Unfinished Novel Pt. 1

         PROLOGUE:


            The mysterious figure glanced back one more time.  Just once.  He capped the vial, placed it in his pocket, took up the glass, swirled its contents for a moment, placed it back on the wooden table, and hurried back around the rough stone corner of the dining room doorway, gently brushing his shoulder against it.  The man knew he would be here soon.  He always was.  Flinging the cloak back over his head, the man stole away into the night.

                             *                              *                              *
         His father was dying, struck suddenly by some unknown cause, said the healers.  The guard had come to fetch him in the night, during the coldest of hours.  He had said it was urgent; however, he had waited patiently and without protest as the Prince of Mersyn strode haughtily to his wardrobe, donned a simple robe, yawned with a bored wave of his hand, and strut down the hallway.  He knit his hands together behind his back and hummed a tuneless melody that echoed in the lonely halls.  His father was finally dying.
         Being king could of course be a challenge, but his father had done it poorly for years so not much could be expected of him.  His mind went through all of the possibilities, stumbling over a few things that could prove problematic, but eventually he found that ruling the kingdom could turn out to be quite rewarding.
         They reached the large bed chamber within a few minutes.  After climbing up a spiral staircase they turned into the vast chamber crowded with scarlet tapestries, depicting romance, battle, and royalty, which hung next to wardrobes and mirrors and chairs, along with other various items of interest.  And in the center, a four-poster canopied bed with ruffles and matching red silk bed sheets.
         And in it laid the ruler of the kingdom. Finally dying.
         "Oh, Father, I came as quick as I could," the prince said with a role of his eyes.  The king had his eyes shut; his pale face shaking with the effort of each breath.  Pathetic how the old must die.
         A deep shudder came from the pursed lips of the deteriorating man.  The prince became a bit alarmed, as if death were a disease, and took a half step away from the edge of the bed.  A harsh whisper filled the room.
         "Rorren..."  The raspy breath caught in the man's chest, causing a cough to rack his entire body, hurling the helpless victim into a fit.  He heaved for a long moment, regained what feeble control he possessed, and continued.
         "Rorren," he repeated, even quieter now.  The relentless illness was taking him swiftly.  "You must know...Valhar is planning an attack.  The king...the king..."  A shallow gasp of air whistled through his failing lungs.  "He knew...that this...would...happen...you must...must defend your...the people...your people...I love...you Rorren..."
         Prince Rorren grabbed the man's frail, chilled hand and kissed it, revolted, and shook his shoulders so as to show (however feigned) his compassion for his father's death.  Best not to lose the crown before you are bestowed it.  Finally, the breathing stopped.  The hand fell slowly.  King Rorren stood quickly, brushed his hands brusquely against his robe, turned around with a flip of his golden hair, and walked swiftly out.
         "Someone bring me my riding equipment.  NOW!!"  Rorren bellowed orders, readying the castle for war.
         "Your Highness, I think it would be fit-"
         "Did I ask you?"  Rorren stared at his father's advisor with an icy fire.  The power that he now possessed flooded him.  He could make this man cower, was making him cower, and all because he was king.  He was king.
         "Sir, you should mourn your father!  Let the people see that you care...just..."  He trailed off, the piercing gaze penetrating too deep for him to dare to continue.  The bustle and crowd of people around them seemed to feel the seething anger in the room and began to hasten their chores.
         Rorren turned, fixed his eyes ahead, and strode swiftly down the corridor.  He parted the people of the castle, no one seeming to want to cross his path.  His veins pulsed with magic waiting to be unleashed.  One of the elderly servants clamored up, encumbered with his entire riding apparel, shifting the weighty gear anxiously.
         "Sir, I brought your father's best-"
         "JUST PUT IT ON ME!!"  His voice matched the loud click of his boot heels on the marble floor.  He was becoming annoyed with all this talk of a man that was dead, and he let out a harsh growl.  The sounds echoed, mixing and meshing into an angry music that filled the ears and stopped the heart of all those present.  Though not seemingly possible, the activity around the king became faster still, everyone moving at a gait just short of a run.
         "Yes, master," the servant mumbled, and he began to strap the leather armor to Rorren's legs, arms, and torso, and also changed his boots and placed the gilded helmet into the King's hands.
         "Your father's finest..." the old man began softly, but, thinking better of it, bowed instead and shuffled off behind them, his head hung.  Rorren paused for the slightest of moments, a twinge of some emotion rising within him, but he clamped down on it and closed its flow into his thoughts almost instantaneously.  There were more important matters to tend to as of late.
         Rorren placed the helmet in the crook of his arm.  He began walking swiftly again, planning out the battle in his mind.  The clack of his riding boots brought his thoughts to what was at hand, the anger ebbing from those around them and seeping into his hate for their enemy kingdom.
