Chapter 2 "Petals"

Kathio walked with Pen beside her. She’d long since begun to feel worried about the strange movement among the grass at every side of the beaten track and she wondered about who could have beaten the track in the first place. Far ahead was the tall tower and they seamed to walking in a straight path that would pass it. Thargon had told her the journey would take a week and the tower was a half way point.
Peak was right about the days of three hours each, but after that it was just night. The land was so wide and flat she could see all the way across the canyon and could finally appreciate how high the cliff had to be to block so much light on such a vast land. They were in the second day and had found exactly how light was taken for granted as it was nearly impossible to travel in the darkness, yet they did so. The darkness was not like the nights in the river lands- where the sky would turn black and there would be stars.
The land was dimly lit until true night fell and they knew it was time to sleep. During the days, she could see her footing but it was like it was day and the curtains were shut and the distance she had to walk to open them was not worth the effort. They could see the sky; it was blue but seamed somewhat dimmed by the invisibility of the sun.
When the light came, the flat lands before of her looked dark green and black, still. There was a thicket around the base of the tower, which was made of white stone. She hadn’t expected the tower to seam so light, even in the sun, as she’d expected something dark and grave. There was nothing more beautiful in the entire expanse of the planes, but she knew that the dark would come and the tower would be black again.
She remembered one of the nights when old Morgan came to tell a story of his ventures in the huge room where the fire was lit, the communal hall of the village. She remembered how he was sat at the level of all the children, on the floor, despite his age. She remembered his wrinkled face being half light and half shadow where he sat next to the fire, facing all of the children of the village.
She’d admired him, but never wanted to be like him though her father was going to teach her how to use all of the same skills such as sword play. Old Morgan would tell tales of the beautiful elfen people of Tir’Heulwen, with their flowing blond hair and blue eyes the colour of the sky in the spring- not the darker colour of the summer- or eyes the colour of thick ice. She fantasised about herself being a beautiful princess of those distant lands with hair past her waste, wearing a long white dress and walking through a tall forest with pointed ears, a delicate touch and soft mauve eyes.
That dream was flattened by her father. “Those are enemies of ours; don’t give the children ideas that those people are good people. The people of that Tir have a very different idea of what is right or wrong. They don’t punish their criminals, they exalt them!” He said as his frown deepened into the bridge of his nose.
“I see… you would rather me give the children nightmares tonight?” Old Morgan laughed.
There was an excited gasp among the children and giggles rang out among them.
“It seams they’ve already chosen, they wish for me to tell them a dark, dark tale of another race from afar… Shall I tell more of TirHeulwen, children?” He guided them for their answer with the tone of his voice.
They all shook their head glumly and protested. “No… can we hear a new story, Mr?” Pen insisted.
“You want to hear another story? Who wants to choose a place? You, Pen?” He looked at her and his influence over the children was the kind that adults couldn’t see anymore but he was telling them what he wanted them to say if they wanted to hear the most exciting stories.
Pen shook her head and looked back at the ground.
His eyes moved to Kathio, who was playing with the ends of her golden hair. When she realised she was being stared at she lifted her head and glared back with her cobalt eyes glinting in the torchlight. He seamed impressed by her defiance. “Would you like to choose a story, Thio?” He asked.
She nodded.
“Where would you like to hear about?” He looked at her more carefully, but this was one little girl he couldn’t control.
“Somewhere farther away than TirHeulwen… but not too far… Because we can’t go there if it is too far away…” She said childishly and he grinned at her innocence.
“You can go anywhere in the world if you know how to travel there… but TirHeulwen is very, very far away.”
“No it isn’t.” She said bravely.
“Oh?” He looked amused.
“I’ve seen it on a map; it’s right next door to us, to TirAvon.” She said. “That’s why we’re enemies, which is silly really because everyone in the village is friends with the people next door to them but we can’t be friends with the people who live in the country next to us.”
“I see.” He looked up at her father. “Your girls are intelligent young things, MazhOh. You should be proud of them, as you are of your son.”
“My daughters are a pain!” MazhOh laughed.
“As you wish… I shall tell you a dark tale of somewhere named TirIs… though TirIs is a vast land and I shall only tell a tale of a place named TirDu, but the people are the same.
