Tarren sat at a large table; they had waited for Whill to begin. The table was set with a blue velvet cloth and fine dishes. A large pot of steaming stew sat at the middle of the table, two loaves of marbled bread, white cheese, and an assortment of fruits. A pitcher of beer two Tankards and a tall glass with a smaller pitcher of cider along with a small plate of butter all sat before them. Whill grabbed a Tankard and toasted with Abram and Tarren: “Lelamandelia.”
Tarren asked what it meant and Whill explained. Tarren insisted that they do it again so he could join in. They ate and made little conversation. Whill was surprised by his own appetite. He had three helpings of stew and finished off a loaf of bread by himself, along with half the brick of cheese.
When they were done, Abram lit his pipe and sat back, content. “While you were bathing, Hagus told me of an excellent blacksmith where we can purchase some fine arrows,” he said.
Tarren lit up. “Do you think I could get my own sword? I might need it if we run into villains on the way to the mountains.”
Abram and Whill eyed one another.
“Tarren, Abram and I must venture to the mountains alone.”
“But, Whill-”
“Let me finish. In your father’s absence we must do as he would wish. I do not think your father would permit you to go into the mountains. You will stay here in town until we return.”
Tarren’s eyes watered. “But who will I stay with? Wouldn’t I be much safer with the two of you? What if the pirates come back for me? Please let me go, please!”
Will knew exactly how the boy felt. He had felt the same when Abram had left him those many times when he was a small boy. Now he saw himself in Tarren: a scared child trying desperately to act tough, not understanding why he could not join, wondering if he was unwanted.
“I know you want to come, Tarren, and I would love to have you with us. But this is not a decision we can make on your parents’ behalf. When we return you will journey with us to Kell-Torey. Let there be comfort in that at least.”
Tarren’s shoulders sank. “How long will you be?”
“It will take us two days each there and back again,” Abram said. “How long we will be in the dwarf city I cannot say. But it should be no longer than a few days.”
Tarren looked no happier with this information. He slumped back in his chair and stared at his empty plate. Whill stood. “Would you like to come with me to get some supplies for our trip?”
Tarren could not help but smile as he got up from his chair. “Aye.”
Abram said he would stay behind to speak with Hagus and reminded them of some of the items they would need. Together, Whill and Tarren left the inn.
They spent most of the afternoon gathering supplies for the following day’s journey. At the blacksmith’s they purchased four dozen arrows and, to Tarren’s delight, a small knife that could be hung from the boy’s belt. From the town store they bought bread and cheeses; meat, Whill explained, would be acquired in the wild.
As they ventured up the main street, Whill took in the pleasant sea air once again. It was a beautiful late afternoon. Faint white clouds hung in the sky, seemingly unmoving, as the sun bathed the world with warmth. They passed many log homes, and a few with stone walls. People were busy with the day’s chores but still had time to offer a “good day” or a “heya” as they passed. A butcher was busy preparing a hog for sale, while a young lad sat on the porch of the butcher shop plucking a headless chicken. On the opposite side of the street a woman swept dirt from a doorway. She gave Tarren a wink as she hummed a jubilant tune.
They headed towards the healer’s house on the outskirts of town. As the buildings thinned and the forest trail came into view, a woman ran past with two soldiers following. They went straight to the healer’s house and were greeted by urgent voices which Whill could not decipher. He began to jog toward the home and Tarren followed suit. As they neared the building, Whill began to make out the urgent words emanating from the open windows and doors. A woman was screaming in a way that made Whill cringe.
“No! No! My baby, my baby! Do something, please, can’t you, why won’t she breathe, why won’t she breathe? Let me see her, damn you, she won’t-” Her voice trailed off into a deep, breathless sob.