         Valhar was not a particularly large kingdom, but they jumped at any sign of weakness.  From what he could remember, they had attacked only twice in his time, once during Rorren's own illness as a young child and again when his mother had passed away just two years previous.  But however small, Valhar had always been known to loath the people of Mersyn.  Though not large attacks, both had been devastating, and left countless women and children to weep for many nights.
Both times his father had been tending to matters that could not be predicted by mere guesswork, and spies were suspected in the kingdom's own, being planted to sniff out such chances.  Many inquisitions had been made, and there had been a few put to death due to suspicion.  Though always defeated, Valhar would take many down with them.  They contained only a handful of sorcerers, but were not easily bested.
         They were known to defy the Sages most out of all the kingdoms.  Many had lost their command over magic completely for their refusal to comply with the 10 Laws.  They challenged most frequently Law 5: Do not defile another's mind without the permission of a Sage.  Valhar was persistent in their dominance, though only a small kingdom and they sought to find a way around such meddling rules.  They believed that the Sages valued them over all the other provinces and have foreseen their rule over Mersyn for centuries.
         However, if Mersyn were permitted to use the full extent of its powers...
         "You, advisor," snapped Rorren at the short man in front of him.  "What is your name?"
         "Arlot, Your Highness," the man said.  He looked at Rorren, not sure whether to be frightened or complimented by the inquiry.  He was probably someone Rorren interacted with everyday, saw with his father, but never really noticed.
         "Can you accompany me if I Shift?  I need to get to the Sages quickly before Valhar arrives."
         Arlot glanced around nervously, obviously fearful.  Rorren guessed he had not traveled by Shifting on many occasions, if ever.  He was annoyed by the man's distrust in his abilities.  He simply did not want to face the Sages alone, and this pathetic man had no idea what the King was planning on requesting...
         "If not, I'm sure they could use a sturdy man like you in the front lines," Rorren added coldly.  Arlot swallowed hard, and shook his head.
         "Of course I would join you, My Lord," he answered in a higher pitch than seemed normal.  He looked expectantly at the King, and was likely to be wondering what he could be planning.
         "Alright, grab on to my tunic," Rorren advised, beginning to form the picture of the mountain in his mind. 
He blocked out the sounds around him, the shuffle of hurried feet, the billow of cloaks in the breeze of the coming morning's air, the occasional disruption of a dropped sword or fallen arrow.  All the song of war.  There also mingled a new sound, the cries of children.  No doubt the men were being swept off to the barracks, to be fitted with weapons and armor.  Women would scream and clutch at their husbands chests, begging for him to be left behind just this once.  No one looked lightly upon a battle with Valhar.
He closed his eyes and fixed the view in his mind.  He felt his hands grow hot and through his closed lids could see the glowing ring that began to swirl around the two men.  The light changed colors, from yellow to red, expressing the anger Rorren had pent up inside.  His sweating hands began to burn now, causing a low growl to escape his lips.  He could feel the fearful Arlot clutching at his tunic, and heard a slight tear in the fabric as the ground fell from beneath their feet.
A cool rush of wind eased the pain in his hands slightly, and he flexed them to regain proper feeling.  Numbness began to creep up his arms, and he urged his mind to travel faster, to reach the mountain's top.
After a few more moments, when the tingling had almost arrested his entire shoulder, Rorren landed in a crouch on the cold earth, frozen grass crunching beneath his feet.  The flow of blood quickly flooded his arm, the pain subsiding quickly.  He flexed his shoulder, feeling the familiar tightness after traveling a long distance by Shifting.  He heard rather than saw Arlot slam into the ground next to him, roll a small distance, and rise with an instant intake of breath accompanied with a whimper of pain.
"I think I may have twisted my ankle," he whispered into the darkness on his left.
Rorren could barely see in the dim light, and the cold was already causing him to shiver as he pulled his cloak around him.  He swiftly passed his hand in front of his face, and a flame the size of his palm erupted, and he cupped it in his right hand.  It emanated a light greater than what a flame that size should, and chased the shadows away from in front of them, climbing to reveal the view beyond.
There it was.  The Guild.  The House of the Ages.  It stood about 300 yards to their right, the tower atop the dome passing into blackness even the flame could not displace.  The gray marble ring was a perfect circle, its perimeter surrounded with statues depicting battles and creatures and heroes of old, and contained a single observatory that stretched and loomed high into the sky, connecting to the base in the exact center.  Its dark surface was both rough and smooth mixed in a simple, repetitive swirling pattern, but, because of its simplicity, it invited even the most wary to walk in its midst.
