"Words of a Dream - Chapter One" by Martha Elizabeth Cundiff

Chapter One

No sun could pierce through the tyrant blanket of clouds that covered the earth.  Thunder echoed across the heavens and wild winds danced passionately in the trees.  Dogs barked, mocking the skies’ torment, adding to the symphonic storm.  It rose and fell in intensity, but the rain beat steadily upon the kingdom of Anavielcia.

            Amidst its towers and unconquerable walls of strongest stone stood Anavielcia’s pride, it’s Princess Erilia.  She faced the storm, letting the winds toss her dark, tangled hair as she stood holding the stones of the balcony with her small, pale hands.  Horses cried in the distance as lighting crackled.  Erilia smiled, closing her ice blue eyes to welcome the refreshing rain upon her face.  She laughed inside, thinking of what would happen should the guards find her out here, in this weather too.

            In the distance, an airborne creature fought against the winds and rain.  It let out a determined cry, like that of a small cat or bird.  Erilia opened her eyes and chuckled as she leaned over the edge of the balcony, arms outstretched.  The creature tumbled into her arms, the material of her elegant dress soaked, clinging to them.

            “Neak, you fool,” she said in a warm, bell-like voice.  The creature chirped and nuzzled against her.  He was the size of a domestic cat, golden in color with auburn stripes that echoed in the feathers of his wings.  His ears were larger than a normal cat, and his tail ending with a large fluff of soft fur.  “You’re soaked to the bone, you poor thing,” Erilia said as she stroked Neak’s dripping fur.

            “So here you are, Highness,” came a rough voice.  Erilia turned around to see an elf much taller and older than she dressed in elaborate robes, which were quickly succumbing to the rain.  Although she had not seen him in what seemed to be ages, she quickly recognized him.  “You’d both better get inside before the winds knock you over the ledge,” he warned.  “Come on, now.  You don’t want to be ill for the festival tomorrow.”

            Erilia rolled her eyes.  Shifting her hold on the catbird, she picked up her dress for easier travel and strutted haughtily past the other elf.

            “Now, now, Highness,” he scolded, “Mind your ways.”

            “Be still, Master Cebrin!” Erilia commanded as she spun to face him, her wet hair blowing in the harsh winds.  “Am I not going?”  She sighed heavily with disdain and continued on inside.  Cebrin swallowed and walked swiftly behind her.

            He followed her to her chambers, where he was readily dismissed with a cold stare from the princess, and hiss from Neak.

            “Why must she keep such a wretched animal?” he said to himself as he walked the corridors of Anavielcia Castle.  It was an architectural masterpiece.  Arches and domes repeated themselves, and ornate woodwork trimmed with gold shone throughout every stick of lumber.  The walls of stone were adorned with luxurious tapestries and paintings of the royal family.  Lush red velvet fabric draped from the ceiling and across archers was pinned with the royal coat of arms: a silver wyvern coiled around a golden sword.  The preparations for the festival were still going on into the night.  The last decorations to make the castle even more spectacular were being hung and the smell of tomorrow’s feast wafted from the basement kitchens.  Cebrin made his way through the chaos of the last minute preparations to the throne room.

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            His Majesty, King Meradon the Seventeenth of the Elves in Anavielcia sat upon his throne, his brow wrinkled with worry as he nervously tapped his ring-laden hand on its golden arm.  He sat up as Cebrin entered the long hall and hurriedly walked towards him.

            “Master Cebrin!” he shouted in greeting. “What news have you of my jewel of a daughter?  Is she found?”

            Cebrin knelt on one of the steps at the foot of his king’s throne and nodded, standing slowly. “She is found, your Majesty.  She is soaked, but found.”

            The king sighed and chuckled jovially,  “That girl…playing in the rain again, eh?  Well, she’ll learn better when she’s too ill to attend the festival.”  The king laughed, and coughed himself.  Cebrin rushed to his side.

            “Are you alright, milord?” he asked with urgency.  The king held up his hand and cleared his throat, pushing his long gray hair behind his pointed ears.

            “Cease your worries, Cebrin.  Erilia is found, and I fare as well as usual,” he answered in his commanding tone.  Cebrin nodded, backing away from Meradon.

            “If you do not mind my intrusion, my king, may I ask how your son fares?” Cebrin prodded, sitting down on a step.