Whill and Tarren reached the door, which was blocked by a tall guard with a bowed head. Whill pushed him aside and entered the room with no resistance. The room was bright, but the scene was a dark one. A woman lay on a blood-soiled bed, being comforted and held down by three older women. One who Whill sensed was her mother held her tight and cried hard into the young woman’s shoulder. A man of about twenty stood with a dead stare and watering eyes aimed at a bundle which lay on a blanket at the foot of the bed. The two guards remained at the door, their eyes on the floor. An elderly man and woman whom Whill suspected to be the town healers huddled over the dying infant, trying urgently to revive it. Whill could hear nothing but his own heart. It pounded in his ears steadily, faint hues of red flashing before his eyes with every beat.
Whill faintly realized that all were now watching him as he advanced into the room toward the infant. He wondered why they did not try to hold him back. Then he saw what they saw: his outstretched hand. From the palm to each fingertip, blue tendrils of light convulsed and danced. The mother had stopped sobbing and stared in wonder. The healers made way for Whill and stepped to the sides, never taking their eyes off Whill. The infant laid upon the blanket, small, weak, unmoving, a blue hue to its skin. The look on her face was that of great discomfort, not peace.
As Whill bent and put his hand upon the baby’s head, he instantly felt her presence. Her faint spirit stumbled into his as a blind man might do, lost in an unknown place. The tendrils from Whill’s hand spread across the limp infant’s naked body, becoming ever brighter. Her spirit clung strongly to Whill as he tried desperately to monitor the transfer of energy. Then suddenly he felt a great urgency, a desperate struggle to hold on to life as it slipped away. He felt the baby’s simple emotions, her need for what he gave her. Before he could break contact, a sudden jolt surged through his body, dropping him to his knees. He stiffened as her desperate spirit drained from him as much energy as it could. Whill was no longer in control, unable to stop, fighting hard to break contact, he saw now that the baby had lost her blue color, and through the energy bond he felt the baby’s heart begin to beat. It pounded faster and faster, stronger with every beat her spirit clung to the energy pulses that Whill could not stop. He mustered his strength, told her spirit kindly to let go, but not with words. The spirit responded, and as yet another strange connection was achieved, Whill heard himself gasp.
Now he sensed great knowledge and a vast intellect within the spirit’s consciousness. A wisdom of countless years resided within; memories like waves crashed into him. He saw strange lands and strange people, oceans, forests, and streams where he had never ventured. Mountain ranges foreign to him loomed before his mind’s eye and disappeared, Then a flash, and more memories, faces, feelings, and yet another death in the form of a flash. Another and another, until the lives of this ancient spirit poured into him like an avalanche. Then suddenly it stopped. Now a landscape he recognized spread out before him. The Ky’Dren Mountains, Lake Eardon, and Drakkar Island flashed before him. Then before him stood the Castle of Del’ Oradon, and a feeling of great love. Whill was now oblivious of his physical surroundings. He had no conscious link to the world around him. There was only this spirit, and the memories. He was not afraid; rather he felt great comfort and trust. As he watched the life memories of the spirit unfold, something caught his eye. It had only been a flash, but he asked to see it again. The spirit obliged and he saw in greater detail the form he sought. It was Abram, and he was a young man of in his mid-twenties. Whill could not believe what he saw, and wordlessly he questioned the spirit. It confirmed, and let Whill feel the emotions tied to Abram’s memory. Whill felt love, trust, respect, and great happiness. Abram was a close friend.
Another vision flashed before him, a long corridor hung with great banners. Through the spirit’s memories Whill watched as the view switched to a grand mirror. It felt as if he was looking through the person’s eyes, but he did not see himself in the mirror. Instead a stunningly beautiful woman was reflected back to him. She seemed to be in her late twenties, with long black hair and a flawless face. Whill knew then that for the first and last time in his life, he was looking upon his mother. She gazed at herself and then at her large belly in the mirror. She gave it a few loving strokes before again venturing down the hall. Whill urgently tried to make her turn, but the vision faded. Now all was black, though he was not alone. The spirit that had at one time lived his mother’s life now coddled his as if he were the infant. Without words she relayed to him that she loved him and that she was very proud, as was his father. She made him understand that the baby he had saved was a new life, and would have
