had taken for granted, and it bothered her to find that the number of things taken for granted was larger than she had thought.  If her father was wrong and she stood by him, then she was wrong also.

            It was then that Faeryn decided that no matter what was going on with her father, Byerron was getting an undeserved stay in prison, and she must go to him to set things right.  Surely it would be good for him to know that not everyone in Orotaek was against him.

            But, she thought suddenly, what would her father think of that action?  If he had thrown Byerron in prison, he might do the same to her!  She dared not go! 

Copyright 2008 Cherise A. Do not reproduce at all without my express permission. If you like what I do, you can link to me instead.

Faeryn entered the great hall by the side door just as the man called Byerron and the doorkeeper entered by the main door.  Byerron looked considerably different, the bath and the clean clothes leaving a startling impression.  His hair, which Faeryn now saw was golden, was combed down and made his particularly brilliant blue eyes jump out of his face.  Byerron was now clad in tan clothing and a tan cloak which had been provided for him as a gift, but he kept his black boots, which kept up their constant clamor as Byerron walked.  

The doorkeeper glanced at her as he passed, but Byerron took no notice of her, intent upon what he was going to say to the king.  Faeryn found this rather peculiar, for she was used to people looking at her.  Her father had made it no secret that his daughter was fair to look at, and surely, being the only woman at the court, she would be noticed even if she had been ugly.  Added to the fact that her gowns were some of the most colorful and expensive that the kingdom had ever known, she ought to be recognized.  This man must really have something to say, to completely pass her by without noticing.

            Faeryn walked as quickly and as silently as possible to where the chancellor stood at the far end of the hall, slipping behind the pillars instead of walking in from of them so that she wouldn’t be noticed.

            “Faeryn, I’m glad you made it,” the chancellor whispered to her as she walked up next to him.  “You really have impeccable timing,” he added playfully.         

The princess smiled at him, enjoying his jest, but the voice of the herald announcing Byerron brought her to attention.

            “My Lord King, Laencastere of Orotaek, I present to you Byerron, son of Credo, formerly of the Red Forest.”

            The king spoke, “What is it you have to say, Byerron?”

            “Oh King Laencastere, sovereign ruler over Orotaek, I come bearing a warning, and counsel, if you will heed it.”

            “By all means, speak your warning and your counsel, Byerron Credo’s son.”

            Byerron hesitated a moment before answering, “Oh king, as I have walked through the land I have seen many who were suffering under the weight of the taxes you have imposed, and they are hardly able to sustain themselves because of the enormous daily sacrifices required by the priests, particularly the priests of Ryselleacar .  Oh Laencastere, I have heard the teachings of the priests of the new goddess, and all their words come out as empty lies.  I implore you to lift the taxes and restrict the sacrifices, so that the people will not starve.”

            Laencastere leaned back in his chair, a small gesture of defiance, and then spoke;

            “I see no such problem with my kingdom, oh Byerron, such as the one your eyes have imagined.  The taxes are paying for the army that keeps them safe, and the sacrifices and teachings of the priests are good for them.  They need more religion in their lives.”

            “But my lord, there is no war going on at the moment, and you have more than enough men ready to fight at a given moment.  And what of the teachings?  Don’t you even care whether they speak truth or not?”

            Laencastere reached into the bowl that sat near the throne and pulled out an orange.  As he ripped it open he spoke in a rhetorical tone;

            “Truth?  What is truth?  No one knows if the gods even exist, but we sacrifice to them in case they are.  And for simple folk such as peasants, I think a little belief in the gods is good for them.  They are superstitious folk and need something to cling to.  Come now, you don’t believe that there is anything so real and steadfast as this ‘truth’ that you are talking about?   The gods demand sacrifice and homage: that alone never changes.  There is nothing else.”

            Byerron looked at the floor for a moment, his face impassive, and Faeryn could tell he was weighing his words on the scale of his mind.  What he was about to say had a gravity greater than all he had previously said, and it was a subject very dear to him.  His fear of ridicule was getting the best of him.  Then it seemed that he made the decision in his mind to go forward, and he looked Laencastere straight in his hard brown eyes. 