            “Amalas?” the king said as he readjusted himself on the throne.  “Yes, well… You have been away quite some time, Master Cebrin.  He still does not speak, and remains un-wanting of visitors to his room.  Erilia is the only one comfortable seeing him, she and that animal of hers.  Servants take him his food, but do not wish to linger there, fearful of him in his silence.”

            Cebrin sighed, “He still does not speak, you say.”

            Meradon nodded and lent forward on his throne. “Anyway, Erilia’s whereabouts prevented us from talking directly upon your arrival.  I must say I am most pleased to have you home again in Anavielcia, but am anxious to hear of your findings.”

            “Your majesty…” Cebrin said slowly, hanging his head.  “Prince Amalas’ condition is unheard of outside your kingdom, save one sage’s ears.”

            “Well, go on, fool!” the king half-laughed, “Don’t keep me waiting!”

            “Milord, the sage Feril spoke of a forgotten curse and the prophecy of it’s reoccurrence, which would explain why Amalas’ malady has haunted him all of his century.”

            Meradon slammed a fist on the arm of his throne. “Then why didn’t the priests find something in their texts?”

            Cebrin gestured pleadingly at him. “Feril spoke of a magic older than that of Anavielcia, older than yourself, your Majesty.”

            The king grunted and narrowed his eyes. “And the cure for this curse?  Did you learn of it?”

            He nodded. “Indeed, milord, I have learned of it.  It is in the prophecy as well.  The cure is to come from a mixture of blood shed by the sword of the heavens, tears shed by the sword of the sea, sweat brought on by the sword of the earth…and…”

            “Well?” the king asked, losing his patience.

            Cebrin bit his lip. “I don’t remember the rest, milord.  My journey has been rough and wearisome, I beg your fogiv-“

            “Silence!” the king shouted.  He fumed, breathing heavily.  “You will go again to this sage, this Feril,” he spoke slowly and softly, “and learn of the cure in it’s entirety, decipher the riddle that it clearly is, gather the ingredients it outlines, and return to me here.  Do you understand?”  Cebrin nodded quickly, bowing at the king’s feet.  “Then leave me,” commanded the king.  “I am off to bed, and so should you be.  There is a festival tomorrow, and we should be refreshed for it.”

With that, Cebrin turned and rushed out of the throne room, leaving Meradon to brood over his thoughts of glimmering hope for his son’s succession to Anavielcia’s throne, dim and fading in the distance, but present nonetheless.

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            Dawn brought with it the Festival of Blossoms and crowds of crowds of jubilant commoners celebrating the coming of spring to Anavielcia.  Their songs started as soon as the sun peaked over the horizon and carried on into midmorning.  Children and maidens danced in the cobblestone streets as the men haggled prices with merchants.  Wagons of gypsies rolled into the city, their energetic music filling the air.

            Erilia watched the festivities from her window as her maidservants struggled to get her dressed.  She screeched as her hair was pulled, and Neak woke with a start only to lie down again upon her massive bed.

            “Be gentle with a royal head!” she commanded haughtily, then asked rhetorically, “Did I request my hair to be twisted so?  Just let it be!”

            “Mind your tongue, child,” a voice directed.  Erilia turned and looked sheepishly at the woman who had entered her chamber.  She was noticeably thin, well kept, and dressed in a flowing green servant’s gown, but ornamented with a white robe.  Her dark hair was pulled partly back into a meticulous bun and the rest hung flawless behind her to her knees.  She walked forward, very sure of herself and exact, as proper as any noblewomen could be.  She smiled at the princess with deep green eyes.  “Again, surprisingly, you forget who you are and what you mean to your people,” she said with loving authority.  “As Anavielcia’s jewel, you must appear and behave as one.”

            Erilia sighed and rushed to the women, who embraced her lightly in her slender arms as the princess fell to her knees.  “Oh Nurse,” she sighed.  “What am I to do as a jewel?  All jewels do is stay still and shine and be beautiful.  Is this all the purpose I have?”

            Her nurse stroked her hair and smiled, staying silent.  She glances over at the hearth and frowned, seeing the empty service.  “Why, you haven’t eaten your breakfast, dear,” she lightly scolded.  “You won’t last the day.”