"Your Highness, please, I must ask you to help me or I will be forced to stay behind, for I cannot walk."  Arlot pleaded, looking somewhere above Rorren's eyes, his face seeming tinted slightly more orange than before.  Frightened.  Frightened to ask a simple question.
Rorren turned to him, sighed in frustration, and pointed his unencumbered hand at Arlot's left ankle.  He pictured the pain the small man was experiencing, felt the familiar pressure above his temple, and could sense the pain begin in his hand.  But the injury was not serious, and the throb in his head ebbed quickly.  Rorren would not have been able to tend to an injury other than a small sprain or strain. 
Arlot took a tentative step towards Rorren, then placed all of his weight on his left foot, and smiled when no pain afflicted him.  He stepped up next to Rorren and looked at the inviting dome in awe.
"Your father brought me here once," he said, but seemed not to be talking to Rorren.  A slight glaze covered his eyes, and a memory caused a slight look of pain cross his well-mapped face.
Rorren began to walk briskly.  Although the peak of the mountain was enormous in size, the crunch of snow echoed off the distant walls and could most likely be heard for miles away by whatever creatures dwelled in this strange hollow.  The dark recesses were said to hold monstrous myths of many years, few numbers, and infinite knowledge
They neared their destination, the dark marble reflecting the light from Rorren's flame.  He slowed slightly, the intrusive sight instilling in him a wary sense of caution.
When they were feet from the simple oak door, with marble handles in the shape of perfect circles, Rorren stopped.  He looked at Arlot, just to stall the entrance for a moment.  Arlot was a shade paler, and shivering either from fear or because he was without flame.  Rorren pitied those without the magical gift.
Rorren crossed the yard or two to the entrance and took the knob in his hand.  He turned, pushed in slowly and gently, and felt his heart skip a beat.  At that moment his concentration faltered, and his flame went out.  Afraid to open the door fully, he cracked it about a third of its possible breadth and slipped around the door.  Arlot, right behind him, seemed not to want to even touch the door, and hurried around before it closed completely.
The shimmer of the pure white walls put Rorren's senses off momentarily, and he stopped to take in the full view, as one always had to do.  He could swear that every time he visited the Sages abode it had changed just slightly, but he could never pinpoint a certain aspect that caught his attention.  The walls, as always, were smooth and white, more than marble, though he didn't know what, and the golden ring that held the thirteen pure golden chairs.
And in those chairs were the Thirteen.  The Sages, Elders, Oldest of them all.  However addressed, they were more wise and powerful than any mere mortal, even one endowed with magic, could ever dare to imagine.  And Rorren was about to ask them a question that could make him powerless for the rest of his life
He cautiously approached the ring of gold.  He could see every pair of blue eyes staring at him, watching his moves, eager for his thoughts.  He knew that the second he set foot inside the ring of gold, they would be able to access all of what he was thinking, everything he knew, his intentions...
He took the last tentative step, forced his foot in front of the other.  He didn't know and didn't care where that advisor of his was.  He was simply an annoyance.
"Hello, Rorren," One said.  They had long ago stripped themselves of tittles and simply referred to each other as the order of chairs suggested.
"Hello, Sages," he began, but knew his speech was actually useless.  They knew what he was going to say...why didn't they just get on with it?
"We will then," Four broke in.  His gaze hadn't changed, but a slightly red tinge seemed to surround him, but whenever Rorren tried to focus on it, it slipped away.  He wondered if he had imagined it.
"You want us to abdicate our thrones and allow all power to be set free?" Three asked quietly.  Ten and Thirteen seemed to be conversing in their minds, because slight wisps of white began to fly between them.
"Just so you can defeat a kingdom that you have defeated all previous times?" said Four, the red tint still visible.
"We appreciated your father, and we wish he were still with us," mentioned Eight, almost in a whisper, "and not just because he was a great follower of our Laws."
"Perhaps we fear the new leader?" added Ten, leaning forward imposingly, before turning back towards Thirteen and continuing their internal conversation.
"Perhaps we do," repeated Eight, lacing his fingers together on his lap.
"If this is what you wish us to do-" began One ominously.
"Then we shall comply," finished Thirteen, his deep voice rumbling. 
But the thunder produced from his lungs didn't stop end with the sentence.  He stood in a fluid movement.  His mouth was closed, but what he spoke penetrated Rorren's mind deeply and he clapped his hands to his ears. 
         They were ringing and booming, and then he could hear the voices of all the Thirteen as the other twelve stood.
"Rorren of Mersyn," they began, all their voices mixing, producing a mess of words that blended into a command so compelling, Rorren was sure he would cut his own hand off if told to.
"You have ordered our removal from our places of power, and all of our Laws are now void.  The Laws bind us to do your bidding, though no other King hath dared to ask it of us."