            “While I was in the mountains,” he said, “a god came and spoke to me.  He said that He is the only god in heaven, on earth, and under the earth, and He said that worship of any other god is abominable to Him.  He said that if we would serve only Him, he would show us truth.  Oh Laencastere, if we would stand as an upright nation, we must follow this god.  He is the only God, and if we do not follow we risk His anger.”

            “If he is the only god, and if he even exists.  Am I right in guessing that this so-called god has appointed you to be his prophet?  How lucky that the god who speaks to only you has come to you and told you to start this new religion.  And I suppose he also wants you to preside over all matters belonging to this religion?”  Laencastere laughed, a teasing, unbelieving, mocking laugh, and said: “No, Byerron, I cannot allow this.  You have driven yourself mad, living alone in the mountains, and have begun to have hallucinations of a new god.  The old gods have been good enough for us.  Why do you think your new god will be better?”

            Oh, stop it!  Faeryn thought.  Let him speak!  Does he look like a crazed man?  He speaks from his heart, do not crush him so!

            Byerron did not take his eyes off the king, although his shoulders sagged a little, having received the answer he had feared.  In a low voice, he said plainly, “Laencastere, for once in all your years as king you are wrong.  You are making an unwise decision.  If I am right,” he paused, as if uncertain.  “If I am right, destruction will not come from without, but from within.”

Faeryn saw her father’s face harden dangerously, and his eyes seemed as though they would shoot poisoned arrows into Byerron.  Did the man not know the peril he was putting himself in by angering the king?  Surely Byerron must stop his accusing, now that he was risking his freedom by tempting the wrath of her father!

            But Byerron did not stop.  It seemed then that he couldn’t stop speaking, even if he had wanted to, until his task was done.  “My lord king, I beg you to listen.  Do what is best for the people.  Lift the burden of these taxes and let them live free.  Let them learn of the truth instead of walking in blindness.”    

Laencastere leapt up, charged with fury, rising to his full height of six-foot-seven and lifting his head in defiance of all that Byerron had said.  The orange fell from his hand and rolled forgotten on the floor.  “How dare you,” he said, starting quietly but growing louder with every syllable, “How dare you think that you know what is best for my kingdom!  It is I who guide the kingdom, I who make the decisions!  Do you really think that you, who are barely into manhood, can have anything to say in the matter?  The people are not overburdened.  They are not harmed by learning of the gods.  You shall not come in and say they are without reason.  I, with my wisdom, have decided what is best.  You are nothing but a confused beggar!”

Byerron said nothing.  Looking back years from then, Faeryn was struck by the irony of the situation.  The king was accusing Byerron cruelly, and he simply stood there in silence.

“I name you,” the king said, his voice booming and ringing over the hall, “a disturber of the peace.  You have come only to incite trouble and instigate a rebellion.  You are a treasonous dog.  Guards, arrest him – “ Two guards came, almost before they were called, and grabbed Byerron.  “ – and throw him in the dungeon.”

Faeryn gasped.  This shouldn’t be happening.  No one was arrested in Orotaek for this reason.

Byerron looked at the king one last time, not with anger so much as with sadness, before the guards forcefully dragged him across the Great Hall.

Watching Byerron being removed from her father’s presence, Faeryn could be silent no longer.

            “My Lord King, please do not do this!  This man has done nothing wrong!  Why have you imprisoned him?”

            The king looked at her with a lazy impatience that made Faeryn feel that she was only three inches tall.  “Faeryn, he spoke treason,” he said slowly, as if explaining things to a very small child.  “All those who speak treason are imprisoned.”

            You don’t need to explain it to me like I am a child, Faeryn thought.  I’m almost a woman, and I know the proper sentences to be given for every crime known to man.  “My Lord, if that is treason, than half the beggars that come to you at Mid-Moon should be locked away.  They spoke much the same words as Byerron, although they didn’t do it nearly so well.”

            The king was no longer so unconcerned about what she said, as if suddenly realizing that she might have made a well-reasoned point against his decision.  His voice had more of an edge to it as he replied, “I am the king, and in this land the word of the king is law.  I see this Byerron as a threat to Orotaek, so I am removing the threat.”

