The World of Terra

He sighed as he pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes and then raked his fingers through his hands. For several long minutes, he stared at his son from behind his study desk.

The boy, dressed in bright colors, flowing fabrics, and a delicate sword dangling from his left hip. He shifted from one foot to the other. He grinned broadly as he toyed, absently, with the pommel of his sword.

“What am I to do with you?” the man grumbled as he placed his palms flat on the desk.

Absently, he tilted his head and regarded his father as the amusement swept in to join his delight. “Send me to Bethsaille, sir. Allow me to bring honor to this family.”

The man’s brow furrowed deeply as he pushed himself to his feet. “Why Bethsaille?”

He gave a noncommittal gesture. “And why not? It will get me out of the house and take the attention from the family.”

His father moved around to stand before the boy. Large, strong hands fell on slender shoulders. “That’s not a good enough reason.”

The boy stood still and held the man’s gaze. “Because I’m good, sir. But I want to be better. I want to be the most powerful warmage Terra has known since Mistress Shilaley Lightwing.”

A slow sigh escaped from the man. His hand moved to the boy’s head. “If that is truly whata you desire the I will see to the arrangements. You will be a member of Bethsaille at the start of the next semester.” He stepped back, turned on his heels, and left thee room.

For several long minutes, the boy stood staring after the older man. At last, a sound of delight sliipped from his lips and he sprinted off down the corridors to his room.

As he sat in an oversized chair pouring over the pages of his latest acquizition, a knock sounded. He noted his place, turned the book onto the arm and moved to answer the door.

The boy found himself tumbling head over heels backward and slammed into the foot of his bed. He scrambled to his feet and jerked his sword from its sheath. With several gestures and a word, a translucent rainbow shield rose from the floor to surround him.

“Impressive,” his attacker muttered and fliked his wrist. Dozens of tiny blue spheres flew through the air and slammed into the boy from every direction. “But, you can do better.”

With another gesture and word, he launched his own berrage of colorful missles flew out to slam into the bigger man, rocking him back on his heels.

“Better,” he remarked. He stumbled back and brought up his blade as the boy followed his magical attack with a sword strike. “Impressive,” he rebutted and flung his fingers out wide.

A cry of dismay escaped the boy as he landed on his bed, bounced off, and hit the floor. His breath exploded from his lungs as he landed. Dark sparkles dance in front of his eyes as he struggled to retain his grasp on consciousness.

His master stood over the boy and nodded. “Not bad. We have a great deal more work to do, if you plan to enter Bethsaille for the next semester.” He turned and walked away. The door closed behind him with a soft click.

He laid there until the sky darkened. At last, he clambered to his feet and headed to the dining hall for the evening meal.

The grass rippled around her, masking her movements and hiding her dainty figure from sight. She hurried along, crouched and barefoot. Her gaze never left the pair of figures with their backs to her. A faint smile turned up the corners of her mouth as she stopped and closed her eyes to listen.

After several agonizing moments, she dropped to her knees and put her ear to the ground. Several heartbeats later, she heard footsteps moving through the grass behind her. There they are, she told herself. She scrambled forward, keeping below the grass, and took out the boy to her left.

She pulled his feet from under him and pressed her dagger to his throat. He held up his hands in silent surrender and scowled.

With a sharp nod of satisfaction, she turned her attention on his companion a few feet away. Again, she launched forward. She took him down at the knees and he quickly surrendered. His scowl was deeper than his counterpart’s.

She put her ear to the ground a second time. The pair sprinted toward her location from opposite directions. With a sly smile, she scrambled forward to her original position. A silent thanks to Lilith, their patron goddess, slipped from her lips as the pair passed within spitting distance of her.

The two found their fallen companions and shouted curses.

With a resolved nod, she skirted around behind the pair. She crept up on the boy to her right from behind. As with the first boy, she took his feet from under him with a sliding tackle. He grumbled a curse as he surrendered.

“Only one left,” she murmured as she crept forward until she could see the last boy.

He stood with his back to her, surveying his surroundings.

She sprang at him.

The boy spun as she lept forward to tackle him, and landed a solid blow to the side of her head.

