Chapter one of Eyes of the Deluti

This is the first couple of pages in my WIP. Please give it a read and let me know if you would continue reading and if not, why not. Any and all comments, good or bad, are appreciated. Thanks!


This is from the first book in a fantasy trilogy.

                                     Chapter One

A Whisper from the Past

 

  Barely able to see, Navon took the stairs two at a time. The hot tears of shame and rejection burned his cheeks as he tried to distance himself from the looks of sympathy on the faces of everyone in the Great Hall. Why? Why had his father done that to him? Was he really such a disappointment?

  The sound of heavy footsteps on the stairs alerted him to the eminent arrival of his older brother, Altair. He ran into his room and wiped the tears from his face. No one was going to stop him now that he had made his decision to leave.

   His brother walked in and stood there for a moment, watching him pack, before he spoke, “Are you sure you want to do this, Navon?”

   “No, but what choice do I have Altair? You heard Father at dinner tonight. He laid out all of his hopes and plans for everyone in this family except me. He never mentioned my name or even looked in my direction. You could see from everyone’s faces that they understood what was happening. I no longer have any hope for a future as part of this family.”

   The youngest of the Baron’s children, Navon had been given a small room on the upper floor of the Keep. A giant oak, rooted in the center of his room would have been as nothing compared to the presence of his brother. He wished that Altair would just leave him alone with his misery but his brother’s concern also gave him comfort. He had always been there when Navon needed a shoulder to cry on and never laughed at his fears of being different.

   As Navon stood in front of his small wardrobe, his light blond hair fell forward to conceal the tears that threatened to flow again. Altair approached him from behind and placed a comforting hand on his shoulder.

   “Do you know how eagles learn to fly, little brother?”

   Unable to speak, Navon shook his head.

   “The chicks spend months standing on the edge of their nest just flapping their wings. It builds up their muscles. Then one day, the parents will push a fledgling out of the nest. He will either learn to fly or fall to the ground where he will die. I think Father just gave you that push.”

   When he didn’t respond, Altair turned his brother around and with a finger under Navon’s chin, raised his head, wanting, needing to look him in the eyes. “You have no idea how much I envy you, little brother. The rest of us will always be chained to this Keep or at least to our little corner of the country. Do you remember all those fantastic tales of the world that traveling Bard regaled us with at last summer’s festival? You are free to travel and experience those faraway places for yourself, while we are prisoners here to our duties and responsibilities. From the day you were born, we have all felt that you were someone special and that someday you would have to leave us.”

   Altair reluctantly released his little brother and quickly moved towards the door. Once there, he turned back with as fierce a look as Navon had ever seen on his brother’s face. “Learn to fly Navon. Never forget that you are a Roddel. If you are ever in need, send word to me and I will come regardless of what Father says.”

   Unable to concentrate on his packing after Altair left, Navon sat on the edge of his bed trying to make sense out of what his brother had said. A knock at his door jarred him out of his thoughts. Wondering who it might be, he heard a soft voice outside calling.

   “Navon. May I come in?”

   By the Eyes! It was his mother, the last person he expected. She had never come up to his room before, so why now? He swung open the door to his room and answered with a bow. “Of course you may come in Lady Mother.”

   All the excuses for why he was packing that sprang into his head melted away as he watched his mother calmly survey the room, holding a plain wooden box in her hand. The box was like nothing he had ever seen before. The edges had darkened with time and the simple design spoke of an age long past.

   “I knew this day would come, my son. That is why I am here. I have something that has been in my family for many generations. I became the bearer of this box on the day my mother passed from this world. It is a thing of power,” she said and opened the box, removing a triangular amulet that contained three luminescent eyes and was attached to a small gold chain. “Once you put this around your neck, the amulet should disappear and only you will be able to remove it.”

   “Why are you giving this to me?” he asked, unable to keep the hurt and frustration from his voice. “You have many more sons and daughters who are more deserving of this than I.”

   “Navon, no one in living memory has worn this. Tradition says that the bearer of the box will know who is to wear the amulet or who to pass the box on to for the next generation. The moment you were born, I knew you were the one to wear it and that I was not to give it to you until you were ready to leave. Please put it on, my son. It is yours.”

