Whill of Agora Trilogy: Book 01 - Whill of Agora (36 page)

“You shall.”

Jonanah smiled and bowed again. “Very well, good sir, I shall send confirmation and return to start your bath water.” With that he turned on his heel and swiftly made his way down the hall.

Whill sighed and returned to his room and a sleeping Tarren. He had not taken the time the night before to look around his room, so now he did.

The room before him was immense, indeed the largest he had ever stayed in. It boasted white marble floors and walls, with a twenty-foot-high ceiling. The bed in which he had slept and Tarren now slept in was the largest he had ever seen as well. It looked as though it could sleep ten, with its numerous blue and purple silk pillows and thick blankets. The headboard was wooden, as were the posts, which held a thin blue fabric that hung down on all sides and matched the bed decor. The banners of both Eldalon and Kell-Torey hung upon the wall to the right. Next to the bed was a huge wardrobe that boasted numerous dressers and shelves. Whill found that his traveling pack and weapons lay within, untouched. To the right of the bed and closet, adjacent the wall from which the banners hung, was an opening to another room. Whill entered the room and looked around in awe. This room, like the other, was crafted with marble floors and walls. To the right was a large bathtub built up from the floor and made also of marble. Hand pumps were set to the right of the tub, their spouts perched upon the edge. To the left of the tub hung many white towels and a door to what Whill discovered to be a small steam room. At the center of the room sat a small wooden table, masterfully carved, with a basket of fruit, a quill and parchment, and one large candle laid atop.

Past the table was the balcony. Whill walked out onto it and gasped as he set his eyes on the courtyard below. The morning sun had risen and its bright light now fell upon a marvelous garden of early-blooming flowers of every color. He looked upon the flowers and beyond to the city of Kell-Torey, which he could see beyond the castle walls.

Beautiful, is it not?
said a voice within his mind, the voice of Avriel. Whill turned right, then left, and saw her twenty feet away, standing on her own identical balcony. Gone were her traveling clothes, replaced by a thin white silken robe opened slightly in the front, revealing more than Avriel may have intended. Whill was left speechless, mind and mouth alike, at the sight of her. He felt his face flush and a strange heat overcame him as he looked upon the elf maiden. The sun’s light pierced the robe, making it all but translucent. Whill was paralyzed in the midst of Avriel’s well-proportioned beauty.

I spoke of the garden
, came Avriel’s voice with a laugh. Embarrassed, he turned his head quickly to regard the garden. When he looked once again to Avriel’s balcony, she was gone.

After a bath and change of clothes, Whill was led by Johanah to the king’s dining room. The room was no less than Whill would expect from the dining hall of the king. Massive chandeliers hung from the cathedral ceiling, and the floor was highly polished black marble. The walls were of wood but highly detailed and masterfully carved; swirling patterns bordered intricate artwork. Works dating back more than nine hundred years adorned these walls. The table was no less beautiful, long and thin, with large, well-crafted chairs. It could seat more than twenty comfortably, though only two were seated there this morning: King Mathus and Abram.

Johanah bowed to the king. “I give you Whill of Agora, my good king.”

With that he turned and left, closing the large oak door behind him. King Mathus rose from his seat and walked towards Whill. Abram remained seated to the left of the king, pipe held between grinning lips. Whill met the king halfway and stopped short five feet from him. Custom dictated that he should stand straight, bow low at the back, then at the neck, only to rise when the king instructed. But Abram had told Whill that because of his stature, he was not required to do so. Rather he was to offer a good nod and extend a hand of greeting. Whill did just that, and when he extended his hand, the king took it with both of his.

“Whill. How eager I have been to meet you.”

“And I you, King Mathus.”

The king held Whill’s hand firmly for a moment and looked over his features. “You have your mother’s eyes,” he said. Then he released Whill’s hand and gestured to the seat at his right.

“Please, you must be famished. Have a seat and we shall dine and talk. A grand adventure you have had since your stay in Fendale, I hear.”