A heavy grunt escaped her as she hit the ground. A quiet groan followed as darkness threatened to consume her. She pushed to her feet, then  and shook her head to clear it.

“Not bad, Kimshira,” praised a voice behind the group. “If that were anyone but Naphir you would have gotten them all.”

She rubbed the tender spot on her head and nodded. “I’ll keep that in mind for next time.”

The older woman nodded. “You should. And keep honing your skills. You’ll make an excellent scout someday.” She turned to Naphir whose chest swelled with pride. “I’m sure you’ll be a great warrior in no time.”

The boy leaned over his steed’s neck. He tightened his leg muscles as he tangled his fingers in her mane. With his free hand, he drew the sword from his left hip. It swept in a glittering arc, neatly severing the straw target in half.

He gave a sharp whistle and the mare whirled in a tight circle, charging back toward a pair of straw targets to the boy’s right. With a fluid move, he swung a leg over his mount’s neck and wrapped it around the stirrup. A blade now in each hand, he leaned out nearly parallel to the ground and burried a sword in each figure’s chest.

A second whistle had the mare whipping about once more. The boy balanced on his steed’s back as she loped between the two targets in the opposite direction. He pulled his blades free, slammed them into their sheathes, and guided his mount to stop in front of the big man who stood watching with his arms crossed firmly over his chest.

The boy tilted his head up slightly, acknowledging the observer. When no response was forthecoming, he slid from the saddle and guided his mare to the corral. There, he removed the saddle, brushed her down, gave her a bucket of oats, and turned her loose.

His blades came free of their sheathes as he turned to block the big man’s attack. He turned the single sword aside with his right-hand blade and came across from low to high with his left. He watched the fabric part and a fine line of crimson bloom as he brought the blade back to the defense.

A feral growl escaped the big man and he stumbled back several steps. He gripped the wound and put up his own weapon. A string of curses slipped from his lips and he backhanded the boy sending him tumbling head over heels into the corral fence. At that, he spun and stalked toward his tent.

The boy watched him go. After a moment, he returned his swords to their sheathes. He rubbed his jaw, now tender from the blow, and pushed himself to stand. With a series of muttered curses of his own, the boy stalked toward a group on the far side of the sprawling herd of sheep.

“Beat your pa again, Naphir?” the biggest of the group asked.

The boy growled and nodded.

“You can stay with me,” he offered. “I’m on watch until midnight.”

A look swept around the group and the other boys wandered off to see to their other responsibilities. The two were left alone with only the sound of the sheep bleating between them.

She lowered her gaze as her father and brother strode by. Reflexively she took half a step back and folded her hands behind her back.

Once the pair were farther down the corridor, she turned and continued in the diretion they had come. She raised her hand and knocked on her mother’s sewing room door. Upon instruction, she entered and gave her best court curtsy.

“Good morning, my daughter,” the woman murmured.

“Greetings, my queen,” the girl replied as she dropped down beside her mother. “You were missed at the morning meal.”

The queen glanced out her window and inclined her head slightly. “I wasn’t hungry. Thank you for your oncern.”

She sighed and shook her head. “As you will, my queen. What have we on the agenda for today?”

“We need to finish our preparations for the midwinter festival,” her mother explained. “There are still several details we need to attend to.”

“Yes, my queen,” stated the dainty princess. “I’ll see to them personally.” She stood and gave another curtsy. At that, she turned and left the room.

Two slender figures fell into step alongside her as she started toward the queen’s audiance chamber.

“How fares the queen mother?” the one on her left questioned.

“I’ll send the royal healer to see to her on our way to speak with the performers,” she explained.

The one on her right fideted with her fan. “Should we be concerned?”

The priness dismissed the comment with a wave of her hand. “I promise, all will be right with our world by the time the midwinter celebration begins.”

At that, the pair let the subject drop. They followed their priness to the queen’s audiance hall where half a dozen performers patiently awaited them. With a slight nod, she made her way to the hair beside the queen’s throne and gracefully lighted on it.

“Greetings, one and all,” the princess beamed.

“Greetings, Priness Anya,” they replied in unison.

