Wind Rider (Return of the Dragons 2)

I

When I woke and found the room around me finally completely white, without the slightest tint of red, nothing even remotely pink, I got up and walked out and hoped never to enter the room again. I’d been in bed for weeks, and spent my time staring at the ceiling, dreaming, and daydreaming. None of it had been pleasant: not the endless waiting, not the dreams that were always the same nightmare — my little four year old feet cold on the stone corridor, the passageway dark and clammy and unfriendly, and up ahead in the welcoming light my uncle and my mother standing together, in their nightclothes, smiling at me. Then my uncle would call out to me: neffe, nephew.

It had taken weeks for my eyes to clear. The dark lord, my uncle, had burned red into my eyes, all three of them, when he had killed Marga, the mother of my best (and only) friend.

Once I had been just another sixteen year old, although I can’t say I had a normal childhood – instead of school, I had a tutor, and my parents locked me up in my room to study for long periods of time. The only good thing back then was the time I spent with my blademaster, swinging a staff, and with his wife, Ana, a witch who had taken care of me when I was little. Then I was sixteen, and Giancarlo, the blademaster, had let me pick out a wooden sword. And I’d picked a magical sword, and then everything had gone crazy. First my sword sang to me, making me do this crazy dance, which helped me beat my blademaster in a sparring match. Then later trying to concentrate in my locked room I formed a gateway instead, and pulled Kara, a kriek princess, out through a hole in the wall.

Kara had been at my bedside almost every day, and my face got warm, thinking about her. We had escaped the castle with the help of Kalle, another kriek, escaped narrowly from a powerful wizard, Gerard, escaped only to be attacked by giant wild boars, keiler, talking beasts who stood on their hind legs when they wished and who served the dark lord. And they had called me herr, or master. And in the battle against them I had killed, for the first time.

I didn’t like to remember what that was like, but it still kept coming back to me, whether I liked it or not.

We had stumbled our way into the ancient city, and somehow my blood had told me what runes to touch so we could enter … And the gates had opened, to more trouble.

I had been tested, and found to be the three-blooded prince, born to unite the three bloodlines and to fight against the dark lord. But if the dark lord was my uncle, where did that leave me?

We had forged my sword anew, burning the magical wood, melting together the broken pieces of three great swords of old. It was an amazing blade, and I had sung to it during its final forging. That had been a test too. Today at last I was going to start training again. I hadn’t trained since Marga was killed.

I would never forget feeling her die, her hand clasped in mine. Even though I’d barely known her, her son, Karsten, was my best friend. And her nephew, Elias, what of him? He was so young, but so powerful. Somehow he could suck the energy out the walls around him. I’d been sure that Karsten and Elias would blame me, but it seemed more like they blamed themselves. They too had come to my bedside, and Karsten had told me to come to the cafeteria and see him when I could leave the white room.

I wished sometimes I could bring her back. But I couldn’t even wake up my parents from their eternal sleep. So I did what I could. I strapped on my sword and walked out into the sunlight.

The morning was cool and the air was clean. The cool air felt good on my bandaged skin.

Most of the damage had healed quickly, but I had two cuts that were deeper and harder to heal, one on my left forearm, and another on my temple.

I breathed in deeply, and felt alive for the first time in weeks. I felt guilty about how good it felt — how could I be happy and loving life when just a few weeks ago I had caused someone to die?

Not to mention that my parents lay unmoving, and had to be turned every few hours so they didn’t develop sores, had to be washed and cleaned and fed by others.

So much for my good mood.

I sighed. But I knew there was no point focusing on my problems. I needed to breathe and exercise. Fresh air and exercise were healthy, and the sooner I got my health back, the sooner I could prepare for war, for battle. If the battle went well, maybe my parents could be made whole again.

But Marga would never be whole. And I wondered if her son and her nephew ever would be either. I walked towards the cafeteria with a heavy heart.

The aromas that I’d missed during those two weeks hit me with a wave of nostalgia: remembering those two happy weeks when I had dined here, and made my first true friend… The smell of fresh baked rolls and spices, of pancakes and fried potatoes…I walked into the cafeteria, nearly empty in the early morning. I was still an early riser. And I felt a deep hunger for something more filling than the fruit juices and gruel they had fed me in the white room.

I went to the serving table and picked out a banana, pancakes, two rolls and some fried potatoes. My tray was heavy as I carried it back to an empty table. It felt like a guilty pleasure, to eat so much, but I needed to gain back the weight and strength I’d lost the last couple of weeks, if I was going to be any good to anyone. Training was grueling work, and I’d need all the nourishment I could pack in. I had to train. Without training, I’d have no hope of saving my parents and avenging my friend’s mother.

I sat down and ate.

It had been two weeks since I’d tasted solid food. The food filled me with life and warmth, driving away the cold emptiness and sadness. I tried to eat slowly, to do honor to the food and to the cooks who had been up even earlier than me, working in the kitchen. Cooks like Karsten.

I had seen his face from time to time in the early days after the attack, when I had been half-blind and half-mad, and asleep much of time, dreaming unpleasant dreams. Later, in the last few days, Karsten had only come around once that I could remember – he’d made a pained smile when I looked at him, and then left, without saying a word. I didn’t know what to say to him – could we ever just be friends again? A war was coming, and the first battle loomed. Would anyone or anything ever be simple again? It was tough for everyone.

I chewed a pecan cranberry roll, one of my favorites. I remembered the nuts we had roasted and eaten just a few months ago, and the power that came from them. Here, nuts grew everywhere on trees between the houses, providing shade and food. The trees glowed with energy, and I couldn’t tell if they took or gave energy to the city itself. Maybe the energy went both ways. In any case I felt the energy now in my mouth, in my throat, radiating out through my stomach. I chewed slowly, savoring the flavors, and knowing that everything that went into this roll had come from this walled city… the grain, the berries, the nuts… Everything was grown here, in this ancient magical city that somehow had escaped detection, until now.

Now even the dark lord knew where it was.