   With trembling fingers he reached for the amulet. The loop in the chain appeared to be too small to slip over his head. The chain began to glow and Navon felt a tingling travel up his arms and into his chest. The glow quickly faded and the chain separated, revealing a tiny clasp. At a gasp from his mother, he raised his eyes and stared in awe as the box disappeared in a flash of light. He reached behind his neck with the ends of the chain where they snapped together to become a solid loop once again. From the look of wonder in his mother’s eyes, he knew the amulet was no longer visible. Unnerved by the touch of the chain, he froze as a voice in his head whispered, “Go north.”

                                                *          *          *

   Far to the north, in a castle hidden deep within the Mountains of Mists, the Ancient One raised his head and smiled. Far to the south-west, on the Isle of Dahlian, the Stagwood Marshe trembled as Scorpios clenched his scarred fists in a fit of rage. The slave who had been serving him burst into flames until reduced to a small dusting of ash on the floor.

                                                *          *          *         

   In the morning, wearing a comfortable pair of leather pants and vest over a light green shirt with a touch of lace at the cuffs and neck, Navon gathered his things and went down to the kitchen. It was early enough that he should be able to avoid everyone in the family. Now that he had made his decision, he was eager to be on his way. He asked the cook to wrap up some sausages in bread that he could eat while he traveled, then noticed the furtive looks of the kitchen staff. So, it appeared that his father’s words, or more accurately his lack of words on Navon’s behalf, had reached the rest of the Keep. The cook’s words as he handed him the sausage rolls were unexpected, “May the Eyes of the Deluti watch over you wherever you go, m’lord.”

   The guard at the outer gate barely acknowledged him as he trudged through using his un-strung bow as a walking staff. Sword and knife were hung from his belt, a quiver of arrows over one shoulder and his pack and bedroll tied to his back. The pack was only large enough to hold a few of his prized possessions, some clothes and his herb pouch. The old healer at the Keep had taught Navon everything he knew about healing lore, so the pouch should come in handy.

   Defending himself wouldn’t be a problem even though he would never achieve the brute strength of his brothers. The Keep’s arms-master judged that Navon had the quickest hands of any swordsman he’d ever taught and his skill with a bow was un-matched by anyone in the Keep. He might only be fifteen summers, but imagined this was what it must feel like to be a man. Raising his face to the warmth of the morning sun, he strode away from the Keep with a spring in his step. You were right, big brother. It is time for me to fly.

                                                *          *          *         

   A solitary figure stood on the ramparts of the Keep long after Navon had faded from view. Forgive me my son, for what I had to do. Your path in this life was set the day you were born and I fervently hope I was able to prepare you for it. You will always be my special son. Turning away, Baron Rodgier d’Roddel disappeared into the Keep, his beard glistening with tears that no one would see.

Another short scene from 'The Price of Compassion'.

Princess Sofia has just been informed that after secret negotiations with their enemy, she is now betrothed to Prince Mathias of Marlinor. The impact of this revelation is almost more than she can bear and blames her mother, the Queen, for her betrayal.
Please give it a quick read and comment on story flow and if the humor provided by her maidservant helps to diffuse the situation.
Thanks!

Somehow Sofia managed to make her way back to her rooms through a fog of despair and disbelief. Of all the things she had envisioned for her life, being married, especially to a Malinorian, had never been one of them. Deep inside of her, where the cauldron of anger normally simmered, sat a cold emptiness. Floane, sensitive to the mood of her mistress, moved quietly about the rooms, laid out a change of clothes and poured the Princess a cup of chilled wine. At a knock on the sitting room door, Floane quickly hid in the bedroom.

Queen Oliva entered and stopped just inside, then quietly closed the door behind her. The Princess stood motionless, staring out of her window.

“You will leave in the morning with an escort of ten men commanded by Lt. Marton. You may take along one maid. The men will escort you to Seaside where a ship will be waiting to take you and the escort across the Straits of Durmont to the capitol city of New Bratan. There you will be met by King Charles and Prince Mathias.”