“All across TirIs are the people of the Is, they are similar to the people of TirHeulwen. They have pointed ears and they are descendants of the elves, but they are known as serpent elves. These elves have skin the colour of the sky and hair, raven black, the colour of aged copper or blood red… but in these areas it is dark green-blue. Their skin is dark and their teeth are whiter than any other race’s teeth. They are strange creatures and keep themselves secret.
“There’s a tower in the middle of the land of TirDu, where she sun does not shine. It is made of black rocks and reaches for the sky it may never touch. In the tower live the people of TirDu. I’m lucky to ever have known them, for they kill all trespassers and despise all that don’t share their temperament and ideas of punishment…
“Their idea is that if you kill, you are killed. They believe that those who do not understand their religion should die and suffer the wrath of the Gods.”
“How are you alive, Mr Morgan?” Pen asked.
“That’s a good question, Miss Orien.” He gazed over the children again then glanced at Kathio’s father who looked reasonably disinterested. “I told them that I could be a spy for them!”
“Oooh!!!!” The children grew even more excited than before. “Mr Morgan! Mr Morgan!”
He laughed. “They let me in as I could tell them all about you children!”
There was little of a story in it, but it was a telling of a people that Kathio had grown to understand was just a way of getting her father off his tail. MazhOh always had a way of picking on Morgan’s stories and particularly hated the ones of romance and war, such as the one of the white warriors near Breet.
“Only tell the children true stories!” He’d objected.
“That’s as I intend to do.” Morgan reasoned where he sat.
MazhOh shook his. “There’s no love in war!”
“Do you not believe me?” Morgan looked surprised, yet roguish. “I tell them true stories of Breet… where I used to fight along side Captain Bran who’s’ real name is Prince Wyragrec.” He turned his attention back to the children. “Captain Bran once fought a battle that could not be won!”
“Oh nonsense!” Kathio’s father protested again, but resumed drinking his ale with no fuss and a grin on his face as he listened.
“Bran was the captain of a grand army indeed, and he was very loyal to the King KalonDu. He was a man that no other man could ever defy or deny any of his orders, with his grey eyes that could stare giants into pixies. He was brave and always protected his people.
“Captain Bran was fighting the white warriors, a race with no identifiable features, no mercy, no flaws, no names and no loss until the day they skirmished in a small town in the mountains of the unclaimed planes.
“Bran’s army had combined with those of Lord Emyr and Lord Sinsir to make an even bigger army. They were on the retreat and met a dead end in the village of Trefac’h. There was a lake as large as the entire river lands, and the cliff walls as high as the walls of the castle here.
“The night before the two sides met, Bran had a dream in which the four guardianesses of this realm told him of a fate. They showed him that there would be one who could show him his true way. They told him that his cousin was only on the thrown for a lie that had been told and that there would be one who could show him, and all of Breet, that the lie was but a lie. They told him that this one person could bring the rightful king to the thrown and that it was essential that Bran would protect this person for the protection of the kingdom of Breet.
“He said that KalonDu, his cousin, was rightfully king and there was no way that there could have been a lie. He told them that they should leave him be, he refused the mission they set to him to protect this one they refused to name.
“They showed him a vision, a woman dressed in white on a silk sheet of green leaves. Her hair flowed down her back, she was a woman of Breet with a thin nose and defined chin. Her hair was long, pale, pale blond and her eyes were the colour of the sky in spring. Her skin was delicate and white. Then, suddenly, the sheet was torn through by the sword of a white warrior.
“He stared angrily at the four guardionesses. He was furious that they should let the white warriors be so disrespectful and they replied with “but it is you who lets them be so, Bran.” The image faded and left Bran alone in the dark, before he awoke.
“That day, they were attacked. They believed that these fighters were going to kill them as their blows could not harm them, yet they wounded many of Bran’s men. However, in the skirmish, no man was killed but a white warrior was captured.
“The warriors all dressed exactly the same, unalike to the warriors of TirAvon who wear many different types of armours and many different cloaks and carry different weapons. They wore silver armour, silver masks, white cloaks with hoods and cloaks. Their masks revealed nothing of their race or heritage. These creatures were thin, tall beasts with a silent step. If one was standing behind you, you wouldn’t hear him until his stroke fell! Pao!”
