Revelyn: 1st Chronicles - When the last arrow falls (43 page)

Sylvion had explored the Vault as best she could, shackled and watched continually. The thick oak floor proved a wonderful mystery for it held many holes, all the same size and from which emanated warm currents of air. She had discovered a small hatchway just below where the stone steps to the parapet met the floor and had opened it with the wary
Wolver
only a pace away. With the aid of a torch she had climbed down into a bath of warm air and found that the oak floor was raised above the original stone floor by about two cubits, allowing a crawl space below it. In a rather magical way streams of light poured down through the holes in the floor into this dark place, and as she clambered rather noisily further into the chamber she suddenly understood its design, for the light of her torch had revealed the bottom part of the cauldron which held the fire sitting at the centre of the vast chamber. The heat it gave warmed the air in the crawl space and so it filtered slowly outward and then escaped up through the holes in the floor warming the vault above in an even but simple manner. To Sylvion who had spent many hours listening to her father’s accounts of discovering new things, she suddenly felt very close to him, for this is what he did, or had done for many years, and wanting to share her discovery she shouted out.

‘
Wolver
, you’ve got to come see this!’ A voice behind her made her jump.

‘I can see it already my lady! I can also see that your discovery has enlivened you somewhat.’ The
Wolver
spoke quietly, but he was smiling, despite the lack of space for his large body, for in truth he too was impressed by the effective simplicity of the design. ‘These Iridin were most able when it came to building castles and the like.’

‘Yes,’ Sylvion continued, her beautiful face alive with her discovery, ‘understanding that the hot air rises, mastering a rule that cannot be denied! I wish my father could have seen this for it is just the thing he loved to discover.’ And in that moment two things happened, of which each was acutely aware. Sylvion suddenly knew that in this there was a possibility, a small and desperately remote grain of truth which might allow her to escape. It fell like a burning ember deep into her consciousness and there it burnt brightly in a manner which she did not understand, but which would not be extinguished. Some deeper memory, some story, some understanding needed to be released. Vague images brought together... a strange process beyond her ability to control began its work. She shook her head and knew it, but had no words with which to capture that which had begun deep in her mind. The
Wolver’s
realisation was simpler but just as powerful, for he looked upon his prisoner and realised that the passion and attachment which rested upon the relationship between a parent and a child was something which had been denied him, and here in this small and cramped place, where he was all powerful, he held nothing, whilst she held it all. And his mind too began to remember.

From her frozen lookout Sylvion watched, but her mind was inwardly working harder, remembering conversations with her father, stories he had told, ideas he had tried to pass on to her, scribbled on a parchment, charcoal on a flagstone by the hearth. She tried hard not to let her emotion for the loss of her dear Sontim cloud the process which she desperately needed to complete. Sylvion knew that her very life, perhaps the lives of many others required her to think long and hard, for she needed some key, some truth which she was convinced her kindpa had once revealed to her. It was the key to her escape. But the tears which wet her face revealed that her efforts were in vain, for she was overwhelmed by the vision of her kindpa, holding her close and telling her the most wonderful stories and for a time she let herself feel the embrace and the gentle strong hands of the man who had raised her so carefully and lovingly.  

The
Wolver
stood like a statue and stared out to the east. His keen eyes could see the ocean many leagues beyond the barren land, and whilst it registered, there was no lasting imprint for he was struggling with deeper emotions and feelings than he thought it possible to experience. All his life he had been taught to feel nothing. To obey, to be the master at the craft of hunting, and killing, to fear no one, and to leave every moment behind once it had passed. And yet this woman, his prisoner, the one whom he had thrown to the ground with his steel at her throat, had greatly disturbed him for he could not leave those moments behind. The way she had killed the stupid Sleeman, the words she had uttered then and the fearlessness with which she had carried herself through many trials. And then that realisation, that sudden shock of knowing that he had been stolen and robbed and denied, that whatever family he had, he would never know, and she, this Sylvion Greyfeld, heir to the throne of all Revelyn had had that which he had not, the simple love of a parent.