            “But what of justice, my father?  He was only trying to help the people!”

            Laencastere never answered her question, but only said, in a voice that was calm yet amplified so that everyone in the hall could hear, “Faeryn, I believe you are worn out from the day’s work and are not able to make a sound judgment.  I suggest that you return to your quarters and rest.”

            Faeryn could have screamed in frustration, but what could she do?  The word of the king was law, and she had to go.  She turned without a sound and left the hall.  It wasn’t until she got to her room that she ran to her bed and sobbed into her pillow.

**Note: As my story is still in the making, all names, places, and events may be subject to change.** Copyright 2008 Cherise A. Do not reproduce at all without my express permission. If you like what I do, you can link to me instead.

Here is my scene that depicts my main character, Faeryn, showing emotion. 

Faeryn froze as the ground rumbled beneath her feet.  Her eyes widened and stared wildly at the prophet.  “Byerron?”  She said his name slowly, but her voice rang with anxiety and the last note squeaked with panic. 

            Byerron knew well enough what was causing the ground to shake, but he was unwilling to reveal the cause to her and thereby force himself to admit the predicament he had gotten them both into.   

            “It’s nothing,” he said, a note of haste leaking into his words despite his efforts to appear calm.  “The ground often shakes in these parts.” 

            Faeryn’s eyes contained a glint of mistrust as she stared at him, and she took one tentative step forward.  She looked up at the mountain, as if she thought she could find the reason for the tremors there, and then continued on the path, occasionally glancing down into the ravine to refresh her memory on how far it was to the bottom.

**Note: As my story is still in the making, all names, places, and events may be subject to change.** Copyright 2008 Cherise A. Do not reproduce at all without my express permission. If you like what I do, you can link to me instead.

Paragraph Describing My Main Character -- Faeryn

           Faeryn is a sixteen-year-old princess of Orotaek.  She is only five feet tall, but her light-brown, wavy hair goes all the way down to her knees.  She is exceptionally beautiful for her young age, her crowning feature being two brilliant, bluish-green eyes that reveal her deep, thoughtful nature.  She is quiet but not overly so, and when she does talk she tends to speak on serious issues.  She loves to be by herself and write poetry, and when she was younger she spent most of her time creating pretend worlds.  Because she was only a year old when her mother died, Faeryn has lacked a significant feminine role model and dreads becoming a woman.  Because she has become disgusted with the polytheist religion of her country, Faeryn is desperately searching for real, unchangeable truth that can support her in the midst of the transitions in her life.  Faeryn loves mountains, and to her they represent life and a way to break out of her difficult situations.  At her worst, Faeryn can tend to focus on the people and issues directly surrounding her and forget the big picture, and she can also become too afraid to do what is needed.  Though she is very mature, Faeryn has much to learn and many changes to undergo before she can truly become a woman.

Copyright 2008 Cherise A. Do not reproduce at all without my express permission. If you like what I do, you can link to me instead.

**Note: As my story is still in the making, all names, places, and events may be subject to change.**

Chapter 1 -- Part 4

Faeryn wandered through the gardens on the west side of the palace as she waited.  She paused often in all her favorite old places, for every spot had a memory.  She had spent her childhood playing pretend in these gardens, dreaming that she was an elf or a fairy, or that she had found a wild phoenix and learned to ride it.  Beautiful memories, they were.  Back then the gardens had seemed like a fairyland in and of themselves.  Back then she would listen to the wind as it rustled through the leaves and fancied that they were speaking to her.  But, though she still loved such things, time was pushing her ever forward, and she found that this time she really had to grow up.  There could be no pretending about things that did not exist anymore.  She had to become a woman. 

