134Chapter Two
High Prince Foeben, heir to the throne of the Angelarian Empire, duke of Godsfield and the Purple March, Guardian of the Sadrian Drum and only child of His Magnificence the Sun of Angelar, was bored.
Outside it was a fine day, the sun shining warmly on the gleaming land below. As its golden light streamed in through the windows, the young prince could imagine the grassy lawns of the palace glowing like emeralds beneath the azure sky. Wistfully, he dreamed of riding out through the gardens, and continuing on through the small gate in the western wall into the Royal Forest, there to hunt. His daydream took on substance in his mind, until he could almost feel the wind on his face and the sun on his back.
"My prince!"
The sharp voice of Korem, his tutor, brought Foeben sharply back to reality. He looked up from behind the solitary wooden desk at which he sat, focusing his gaze on the blackboard which his painfully thin tutor was impatiently tapping. The sun streaming through the trees became the dusty light pouring through the high windows of the study, the whispering breeze changing into the insistant buzz of a bumbling fly as it fought to escape the cloying heat of the room.
"Your Highness, you really must pay attention to your lessons," Korem chided gently. "I know that my prince is not, generally speaking, a natural academic..."
"It's not that, Korem," Foeben sighed, breaking into the older man's words. "It's just this day... it's too hot to learn. Otherwise I think I would be interested in this. Really, I would."
The old tutor studied the boy carefully. He had taught the prince's father, as his white beard and wrinkled face attested to, but age had not dulled his wits in the least. Experience and logic told him that the youngster had no interest in learning, and was most likely lying, but the teacher in his heart felt a faint hope rising. Perhaps the young prince really was eager to learn in this one area. It was certainly somewhat more exciting than what Foeben was usually taught in that room. Korem came to a decision, and smiled at the boy.
"Well, my prince," he said politely, "Perhaps you would find this lesson an easier one if we were to take it outside."
Several minutes later, they had left the small, high-ceilinged room off the great library and had made their way to the small stone gazebo that stood in the centre of the orchid garden. Green-robed wizards moved slowly along the neatly-paved paths, carefully maintaining the spells that promoted healthy growth in the plants. Foeben and his tutor sat in the elegant little structure, enjoying the breeze. Korem had brought some of the books down with them, and they now lay open in front of Foeben, who was staring at the pages, enthralled by the pictures that covered page after page of the texts.
"What are these images?" the prince asked. Korem smiled at his interest.
"As I was telling you before," the tutor said softly, "These pictures were drawn shortly after the end of the Mage Wars, which we have been covering for the last three weeks..."
"And I hope I never have to sit through something so dull again!" Foeben groaned. Korem frowned.
"The Mage Wars decimated our world for centuries! Even now, there are places which have not yet recovered from the damage caused. So much was lost or destroyed..."
"That all you can teach me about it is an immense list of names and dates," the prince interrupted. "You can't even tell me what sorts of magic they were using!"
"The reasons for that are what we will be going into today!" the old man snapped. There was a sudden, terrible pause, during which the prince and his tutor looked at each other. The faint sound of birdsong could be heard in the tense atmosphere.
"Do not speak to me in that tone again," Foeben hissed, his face cold and unforgiving. Korem instantly bowed.
"I shall not, my prince," he replied, relieved. Then he straightened. "If I may?" he asked, gesturing at the books. The prince nodded, and the tutor bent down to lift one of the books, the tension broken and scattered with the wind.
"Currently, there are two popular theories as to what caused the end of the Mage Wars," he began. "What is known is that it was a very sudden cessation... one day, all hostilities simply ended, for no apparent reason. The first theory suggests that some of the more senior wizards of the time secretly negotiated a truce, which came into effect after a successful coup during which they defeated the lesser sorcerers of the time."
Prince Foeben shook his head. "But I thought they all hated each other? And that they didn't care how much damage they caused to anything?"