And for the first time since he had been stolen, as emotions over which he had no control overwhelmed him, he shed a tear. It froze immediately upon his cheek and remained there, more precious than a diamond, a jewel which marked a rebirth, marking the threshold to another life.

Sylvion lay on her oak table bed, chained once more for the night. The fire burnt brightly in the cauldron, fuelled by what Grundig called , the special charcoal, used over countless generations, and above her the canopy moved endlessly as it rippled in the hot air. She was fascinated by one banner in particular displaying a huge warrior whom Grundig had informed her was Iridin-Siraith the most famous of all the Iridin for he had held the Cape behind the old wall for many years against repeated attacks from the old Ravelin whose control over their lands had weakened, and in an irrational anger they had tried to force all others to submit. Iridin-Siraith had held on until assistance from the south had arrived. Queen Shana, fourth queen of the House of Hendon in Ramos had sent a small army and with it her son Bjorn, who later became King. He was depicted in the banner slightly behind Iridin-Siraith, but what fascinated Sylvion was not that this man was her ancestor, but that he was depicted holding a blade which seemed to radiate some sort of light; a light to which others were staring at with blank and helpless expressions. The rippling of the canopy seemed to make it all come alive. Grundig had allowed her use of his history, and that afternoon she had read of Iridin-Siraith and the battles he had fought, and the one mention of this prince and his remarkable weapon which turned the final battle from dark defeat to lasting victory, for with it the days of the ancient Ravelin ended, and they disappeared from history, although rumours of a remnant persist till the present. She lay in awe and wondered, for it was not a big blade; at least that banner did not show it as such. 

After a time she turned her head and looked across at the
Wolver
who was similarly lying on a large table on the far side of the fierce fire. She gazed at him through the swirling heat and sparks, her head to one side on the oak, her eyes reflecting the fire’s light. The
Wolver
was conscious of her gaze and it unsettled him, for his thoughts that day had been far from peaceful. He had tried with all his might to suppress the emotions which had worried him since that day in the crawl space beneath the floor, when with Sylvion Greyfeld’s simple statement of affection for her kindpa, he had realised that such emotions were stronger and more to be feared than anything else he had ever faced, for they came from deep within him, from a place where he could not flee to or from. She spoke gently then and he almost cursed her beauty and guile, for the words tore into his already lacerated heart.

‘
Wolver
,’ Sylvion spoke almost in a whisper, ‘what name did your kindma give you? For no kindma would ever call her child
Wolver
. Do you remember?’ The Wolver glared fiercely at his prisoner and made every attempt to see her as such; but he could not, for she lay there on her back with her beautiful body outlined by the firelight, her head turned so inquiringly towards him, and her eyes so full of gentle affection, that he could not imagine a more serene picture. He saw a vision of his kindma in her; she became for a moment his long lost kindma, and he remembered her soft and gentle ways and her tears as he was taken from her breast. Deep inside his mind, for a moment, the
Wolver
heard the wailing and he clenched his jaw to keep control.
What was this thing that she could do to him? Why was he not in control?
He turned and looked up into the shimmering canopy which gave life and light and texture to the cold stone vault. There above him was life and death depicted over and over and each figure, each character had known others to love, indeed had fought to the death so that they and others could love freely. And the
Wolver
knew that all this had been denied him.

‘Reigin,’ he whispered; so quietly that he did not realise, and Sylvion barely heard. ‘My kindma named me Reigin. It is all that I remember, except for her face, and her crying.’

Sylvion smiled and spoke once more.

‘A lovely name, and more fitting for one so able than merely
Wolver
, which steals your identity and reduces you to little more than a puppet of those who give the orders. As
Wolver
you will do whatever is commanded. Right or wrong, for you know neither, you just
do
. But as Reigin you can be human.’ Her words bored into the Wolver’s soul, unsettling years of learning and suppressed emotions.
What she said was true, but being a Wolver was of the highest order, surely?
As he struggled with his feeling she continued.