Whill took his seat, as did Mathus. With a snap of the king’s fingers, a door opposite the one Whill had entered through opened. Two female servants entered. One pushed a wheeled cart of many covered dishes, while the other one brought a variety of beverages. The servant with the food removed the lid of each serving plate before putting it on the table. Whill’s mouth watered as he realized how hungry he really was. Upon the table was laid fruit, boiled eggs, thick red steak, bacon, ham, bread, and white cheese. The servant with the beverages then added pitchers of milk, cider, water, and wine. The servants gave a low bow.

“That will be all,” said the king with a nod and a smile, and the servants exited. He poured himself a glass of milk. “Please help yourselves. I would have them serve us our plates, but I would rather be alone just now.”

Whill took a little of everything, and was relieved when Abram and King Mathus did the same. They dined for what Whill felt to be an awkward few minutes when finally the king broke the silence.

“Rhunis tells me that you had a run-in with a Dark elf, of all things. Can you imagine, in Eldalon?”

Whill swallowed his bacon. “That among other things.”

The king nodded. “Yes, among others. Rumor has it the two of you defeated Captain Cirrosa. I must hear that story.”

Whill raised an eyebrow at Abram, who was enjoying a bit of steak. “Abram is the storyteller, I’m afraid.”

“That he is indeed,” Mathus agreed.

Over the next hour Abram, with Whill’s help, recounted the many days since they had so hastily left Fendale; the fight with Captain Cirrosa, the journey to the mountains, the meeting of Roakore, and the battle with the Draggard. Then had come the battle of Sherna and the meeting of the elves, and finally the fight on the road to Kell-Torey. The king listened intently, asking few questions. He seemed angered by the battle of Sherna, and joyous to hear of the Draggard defeat. Finally the tale was over. Abram sat back and lit his pipe.

The king sat in contemplation for a moment. “It is a miracle that you all made it through unharmed, especially the boy Tarren. Not many ever see a Dark elf and live to tell about it—nor the
Black Dragon
, for that matter. Your deeds these last few weeks alone ensure that your names will live on in song for generations. Yet you are not even twenty years old!” He leaned forward, elbows upon the table. “The question is, what do the two of you plan to do next?”

Abram shrugged. “I will follow Whill’s lead, wherever it may take us.”

“Good king,” Whill said, “I had thought such talk would be better suited for the meeting, but I may tell you now—I intend to aid Isladon in whatever way I can. And if I may—I understand I have been invited to the meeting, and I am honored, but I don’t understand what place I have there.”

King Mathus laughed. “What place, you ask? You are the rightful king of Uthen-Arden, my boy, as I am sure you know. You have as much right as I to attend.”

“I understand. But I have no army, no followers. My own kingdom does not even know I exist.”

Abram spoke up. “But you do have followers, and you will have an army. I have seen you in action, do not forget. You rallied those men at Sherna and led them to victory. You have a strength that you underestimate, my friend. And do not forget the power of the spoken word—news of the Battle of Sherna beat us to Kell-Torey. Your people know of you, do not doubt. Those whispers have been floating on the breeze for a long time now. Your people want you to be real. They need you to be. You seem but a myth to many, a legend. But soon you will show them that the legend is flesh and blood, that the myth is true.”

Mathus spoke, his voice serious. “You plan to learn the ways of the elves, do you not?”

Whill was shocked. “Yes—yes I do, in time—”

“And do you think it wise to risk your life in the inevitable battle within Isladon?”

“How did you know?”

King Mathus finally smiled. “Do not forget, I am your mother’s father. There were no secrets between us. Do not fret, your family’s secret is safe with me, grandson.”

Whill felt a lump build in his throat.
Grandson.
All his life he had yearned to know his true lineage and now before him sat his grandfather. For the first time in his life, he had family.

“Thank you” was all that he could say, and he meant it sincerely, in more ways than one.

King Mathus seemed to sense Whill’s mental state, for he simply smiled and turned to Abram. “Do you think Whill should fight?”

Abram stroked his beard and looked up at the ceiling. “Let us see what comes of the meeting. It may be that the elves will elect to go also. Either way, Whill is now a man and must decide what is best for himself.”

Roakore stood at his door, scowling at the young man before him. “What do ye want, anyway, wakin’ me at this hour?”

The young man bowed low. “I apologize, good dwarf, but it is three hours after sunrise and I thought you might want your breakfast.”