Rorren's heart pounded like the drum beating in his ears.  Was all of this really possible now?  He could move mountains, kill with a single thought, make anything he desired appear from nothing...He would make history!
"You may carry on your magical powers however you see fit.  Farewell.  If you care to seek us," all Thirteen had turned their heads down to gaze at Rorren, "your heart will tell you where to find us."
In a whirl wind of color, Rorren was flung from the golden ring, and landed painfully on the small of his back.  He glanced behind him, back at the glowing circle with thirteen chairs, but the Elders could not be seen. 
He turned back to see Arlot white with fear, his pupils dilated to their max.  His pulse could almost be seen pounding in his veins.  He reached a shaking hand out and clutched at Rorren's cloak. 
"We can't-"
A giant clap of thunder gripped the air.  Rorren flung himself onto his stomach and covered his head with his arms.  He peered through his hands at the vast swirling ceiling of the Guild's dome, and saw it black as night.  The thunder he imagined he had heard must have been the giant crack that was quickly spreading through the ceiling.  It was flitting across the roof, sending dust and shards of stone to the floor around them.
         Rorren grabbed Arlot by the cuff of his tunic and dragged the half-crazed advisor back out the door, for he could not Shift in this magical place.
         The second he heard his feet crunch on the snow, he shut his eyes and tried to picture his bed chamber.  He had to rely on Arlot's fear of death, trusting the man could hold on tight enough.
Rorren envisioned the tall ceiling of his personal room, the deep black curtains, the large round bed...
         The orange swirled around them, orange from fear.  It beat at his eyelids, scaring him further.  It burned his eyes even though they were closed, but he tried not to notice...to not be afraid.  His aching hand must also be ignored, and he must concentrate...the bed chamber...
         The two men landed with a thud on the stone floor.  The last wisp of orange faded from Rorren's hand, and he picked himself off the floor immediately.  He collected himself, cleared his throat, and immediately decided to test out the truth of the Sages.
         Had he tried to read another's mind (in this case Arlot's) while the Sages were ruling, he would have been instantly brought to the Guild and tried for his crime of breaking a Law.  Therefore, if he was not taken to the House of the Ages, then it must mean that they truly had abdicated their palace.
He concentrated on the prostrate man at his feet.  He held out his right hand, closed his eyes slowly, and imagined his advisor's mind as a dark library, full of anything he could ever want to know...what did he want to know?
         Come to think of it, Rorren couldn't recall anything particular about the man at all.  His concentration faltered, but the King checked himself and pictured once again dabbling in this vast room of knowledge and secrets.
         Hmm, what to learn? thought Rorren.  How about something he could ask easily enough, for now at least, but not something common...his favorite animal perhaps.
         In this library, Rorren could see himself, as if out of his body, walking up to a shelf and pulling a leather-bound book and cracking open the cover.  His mind screamed the word ‘scrit.' 
A fairly common creature occasionally used as magical companions; scrits come in a variety of colors.  Their colors, like auras certain magical beings create according to mood, reflect their personality type, and you have to look closely at yourself when your animal is chosen, or the clashing emotions could cause much destruction.  However, they are very handy at recognizing threats and they emit a kind of magical ring that only their masters can hear if a threat is present.
Their most noticeable feature is, of course, their separate colors.  They are about four hands tall at the head, and six hands long from snout to tail.  Their large heads are connected to their bodies without a discernable neck, and their long, thin, hairless tails can stretch far beyond their mouth and can slash their enemies when endangered.
         Besides this thought of scrit, Rorren also detected purple.  Caution.  That seems like Arlot, I suppose, thought Rorren.
When he opened his eyes, Arlot was moving towards the door.  Rorren cleared his throat again, and Arlot turned around.
"Oh, my Lord, I thought you were healing yourself," he said.  He stood there patiently, waiting for an order of some sort from the King.
"Do you keep some sort of animal?" asked Rorren casually.  "A tamed wolf, a small saber, something of the sort?"
"Oh, Sire, do you wish for it?" Arlot asked curiously.  "I can fetch you one if you so desire."
"No, no," said Rorren impatiently, "I want to know what you have!"
"Why, a scrit, my King," Arlot replied, obviously confused.  The question did seem out of place, seeing as they had just made all illegal magic available to the world...not that anyone else knew, of course.
"And the color?" Rorren pushed.
"Purple," he finished quietly.  He continued to wait for Rorren, expecting to receive some strange order dealing with his family's pet.
"That will be all," replied Rorren.  "Wait. I want you to make arrangements for the funeral. I want this over with as soon as possible," waving the advisor away. 