Korem nodded. "Your Highness is correct in both instances. As I said, there are two theories, and for several reasons I find the second one to be a better explaination. Two of those reasons you have just mentioned. Clearly the sorcerers were unlikely to even meet for negotiations, let alone successfully arrange a cease-fire. However, of the few remaining records from that time, we have seen references to something called "Wild Magic". It seems that was this unknown power that the old sorcerers drew on to achieve their astonishing powers."
The prince laughed. "But if that were true, then we'd be using it today, and clearly we don't!" He thought of the slow, ritualistic approach to magic used by all modern wizards, and snorted.
The old tutor tapped the book in front of him. "Records of the end of the War all speak of the Gods removing the power of the sorcerers. Whilst it seems highly unlikely, in the least, that the end of the war was due to divine intervention, many believe that this is a metaphor for the sudden disappearance of this "Wild Magic". Current thinking is that the power source the ancient sorcerers used was a finite resource, which, when overused, simply disappeared. The sudden loss of their powers would account for the abrupt end of the war, and could also offer a reason for the terrible chaos which followed."
"Chaos which was dispelled by my ancestor," Foeben said proudly. Korem nodded, pleased that his pupil seemed so absorbed by the history.
"Indeed, it was High King Gelar the First who united the Empire, and established many of the traditions which to this day continue within the kingdom. Sadly, we have few records from his time, but we can be sure that the Sadrian Drum dates from his reign, as do modern solstace celebrations."
"I knew that," laughed Foeben. "Merrek gave me a lecture on the drum when I was anointed as the Guardian."
"Well then, your highness, perhaps it may surprise you to know that your own name also dates from that time."
The prince looked across at the old man. "What do you mean?"
Korem smiled. "Foeben is not a name that was used by any of the free tribes during the founding of the Empire. Its first recorded use was as the name of Gelar's eldest son."
The prince got to his feet, and smiled. "I suppose you know more about such things than I do," he mused, "but I could still beat you at swordplay."
Korem sighed. "Sometimes, we can learn lessons from history," he pointed out. Foeben looked blankly at him, and the old man shook his head.
"Your lessons are over for the day, my prince," he said resignedly, and watched as the young boy sped off towards the stables. The teacher shook his head.
"Just like his father," he sighed.
"So much has been lost."
'Nia looked up into the face of the old piper, seeing the sadness on his face. Politely, she waited for him to continue, lying back on the grass of the hillock. Athatila seemed to pause, deep in thought for a moment, then he sank down next to her.
"We are an oral culture," he began, "And so many things change even as they are passed down. People die before they finish stories, and so new endings are made. People misunderstand what they hear, or change what they dislike or think untrue. This happens in every tradition, but when nothing is written down, the truth can be lost forever. So what I will teach you over the next few years is most likely fiction rather than fact. Do you understand?"
'Nia nodded, absorbed already. "Yes."
Athatila smiled. "For now, I will save those tales, and tell you only what is absolutely certain and true." The old man looked up, and observed the wide, clear sky.
"The dancers dance for the sun, and the piper plays for the moon," he said, his voice slipping into the subtle rhythms of storytelling. "They do so because once there was something which now is gone, and if we do not dance and play it may be lost forever."
"What?" asked 'Nia. Athatila shrugged.
"Some tales speak of a strange magic, others say it is the gods themselves who sleep. Some think that it is a dragon who went travelling, and must be guided home. Who can say? In most of the stories I have heard, it is the Lord of the Sun and the Lady of the Moon, but I don't trust that version more than any other."
"I know those stories!" 'Nia exclaimed, her face lit with excitement. "All about the Gods, and why they left..."
"'Nia!" the old piper admonished. "You are my apprentice now. You must learn to tell truth from legend and myth. All we can be sure of is that something left, and has been gone a long time. But when it returns, or awakens, that is the day our people will be free. Until then, we are loyal to the Royal House of Angelar, and will not betray them in thought or deed."
"The Dancers all say that, too," 'Nia said thoughtfully, "And there are severe punishments for those who try to escape. But why?"
"You have the mind of a Piper, child," said Athatila approvingly. "And in answer, I must say that I do not know for sure. Perhaps it is a test of faith, or perhaps they have some part to play in what will come. Who knows?" He looked around him. "There. The stories can wait until another day. You have a day off, so go and play."
