news of the lad Tarren’s father, and family.”
Whill let out a breath and held a faint hope that what he thought would come next would not.
“It seems that when Tarren was kidnapped by Cirrosa, his family was murdered, grandfather, father, mother, and two sisters.”
Whill put his head in his hands. He felt the king’s hand on his shoulder. Abram began to curse. “By the gods! That wretched scum of a man! Never have I wished I could kill a man twice!”
The king’s arm fell from Whill’s shoulder. “I am sorry, Whill, but it seems the boy cannot return to Fendale. Nothing awaits him. I have had my men look into his family tree, and it appears those who perished were all that was left of his line. The inn also is gone, burned to the ground.”
Whill fought back tears, rage, shame, and sorrow. Again it had been his fault; again good people had died because of him; his parents, the slave men of Eldon, the people of Sherna, and now this. He felt something shift within him, within his soul. He thought he might explode. He began to tremble.
Abram let his pipe fall to the floor. Whill’s teeth made an audible sound as he gritted them in anger; his hands had become fists that pulled at his hair. Abram rose quickly and moved around the table to Whill. Into the prone young man’s ear he spoke, calmly and soothingly.
“Control yourself, Whill. Do not let it build, do not let it consume you. Fight it.”
But Whill barely heard the plea, so consumed was he with pent up-rage. He had caused the deaths of too many, had learned too much in the last few days. The pressure proved too much. He saw behind his closed eyes the great pyre upon the beaches of Sherna, the hundreds of smoldering bodies. He saw the slave men he himself had cut down in battle, the face of Tarren streaked with tears. He stood and clutched his stomach as if some demonic beast was trying to claw its way out. He screamed.
Abram’s voice managed to break through Whill’s consuming rage. “The table, Whill, focus it all on the table! All of it! Let it go!”
Mathus backed away as Whill focused all his rage, all his shame, everything, sending it from his mind and into his fists, slamming the large oak table before him.
There was a deafening boom as the table exploded into a million pieces. King Mathus and Abram were blown backwards by the shockwave that followed Whill’s release. Whill looked down upon his bloodied hands in awe. Hundreds of splinters had sunk deep in his hands, body, and face. He felt his knees buckle and he slumped to the floor, thoroughly spent. He heard Abram and King Mathus yell his name in unison and saw Zerafin and Avriel rush into the room.
Then his eyes closed.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Whill found himself floating high above a battle. The land was charred and smoldering, the sky above choked with smoke, and the ground itself seemed to bleed. Below, a great battle surged. Whill was horrified as he looked upon the warring masses. Draggard swarmed upon the field, greatly outnumbering their enemies. The scene was a slaughter; men, elves, and dwarves alike lay dead or dying. The remaining armies of Agora were being devoured as the deep and menacing horns of the Draggard sounded, rising into the smoke-filled sky like the evil moan of a demon of death.
“
Whill was jolted conscious as a surge of energy coursed through his body. Zerafin spoke again in the elven language, and the hundreds of splinters were pulled from his body by an unseen force. Then came the blue light, enveloping Whill’s body and healing his many wounds.
Avriel was at Whill’s side in an instant. “Are you alright?”
He looked into her eyes but could not speak. The memory of his dream was like a phantom hand upon his throat. He looked around wildly, wondering where he was. Before him what had been the table was now nothing but kindling. The chairs had all been blown back, and the many banners upon the walls were riddled with holes. Zerafin went to the king and Abram in turn and extracted the splinters and healed their wounds.
Whill saw the blood of both and was sickened. “I am so sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt anyone, I-”
“We know, Whill,” said Mathus. “It is no matter.” He got to his feet with Zerafin’s help.
“I’m afraid it is. And a dire matter at that,” Zerafin said. “Once again you have nearly killed yourself, Whill. Your training cannot wait until we reach Elladrindellia. For your sake, and for the sake of those around you. Your training starts today. You must learn to control the energy.” He looked towards Avriel. “And the emotions within you.”
Whill sat in the garden across from Zerafin. The sun had descended beyond the castle walls, but not the unseen horizon. The sky was dark blue, with hues of red and orange announcing the oncoming dusk. No breeze stirred within the garden; it was as silent as a tomb. Zerafin sat looking at Whill for a moment. He was seated on the grass, legs crossed one over the other in a meditative stance. His hands were together, fingers and thumbs touching at the ends pointing outward, all but the index fingers, which were curved in towards his body with fingernails touching. Whill mimicked Zerafin’s posture and stance and awaited his command.
“All creatures possess emotion,” the elf began. “Some more than others and some more intensely than others. You, my friend, seems to possess a great passion, which is neither good nor bad. But if you cannot control those emotions, and you continue to let them manifest into uncontrolled energy, then you will become a danger to everyone around you. Do not despair, Whill. You are human, after all, and we have come to learn that humans not only let their emotions run wild, but thrive on them as well. You could say that you humans are addicted to your emotions.”
Whill listened intently, though he did not quite understand what Zerafin meant.
“Close your eyes, Whill, and think of nothing. Focus on your breath and nothing more. You see how shallow and quick it is. I would like you to breathe as deeply as you can, slowly, ever so slowly. Now hold your breath there for a moment before letting it go, slowly, ever so slowly. That’s it. Breathe in, breathe out. Clear your mind. Straighten your back, raise your chest, lower your shoulders. Relax the mind and body. Let yourself be at peace.”
Whill did as he was told, and a feeling of great peace overcame him, freedom from his troubles, emotions, and responsibilities.
“This is called
Zerafin said nothing more for some time as Whill continued to relax his mind and body. After a time he spoke again. “Now slowly open your eyes, and come back to the garden.”
Whill reluctantly obeyed. He opened his eyes to find Zerafin smiling at him.
“How do you feel?”
Whill thought for a moment. “I feel…refreshed, calm, relaxed.”
“As you should, my friend, as you should. We will delve deeper into the many stances and meditation techniques of the elves in the future. For now I would like you to practice this stance daily, for as long as suits you, from this day forth. Now. Close your eyes again.”
Whill did so and waited further instruction. Moments passed, and then suddenly Zerafin slapped him across the face hard enough to make it hurt. Whill opened his eyes suddenly and broke his stance. “Why did you do that!”
Zerafin laughed. “Why, indeed? Focus on your emotions now, Whill. How do you feel?”
Whill put a hand to his cheek. “Angry, of course.”
“But why are you angry? Did you decide to be angry?”
“No, I did not
“Ah. So I have the power over you to make you feel as I wish. By my actions, I can determine how you feel. Is that what you mean?”
Whill knew Zerafin was getting at something, but did not quite know where he was going. Minutes passed