Gliding to a side table, the Queen carefully set down a small bejeweled chest.

“Inside of this chest is an ancient wooden box, the contents of which are unknown. No one has been able to open it for many generations. The box has been part of the Royal Treasury since the time of the first Queens of Dahlian and is believed to contain an item of great power. King Charles’s only requirement for the betrothal was the gift of this box, so you will present it to him immediately upon meeting. How he even knew of its existence is a mystery.”

Unused to being ignored, the queen ordered, “Face me while I am speaking.”

She involuntarily took a step back as Sofia turned to face her. Out of lifeless eyes spun a darkness that threatened to draw the color out of everything in the room. Determined to finish what she had started, the Queen continued.

“My daughter, your sacrifice will benefit our country immeasurably. As your Queen I demand it of you. As your mother I ask it of you.”

Receiving no response, the Queen turned and made her way back to the door and risked one final look at her daughter on the way out. As the door clicked shut, a breath of sound escaped Sofia’s lips, “I have no mother.”  

Unable to think, she continued to stand long after the Queen was gone. A movement drew her attention to the bedroom door where Floane stood transfixed. With faltering steps her maid walked across the room as if being pulled by a rope straight to the jewel covered chest.

Once there, her hands slowly grasped the lid and raised it. Eyes bright with wonder, she trembled slightly as she reached inside and lifted out a wooden box darkened with age. A smile danced at the corners of her mouth as the box appeared to open on its own accord and she was bathed in a golden light. Closing her eyes with a sigh, the lid of the box closed and she returned it to the chest.

 As the glow around her maid diminished, the Princess heard a voice, as if someone was speaking to her from the bottom of a well.

‘The bearer of the box is found. Guard her life with your own.’

Sofia shivered and pulled back from the abyss where her shock and despair had led her. The sharp edge of her reasoning flared to life and cut through the events of the morning. She was being manipulated for someone else’s gain but would have to deal with it later. Right now she needed to make plans and prepare for her departure in the morning.

“Floane! What are you doing over there?”

“Your Highness? I… it is such a lovely chest!”

Tearing her eyes away, she bounced across the room, hands clasped together.

“This is so exciting! Are you really going to Marlinor? And to be escorted by Lieutenant Marton. He is so handsome! I have always dreamed of sailing on a ship. You have to beware of pirates though or so I’ve heard. And the King! They say he is so strong and handsome that women fall down at his feet!”

Laughing at her maid’s excited ramblings helped to lighten Sofia’s mood and put her in the right frame of mind for what she had to do.

“It will take more than a pretty face to make me fall down at the feet of any man,” she snorted. “And don’t you worry about pirates. Our ships are a match for anything those thieves will have.” Turning toward the bedroom, she continued. “Now I need to get out of this gown and leave to make certain arrangements. While I’m gone I want you to pack only the two large travel chests. When I return I’ll have one of the Guard escort you to your quarters so you can pack without being disturbed. I want us both ready to leave first thing in the morning.” Not receiving a response, Sofia turned back to find her maid frozen like a deer caught in the gaze of a hungry wolf.

“Floane? What is wrong? You heard the Queen. She said I was allowed one maid and you are the only one I would trust to travel with me.”

Fear filled eyes regarded the Princess as Floane trembled, “No one in my family has ever left the Rose Palace, your Highness. We have always served the Queens of Dahlian. My grandmother told me that a curse had been placed on our family and anyone who tried to leave the Palace would die before reaching the end of the bridge.”

Putting an arm around the shoulders of her maid, Sofia steered her towards the bedroom. “I imagine your grandmother told you that just to scare you into not leaving the Palace and getting into trouble. Don’t you worry Floane. I will protect you with my life.” With a sense of unease, she wondered, why would I say such a thing?

Do you read visually?