“You are all invited to join in the festivities for this year’s midwinter celebration,” Anya declared. “You will be positioned at key loations throughout the city.”

A murmur of surprise and delight rolled through the group.

Anya did not miss the look of concern that flitted between Irina and Demetria. After a moment, she dismissed everyone with a wave of her hand. “I’ll be in touch with each of you about your performance locations.”

With a series of bows and curtsies, the group exited the audiance hall.

“What now, my princess?” Irina asked.

Anya motioned to the page boy near the door. “Send them in,” she instructed.

The boy nodded and swung the doors open wide. Several chefs and bakers strode in. After a moment of hesitation, they approached their princess.

“You are the best in the kingdom,” Anya stated. “We’d like to enlist your services to provide for the citizens of this city during the midwinter festival.”

A murmur rippled through the group. They looked to one another and nodded.

“We would be honored, my lady princess,” stated one of the chefs.

So the day passed. Anya sat next to her mother’s throne and saw to the business of the midwinter festival.

Demetria and Irina came and went.

At one point, Anya noticed her father and brother pass by the door as a group of locals departed.

The sun slipped below the horizon as the royal healer approached the princess. “You mother, the queen is resting comfortably. I gave her a breathing treatment of herbs. The cook has a separate collection of herbs to add to her teas and baked goods to speed along her healing.”

Anya inclined her head. “My thanks to you.”

He swept a bow, turned, and left.

With a heavy sigh, she rested her elbows on the arms of the chair and massaged her temples.

“You should eat, my lady princess,” Demetria stated. “The hour grows late and you have been  busy for the better part of the day.”

At that, the pair guided her to the dining hall.

He reigned in his mount, stood in the saddle, and studied the trail ahead. Something didn’t look right.

Before he could speak or identify the problem, a mounted figure raced past him.

With a squeal of delight, the young priness urged her mount faster.

“Eirny,” he shouted after her.

Too late. Part of the hill thundered down across the trail in front of the horse and rider. The horse screamed and reared.

He screamed again as she flew from the saddle and slammed her head against a rock.

A sickening crack echoed through the trees.

His stomach turned and his heart dropped. He slid from the saddle and sprinted forward.

She lay still. Too still. A dark puddle pooled around her head.

He dropped to his knees and cradled her in his arms. An unearthly wail slipped from his lips as tears streamed down his face.

After several long minutes, he scooped her up and strode back to his mount. Gently, he draped her form over the creature’s neck. With a single, fluid move, he swung up behind her and pulled her against his chest.

The ride back to Castle Beorgar seemed to take an eternity.

The castle guards greeted him at the gates. One tried to take Princess Eirny from him.

“No,” he protested, and urged the steed to the palace steps where the king and queen greeted him.

“What happened?” the queen demanded, as the royal healer took the princess’ body from him.

He shook his head frantically. “There was a mudslide. Her horse reared. I couldn’t stop her. I couldn’t save her.”

The king enfolded his son in a reassuring embrace. “It’s alright, my boy. You did what you could.”

Tears streamed down his face. He sobbed into his father’s shoulder. “I’m sorry.” 

She stood there, at her mother’s bedside, stone-faced. Dainty hands clenched in tight fists as she watched the cleric of Lucian, god of justice, draw a white sheet up over the queen’s ashen features. As a strong, reassuring hand fell on her shoulder, she spun on her heels and sprinted from the room.

“Isadora,” King Darius called after her.

Golden curls bounced wildly as she shook her head and raced down one corridor after another. At last, she skidded to a stop in front of the bubbling fountain at the center of the royal gardens. She dropped onto the cool stone edge, her delicate frame trembling. With every fiber of her being, she willed herself not to cry.

A lean figure entered the garden and stood in the shadow of the archway. He folded his arms over his chest and studied the princess.

“What would you have of my, my prince?” a voice behind him questioned.

The prince waved him off. “We leave for the Titans’ Guard immediately after Mother’s funeral.”

“Yes, my prince.”

Once certain his man was gone, the prince strode toward the fountain and plunked down beside his sister. He guided her head to rest against his shoulder. “We have to be strong, now. For father, and for our people.”

