cabinet close to his desk. “In there, there’s a small
checks game, if you’re up for a quickie?” His constant
promiscuous tone seemed to warm her.
“Very well,” she stood. As she set the game up, she
slowly lowered herself onto the chair. “So, tell me
more, about the real you, not The Commander, but
Xencliff Harris.” Her curiosity clearly was not
satisfied.
Harris gave a quick flicker of his eyes towards her;
he could not help his smile growing as he began the
game. “I lost my father to the murk, or the black. It
was at the same time an army was passing through,
they took our farm, my father died in the flames, my
mother escaped with me and my brother.” His voice
was honest, but he was still holding back.
“Apologies, it’s a horrid thing to hear,” Branwen
sympathetically said.
“Well, before that he was a man of many trades,”
he beamed as he spoke of his father. “He was a
leatherworker, blacksmith, cook, one of the best, but
he had a powerful way with words, he could twist
anyone into thinking he was the best at what he did,
and I learned from the best.”
Branwen looked to the board, checks, a game of
tactics, she could see she was clearly winning. “And
your mother?” Her eyes remained fixed on the board,
but Harris, his eyes remained fixed on Branwen.
His tone lowered, the enthusiasm was gone, as he
replied, “I loved her dearly, she did everything right,
she was a force, still is.”
“You mean love?” She finally broke her gaze with
the board, giving a quick glance towards him, her lips
parted with concentration.
Harris slowly nodded. “I did, you know of Riah
Chen Lu.”
Branwen gave a low nod, “I have heard her
passion many times from the mouth of my mother,
she has a way with words,” she was attempting to be
kind, knowing that Riah was known to be overly
abrupt at times.
“My mother met him following my father’s death,
my brother and I were young, she needed to make a
choice.” Harris seemed unfeeling, he seemed to
distance himself from his mother’s decision. “When
Odalis was old enough to join the war he left, I had
nine years in the cliffs of the Xencliff palace. The
place was pleasing enough, but I didn’t want that life,”
he softly said.
“Palace life can be hard,” Branwen sympathetically
uttered.
Harris shook his head. “No that was the easy part,
the hard part was being me, in a place where you had
to be someone else, I wanted pleasant conversation,
but they just wanted pleasing, I learned a lot from
them, but never spoke much.” His constant attitude of
truthfulness seemed to draw Branwen closer to him. “I
didn’t care for the violence in taverns, the constant
flowing of bodily fluids,” he gave a loud sigh, “until I
left, then I realise it had changed me, I enjoy passion
and pleasing. I take after my mother, I’m sure you’ve
heard she is like a lit fire, with hot oil poured on. All I
wanted was a bit of conversation, just being myself.”
Harris gave a slow blink. “That is what keeps them
coming back,” he reached for his check, “one thing
that always shocks people, is that they call me
dangerous, even though I have risked my life for
thousands.” His eyes remained fixed on her soft, pale
skin. “I respect people, I respect women, I am a
protector, that is why your mother chose me.” As
quick as the game had started, Harris placed his last
check down. “I win,” he said with a growing smile.
“That’s not fair,” argued Branwen, “I was
distracted by your story, I demand a rematch.”
Harris set the board again. “Distraction is a friend
of any commander.” He enjoyed her company, but he
also enjoyed the conversation. The smell of her sweet
lavender and vanilla hand rub reminded him of
nothing, it would forever remind him of the caring
nurse, who through all the odds, saved his life and his
pride.
He had watched her each day; she would have
most of her duties finished within an hour. Tenderly
dressing his wounds would be his favourite part of
each day, taking breakfast and dining together was his
second favourite. Where it not for Branwen, he would
have succumbed to boredom long ago.
She was noticeably different; her youth kept an
innocence within her. He would watch as she drifted
through the room, cleaning and caring. Everything
about Branwen seemed to draw him closer in. He
could not think of what she was doing to him, a feeling
he had for her confused him, she did not want
anything from him, she expected nothing from him.
The pleasant conversation as the days had drifted on
seemed to keep him grounded. Sitting and sifting
through letters of war, Branwen had taken the time to
listen to all he had to say, she did not judge him, she
would ask if any questions arose of his integrity.
The evening was clear in Cronnin, the palace was
alive with talk from the kitchens. Gethen, head cook at
the palace, was still cleaning the oven from the
evenings feast.
“Takes about a quart turn, getting from Draco, it’s
not easy for the dragons now,” he said with a tone of
regret. His undercooks continued to prepare for the
morning’s breakfast. “Whatever that girl brings, it’s
going to take the world by storm.”