There has been a lot of discussion lately on the merits of story telling vs good writing. While it behooves us, as writers, to position our words on paper in an intelligent and thoughtful manner, precise adherence to the rules is not always necessary and can actually disrupt the reading experience. Let me explain.
As I read, each word or phrase immediately forms an image in my mind. As those images come together, a motion picture of the story develops. If the images fit together, then the motion picture continues without interruption. However, sometimes those images are out of order and I have to stop the movie and re-wind. Story comes to a halt.
The general rule is that you should always write in the active voice. This works fine for action scenes but does not always work when writing descriptions. For example; let's say you want to describe a castle and where it is located. In active voice, you might write "The ancient castle sat on a pinnacle of rock'. As soon as I read 'ancient castle', my mind conjures up the image of a castle, maybe on a river or in the center of a city. Who knows where my mind will place it. Then I read that it is located on top of a pinnacle. Now I have to completely re-imagine a different castle that would fit on top of a pinnacle. Motion picture stops.
Now, if you wrote that same description in the passive voice, it would go something like this: "On top of a large pinnacle of rock, sits an ancient castle". As I read this, my mind forms an image of a large pinnacle and automatically positions the correct shape and size of castle on top of the pinnacle. The motion picture continues without interruption.
For me, another rule that will stop the story in its' tracks is showing vs telling. While showing can add dimension to a story, some writers will try so hard to show me something that I have to stop and re-read to make sure I understand what they are saying. In those instances, I wish the writer would just tell me that the character is 'boiling mad' and get on with the story.
When I'm reading, I always picture the author sitting across from me, drinking coffee or sipping on a beer, as they take me for a ride in one of their tall tales. If that writer starts to take on the aspect of an English lit professor in a suit and tie, I will get bored and leave.
I don't believe I am alone in this, considering how some of the most popular fiction writers of our day, receive the harshest criticisms. Critics complain that their writing is abysmal and does not meet current standards.
I don't know about you, but I would much rather produce a whale of a story that, hopefully, thousands will enjoy, than a grammatically perfect piece that only a few will appreciate.


Do you read stories the same way? I would love to hear your thoughts and experiences while reading.

How wordy is too wordy?

The following is a short scene from my work in progress. The Queen is waiting impatiently for the arrival of her youngest daughter. When I submitted this to my critique group, half loved it and the other half felt it was too wordy. I love to read and write epic fantasy, so for me, wordy is good.

Her Majesty, Queen Oliva Salidoris, was on display in her Crystal Throne at the northern end of the Great Hall. Today was the first day of summer and one of only four days that she required her three daughters, the four Governors and the local nobility to attend her. Dark and curly shoulder length hair, adorned with golden threads containing delicate pink blossoms and tiny green leaves, framed the face of a mature yet strikingly beautiful woman. The intricate Crown of Dahlian, nestled atop the curls, appeared to anchor the golden threads in place. A sleeveless, floor length gown was the color of spring wheat in celebration of the new season. The gown was trimmed with the same profusion of leaves and blossoms at the hem and waist with the neckline cut just low enough to hint at the femininity hidden within.

Intense hazel eyes, partially hidden behind lowered dark lashes, scanned the courtyard as she greeted her guests with a nod and a distracted but benevolent smile. The fingers of her right hand continued to tap out a rhythm on the arm of the throne despite her best efforts to still them. Today’s major announcement involved an agreement that had been reached concerning Princess Sofia. An agreement that her daughter was completely unaware of and the Queen was concerned what her hot tempered daughter’s reaction would be. At a discreet signal from the Queen, the Seneschal lowered his head to hers.

“Any word as to the whereabouts of Princess Sofia?” she whispered.

“No, your Majesty. The servants are being uncommonly tight lipped. No one has seen the Princess since late last night.”

Just then a movement at the southern entrance to the chamber caught the Queen’s eye like a breath of air rustling the leaves of a single tree branch. A young woman dressed in a blindingly white gown with folds of sheer lace down the sleeves and around the neck, strode down the aisle. Back straight, every muscle loose and in perfect balance, her eyes never seemed to move yet saw everything around her. The lethal grace of her movements was a testament to the years of clandestine lessons she had received from the Palace Guard’s retired arms-master.