            Yet Faeryn still mourned the passing of her childhood.  Strange, she thought, that I should feel this way.  Most girls can’t wait to become women.  But womanhood seemed cold and cruel still.   She didn’t want to leave the world of her imaginings.  The servants and the courtier’s wives were the only women she had ever known, and she didn’t want to become like them.  She wasn’t sure what to do, or why she felt like weeping at the thought of her womanhood ceremony.  I feel like I’m waking up to a world where I am a pawn in the game of politics, where my first duty is to marry and bear children and my second is to advise my brother, where my days must be spent doing needlework, and where my life is confined to the castle.  I dress up until I am no longer beautiful, and then I continue to powder and perfume myself even though my looks are fading, and then I die.  And for what?  I don’t want to wake up.  Maybe I am waiting for the things I dream of to come true.  Maybe I am waiting for a reason to live a real life.  But life isn’t like that.  There is no reason behind everything.  Those kinds of things belong in fairy tales, and I just have to accept that.  But she couldn’t.  She envied the men, who got to hunt and fight and rule.  They got to take part in things that were actually real, instead of being stuck indoors all day, dressing and acting in such a way as to fool the world into thinking you were the perfect person and frittering away time doing things that didn’t matter.  Womanhood seemed to Faeryn to be another sort of pretending.  I am transitioning from one form of pretending to another that is cruel, and all I want is something to be real. 

She came at last to her favorite tree, which stood right next a place in the wall that was overgrown with ivy.  Many a day in years past she had climbed up into the tree with her notebook to be alone and write poetry.  She wondered briefly if she could climb it now.  Immediately her mind rose up and protested, reminding her of the trouble that would be caused if someone saw her, but as she glanced around the gardens she saw no one.  Quickly she tied up her long skirts, and, looking around again just to make sure there really was no one around, she leapt between the tree and the wall.  The ivy that grew there was so thick that it could support her weight, so she carefully clambered up it until she reached the lowest branch, which she grabbed onto and proceeded to go from branch to branch until she reached her favorite spot, and found it just as she had remembered it.  At this point the branches curved around to make a sort of chair, just perfect for writing and thinking. 

Faeryn settled herself in her spot, glad to have arrived without mishap, and gave herself up to her memories of the place.  It was here that she had written her first poem, not a very impressive thing, to be sure, but she had been proud of it just the same.  Many poems had followed after it, inspired by nature and the elements, and the beauty of everyday life.  Ah, poetry…Faeryn regretted that she hadn’t brought her book up here with her.  It had been a long time since she had written anything, and she missed doing it. 

She wished to stay here forever, watching the sunlight waft through the leaves, listening to the breeze as it danced through the trees, and letting the sound of the little waterfall below her flow into her ears.  If she twisted around a little she could look down and see the little pool that the waterfall emptied into.  Nearly everything was as she would wish it.  This was how she imagined the mountains, full of beauty and openness and life, without the bustle of people or the formality of the court.  When she was here, in her favorite spot, a feeling of peace would always wash over her, and Faeryn thought it reminded her of her mother – or at least what little she remembered of her.  

            As she was thinking this, she heard a faint voice in the distance.  Could it be that it was calling her name?  She listened, and heard the voice again, louder this time, calling, “My lady Faeryn!  Faeryn Aenara!  My lady!”

            Faeryn pushed aside the leaves and saw a page coming down the walk, calling her name repeatedly.  As he came closer Faeryn held her breath and tried not to rustle the leaves.  She hoped fervently that he would not see her deep blue dress and find her.  A member of the royal family up in a tree would be the topic of gossip for the next year if a servant with a loose happened to notice the occurrence.  Finally he turned a corner and started walking away from her, and she scrambled down as quickly yet as quietly as she could, pounded by fears of being discovered or her dress tearing.  Luckily neither of these things happened, and when she was safely back on the path she answered the page’s calling.  He came running, but though he had a quizzical look on his face, he did not break formality by asking a question of a superior.  For once, Faeryn was glad of the custom.  The page quickly stated that he had been sent by Chancellor Rendreik to inform her that Byerron would now appear again before the king, and then he turned to lead her back to the Great Hall.  Faeryn fell into step behind to page, discreetly trying to smooth her hair as they approached the castle. 

Copyright 2008 Cherise A. Do not reproduce at all without my express permission. If you like what I do, you can link to me instead.