“Still, the council are talking,” said Emma as she
cleared the plates from the middle table. The kitchens
were huge, but given the amount they needed to feed,
they needed all the space possible. “I heard Connor
saying that she’s being sent to Bourellis.” She gave a
low nod.
Gethen furrowed his brow. “Why Bourellis?”
“Because that is where the child will be better off,
with her own kind, she ain’t going to learn nothing
here,” Emma sneered.
“She’s almost finished the shelves of the king’s
library,” said Mord as she walked into the kitchens.
She stood straight and held her hands to the front of
her. She had noticed that the staff were not willing to
talk while she was there.
Emma gave an awkward look. “She’s a clever little
one.”
“Yes, she is,” replied Mord, she could feel that the
atmosphere had changed. “Bourellis won’t help
though, I have heard that Brenin is trying his best to
get it stopped. It isn’t the councils place to tell the girl
where she will go, she’s Brenin’s ward, it’s up to him.”
“So, the council are pushing for this?” asked
Gethen as he stopped scrubbing and turned to Mord.
Mord gave a quick nod. “They are, I’ve been told
not to say anything,” Mord whispered, “but, Librye is
having private tuition from the dragons, as you know
she has been with Egan, the thunder are waiting for
him, but still they refuse to join the war.”
“It would be over in a turn if they did,” said
Gethen with a disapproving tone.
“I agree,” said Mord, she gave a heavy sigh,
“hopefully, the scroll that Brenin found could provide
some answers.”
“Perhaps,” replied Emma, “but these are difficult
times, we need to be looking out for each other,
especially children.”
The night-time gardens were particularly pleasing
that night, a light snow had begun to settle. Librye had
spent the entire day with the wolves. Brenin had long
ago retired to his room.
“The hour is late,” warned Dane as he stepped
from the side of the kennels.
Looking up, Librye begged, “Please can I stay, I
don’t feel tired.”
Dane laughed; her tired looking eyes told him
different. “I cannot tell you that. I did hear you talking
to Egan though, about the stars, perhaps you could
spend the rest of the night talking to those?” He
looked up to see the speckled skies sparkling above,
the eerie silence in the skies sent a cold winter shiver
through him.
Librye’s smile grew, she stood from the side of the
wolves who looked giant beside her. “That is a
wonderful idea.”
Making her way towards the snow-covered path,
Dane followed her back, making sure she was safe, the
moment he could clearly see the guards by the door,
he stopped allowing her to go alone. Librye stopped at
the fountain and sat. She looked up to the tiny,
glittering stars, peace flooded her mind, suddenly,
whispers began to surround her. From the side of her
she heard the whisper of her name being called,
‘Librye.’
She closed her eyes, her head pointed to the stars.
‘I’m here,’ she thought in her mind, sending her
whisper back.
‘It was a pleasure meeting you today,’ said the
whisper of Egan. ‘I hope to see you again soon.’
‘Tomorrow? I will wait for you in the gardens.’
She heard a rumbling laugh from Egan. ‘We must
return, my thunder has had a long journey; we are
needed in Draco.’
Librye felt a sinking pain, deep in the pit of her
stomach. ‘Please don’t go.’
‘I will see you when the world is ready for the
dragons return, my Librye.’
‘The world is ready for you now,’ she begged.
‘The world is not yet ready,’ he said with a
regretful whisper. ‘Our lands will one day be united,
but that is when the next prophecy is found,’ his
whispers became dull.
‘Where is the prophecy?’
‘It isn’t a question of where, it is a question, of
who,’ said Egan with a tone of mystical wonder.
Librye shrugged her shoulders. ‘Who then?’
‘Listen to the stars, become the writer of destiny,
now, go inside, Mord will be searching for you.’ The
whispers ended; the stars were silent. Librye opened
her eyes and looked to the porch. Mord stood on the
porch waving to her. Librye ran inside.
Egan waited in the vast expanse of the Grenhilda
valley, lighting a fire on a small ridge he waited for the
thunder to join him. A rush of wind came from
behind him as he relaxed on the grassy ridge.
“We return at dawn,” came the echoing voice of
Egan as the others approached.
“What of the girl?” asked Kayda as she walked
towards him. She asked with a tone of wonder, “Is she
remarkable?”
Egan replied with a deep whisper, “And then
some.”
Kayda seemed beside herself with an
overwhelming happiness. “Then she is the one?”