 A wave of silence spread out from the Princess as the sea of courtiers parted in front of her on the way to the Throne. Even from far away the Queen could see the anger smoldering in the eyes of her youngest daughter. Knowing her daughter wouldn’t have created a dramatic entrance on purpose, something or someone must have delayed her. The barely suppressed smirk and look of distain on the face of her middle daughter, Princess Dianna, confirmed her suspicions.

Do you become emotionally attached to the characters in the stories you read and/or write?

   A number of children, while growing up, develop imaginary friends. My imaginary friends were in the books I read, but to me they were real people. I would fantasize being in the adventure with them and doing my part. I would laugh when they laughed and cry when they cried. I remember having nightmares every time we would just barely make it out of a situation alive. In my nightmare, we would both die.
   I no longer need imaginary friends but I still become emotionally attached to characters, both in the stories I have fallen in love with and in the stories I have written. I have never seen myself as a leading man so I usually identify with one of the supporting characters. Over the years, several authors have killed off the supporting character halfway through the story. When that happens, I lose interest and rarely finish the book. When I was young, occasionally I would write the rest of the story keeping the character alive.
   As you can probably tell, the stories I like to read and/or write are all character driven. Sometimes this makes it difficult for me as a writer because I will start to tear up at an emotional scene and can't continue. I will have to step away for awhile before I can come back and finish the scene.
   I have always been a fairly un-emotional person who rarely laughs or cries. It's not that the emotion isn't there, it's uncomfortable for me to display emotion in front of others. Books give me a safe outlet for my emotions.
   I sometimes wonder if I am alone in this or are there others who have to live their lives in a similar fashion?
   Thanks for reading!

I Love Writing Characters In Supporting Roles.

   In my story "The Eyes of the Deluti" I put together a team made up of a 'light shifter' and an 'ogre' to protect Navon, one of my main characters. Emma is descended from a race of tree dwellers with the ability to shift the light around them rendering her invisible. This ability enhances her profession as an assassin. Sebastion is a mountain ogre with a natural defense against magic. He relies on his size and mastery of weapons to get the job done. Sebastion is twice as tall as Emma and easily four times her weight.
   In this scene, Navon has disappeared and Emma is forced to contact their master. See how she handles it.

All eyes turned to her. Once again, silence filled the clearing except for the quiet whimpers of the pups and a low rumbling growl from Bright Star that Emma could feel.

Sebastion stood, then sat again, hand clenched on the hilt of his sword. Slowly and carefully he spoke. “Little one, somehow we have failed. This is beyond any of us and we need direction. Only you have the power to contact the Old Man.”

Emma nodded and reluctantly reached inside her tunic to pull out the talisman she kept on a chain around her neck. The Ancient One had given it to her many years ago to contact him in an emergency. She had only used it once before and the experience had been unpleasant. This time would be worse. At the touch of her finger along with a small release of power, a misty figure formed in the center of the clearing.

A deep, powerful voice filled the clearing as High Lord Demitrios faced Emma.

“This had better be important, little one.”

“What, did I wake you from a nap?” she bristled. “Of course it’s important, Your Ancientness.”

Sebastion let his fangs show in a smile, and then quickly put on a serious expression as the image of the Ancient One turned to him.

“Sebastion, I am disappointed in you. I had hoped you would have her under better control. Now, I see all of you gathered here except young Navon and what is most disturbing, I can no longer sense his spirit. What has happened?”

Sebastion could only shrug while holding his hands out to the side.

Emma approached the glowing figure, hands clenched at her side. “That’s the problem. We don’t see him either. According to the wolf pups, he and Moonlight have been taken away by your Deluti Spirits. You should have warned us.”

“What do you mean? And who is Moonlight?” He stared off into the forest before turning to the elder wolf. “Bright Star, may I question your young ones?”

With a bark of command, the pups moved forward to sit at the feet of the old Deluti High Lord. He stared into their eyes for a short period of time, and then released them. They rose and returned to their parents, no longer whining.

The Ancient One paced back and forth with a look of concentration on his face as he pondered. “Which one of the Councilors inhabit the amulet that Navon wears? He is not ready. What is the purpose of the bond to the she-wolf? This changes everything.”

