See Chapter One for Disclaimers.
LEFT OF CENTER
Chapter Two
Greanne perched awkwardly atop a pile of discarded ore sacks, indulgently watching Williard primp and preen in front of a roughly polished sheet of metal. He kept up a steady stream of chatter while he moved, but the little milkmaid had heard it all before. She was well aware of his infatuation with the Crown Princess, and equally well aware that the Heir's interests definitely lay elsewhere. Williard's parents should never have told him he was destined to save the world. Having an impressive birth augury had given Williard unrealistic dreams for his future. He often expounded on them at great length.
As a result, Greanne paid him little heed. Rather than listening closely, she watched the way the muscles in his legs flexed and rolled as he moved. The smooth rippling of tight leather over his thighs and buttocks held her neatly in hypnotic thrall. As always, the big blacksmith bound her with fascination. She knew, with a surety beyond reason, that somehow they would wind up married to one another.
Never having planned to marry, she was at a loss as to how this would come to be. Gifted from birth with a touch of Foresight, it had always been assumed that she would remain virgin as did the Oracles in service to the Goddess. Even though she had too little of her "Gift" to enter the Temple, the Great Goddess was assumed to hold Greanne fast. It was a long-standing tradition that She would never grant permission for one of those She had "Touched" to marry...
Abruptly, Greanne realized that Williard was speaking directly to her, no longer merely muttering to himself.
"You know," he was saying thoughtfully, "I think I’m truly on the right path this time, Greanne. It won’t be long now, you’ll see." He turned to look at her, finally satisfied with his long golden locks and rugged good looks. "Any day now, the King will see what a…" A loud pounding on the smithy door rudely interrupted his self-absorbed train of thought.
The exquisitely pained look on his bold features caused Greanne to bite her lip in an effort to keep from laughing aloud. Mercifully, his attention was wholly focused on the door and her traitorous mirth escaped his notice. Williard had very little sense of humor where his own importance was involved.
Williard jerked open the heavy wooden door in annoyance, only to find himself standing face to face with the King’s Summoner. He stood gaping in mute astonishment as the Summoner unrolled her scroll of office and began to read in a strident monotone.
"Williard ap William, Blacksmith, you are hereby summoned to an immediate audience with the Throne. Your Sovereign Lord awaits." The iron faced Summoner snapped shut her scroll and turned abruptly on her heel, never looking to see if he followed. Williard gawked a moment longer, then scrambled after her.
Watching him go, Greanne thought that he looked much like a large hound skittering after a fat rabbit. A grave sense of foreboding overtook her, chilling her to the bone. Finding herself unaccountably frightened for him, she settled uneasily into the pile of sacks to await his safe return.
Williard was nearly breathing down the Summoner's neck by the time they reached the castle gate. Only her momentary pause to speak to the guard at the gatehouse allowed him to catch his breath and behave with more suitable dignity. A surreptitious glance at his reflection in the guard's shield assured him that his hair and face were faultless and unblemished. For the first time since dashing out of the smithy, he had a moment to wonder why the King had summoned him. Could it be that he had heard of Williard's bravery and strength? Perhaps Dariellen had finally given in to the feelings she surely harbored for him and asked her father to invite him? Williard didn't know for sure, but he had the utmost confidence that whatever the reason, it was the beginning of his ascent to glory.
"Come. The King is ready to receive you now." The Summoner's harsh voice hissed as she strode away.
Williard noted with surprise that she was heading for the formal dining hall and not the throne room. Mulling this over, he followed her rather more sedately than he had done earlier. Some decorum in the palace would be necessary in order to make the right sort of impression on his monarch. It would never do, after all, to venture into His Majesty's august presence gasping for breath.
The dining hall was nearly empty by the time the Summoner arrived with the hapless Blacksmith in tow. Besides a few scattered nobleman chatting amongst themselves at the long tables, and an old beggar by the hearth, the only diners remaining were at the Royal Table. Their entry caught the King's eye immediately, and he beckoned them forward with little pause.