Not wanting to think of his Father's death, he concentrated on concealing his great pleasure of delving into another's mind behind his sheer joy of having the upper hand in this battle.  How could the other side know what all they could do?  He could only hope they wouldn't discover this wonderful treasure trove of power he alone could wield.
The new King of Mersyn, Rorren, the man with all power, sat down in an elegant large chair in the corner of his chamber.  The black unicorn hair helped ease aggression and tension, making it a very prized and very rare material, which he appreciated greatly at that moment.
When a unicorn is killed, the hide immediately turns black, a sign that the purest magic has left the creature.  No true power can be drained or used or learned from unicorn hides, but small wisps of it add luxury to the sheer beautiful lounger that Rorren occupied.
The numbness that had crept up his shoulder now ceased, and he began to relax.  He snuggled deeper into the folds of the chair, completely immersed in the perfection of his plan.
A slight twinge of some unknown emotion began to creep into his mind.  What could this strange feeling be?  It was quite unknown to the King, and he had to dissect it carefully to realize what it was.
He was lonely.
Of course, there were plenty of people surrounding him.  He could snap his fingers and have the whole kingdom come in and talk with him for a year.  But who would smile?  Who would understand the true reason they were there?  Wasn't it just some plot to receive greater tax money, or collect more men for the Guard?
Rorren shook his head clean of the thought.  "I don't need anyone," he said to his chamber walls.  "What is so special about other people anyway?  I now hold the power to know every tiny secret about them.  They are but specs of tiny interest to me, just a few moments pleasure of extracting memories and thoughts, nothing more substantial than that."
A smug grin touched his face.  He could lie to anyone, he realized.  Even himself.
A soft breeze floated into the high window chiseled into the stone wall, carrying the floral scents of the forest that lingered within castle view.  The strange place separating Rorren's kingdom from the kingdom of Dallow, a small defensive village that called itself separate from Mersyn for whatever strange reason.  I guess an army to protect them doesn't sound appealing.
Perhaps they should be warned? thought King Rorren lazily as the intoxicating aroma made his nose quiver in delight.  His eyelids began to creep together, and he seemed to slip even deeper into the comforting furniture he occupied.  A small voice seemed to come from somewhere faraway as he slipped peacefully into his dreaming.
"Trust me, my sweet," the melodic voice whispered, "I know you love me..."  A smile began to play at his lips.
But the voice turned distant and cold and Rorren shivered in the mid-day heat.
"...and that's why you will kill me someday."


The uneasy slumber that the new King had endured came to an abrupt close when Arlot came swiftly into the room.
"Your Majesty, I'm sorry. I-I didn't realize that you were sleeping. I- I-"
"WHAT?" Rorren roared.
"The- the funeral has been arranged. All the details have been taken care of. It will be tomorrow. At noon."
Rorren nodded once to show he understood, rose from the chair, and began to pace and contemplate what strategy he would employ in the coming war.
Turning back around, Rorren noticed Arlot still standing in front of the chair. "Do I need to find you something else to do?" Rorren threatened.
Arlot jumped. "N- No, Sire." Arlot shook his head emphatically. "I... Simply thought it might be...nice if you said... a few words at your father's funeral. People expect it."
"Fine. I shall. You are dismissed." After hearing the door close, Rorren sank back into his chair and covered his face. His father's funeral. An involuntary shudder raced down Rorren's back. Stop it! he told himself. You're just nervous about speaking in public. You've always hated such formalities.
Glaring out the window, Rorren decided that he could put off such thoughts until the morning. So, he quickly undressed and slid between the silk sheets covering his bed. Closing his eyes, he tried not to think at all, but as usually happens with such things, he could not stop thinking. Rolling over, he yanked the blanket over his head as though he could block out the world. When this didn't work, he shoved the blanket and sheets aside and jammed his feet into a pair of slippers. Wrapping a dressing gown around himself, he stormed out of his chambers and made his way towards the kitchens.
Walking through the silent, deserted passageways was slightly disconcerting because it reminded him of the ghost stories that his older brother had whispered to him at night.  Shivering once again, Rorren reflected on his past. Edward.
"Tag! You're it!" shouted a little blonde boy.
A slightly older boy, surprised by the sudden initiation of the game, hesitated for a moment before chasing the blonde down the hall. The older boy looked nothing like the younger blonde. The older boy had black, straight hair and dark, warm eyes, while the younger had blonde curly hair and piercing blue eyes; however, by the way they carried themselves, there was no denying their relationship. Both held themselves with the confidence that seems characteristic of those who have never wanted for anything, and the mischievous spark in both of their eyes tied them together as nothing else could.
Easily catching up with his younger brother, the raven haired boy tackled his brother, pushing him onto a pile of well placed pillows. Laughing the two boys mock fought until a sudden reprimand stopped them.