**Note: As my story is still in the making, all names, places, and events may be subject to change.**

 Chapter 1 - Part 3

          The door at the end of the hall slammed once again, and in strode the doorkeeper followed by a tall, broad-shouldered man in a long dirty cloak and heavy boots.  His hair was short, unusual in Orotaek, and from where Faeryn stood she couldn’t make out the color of the man’s hair.  He walked calmly but determinedly across the great expanse of the hall in huge, heavy strides that echoed off the walls.  When he came near to where Faeryn was standing and she could make out his face, she couldn’t help but notice his large, wildly blue eyes, which radiated a power and a passion that Faeryn had never seen before.  “Byerron,” she whispered to herself, trying it out and deciding that it fit the man splendidly.  Here, she thought, is a man to rival my father.  I wonder what he has to say.

            Byerron stopped at a respectful distance from the throne and waited for the doorkeeper to announce him.  The king, however, did not wait, but commented immediately;

            “I see that you didn’t bother to bathe before you came here.  Most people do, you know.”

            Faeryn felt sorry for the man, wishing he hadn’t been criticized by the king right from the start, but Byerron didn’t seem at all bothered by it.  (She decided later that he had probably received similar comments the other times he had visited.)  He opened his mouth to say whatever it was he had to say, but the king cut him off.

            “No,” he said.  “This really won’t do, Byerron.  Doorkeeper, take him and have him cleaned off and give him some clean clothes, and then I will listen to what he has to say.”

            Byerron shut his mouth and reluctantly followed the doorkeeper back across the hall, making just as much – if not more – noise with his great black boots.

            Faeryn felt rather impatient.  How could her father put off the encounter any longer?  She wanted to know more about this odd stranger, and she wondered how long it would take him to clean himself and get dressed.  Anyhow, now that he was gone she would have to try to refocus on her lesson, and she was sure that she didn’t really want to.

            She must have sighed a little, because Rendreik looked up at her and decided that he would get no more real concentration from Faeryn and that their lessons were over for the day.  As he closed the books he said, “you are released.  We will have no more study for the day.”

            Faeryn was glad for the break, but she realized that her lessons were her only free pass into the great hall.  Unless she was with Rendreik, she would not be able to see what happened when Byerron came back to speak to the king.  She opened her mouth, torn between voicing a thank-you or a complaint, but Rendreik whispered;

            “I will find a way to get you back in here when Byerron comes back.  He’s quite a man, and I would hate for you to miss this chance to see him.” 

            Faeryn could have hugged the old man, but, as that gesture went against the rules of court formality, she merely smiled and nodded her thanks as she turned to leave.

Copyright 2008 Cherise A. Do not reproduce at all without my express permission. If you like what I do, you can link to me instead.

**Note:  As my story is still in the making, all names, places, and events may be subject to change.**

Chapter One – Part 2

            Chancellor Rendreik watched as Faeryn approached him from the opposite end of the Lower Hall.  He was glad to be able to tutor such a lovely and brilliant young girl in the things he loved best.  Faeryn never made it too hard for him to communicate to her the points he tried to teach her in their lessons.  He ran his fingers through his white hair, pondering on the fact that her Womanhood Ceremony was not far away, and that their lessons would soon come to an end.  He would miss seeing her so often; he had never had any children, but if he had he would have realized that she was like a daughter to him, and that she trusted him as a child would trust her father.  Since her own father was distant from her, she often confided to Rendreik her deepest emotions, and he was able to guide her in straight directions.

“Thank you for coming to see me today, my Lady Faeryn Aenara,” Chancellor Rendreik greeted his student.          

“Thank you for having me, Lord Rendreik Chancelloran,” Faeryn said, returning the formal greeting.  Though Chancellor Rendreik was close to her, during her lessons with him they were required to follow the formal rules of speech and conduct.

“There have been many interesting matters of state that I want to discuss with you, occurances that are perfect for teaching you more about how to rule a kingdom.”

“I thank you again, my Lord Rendreik, but may I venture to wonder why my father would have me learn how to rule if I shall never wear the crown?”

The chancellor paused to consider how best to answer.  “Let me suggest to you, my Lady Faeryn, that since you may one day be your brother’s advisor it would be best to have a knowledge of what would be his best course of action.  And, in times of war, you may be called upon to rule while your brother is overseeing the army.”