“I know,” she sniffed, still refusing to allow herself any tears. “When are you leaving?” Her steady gaze cut into him.

“I want to leave for the Titans’ Guard after the funeral,” he answered evenly.

Her head shot up and she glared at him fiercely. “Gordon, how could you?”

The prince held up his hands defensively. “I’ll be old enough within a fortnight. Father doesn’t need me getting under foot while he’s trying to help the kingdom recover from this loss. You’re far stronger than I am in this arena.”

She folded her arms over her chest and continued to glare. “Just because you’re the prince and heir to the kingdom doesn’t mean you should be running off when Father needs us both at his side.”

His eyebrows shot up. His hands raised defensively.

Isadora jumped to her feet and stomped from the gardens. She stalked to her rooms and made ready for the evening meal.

That night, the royal children sat flanking their father. Both wore dark garments.

The overall move was somber. There was little conversation. The bard strummed softly on his lute but did not sing along. No one danced after the meal. The nobles simply filtered out with nods and murmured condolences to the royal family.

Long after the staff had come and cleared the tables, Isadora sat beside her father. Straight-backed and silent, she stared off into nothingness and listened to him weep.

As the torches burned low and the magical lighting subsided, she placed a gentle hand on his arm. “Father, we should go.” Her voice was barely more than a whisper.

King Darius cleared his throat, straightened his robes, and stood. He offered his daughter his arm and the two departed the great hall.

Which way did the little rat go?” demanded the biggest of the street boys.

The shop owner motioned down the street toward the river. “Get out of here, Misha. You’ve tormented that poor halfling and his sister enough.”

He shoved his fists on his hips, stuck out his chest, and lifted his chin. “Who do you think you are telling me what to do?”

The shop owner raised a heavy fist and shook it at the band of boys. “I’m the man who’s going to thrash you if you lay a hand on him one more time.” Faster than they thought possible, his hand shot out and caught Misha by the ear.

A shout of surprise exploded from the boy’s lips. He struggled to pull free of the iron grip, to no avail. “Lemme go!”

He shoved the boy down the street. Misha stumbled off toward the river with his companions scrambling behind him.

“Thank you,” squeaked a small voice from just inside the doorway.

The big man turned back to stare the small boy squarely in the dark eyes. “You and your sister are welcome to stay with me as long as you need. I have an empty spare room that’s just your size.”

He rang his small hands together and dipped a bow. “I’m eternally grateful, Mr. Epham. What do you expect in return?”

A sly smile cracked the man’s lips. “You’re more clever than you look. I actually have a business proposition for you. My employer could use a man like you. All I ask is that you hear him out.”

The halfling boy studied the big man for several long minues. At last, he nodded his consent.

“Good lad,” Epham praised. “I’ll make sure it’s all taken care of. Now, why don’t you and Lila go on upstairs and get settled in.”

After a moment of hesitation, the halfling boy hurried around the corner and behind a stack of crates. “Come on, Lila. Mr. Epham is going to help us out.”

Round dark eyes stared up at him. She nodded slowly and allowed him to lead her into the shop and up the stairs. “What do you have to do?” Lila asked as he closed the room door behind them.

He turned back to meet her gaze. “Don’t worry about it. You’re too young to trouble yourself with such things.”

She shoved her fists on her hips and studied him carefully. “That’s nonsense. You promised you’d be honest with me, all the time, Jamien.”

He threw his hands in the air in surrender. “He just wants me to meet his boss.”

“You’re going to join a guild, aren’t you?” Her tone was acusitory.

“If that’s what I have to do to keep you safe and fed,” he left the statement unfinished.

Her big eyes grew bright with moisture. “But . . .”

He placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. “No arguements on this one, Lila.”

She threw her hands in the air in surrender.

Absolutely no,” the elf king bellowed. “I refuse to allow my daughter, any of my daughters to hold a weapon.” He slammed his fist on the table to emphasize his point.

All heads turned toward the head of the table where King Sylvanus Zephyr, Queen Aelrindel, the three princess, and two prines. The look on the elf king’s face brooked no questions.

A response formed on the girl’s lips as a figure strode into the great hall with a a bawl of laughter. “Such a somber reception for the returning prince.”