"Edward, Rorren, what are you doing?" demanded a young woman. Although her face was completely serious in its expression, her twinkling blue eyes lessened the severity of the command.
"Sorry, Mama," the boys answered in unison, trying to pretend to be contrite.
"Now, let's see," began Mama as she slowly began to walk around the boys. As she walked, she seemed to appraise them, every bit of her appearance, from the golden hair woven into a neat top knot to her proud posture, told of queenly position.
As soon as she began circling them, the two boys jumped to attention just as though they were soldiers being inspected by a commanding officer. "What's wrong with this picture?" Mama asked herself. "Oh yes. Little boys should not be so serious!" she exclaimed as she reached down and began to tickle her elder son. "And if they are going to misbehave," she continued, "it should be like this." With that, the queen lifted a laughing Rorren off his feet and began to twirl him in a circle, eventually collapsing onto the pillows. "Little boys should never misbehave- unless of course their mama is there to have fun too!" she concluded. Then, the happy trio dissolved into laughter and pretend sword fights.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 
Shaking his head, Rorren tried to push such thoughts aside; they were no help to him now. Finally, he reached the entrance to the kitchens and ducked in the doorway. Finding a lone kitchen aide on night duty, he immediately demanded, "Make me a sandwich!"
Startled from his stupor, the aide jumped up with a small shriek. "Of course, Sir," he said rubbing his eyes. Once his eyes were clear of eye boogers, he took a closer look at the man standing in front of him. His eyes widening in shock, the aide quickly swept a low bow. "So sorry, Majesty. I'll only take a minute," he told the floor. With that sentiment he sprinted out of the room still bent nearly in half.
Stifling a smile, Rorren found himself a stool to sit on. The aide ran back in with half a turkey, a head of lettuce and a wheel of cheese piled in his arms. Pulling out a knife wider than his hand, he began to hack at the cheese, barely keeping his fingers out of the way of the descending knife. The turkey came next. The aide took slightly longer on this task, but only because he had to pick out the fragments of bone that he had cleaved in half with his erratically swinging blade. Finally, when half a pound of mutilated turkey was sitting on the counter, the aide picked up the lettuce head. Instead of simply tearing one leaf off at a time, the aide thought that it would be faster if he could tear the entire thing in half and get all of the pieces he needed at once. It didn't work. Instead, his fingers slipped, and the head of lettuce went flying; small drops of condensation rained down on the room, catching the lamp light as they fell. After slowly spiraling, the lettuce began to make its way back down. The aide, a horrified look plastered on his face, dove to catch the lettuce before it could touch the ground. When the lettuce was once again nestled safely in his hands, the aide glanced at the king, trying to gage his reaction.
Meanwhile, Rorren was internally exalting the power he now had. His mere presence was enough to make people act stupidly and incompetently. True, it was only a kitchen aide, but soon he would see even the mighty magicians of Valhar cowering at his feet.
The aide, after making sure that he wasn't going to be locked up for dropping the king's lettuce, finished compiling the king's simple meal.
Putting the finished product on a crude wooden plate, the aide brought
Rorren his repast.
"So sorry, Majesty, but the china is locked after the evening meal has been cleared away."
"It's...fine," Rorren answered, his nose scrunching in disgust. "Leave me."
"But, Sire, I'm supposed to-" the aide began, losing his servile expression.
"I said leave me!"
Immediately, the aide resumed his ridiculously bent posture and scurried from the room.
Rorren finished his meal in silence. No longer hungry, the food felt like sand in his mouth.  Blowing the candle out, Rorren returned to his chambers in the dark. The plate of food was still sitting on the counter with only one bite gone.


  The light had ceased outside, indicating that the war would begin in hours.  The sudden realization hit him like a wall.
He slowly rose, knowing his advisor wouldn't speak before addressed, so he took his time smoothing out the inexistent wrinkles in his perfect midnight cloak.
         Mersyn's ruler was suddenly aware, with all of his being that he was the most powerful man in the whole universe...next to the Elders, of course, but they were gone, right?  So why shouldn't he be the most powerful? 
With one thought Arlot would crumple to the ground...the cruel, black haze began to mist over his sight, and he could feel the tingle at his temple...no.  He needed this man in battle, needed his insight that his father had so generously shared with him instead of his future king...
         Rorren took his time straightening up, freeing his head from the impulse.  He compiled his face into the bored and offhand look he usually wore, and yawned.
         "Yes?" he asked in a slow drawl.  He was overestimating Arlot, to be sure.  The man probably paid his attitude no mind, so this little act was probably over done...but secrecy was so easy for him...