            “I hate crocuses, it’s a pointless tradition,” stated Erilia, “but you’ve changed the subject.  Answer me, please?” she prodded.  “What am I, this jewel, to do in Anavielcia?”

            The older elf smiled sweetly.  She took Erilia’s hair into her experienced finger and began working it into elegant braids.  “Such a child,” she cooed.  “Now is not the time for you to worry about such things.  Though Anavielcia’s you’ll always be, someday you shall marry and be the treasure of your own kingdom.”  She finished her handiwork and motherly stroked the princess’s hair.

            “Anavielcia is my kingdom!” Erilia said in defiance.  “No one can take it, not even marriage.” She crossed her arms and stared at her nurse, not to be shaken.  Neak mewed and flew over, sensing her hostility rising.

            “Leave us,” the nurse said to the maidservants who quickly obeyed.  “You know the laws, Highness.  Amalas will speak again, and when he does, he will ascend to take your father’s throne.”

            “You have so much faith in his healing,” Erilia said, moving a hand to stroke the persistent Neak at her side.  “I do not have such faith.  How do you know he’ll be cured?  Nothing has worked.”

            The nurse smiled and sat by her.  “Master Cebrin has returned,” she explained.  “I overheard he and his Majesty speaking late last night, when we couldn’t find you.  Cebrin has found a man who knows what can cure the prince.”

            Erilia nodded slowly, “I knew Cebrin was back in Anavielcia.  I saw him,” she affirmed.  “Have they given the cure to Amalas yet?”

            Shaking her head, the nurse replied. “Alas, no, they haven’t.  Ingredients need to be gathered.  Your father has planned to send out an expedition after the festival.”

            A conniving smile crept across the princess’s face. “Thank you, Nurse.  You have been most helpful as always.”  She embraced her, as a child embraces its mother.  “I would be lost without you.”

            Her nurse smiled.  “I merely do my duty, milady, but I do find such joy in it.”  She helped her to her feet.  “Now then, we must hurry to the arena.  They are about to start the ceremonies.  You don’t want to be late.”

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            Trumpets announced the princess’s arrival at the Grand Arena’s gates.  The arena was decorated with garlands of rosebuds and golden banners bearing the royal emblem that blew softly in the breeze.  Erilia and her nurse made their way to the royal box under the company of guards.  The princess beamed as she looked about with wide eyes.  Flowers were strewn across all the walkways and littered the arena floor itself.  She nodded to her people as she passed by them, gracing them with a smile of royalty.  When they reached their seats, the guards parted and Erilia gaze was met with Cebrin.  He lent over the banister, staring down at the area floor with a contemplative look on his wrinkled brow.  Erilia frowned and sat unwillingly beside him, her nurse slipping in behind her.

            “My child, there you are!” came the booming voice of the king.  Erilia smiled, turning to see her father ascending the steps.   She bowed, and he took her lifted hand, small and pale in his own.  “Rise, Erilia, and enjoy today.  It may be the last of its kind for some time.”  He grinned at her as she stood to sit again, and he took the seat beside her, nodding to the waiting herald.

            The trumpets sounded again, and down below on the arena floor the procession of the clergy began.  The priests chanted the arrival of spring, which Erilia found most disinteresting.  When it was over, the trumpets sang another anthem.  Dancers leapt, ran, flipped and pranced from every direction, congregating on the main floor.  They were all costumed in the traditional gold and green colors of the festival, with flowers accenting their garb.  Erilia smiled as she watched them demonstrate their agility.  In the distance, she could hear the shouts of the commoners outside the arena walls in their own celebration of the change of seasons.

The dance became less enthralling toward the end, and the matches that followed was even less amusing.  King Meradon however was quite intrigued by the elves performing the most difficult of swordsmanship techniques and kept pointing out to Erilia the noble stature of the contestants.  She listened with disinterest.  She had done this year after year, and it remained her least favorite part of the festival.  The princess strained to hear the music over the walls.

While her father stood to cheer on a favored swordsman, Erilia slipped away from the watchful gaze of the king and her nurse, engaged in a heated conversation with Cebrin.  She stayed low, out of sight of the guards and sneaked out of the arena.  Once on the streets, she stayed in the shadows.  A maiden dressed in a simple silk cloak walked by, laughing as she herded a group of children.

