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Authors: Victoria Hanley
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Sword of Bellandra. Oh, how he wanted to know! He’d heard the rumours that it was destroyed, melted down in a careful ritual. But he didn’t know. Before he put it out of his mind for ever, he wanted to be sure.
Torina could tell him. She’d made him the confidant of all her visions. He was amazed at the truth of her sight, the extent of her gift. Oh yes, she could tell him what had become of the Sword. A thousand times, the question was on his lips. Then he’d look into her innocent eyes, and something would stop him.
‘I hate being a princess!’ she stormed, sliding to the ground and covering her face to cry. Landen knelt beside her, whispering the only comfort he felt.
‘I’m glad I know you.’
She nodded, making small, choked sounds.
He stroked her hair. ‘Torina, I’ll always be your friend.’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘My dearest friend.’
What could be more precious than hearing her say that?
‘One day you’ll have the power to do as you please.’
She gathered a handful of pine needles in one hand, large tears gliding over her flushed cheeks.
‘Yes, some day. And until then, I’ll remember you.’ She reached out to him.
Embracing her was something he’d never done. It felt easy and right to hold her.
‘I must go,’ she said, after a few moments. ‘They’ll be looking for me.’
He opened his arms. He could hear her muffled sniffs as she ran off. Landen sat propped against the huge pine, feeling a swift sense of loss. As he looked across his life, he saw Archeld again the way it had seemed when he first arrived: fearsome, barbaric, devoid of justice.
His mind drifted back to Bellandra and images of boyhood. For years, he’d put such thoughts aside as too painful to bear. Now he remembered.
His mother’s voice:
Always be grateful for the light of your soul. It shines just as brightly, no matter where you are or what happens
.
Had she known? Those words, spoken before she died, seemed to say she suspected her child would encounter a different world from Bellandra.
He recalled the way muted rainbows would touch the clouds at any hour of the day. The dazzling glint of sun on the surf of Bellan Bay. The bursting, creative joy of careful artistry practised everywhere. Farmers in love with the land. Musicians enthralled with their instruments. Inspired dancers. Healers: bloodless surgeons, herbal masters, touch healers, spirit walkers who guided the passage of death.
Marla, the old one. Wise, sad eyes looking at him, not speaking.
The peace that soothed and brightened the air of Bellandra – until Kareed tore it away. Here in Archeld, peace did not light the way. Instead, war and fighting were all the glory.
And now I am a warrior. My training is nearly complete. If I found the Sword, I could lift it
.
Did the Sword still exist? If it wasn’t destroyed, was it somehow defiled? Could its magic, once desecrated, ever come back? If he found it, would any of its power be left? Or would it simply be a pretty toy of war?
Landen sat, baffled and sorrowful. With the Sword hidden or gone, and Torina isolated from him, perhaps it was time for him to leave Archeld. He could do it. It would be easy to steal a horse by night. He was sixteen now, nearly a man. There were other kingdoms where he could make his way. Stories circulated about Glavenrell, the kingdom north of Archeld. Glavenrell’s new young king, Dahmis, was working to forge peaceful alliances with his neighbours.
Perhaps that’s where I belong
.
The boy closed his eyes. He yearned to be part of an effort for strengthening peaceful ties among countries. How weary he was of the sparse, stringent life of a soldier in training. The only chance he got to be artistic was in making bows from time to time. His weapons were sought for their quality.
Like the rest of Bellandran craft, he thought bitterly. Everyone said Bellandra, swallowed into a province of Archeld, had descended into a land ofgreedy merchants, selling off their
Torina could tell him. She’d made him the confidant of all her visions. He was amazed at the truth of her sight, the extent of her gift. Oh yes, she could tell him what had become of the Sword. A thousand times, the question was on his lips. Then he’d look into her innocent eyes, and something would stop him.
‘I hate being a princess!’ she stormed, sliding to the ground and covering her face to cry. Landen knelt beside her, whispering the only comfort he felt.
‘I’m glad I know you.’
She nodded, making small, choked sounds.
He stroked her hair. ‘Torina, I’ll always be your friend.’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘My dearest friend.’
What could be more precious than hearing her say that?
‘One day you’ll have the power to do as you please.’
She gathered a handful of pine needles in one hand, large tears gliding over her flushed cheeks.
‘Yes, some day. And until then, I’ll remember you.’ She reached out to him.
Embracing her was something he’d never done. It felt easy and right to hold her.
‘I must go,’ she said, after a few moments. ‘They’ll be looking for me.’
He opened his arms. He could hear her muffled sniffs as she ran off. Landen sat propped against the huge pine, feeling a swift sense of loss. As he looked across his life, he saw Archeld again the way it had seemed when he first arrived: fearsome, barbaric, devoid of justice.
His mind drifted back to Bellandra and images of boyhood. For years, he’d put such thoughts aside as too painful to bear. Now he remembered.
His mother’s voice:
Always be grateful for the light of your soul. It shines just as brightly, no matter where you are or what happens
.
Had she known? Those words, spoken before she died, seemed to say she suspected her child would encounter a different world from Bellandra.
He recalled the way muted rainbows would touch the clouds at any hour of the day. The dazzling glint of sun on the surf of Bellan Bay. The bursting, creative joy of careful artistry practised everywhere. Farmers in love with the land. Musicians enthralled with their instruments. Inspired dancers. Healers: bloodless surgeons, herbal masters, touch healers, spirit walkers who guided the passage of death.
Marla, the old one. Wise, sad eyes looking at him, not speaking.
The peace that soothed and brightened the air of Bellandra – until Kareed tore it away. Here in Archeld, peace did not light the way. Instead, war and fighting were all the glory.
And now I am a warrior. My training is nearly complete. If I found the Sword, I could lift it
.
Did the Sword still exist? If it wasn’t destroyed, was it somehow defiled? Could its magic, once desecrated, ever come back? If he found it, would any of its power be left? Or would it simply be a pretty toy of war?
Landen sat, baffled and sorrowful. With the Sword hidden or gone, and Torina isolated from him, perhaps it was time for him to leave Archeld. He could do it. It would be easy to steal a horse by night. He was sixteen now, nearly a man. There were other kingdoms where he could make his way. Stories circulated about Glavenrell, the kingdom north of Archeld. Glavenrell’s new young king, Dahmis, was working to forge peaceful alliances with his neighbours.
Perhaps that’s where I belong
.
The boy closed his eyes. He yearned to be part of an effort for strengthening peaceful ties among countries. How weary he was of the sparse, stringent life of a soldier in training. The only chance he got to be artistic was in making bows from time to time. His weapons were sought for their quality.
Like the rest of Bellandran craft, he thought bitterly. Everyone said Bellandra, swallowed into a province of Archeld, had descended into a land ofgreedy merchants, selling off their
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