“Stop babbling, old man, and explain to us what is going on,” Emma demanded.

He turned to the ogre, as if he hadn’t heard. “Sebastion, I must ask that you travel to the capitol city and present yourself to the King. Princess Sofia of Dahlian will arrive soon to fulfill an agreement between the two nations. My vision is unclear but I sense that the Princess is next in line to receive an amulet. One of the Barons is planning something and I have to assume he is an agent of my brother. He will do anything to get his hands on one of the amulets. Tell the King I have sent you to be her personal bodyguard.”

He ignored the fuming Emma and turned to the elder wolf. “Bright Star, my old friend, the fate of your daughter and young Navon is now out of our hands. The Deluti spirits have activated the Arches of Rineron. We cannot interfere or aid them in any way.” The Old Man paused as he raised his eyes and gazed to the south. “They must have passed through the first arch. I now sense Navon’s spirit far to the south in the land of the Shadron Nomads. If he and Moonlight survive their trial they will return to the north through the Shadow Mountains. Wait for them there.”

Finally he turned to Emma with a look that caused her to step back. “And you, my favorite little tree climbing assassin, will accompany Sebastion to the capitol, find out what the Baron is planning, and then contact me again. Stay out of sight and stay out of trouble if you can.”

Before she could respond, the image of the old man returned to her talisman, leaving her and Sebastion to stare at each other in apprehension.

“That went well, don’t you think,” Emma beamed. “Did you hear him? He said I was his favorite! C’mon Sebastion, let’s take care of the wagon and get going. The sooner we can arrive at the capitol, the sooner I can find out what the Baron is up to.”

Sebastion shook his head and chuckled as they broke camp.

Writing fan/fiction for practice from a story I can't get enough of.

Just for background on this story, Elayne has the power to bond someone to her so that they share feelings and strength. Sort of like an over the top bodyguard and friend. Birgitte’s soul belongs to an ancient hero who comes back from the dead to fight whenever the Horn of Valere is sounded. 

Do the strong emotions of this scene come through? If not, any suggestions on how to make it better? 

This is part of a fan-fic I am writing just for practice. 

Roland

 

 

The coolness and familiar surroundings of the Pavilion helped to settle her thoughts. The servants had attempted to pattern the inside of the Pavilion after her quarters in the Palace, even placing a dummy fireplace against one wall that would hold a brazier if needed for warmth. The bed was certainly not as impressive as the one in the Palace but was probably the only bed in camp. Someone had been thoughtful enough to bring some flowers and arrange them in a vase on the table.

Her thoughts soon turned sour again. Blasted mood swings! She would find a way to make bloody Rand al’Thor pay for the difficulties she’d been experiencing because of her pregnancy. It wasn’t totally his fault but she would make him pay regardless. It was also entirely possible that her mood was being influenced by the pain and despair seeping through the bond from Birgitte. Something was eating at the soul of her friend and Elayne cared too much not to try and help.

“Bloody ashes Birgitte! Will you please sit down and talk to me. I haven’t been able to get more than a few words out of you all day. I can feel the conflict inside of you and it will destroy us both if we can’t find a resolution.”

Birgitte snorted as the faraway look fled from her eyes. “Such language from a Queen. You’ve been spending entirely too much time around soldiers Elayne.” Then in a quiet voice she continued, “Especially a soldier like me.”

Elayne said nothing. The look she gave Birgitte spoke volumes as she pointed to a chair opposite hers. She had assumed the mantle of Queen now and would brook no more nonsense.

“You will not like what I have to say Elayne,” Birgitte murmured.

“I don’t like seeing my dearest friend suffer like this either, so I will just have to find a way to deal with it,” Elayne replied.

She waited patiently as Birgitte struggled with what she needed to say. A flicker of fear began to dance around in the back of Elayne’s mind as the suspicion of what her Warder wanted flared to life.

“You want me to release you from the Warder bond,” she whispered. “Why?”

Taking a ragged breath, Birgitte slowly walked over and sat in the chair facing Elayne. Hands tightly clenched in her lap, she looked up and saw her tears reflected in the eyes of her beloved friend.