The children jumped and gave little squeaks. They giggled for a while then resumed listening intently.
“Bran didn’t feel he wanted for his cousin to be removed from the thrown, he was loyal to him, so, very deep in his heart, he felt he wanted to let their prisoner escape. However, his loyalty to his king told him that this was the prisoner the king wanted to see. Bran could have killed the prisoner but he didn’t want to because of that deep, deep feeling that he needed to let this story run and let the woman with the eyes like the spring skies die as she would bring Breet to a different end, perhaps a bad end.
“He felt guilt, for his responsibility was to serve the four guardianesses whether it was official or not. He knew that he would have to do their bidding so he would have to hold on to this prisoner until he knew what to do and he knew the guardianesses would show him what needed to be done.”
“Why didn’t he take off the mask?” Pen asked. To her, it was pure common sense and didn’t need thinking about to be done.
“It would be disrespectful and some had tried. Y’see, when the warrior awoke, he was tied to a post with three feet of chain for him to move around. He didn’t like that at all. He looked around at those who surrounded him and a man was about to reach for his mask when
“Wham! The man found himself on the floor and that’s when it started. They’d thought this warrior was unarmed, but all of a sudden he had a silver dagger and another. One for each hand! There were thir-“
“Quiet, Morgan.” Said a woman at the sides.
He craned his neck to see who it was. “Oh… Dwrgi.” A grin spread across his face and he could have been but twenty years old.
“These are children; they don’t need to hear that story.” She told him in a soft voice.
“Should I tell another? I am attempting to show them that love can happen during a war.”
“Don’t tell that story…”
“There is another I could tell… about a young man, a young poet, who found himself mixed up with the very same war.”
She laughed. “Learn this, young children. Love can happen anywhere but that doesn’t mean that you will find it everywhere you go and don’t assume that, because of the stories my good friend tells you, you will find love in exactly the same way. Not every man who saves your life will be your true love. Love can be rare, very rare. Some people may never find it.”
“Do you believe that?” Morgan looked at her and his command over the children forced them to look at her, also.
“I do believe it. But the story goes on… Leave out the parts that aren’t good for the ears of children.”
“You’re such a cynic, Dwrgi.”
This was the story Kathio knew had to be myth. She knew this story couldn’t possibly be true. It was of a power so great that there was no reckoning with it, a power that could only be unlocked by love and fate. She didn’t believe in fate. She believed everything was as simple as it was; she didn’t hate the idea of fate but she didn’t believe in it. Fate was for the stories that she so enjoyed listening to. She did not believe in ‘true love’; it seamed a bit overrated and she believed in politics and there was no room for someone to ‘fall in love’ and forget their duty. It could not fit in the real world.
The story was of a woman who hid her identity to stay alive long enough to avenge the deaths of her family. Fate brought to her the one man who would help her. The man was the rightful heir of a thrown and he did not know it. He was given, by fate, the person who could tell him the truth about the demise of his childhood friend and explain what really happened.
Remembering those stories reminded her of how much older Atheilel was than Pen and Kathio. Atheilel was helping in the village hall at the age of thirteen, while Kathio was five and Pen was seven years old. Thargon was fifteen, but he never attended those sessions. Kathio knew little of him.
Morgan told another tale of peoples, or mentioned them many time. These people were of a different kind, they weren’t bound by country of birth, colour of skin or eyes and hair, gift and graft or race but by their purpose.
“Even you, Kathio, might be touched by these ones some day. They are the mistresses of fate. They are the controllers of the world. They make your future by your own will and they write your wants and needs. They make the stories I tell and the stories I am going to tell.”
His eyes were fixed on her as if, out of the entire crowd of children, she was the one his words were aimed at. “They can’t tell me what to do. No one can.”
“Indeed.” He laughed again then sighed and looked over the children sitting before him. “Have I ever told you of the land of the hierarchies?...”
There were many stories that he told them, he taught them all about the world and the lessons he turned were the ones that Kathio, though reluctantly, learnt the best. However, Morgan never told anyone where he came from and the night Dwrgi breezed through was the only night they remembered that he’d come from the outside and people knew him from the outside.