            Faeryn thought about that for a moment.  “I consider your advice with great pleasure, my lord, and I am grateful for this courtesy you show me by bestowing it.”

            “You are a wise one, my lady.  Now, today we will be looking over the census records, which are kept in the Great Hall.  Come this way.” 

They went through a large oaken door into the Great Hall, which served as a throne room.  The Great Hall was truly a breathtaking marvel, the walls and great columns that lined them being made of pure white marble and hung with richly embroidered tapestries, nearly twenty-five or thirty feet in length, in all manner of blues and greens.  Upon the whole back wall behind the throne was a carving of the Battle of Tsirmhost, with men and horses in a fevered skirmish.  The ceiling arched high above, painted with a scene from Orotaekian mythology.  The pillars on each side of the hall were etched with tiny lines depicting Eranhart the Bold, first ruler of the land, aforesaid king’s victory over the Cariens, and the Orotaekian landscape, all bordered by vines and ornate flowers.  The hall and the pillars had been built by the first Eranhart nearly 300 years before, the tapestries were added by his son, the second Eranhart (and repaired by subsequent rulers), and the carvings were commissioned by Laencastere the first, only 40 years before.  The third king by the name of Laencastere, Faeryn’s father, now sat upon the gilded throne at the far end of the hall. 

One would think that the whole Great Hall had been inspired by this man, for he truly looked the part of a king.  His face was noble and regal, with shoulder-length golden hair and a flowing golden beard rolling over his breast.  He was somewhat young for a man who had two grown children, and not a gray hair marred the depth of the gold on his head. His brown eyes were sharp, but not hard, and he looked to be the picture of justice.  He wasn’t as fitful and ill-tempered as other kings had been, and he preferred to turn a cold shoulder than burst out in rage.  Unmatched was he in his command of men.  People often joked that if he commanded his soldiers to wear dresses for a day they would all do it without blinking.  Faeryn was proud to have him for a father, though she barely knew him. 

Courtiers stood between the pillars and around the throne, discussing the business of state while consulting books that lay on tables around the hall.  The chancellor directed Faeryn over to one of these tables.

“Here, my lady, are all the records from the last census, just taken during this last harvest.  All of the people in the kingdom and their possessions have been accounted for.  Now, on the left side of the page, we have the last name of the family and the number of persons in the household…”

As they were speaking, the door at the far end of the hall slammed open and shut and the doorkeeper strode quickly across the whole length of the hall to whisper something to the king.

            “Well,” said the king in his loud, booming manner of speaking, “why do you tell me of this?  Surely he is just a beggar, desiring food and shelter?  This is not a matter for the king to be concerned with.”

            Faeryn ceased listening to whatever it was Rendreik was lecturing her on to listen as the doorkeeper answered, “But, my Lord King, the man specifically asked to see you.  He says he has something of great importance to say to you. And – I think he really means it.”

            “Why?” Laencastere was losing his patience, and he had adopted the tone best suited to frighten the doorkeeper.  “Why do you think this?”

            “Because, sire,” replied the thoroughly frightened doorkeeper, “he threatened to knife the page that answered the door unless his presence was reported to you.”

            Laencastere’s sharp brown eyes turned thoughtful for a moment.  “Did this man say his name?” he asked at last.

            “He said his name was Byerron, my Lord.”

            Laencastere leaned back in his chair.  “I thought as much,” he said.  “Send him in immediately.”

            “But sire – “

            “Immediately!!!”

            The doorkeeper ran off to do as the king bid. 

            Faeryn turned to apologize to Chancellor Rendreik for not listing to his lecture, and found that he had also been paying attention to the doorkeeper’s discourse with the king.

            “Byerron,” he remarked, half to himself.  “I figured he would turn up again about now.”

            “Who is he?” Faeryn asked.

            “He…well, I don’t think I could give you a fair description of him.  You shall see him for yourself soon enough.  But now, as I was saying about the census…”

            Faeryn forced her mind to return to the affairs of state, away from the thought of the unusual man who was to be granted an audience with the king.