“Tarak,” the youngest princess breath, a look of relief swept over her delicate and dainty features.

King Sylvanus rose to greet his son, embracing his forearm and thumping his back.

“Queen mother,” the prince of the blood took her delicate hand and raised it to his lips as he spoke.

The queen withdrew it quickly and inclined her head slightly.

“Brothers,” Tarak stated as he turned his attention on his siblings, “sisters. Whatever is the shouting about?”

All eyes turned on the auburn-haired youngest princess.

“Father won’t let me learn to dance,” she protested and shoved her fists on her hips. “Master Murial has already offered to teach me.”

Another roar of laughter errupted from deep in the prince’s chest. “You can’t be serious? You want to learn to fight, little one?”

She stomped a fist. “Why not? I’ll never rule this kingdom. And when I’m sold off to one of our allies, it’s only practical that I know how to use a weapon.”

Tarak rasied an eyebrow. After a moment, he folded his arms over his chest and studied the halfbreed child. “The girl makes a convincing arguement, my king. Why not give her a pair of daggers and let Master Muiel see what he can do with her?”

The elf king threw his hands in the air in surrender. “Ardole preserve us.” He leveled his scowl at his eldest son. “Well, at least you’ve learned more than swordplay and bedplay in your time with the Titans’ Guard. Very wel, you take the girl to Master Muriel. I wash my hands of this entire business.”

“You’ll start a war with Debash if something happens to her,” the elf queen scolded as the half-elf girl skipped past.

“Not likely,” the girl shot back. “I’m the youngest of both houses. No one will care of if something happens to the halfbreed bastard of a lecherous nobleman and an ignorant human.”

“Kaylin,” Tarak scolded half-heartedly.

She shrugged and virtually sprinted down the corridor toward the royal armory.

It’s about time everyone heard the actual story about the time Blythe Evenstar saved Princess Isadora Whitehart for the very first time. This takes place in the capital city of Debash fourteen years before our tale begins.

The midsummer sun shone bright overhead. A petite figure sat with their feet dangling in the cool water of the river running through the center of the city. They lounged comfortably on the steps of a ladder off one of the many warfs. Overhead, half a dozen small sets of feet pounded on the wooden boards of the dock. The figure shrank back, making themself as small as possible. Slowly, they crept down the wooden rail until they were neck deep in the cool water. They watched the shadows and refecltions as the bigger children searched. At last, with a deep breath, they sank below the surface, pushed off, and struck out toward the center.

As the child neared the center of the bridge, they broke the surface. Only their head, nose, and mouth were visible. They treaded water and sucked in another breath.

Overhead, a horse screamed. A shout and a girl’s scream followed.

Something splashed into the river right beside the child. With a deep breath, they dove beneath the surface and opened their eyes.

A flailing figure in layers of skirts sank rapidly.

The child kicked and pulled. At last, they caught a hand, pushed off the muddy riverbed, and kicked with all their strength. They looked up to see the surface within reach.

As their passenger broke the surface, there was no sound. The child looked back to see an unconscious figure. They turned onto their back, held the girl against their chest, and kicked toward the nearest docks.

Many hands grabbed the unconscious form from the child. As others reached for the child, they paddled just out of reach. They watched as the girl woke, sputtering and coughing up water.

Blue eyes met emerald orbs. “You saved me,” the girl declared.

The child glanced to the gathering crowd, lead by a growing group of large boys. They started back toward the center of the river.

“Wait,” the girl called and threw something at the child as she was pulled into the saddle behind a royal guard.

With practiced ease, the child caught the shiny object and struck out for the safety of the bridge.

As the child watched the crowd slowly disperse, they glanced to the object clutched tightly in their hand. Slowly they turned it over to examine it. Carefully engraved in the platinum was the symbol of the royal house of Whitehart. A sound of surprise slipped from the child’s lips.

Overhead, the bridge began to raise.

Quickly, the child swam to the nearest warf and pulled themself from the water. They retrieved a length of fishing line and strung the ring. Carefully, they tucked it under their dirty tunic. As the sun began its descent, the child made their way through the streets to the abandoned hovel where they slept.