Egan slowly shook his head. “Apologies, Kayda,
she is the one to begin, the other is yet to be found,”
her head dropped in sadness, “but she is remarkable,
she is without doubt the beginning.”
His attempt to reassure her seemed to fall on deaf
ears. “I have waited for forty-five years, forgive me if I
am a little impatient.”
Egan stepped towards her. “You have my fury, and
your mother’s patience, another twenty years will
make no difference,” he lovingly said as he looked
towards her.
The dragons held many secrets, passing their
messages through the whispers in the stars, their power
was easily heard, but only by one. Stood on the
balcony in her room, the silk curtains bellowed
around Librye as she looked to the stars. ‘She is
remarkable,’ she heard the stars whisper. ‘We return
at dawn and watch from our lands.’
Mord stepped into the room, she held her arms
tight around her waist.
“Librye,” she gasped, “it’s so cold in here, come
away from there,” she insisted as she pulled her inside.
“It’s late, you’ve had a long day, you need your rest,”
she guided her into the room. Pulling the sheets back
she waited for Librye to get into bed, “every day is a
busy day for you,” she said with a smile. Mord began
to close the doors to the balcony.
Librye held her lasting smile. “I know, that’s how I
like it.” With that Librye turned over and drifted off.
Her ever growing need to learn was beginning to
need some form of tutoring, but she was not the one
to do that.
A crisp winter morning awaited Brenin as he woke.
Making his way towards his chambers, he had again
been beaten there.
“Good morning,” greeted Librye, sat on the stairs
to the mezzanine. She had now started on the bottom
bookcases.
With a deep baritone voice, Brenin replied,
“Good morning, Heart.”
“The pigeon carrier has just left,” said Librye as
she stood. She watched as Brenin pushed the
messages to one side, having not yet gotten through his
previous ones. “No!” she called seemingly panicked.
Brenin looked up, his brow drew in as he looked to
her. Librye ran as fast as she could towards his desk.
She frantically searched his desk. Finally, she found
the small, battered scroll she was looking for. “This
one,” she held it in her tiny hand towards him.
Brenin was utterly bemused as he took the scroll.
“What is this?”
Librye took a step back. “It’s bad news, but it’s
news you need to know.” She took another step back,
and another. “Open it.”
Slowly, Brenin took the ring from the scroll and
unrolled it, a small piece of battered paper, which had
reached him by pigeon, delivered the worst news
possible. His eyes turned to a look of defeat as he read
the note, his smile withered and died. This was no
longer a good morning at all.
�
��Damn,” he whispered, he tried hard to keep his
temper in, but he failed, his hands shook, his face
turned red, he shouted, “Damn!” Librye stood back.
Brenin saw her jump. “Apologies, Heart.”
Harris was Brenin’s chance to get a hold of the
war; now injured, Brenin had lost his chance, his
champion of war had failed. The news had reached
Brenin of Harris’s injury.
‘I have suffered a slight setback,’ the letter read,
‘worry not, for I am being cared for, yet I do feel this
could set Marrion back a few turns. The injuries easily
could have ended me, yet I still fight on.’
Brenin was not satisfied in knowing Harris came so
close to death. Relying on one man was not something
Brenin ever expected himself to do, yet as he thought
of Harris’s dilemma, he began to rely strongly on the
success of a single man, without even realising he was
doing it.
Harris was bored. He was not the kind of man to
remain locked in, regardless of whether his body had
healed, he needed out. Limping in his chambers,
Harris waited for his reply from Brenin, for three days
he waited, but nothing. Harris needed to get back out,
he needed to continue his war.
Stood upon the plateau, Harris watched as the
battle raged below him. He had taken charge of his
machines.
“Hold!” he called in a deep voice. He raised his
left arm; his right arm was still difficult to move. “Pull!”
he called as he slammed his arm down. His eyes
widened as he watched the flaming boulder pound the
Atlanti army below. His smile grew to a frenzied look
of pleasure. “Reload!” he called. He moved towards
the second of five of his machines. Again, he called
their orders. Those loading were exhausted from an
entire day of lifting the mighty stones onto the
catapults. “Please, Sire, just a few moments,” panted
one of the soldiers as he struggled with the others to
lift the large poles for the ballistae.
Harris pounded towards them. He pointed
towards the field.
“Where is their break?” he screamed at them, “no,
you can rest when your dead, now load!”
An audible sigh was heard. “They aren’t even
hitting any of them,” complained one of them.
Harris looked to him with a furrowed brow, as if
the soldier were completely idiotic. “The poles are not