“Excuse me, miss,” Erilia said as she passed, “But I will give you twenty gold pieces for you cloak.”  The maiden stared stunned at her for a moment before hastily removing the cloak in exchange for the money.  Erilia nodded her thanks and slipped the cloak on, raising the hood so that she wouldn’t be easily recognized.  She was free.

Erilia walked on the cobblestone, following the enchanting music.  It led her to a square where a band of gypsies were dancing wildly.  She had never seen anything like it.  They were so much more agile than any dancer she had ever seen before, and incorporated more turns and jumps than she could imagine.  They were faster and their music set the rhythm of her own heartbeat.  What amazed Erilia most about them however was their appearance.  The hair of the men was cut short, and was light in color, as was the women’s.  Their ears were adorned with pieces of metal, amounts varying with the individual, and their faces were painted with fascinating designs.  Their clothing was simple, but vibrant and easily moved in.  Where had they come from?  Were they elves, or some cousin race?  Erilia stepped closer, moving to the front of the cheering crowd to watch more closely.

The dance moved in a circle around the gathered audience.  They clapped and shouted along with the gypsies, and the disguised princess joined in.  She laughed and sang along, though she didn’t know the words.  One dancer in particular caught her eye with his skill and beauty.  He had golden hair that hung in his face and lifted into the sky when he jumped in time to the drums.  His eyes were dark and full of life, a life that flowed effortlessly through the veins of his lean, muscular body.  He sang loud, “Blossoms for the children, blossoms for the maids like doves,” and his voice was strong and vibrant.  When he reached Erilia’s point in the circle, he picked up a flower from the ground and handed it to her in the middle of a turn.  “Blossoms for the men folk, blossoms to give their love.”  She blushed as the commoners around her hooted, laughed, and shouted. 

The dancer winked and continued his way around the circle, but was met by a soldier of the royal guard.  Erilia’s smile left her face and she looked around, as other guards were closing in.  Cebrin came thundering towards her, the confused crowd parting to let him through.  The sky darkened and Erilia spun out into the clearing of the square that had been the dancer’s playground, but now the only music was the heightening wind.  Her dancer stared at her in bewilderment from the hold of a pair of guards.  She clutched the flower, and a harsh gust of wind blew across the square.  The hood of her cloak was pushed away, and the crowd gasped to see the face of their princess.  The captive dancer stared with surprise.

Cebrin closed in and glared at the dancer.  “Savage!  What business have you in Anavielcia?”  The dancer looked at him, and then desperately searched the crowd for his gypsy brethren.  “Answer me!” commanded Cebrin.

“I-I…we have every right you do to celebrate spring!” he stuttered, “Why should it matter where we dance, so long as it is in celebration?”  The crowd hesitated in cheering their agreement, the guards gaining in number around Cebrin and his captive.  Rain broke the sky and drummed upon the street.  Cebrin reached out a gloved hand and slapped the helpless youth.

“You homeless, worthless piece of riffraff scum…” he mocked, spitting in the boy’s rain-spattered face.  Erilia shivered, wanting to intervene, but held back somehow.  “Go home to you savage family and tell them that Anavielcia wants none of their kind.  Your ancestors left of their own will, and so should you if you know what is best for you and your…your people.”  The rain thundered now, and the commoners were dispersing to seek shelter.  Trumpets echoed on the wind proclaiming the end of the festival.  Cebrin waved his hand and the guards dropped the boy to the ground, landing him in a newly accumulated puddle.  Cebrin shot Erilia a cold, authoritative stare and turned back towards the castle, the guard marching behind.

She stood in the rain for a moment, the cruelty still struggling to make sense in her mind.  In desperation, she followed after Cebrin and the soldiers well after they were out of sight, hugging the cloak close to her.

“Highness!” came the voice of the boy.  “I didn’t mean any offense!”  He stood pleading, soaked by the rain, calling to her.  “I…I didn’t know!”  She clamped her eyes shut and broke into a run, leaving him there.

He watched her for a moment longer, regretting his actions.  It was stupid of him, yet he hadn’t known it was her - Erilia, jewel of Anavielcia.  Remembering the words of the cruel leader of the guard, the boy struck out to find the rest of his band.  He ran deftly through the now empty streets toward the woods beyond the grand city.