“In all of my previous lives, I have never had a sister. You have shown me what I never knew I’d been missing. You have given me a precious gift Elayne. Not only by saving my life but also the gift of the love for a sister. You will always have a special place in my heart.”

“I don’t understand,” Elayne cried softly. “I need you now more than ever. Please don’t ask me to do this.”

“I must.”

Springing up out of the chair, Birgitte began pacing back and forth. She had never been comfortable sitting while trying to marshal her thoughts.

“Do you understand what I am Elayne?”

“Of course. You are Birgitte Silverbow, heroine of the Ages. She who never misses what she aims at.”

“No Elayne. That is who I was and as long as I’m your Warder that is all I’ll ever be. But that is beside the point. What I am is a hero tied to the Horn of Valere. I must be available to answer the call when Mat blows the Horn at the Last Battle.”

Unable to hold back her tears, Elayne struggled to control her voice. “What are you saying Birgitte? Do you want to die?”

“No one wants to die,” Birgitte murmured as past memories of death rose up to haunt her. “But I am afraid. I shouldn’t be here Elayne. Moghedien ripped my soul out of the World of Dreams and thrust me into the world of the living. Her intention was to see me die the final death and I would have if you hadn’t bonded me, giving me a link to this world. I have felt the Pattern twisting itself around trying to fit me in.”

Stopping at the side table where one of the servants had thoughtfully left a pitcher of wine and a pitcher of goat’s milk, she poured herself a cup of wine and after a moment of indecision, poured another one for Elayne. The Queen wasn’t supposed to have anything other than goat’s milk during her pregnancy but Birgitte felt they both needed something stronger.

Returning to her chair, she handed the cup of wine to Elayne and at her questioning look Birgitte smiled, “I won’t tell if you don’t.”

“Why now?” Elayne asked.

“It seems that one of the requirements for being a Hero of the Horn is sensitivity to the needs of the Pattern. Maybe that is why so many of us are born over and over, each time accomplishing something important. Gaidal and I have lived more lives than any other because we are the most sensitive to the Pattern. Yesterday I became aware of what the Pattern requires of me. Somehow I am now tied to Mat. If I am not with him he might die and the Last Battle will be lost before it ever begins.”

“Birgitte, I know that Mat blew the Horn of Valere and he seems to have a certain flair for fighting but Rand is the one who is destined to battle the Dark One and save the world.”

Birgitte leaned forward and gripped Elayne’s knee, her braid of golden hair falling from her shoulder. “Think Elayne. Even if that too handsome man of yours manages to seal the Dark One back up in his prison, what then? Will the hundreds of thousands of Trollocs just roll over and die? Will the Seanchen shake their heads, disappointed that they missed the Last Battle, climb back onto their boats and head for home?”

“Of course not. We have one of the largest armies ever assembled along with the greatest military minds of this age. We will deal with the Trollocs first and then push the Seanchen back on their ships whether they want to go or not.”

Bounding out of her chair, Birgitte resumed her pacing. How to make Elayne understand? Her need to find Mat had become almost painful. It was like an itch she couldn’t scratch. The worst part was she knew she couldn’t do anything until he returned from his insane quest into the Tower of Ghenjei. That would have to stay a secret for now but maybe he would forgive her for revealing just one of his many secrets.

Her eyes glazed over as she remembered the desperate, blood soaked battles many generations in the past. “I fought and died several times during the Trolloc Wars Elayne. It took many lifetimes before they were finally defeated. Your armies are impressive but from the number of Trollocs rumored to be massing at the border, they will roll over your armies like a storm flattens a field of young wheat. Your armies are too fragmented with different loyalties and agendas. You must have one Marshal-General in command of all the armies to have a chance. Who will you choose? Toward the end of the war when all looked lost, one man stepped forward. He rallied the nations together and fought with cunning and a certain amount of luck until they finally drove the Trollocs back across the border.”

Coming to a stop in front of Elayne, her body quivering with emotion, their eyes locked.

“That man was Mat.”