The princess and her exotic companion were there, as well as the King and his most trusted advisors. While the Summoner made her introduction, Williard studied the table covertly. Dariellen paid him no attention at all, but he knew that would change as soon as she became aware of his mighty prowess. She would never be able to resist him then. Williard bowed deeply as the Summoner backed away and gave the royal party his full attention. The large and menacing guards flanking the king's chair he ignored as completely as they did him.
Dariellen watched with studied indifference as the blacksmith swaggered into the dining hall. Even from where she sat, she could see the way he was puffed full of pride. No doubt about it, the man's ego just didn't quit. She could hardly wait to see his reaction to her father's little surprise. Idly pushing her cutlery around on the table, she wondered what useless errand her father had decided to send the fool off on.
As the usual annoying formalities got underway, along with the obligatory bowing and scraping, Dari casually passed her left hand over the surface of her dessert plate. The dragon-bone spellring on her finger immediately began pulsing a dark, ominous looking shade of purple. Damn. Her enemies were at it again; they'd somehow managed to poison her sweets. Muttering dire imprecations under her breath, she reached for her goblet. When the sorcerous ring remained reassuringly neutral, she quaffed deeply. At least she wouldn't die of thirst during this interminable audience. Last time, they'd managed to ruin her wine too.
Glaramon looked distastefully at the posturing blacksmith. 'This buffoon was supposed to save his kingdom? Not bloody likely. Maybe Dari was right about him. She'd often called the smith a sorry excuse for a man.' Only years of practice kept the king's disgust from showing on his face as he addressed the man.
"You have heard of the Abominations stalking Our southern lands." The statement was obviously rhetorical, but he almost had to hurry to keep ap William from answering. "It seems as if someone has opened a Gateway. Perhaps the dread lord, Mordain." He raised an eyebrow imperiously as the beggar by the fire snorted in amusement before he continued. "An Explorer-Mage will be needed to close it. No doubt you are also familiar with the legend of Bessamer Feyl-Rin, the last Explorer-Mage."
Ignoring the uneasy stirring of the small audience, as well as the confused look on the face of the would-be hero, Glaramon allowed his sense of drama full rein. His voice deepened, filling the room with its echo. "Williard ap William, I charge you with this momentous quest. Find the heart of Bessamer Feyl; find it and bring it home. Succeed and knighthood shall be yours."
A moment of silence ensued, broken only by the hushed whispers from those few still seated at the tables. Glaramon could see indecision and fear in the expressions chasing across the face of the stunned blacksmith. Some less fleeting emotion smoothed the furrows from his brow and he finally spoke.
"By your wish, Majesty. When must I leave?" To his credit, the blacksmith managed not to stammer although his voice was just slightly higher than usual.
"By week's end at latest. If a Gateway has been opened, speed is of the essence. Seek out Chancellor Arayo at dawn tomorrow. He will see to your needs. Whatever supplies and men you require shall be yours to command." Glaramon inclined his head, rose to his feet, and swept from the room. The audience was over.
It was nearing dawn, and still an ungodly clanging came from the smithy. Williard strode from one end of the small room to the other picking up and discarding equipment at random. He could not let his king down; there was far too much at stake. This was his chance. At last he could show his monarch how valiant and worthy he was. At last he was on the road to his destiny.
Oh, he had been somewhat taken aback at first by the impossible nature of the quest set out for him. After all, Bessamer Feyl was a legend; she had lost her heart over 400 years ago. The task seemed unreasonable, the greatest mages had already tried and failed. What good did they expect a blacksmith to do?
He was stewing over the unfairness of it all when the thought hit him. The King wasn't out to destroy him; he had been sent for because he was the only one capable of completing the quest. This meant the king knew of his prowess. He was, after all, going to be the savior of the realm. Humming to himself in satisfaction, he continued gathering up equipment. All that he could supply himself he would, demanding only a pair of horses and supplies from the Crown. Surely it would do no harm, merely foster his growing reputation for greatness to demand so little.
Greanne had dozed fitfully on the lumpy pile of sacks until Williard returned. Time seemed to slow to a crawl, giving her far too great a chance to dwell on the growing fear that gnawed at her. By the time her friend finally strode through the door, her stomach felt like it was twisted in knots.