'Nia stood, clumsily bowed to the old man, and darted off down the hill. The Piper chuckled. She had a mind for learning, that one.
The Royal Forest was the property of the royal family, and if any laid an axe to it without permission, their life was forfeit. For generations, princes and kings had led hunting parties through its leafy halls and hidden groves. Legend had it that some ancient spell was on the place, for no hunting party that entered ever left the trees empty-handed.
Foeben had decided to go out for a ride alone, and had taken his chestnut stallion Darmin out of the stable. He had three horses, all named for famous warriors, but Luad was skittish beneath trees and Arant had been ill the week before and was unavailable. The prince had changed hurriedly into his riding clothes, which were by far the simplest ones he possessed. He now wore soft leather trousers and a quilted purple tunic, with high black riding boots and a royal blue cloak.
Foeben was twelve, but tall for his age. His face, when it lost its childish roundness, would be square with a strong jaw and chin. His unfashionably tanned skin merely made his long golden hair shine the more, and his bright blue eyes glitter in his face. A simple coronet circled his head as a sign of his rank, and seated upon Darmin's back he looked every inch the prince of a vast empire.
He rode at a leisurely pace into the forest, ducking under the occasional branch. A feeling of reckless freedom came over him, as the daydreams of the bored pupil became reality. He rode north, his eyes half-closed as he enjoyed the sensations of the world around him.
Suddenly, Darmin halted, and the sudden motion caused Foeben's eyes to fly open. He found himself looking down at three children around his own age, dressed in rough and grubby clothing. Foeban had a brief glimpse of a boy and a girl with short brown hair, and a second girl with oddly pale colouring, before the three of them turned and started to run.
Without thinking, not even aware of why he did it, Foeben slipped off the back of his horse and chased after them, shouting as he did so;
"Stop! I command you!"
The dark-haired pair seemed ready to carry on moving, but at the sound of his voice the pale girl grabbed them both and held them still. She turned just as Foeben caught up with them, and he gasped as he saw her eyes, which were as dark and deep as night.
"You're Prince Foeben, aren't you," she said, shrewdly. Her voice brought the prince to his senses, and he drew himself up to his full height.
"Indeed I am, and you are trespassing here! This is the Royal Forest, and you can't come without the permission of my family, which you do not have!"
"Yes we do," said the brown-haired girl, suddenly. "Our people have always had permission, ever since the day this forest was made Royal."
"It's one of the first things we learned when we were little," the boy added, smugly.
Foeben looked at the three of them, standing defiantly side-by-side, and frowned. "I don't remember hearing of that. I'm sure I would have been told. I think you should explain yourselves to the Royal Guard!"
"They know we come here," said the pale girl. "Besides, we aren't hurting anyone."
"That's not the point!" snapped Foeben. "It shows a lack of respect!"
The silver-haired girl laughed, her chiming voice without a trace of mockery. "Our people have nothing but respect for your family, my prince, but if you don't want us here then we will leave. It is our duty to offer our service to you whenever you need it."
Foeben scowled. He suspected he was being laughed at, and he didn't like it, but there was little he could do as the three children turned to leave. Then a thought struck him.
"Who are your people?" he demanded. The pale girl turned her head, looking back over her shoulder as she called out;
"Guess!"
Foeben watched as they walked out of sight, then climbed back onto Darmin and turned back to the castle. Briefly, he considered reporting the insolent children when he returned, but dismissed the idea. The guards wouldn't be able to find them anyway. They would be long gone, vanished into the forest.
A brief image of the pale girl flashed into his mind, and he wondered who she was. Then he frowned, and dismissed the thought. He was High Prince Foeben, heir to the throne of the Angelarian Empire, duke of Godsfield and the Purple March, Guardian of the Sadrian Drum and only child of His Magnificence the Sun of Angelar. He didn't have to think about some dirty little common trespasser.
Yet somehow, she wouldn't leave his mind.