         "We apprehended some of the enemy, sneaking over our lines," reported the short, insignificant man who had no idea how unimportant his life was to the ruler of this kingdom. 
         "Enemies, Arlot," he said disapprovingly, his tall stature towering over the man in front of him.  "What does that tell me?"  He made the all-too familiar ‘tsk' with the flick of his tongue.
         "From Valhar, of course, My Lord, how imprudent of me," he mumbled apologetically.  He shifted uncomfortably under the scrutinizing, icy stare fixed upon him.
         "Of course," Rorren continued, a hint of that cold in his voice.  "Where are they now?"
         "Waiting, My Lord," he answered.  He realized he should continue, and hastily added, "There seems to be an inadequate amount of space in the cellar, My Lord, and we wondered where you would have them put?"
         The King thought for a moment.
         "Who has filled up the hold, Arlot?"
         "Thieves, Sire."
         They could be useful in battle...
         "Release them to the blacksmiths.  Tell them to fit them with red helmets, so as to be easily detected on the field.  In case they don't agree with their...position..."
         "I see," replied Arlot.  His expression was unreadable.
         "You may go," Rorren replied, waving him off yet again.  The tiny man shuffled away, carrying the great and powerful King of Mersyn's message to the Captain of the Enslaved-Rorren couldn't remember his name-and no doubt he felt extremely important.
         How wrong could one small man be?
         Rorren smiled to himself, once again enthralled by his good fortune at having the fate of the world-and everyone in it-at his finger tips...
         He swept out of his chamber, and walked briskly to the cellar to await the prisoners.  He would interrogate them-read their minds of course-and find out their purpose in his kingdom.
         He chose a small wooden chair to occupy, one with a full view of the entrance to the dungeon.  He would sit and wait, pondering the best way to approach his prey without making it afraid, without allowing it to withdraw and not comply.
         How could he make these spies think that he, the great and powerful ruler of Mersyn, could not know they were spies from the very kingdom they despise?  Would he be able to stare into the faces of the horrible men who were, moments ago, scouting out ways to slaughter and massacre the entire kingdom?  How could he stand to lay eyes on this filth?
         Easy.  He had trained for years.  He was as skillful at lying as he was at breathing, if not more so.  He knew what people wanted, he could sniff out their desires and mirror them back.  He was a king of manipulation.  He had spent his entire life practicing on the feeble people they called rulers around him.
         His father, for instance, the kind-hearted, weak man he was, would crumble with a small crooked smile that Rorren could produce, or by throwing him a piece of enthusiasm that he of course would assume was over something he did.  His hopes for Rorren were high, and Rorren never led him to believe that they wouldn't come true.
         But when his father was dying, when he had to stand beside the pathetic form as the last of the oxygen left his lungs, Rorren knew that his father suspected his true feelings.  And, probably all along, Rorren had been wrong.  His father was much wiser than he had thought.
         What a troubling thing, doubt.  A new feeling, a new emotion.  How to wrestle this one?
Just then, a handful of guards flanked around twenty of these Valhar spies.  For a second, Rorren thought he may lose control at the sight of the men, but the mask, the composure, melted away all truth.  It controlled his body, rendered all feeling useless.  Emotions were an unnecessary nuisance altogether.
The new King of Mersyn, a young man born merely twenty years ago, was facing millennia of rivalry.  Could he truly outsmart these men, who had an expanse of wisdom he could not possibly have, and trick them into depositing their kingdom right into his hands?
         He could.  And it would be so simple.
         The portly guard in the lead of the procession stopped, knelt to one knee, and waited for Rorren to speak.
         "What have you brought in for me?" the King questioned the guard.
         "Spies, Your Highness, from Valhar we believe."
         "And where were they discovered?" Rorren asked.  He clenched his fists at his side to prevent them from trembling.  His jaw flexed, but he held it steady.  He took a deep breath.
         "They were found at the Western gate, Sire, trying to sneak through the guard towers so that they wouldn't have to pass through the Ledger.  I'm sure they didn't want their names and kingdom in our records, and we are the most thorough in our verifications..."
         "Of course we are, Captain..."
         "Captain Retal, Your Highness," replied the tall, rounded man as he shoved out his chest and straightened his spine in pride.
         The King now took in the twenty or so prisoners.  If he wasn't mistaken, he thought they each had a slight orange hue to them.  His shoulders relaxed, and all the tension left him.  He even felt the corner of his mouth twitch up in a small smile.  They were afraid.
         As Rorren concentrated on the first prisoner he saw, he felt the pressure begin in his temple.  He needed to know what this man was thinking.  His secrets were vital to taking down Valhar's cunning empire. 
         While focusing on this man, the orange mass that was the prisoners hit him like a wall.  These men were terrified.  The pleasure of knowing he was such a frightening figure pleased him so fully that he was tempted to jump forward with a growl to see the reaction of these pathetic, sneaky scouts.