The news of Will's impending trek did little to ease her mind. In the very moment he told her he was leaving alone she was assaulted by a vision. She saw him dead in the southern wastes and knew it for a certainty. If he went alone, he would die. Pushed by an impetus she could not deny, she determined to go with him. Almost immediately the tight fear abated, relaxing muscles Greanne hadn't noticed tensing.
It had taken her hours to convince him that she should go too. He had been adamant in his desire to go alone, driven by his dreams of glory. In desperation she had cheated, playing on his ego. It had been so easy to manipulate him. Greanne had simply told him it wasn't fitting for a hero of his stature to travel without a squire, that as his best friend she was the only reasonable choice. It was weak logic at best, but it had worked. That was all that mattered.
The moment he grudgingly agreed, she had left to pack her things. Borrowing her brother's riding gear, she packed a knapsack with clothing and a few essentials, then headed back to the blacksmith's. She couldn't afford to let him change his mind. It would break her heart to lose him now. She stopped only to leave a terse note for her little sister. Jenny wouldn't understand her choice, but someone had to mind the cows while she was gone.
The Heir to the Realm sat on the edge of the bed with her head in her hands, staring morosely at the floor. She'd nearly choked on her wine when her father announced Williard's quest. She'd wanted the damn blacksmith out of the way, but she hadn't expected her father to ask the impossible of him. She'd just been hoping for a few weeks without seeing his annoying face every time she turned around.
Sending an inept blacksmith out on an unattainable quest was the stuff of legends, not of real life. What was her father thinking? Williard was apt to get himself killed out there; he didn't have a clue when it came to the real world. He'd never even left the dubious safety of the city before. Somehow, this was all her fault. She had to fix it, but how could she ask her father to rescind the quest? It would make him look like a fool.
Sunk in her self-made misery, she nearly missed deflecting the spear that came hurtling toward her through the open window casement. It didn't particularly worry her, Del would have nailed it if she hadn't. At the thought of her partner, she looked up to find the little Feyl staring at her consideringly.
"What? Is my hair purple or something? Have I grown an extra eye?" Her weak attempt at humor failed miserably, belied as it was by the pain darkening her green eyes. She couldn't forget her guilt for so much as an instant.
"Dari love," Larindel's voice was quiet, deliberately soothing. "This isn't your fault. You couldn't know what your father would ask him to do." She sat down beside Dari and put a comforting arm around her shoulders.
"But Del, its not possible… He can't do it alone, he'll die." Dari seemed to have conveniently forgotten that she'd been ready to kill him herself a few short hours earlier.
"It's not impossible, just unlikely." Del stared into space, her golden eyes vague with thought. "Bessamer Feyl. My legendary ancestor. I wish it was our quest; think how it would sound in my book."
Del had been writing her book ever since she was discharged as a temple scribe. The priests of the Great Goddess had had little patience with her penchant for embroidering history. She claimed that she was only trying to make it live; make it less boring. The priests had not been impressed. Annoyed by her summary dismissal, she had set out to write her own living history. This quest would be perfect material. This would give them an excuse, it was the perfect solution. Leaping to her feet, Dari nearly knocked a startled Del to the floor. "That's it! We won't let him go alone. We'll follow him."
"Follow him? I don't even follow you?"
"Del, don't you see? If we go along without Williard knowing, we can protect him without hurting his feelings. You can write your book, and we only have to step in if he needs us. It will be like… like taking a holiday." The big warrior was fairly dancing around the room. It was extremely undignified, but she didn't seem to care. Dashing madly about, she began throwing things at random into a pack.
"Dari? What about the kingdom? Aren't you supposed to be learning your father's routine?"
"He'll just have to manage without me for a while. This is too important for a mere blacksmith. Father will understand. Besides, this way I won't have to contend with the damn assassins for a bit. Aren't you coming? It'll be fun." Dariellen continued packing, oblivious to the dark looks her partner was shooting her.
Finally Del grabbed her pack, muttering accusingly. "You're just looking for an excuse to get out of the castle." Continuing to mumble under her breath, she deftly began organizing the items that were being packed.
As the frenzied packing began in earnest, a grey cloaked figure detached itself from the shadows outside the door. Despite a number of servants in the hallway, it's passage went unremarked.
(c) M.C. Sak 1999