‘I know that you were stolen as a child for that is how a
Wolver
is born. You are legends in our land. From the
tribe of the south
who are so different from others, so tall and strong and like no other in battle, but you are few and so for generations the children have been stolen and brought up as killers, warriors indeed, but in the end, you are killers. Killers for the Royal House in Ramos. All Revelyn know these things. Even the Highlanders are not ignorant of your deeds. You are feared throughout the land. But who asks of your soul
Wolver
? Who understand that you are human like us all, and that once your were bound to your kindma like we all were, fed at the breast and loved as a child, not feared as a killer? Who cares for you
Wolver
, or should I say, who cares for you Reigin?’

Sylvion paused and let her words do their work, for her own heart was pounding and the emotion of the moment was almost too much for her, for she remembered her kindma, so recently and coldly murdered. She felt the pain, and her eyes ran with soundless tears. The
Wolver
noticed, and once more was prisoner to his emotions which had never been allowed to surface. He thought of all the years of harsh and bloody training. The curses and the lies, the orders and the trials to test resolve, the competition between the
Wolver
group so that each sought only to be the best and let the others know it.
And now this? This softness and understanding. It could not be fought with any weapon he possessed. And yet there was a beauty in this weakness and a sweet delight in feeling what he did. It was beyond words, and it was to be secured, a preciousness that must never again be lost.

‘Do you see that banner above you Reigin? The one with the warrior holding aloft his mighty sword, and in the background another man, a prince it is told, who holds the enemy in thrall to his blade. Do you see that Reigin. Have you seen that blade before?’

Her change of direction bewildered the soldier who found it hard to focus for a time, until with great effort he was able to gaze up and saw what she described. He gasped, for without question the blade in the banner, was at that moment lying at his side. She had used it to kill Sleeman, and he remembered then the power it seemed to have upon him, as he had watched. Something awesome was about to happen and the
Wolver
knew it beyond all doubt. He lay there with a pounding heart and said nothing, waiting. Sylvion Greyfeld had watched him closely, and knew in that moment that she had won him. But she knew also, that this was but the beginning, for there was much to be achieved before she was free from this sad and soulless place.

‘I will sleep now Reigin, and in the morning I will ask of you something which will change your life forever. Think upon my words Reigin, for I will never again call you
Wolver
.’

And so a deep silence came upon the vault. She fell into a peaceful sleep, whilst the
Wolver
could not. His troubled mind would not release him to sleep, for he felt like he had been split asunder, that he was now two different people, and he knew without doubt that she would ask him to chose which one he would be.
To no longer be a Wolver meant he would betray his king; but his king was mad. Did he not know
right from wrong, as she had asserted, and did it matter anyway? What benefit these new emotions which threatened to bring him undone? Perhaps they were best buried once more? 
Finally as the fire burnt low and the vast canopy above became quiet, he stared for a long time at the blade in the banner, and his hand unconsciously came to rest upon it, as it lay by his side. He withdrew the weapon and held it aloft where it gleamed beautifully in the soft light. He realised then that the blade belonged to the Royal House, and his prisoner, Sylvion Greyfeld was its rightful owner. He looked over at where she slept, and marvelled at her beauty and her bewitching manner. He returned the blade to its simple sheath, and wearily felt that a long journey was finally over.

‘I am Reigin,’ he whispered, and repeated the name gently and softly, over and over as a great tension left his body, and sleep finally came upon him. The vast chamber fell silent, only a few dancing shadows in the dying firelight remained. The huge oak doors were locked shut from the inside, and the portcullis beyond them was secured as well, for there was no night guard. It was not required, for Sylvion was unable to open the doors or the portcullis for it required two very strong men at the least, and only one such as the
Wolver
could manage it alone. And bedsides, she was chained to her bed.