         The man's mind was completely consumed by his fear.  Rorren had trouble penetrating his forethoughts, but eventually he breached the secrets of this simple spy.
         A multitude of information began to open itself to the King of Mersyn, consuming his mind and overwhelming him.  He felt his legs stagger backwards, and a gasp escape his lips.  The information was too much to take in at once.
         He broke his connection with the prisoner's mind.  He sat himself back into his chair.  His breath was coming quickly.  He could hear the guards asking if he was well, if they needed to call a healer.
         "Your Highness?  Your Highness, what would you have us do?"
         No, I am not well, he wanted to say, I am not well because Valhar's army has grown much since I last knew it.  His father must have kept many secrets from him if he didn't tell his son, the one that would now inherit the throne, that a grand army was marching this way.  And with great horror, he realized how far they had marched.
         The enemy would be here by sunset tomorrow.
         He could still hear the guards fussing in concerned voices.  He looked up, and all eyes were trained on him.  He picked out the face of the man's mind he had just read.
         He stared him down, until the prisoner's gaze faltered, and his eyes fell to his feet.  Let us see how well these men are trained, thought Rorren.
         "You, prisoner," he began.  The concerned faces of the guards seemed to slacken in relief that they wouldn't have to rush to someone in order to save their king.
         The man Rorren addressed either did not hear him or chose not to respond.  Rorren took three hasty steps toward the man, flung his arm into his cloak, and held up a sharpened dagger to the Valharian's throat.  A swift flick of his wrist and their party would be one short.
         "I SAID YOU!" Roared the angered King.  He looped his heel around the man's leg and pulled his foot back sharply.  The man's eyes widened and he clutched at Rorren's robes as he fell onto his back, and with a sickening thud his head hit the cold stone.
         "ANSWER ME YOU FILTH!" Rorren exclaimed, his face growing hot in anger.  His frustration was billowing out of him like steam, and when he looked down he could see a definite red glow around himself.
         He truly was enraged.  He needed to keep calm, to deal with these men in reason.  But he could barely grasp the words that wanted to flow so freely from his lips.  He wanted to make these men suffer for all the work they would cost him.  He wanted them dead.
         "What is Valhar planning?" Rorren said in a restrained voice.  The man was crumpled in a heap.  His breathing was coming in short gasps.  He was grasping his head, and moaning slightly.
         Useless creature.  He needed a more conscious victim.  Every other face was turned downward in avoidance.  Rorren walked through the crowd of men, and they parted easily for him. 
         A gangly boy was squeezing between two other elderly men on Rorren's right.  He stopped and took in the sight of him.
         He was young, probably no older than sixteen, and with ringlets of gold peaking out from beneath his leather helmet.  And his blue eyes so mirrored his own...
         This boy, this Valharian, could be his brother, they were so similar.  A twinge of brotherhood began to rise in Rorren, and he realized that this young man who wasn't even of age yet could have been forced into such a predicament, and that this line of life may not be his choosing.  Something in resemblance to pity struck Rorren right there, and it seemed to weigh him down.
         This was somebody's son, thought Rorren.  Perhaps he wasn't so bad.
         "You, boy," he said with a tone that was too much unlike his own.  The young man looked him straight in the eyes, and with a glare that held all of the hate it possible could, he spit right on the King of Mersyn's face.
         With a fierce growl, Rorren swung the hilt of his dagger into the side of the boy's head.  His eyes rolled back, and he toppled into the men behind him.
         He heard outraged gasps and muttered comments, and could hear the thoughts of everyone around him, screaming hate.  But Rorren was consumed by his own loathing screaming back at the minds of these despicable creatures.  He wanted so very much to kill all of these men, to watch them fall down dead in front of him.  He could almost picture it.
         He needed to get away.  He shoved the last Valharian out of his way, and by mistake, added the force of his magic behind his hand, and the man flew into the stone wall in front of him, and slid slowly down to the ground.
         He glanced at the cell at the very end.  He thought he saw a faint glimmer of brown and gold billow out from between the iron bars, but then it could just be a haze from the black that was streaming off of his skin.
         "Release those thieves on the end as Arlot instructed you earlier.  Send them down to the armory.  Lock these disgusting animals in there.  NOW!"
         "Yes, Your Highness," mumbled the guards.  The inclined their heads slightly, and began to herd the prisoners into their new cell and release the thieves to their stations at the front of the fighting lines.
         Rorren gathered his cloak closer around himself, took one last glance back at the cell, and swept out of the dungeon and up to his chambers.
                             *                              *                              *
         PART 1 ONLY!! please read on :)