“Me breakfast, eh? What if I do?”

The young man nervously scratched the back of his neck. “I will bring you whatever you desire, sir. If I may. My name is Ithellio of the house of Noranan. My family has served the kings for more than seven centuries. I have been appointed as your servant for the duration of your stay.”

Roakore traded his scowl for a grin. “Servant, eh? Well, then, Ithellio. What do ye offer?”

“Offer?”

“Fer
breakfast
, lad! What do ye offer fer food?”

“Ah. Anything you desire.”

“Good then. Bring me a pound o’ bacon, greasy but crunchy, a pitcher o’ goat’s milk, a side o’ ham and a good fresh loaf o’ bread, with fresh-churned butter.”

The lad bowed low once again and stepped backward. “Very good, sir. I shall return shortly.”

Roakore slammed the door before the lad had finished speaking. His room was the same in design and layout as Whill’s, and soon he discovered the large tub with its two waterspouts and hand pumps. Being used to bathing in cold natural springs within his mountain home, he had not a clue what the spouts of the tub were for. He scratched his head and investigated the balcony. Below he saw the vast gardens with their many fountains and pools. To many humans such a sight would inspire awe, but to the gruff dwarf the flowers seemed a waste of space. Instead he looked past the gardens to the castle walls. It was upon looking at the cold, well-shaped stone that the dwarf was awed.

Zerafin entered his sister’s room without knocking; he had contacted her through his mind, and she had bade him enter. Avriel sat upon a well-cushioned and pillowed sitting couch, combing her long hair. She wore a white silken robe. Elves lived many centuries, and had beliefs and ways very different from those of humans. Within elven society, shyness and self-consciousness did not exist. Zerafin found nothing strange about the way his sister was dressed; it was morning, after all, and the castle was warm, the silk comfortable. Avriel’s servant, however, though well trained, was unable to hide his blushing face.

Zerafin looked at the man.
So you have one also.

Yes. I find them quite handy, actually. Are you still not used to the idea of human servants? You have visited human royalty many times in the past.

Have you seen into him?

Avriel let out a chuckle and spoke aloud, startling her servant. “Of course I have, brother, do you really think me so unprepared?”

“Leave us now,” Zerafin told him.

The middle-aged man was visibly scared but did not move. “My lady?”

“Yes, leave us,” Avriel said. “Thank you for awaiting my instruction.”

The servant bowed low and exited the room without looking or speaking to either of the elves. As the door closed, Zerafin shook his head. “Why anyone would let themselves be reduced to that level is beyond my comprehension.”

Avriel stood and returned her brush to her nightstand. “You know as much as I of the history and traditions of humans. It is considered an honor to them to do so, as you well know.”

“An honor to make yourself like a dog? I know the traditions, but I will never understand them.” He picked up an apple from the fruit basket.

Avriel went to the wardrobe, disrobed and began dressing herself in her chosen garments. “You think that Eadon will try to reach Whill through possession?”

“I do. If I were Eadon and knew that Whill was here in Kell-Torey, so well hidden and protected, I would resort to possession to kill him. The boy Tarren, for example, would be a perfect subject.”

Avriel appeared fully clothed from the wardrobe with a look of disgust. “Sometimes you are very morbid, brother. Morbid, but brilliant. Tarren, you say?”

Zerafin nodded as he ate his apple.

“I have a thought you might find compelling, though it is not mine alone—Mother voiced it to me first,” she said. “What if…what if Eadon does not want Whill dead?”

Zerafin swallowed his last bite hard. “Go on.”

“Put yourself in his shoes, as they say. If you were Eadon, and you knew that Whill of Agora existed—the very one spoken of in the prophecy, the one who is destined to wield the sword Adromida—would you want him dead? Would you gamble that his human uncle could wield the blade in his place? And what if Addakon does find it? How long do you think he will put up with Eadon once he has such power? Evil will turn on evil, so it is written.”

Zerafin thought for a long moment. “I do not think that Eadon wants either of them to gain possession of the blade. If Whill does, then his plans will fail. If Addakon does, then he will surely be betrayed. I do think, however, that Eadon wants Whill to find the blade, and I think he plans to be there when it is found.”