He felt her misty hand caress his cheek again.
“I do not envy you, Hyden Hawk Skyler. You may very well have to seal your own brother into the dark of the Nethers to stop the demon. Yet some day, you will have to take the ring back from him, so that the nature of prophecy can be restored. Doing both seems impossible. Your heart is the only true guide you have now. Follow it, and you cannot fail.”
With those words, she began to shimmer away.
Hyden wanted to call out to her, to stall her departure, but he couldn’t form a question, or find a real reason for doing so. He knew what he had to do first. Pratchert’s tower was looming up over him even now. He hoped beyond hope that his instincts about his brother were wrong, but no matter how much he wished it to be different, his heart told him the truth of the matter.
Chapter 51
Not long after he returned to the castle, Hyden was summoned to Queen Willa’s council hall. With Talon riding tall on his shoulder, and occasionally flapping to keep his balance, he made his way through slanting bars of sunlight that shone like mote filled splashes of gold, across the softly lit corridor. Andra, the dwarfess, greeted him at the heavy double door, and quickly told him what Vaegon was out doing with Dugak and Ironspike. There wasn’t time to question her before the door came creaking open, and he was approached. A tired looking man, with long, straight dark hair, a well trimmed beard, and wearing a white bell sleeved wizard’s robe, stepped in front of him, and bowed deeply. Talon “cawed” at the action, and Hyden realized that this was one of the men he had seen riding into the city earlier. Not sure how to respond to the deep bow, Hyden nodded slowly, and slightly dipped his knees.
“Lord Hyden Hawk,” the man said, rising back up to his full height. “It is an honor. Queen Willa has spoken highly of you and your companions. My name is Targon, I’m the High Wizard of Xwarda, and I am at your service.”
Hyden wished that Mikahl were there to coach him about what was proper to do, and say, around all these fancy people. He also wished he hadn’t just come from sitting on a bench, covered in swan dung. He felt like a fish that had chased some bait up the bank, out of the water clear into the tall grass. What could he say to that introduction? What should he say? He was at a total loss for words, until he heard the White Goddess’s soft whispering voice in his ear. “Follow your heart,” it said.
“When this is done, Master Targon,” Hyden indicated the table, and gathering that was about to commence inside the chamber. “Could you please show me Pratchert’s… I mean Dahg Mahn’s Tower?”
The master wizard’s head cocked slightly to the side, and his eyes squinted, as if he were trying to see through to the inside of Hyden’s skull. A wry smile soon crossed his face, and he nodded in the affirmative.
“There are things you might want to be aware of, before you open that door, Lord Hyden Hawk. I will explain, as you said, when this is done.” He put a hand on Hyden’s back, turned him toward the door, and gently ushered him into the council hall. “I saved you a seat near mine.” Targon indicated the chair he had reserved for Hyden. “I hope you don’t mind.”
Hyden let himself be seated. There were a half dozen people in the room that he had not yet been introduced to, and none of them, at the moment, seemed to even notice his existence. A couple of the men looked to be high ranking soldiers or guardsmen. The others looked to be lesser royalty, or wealthy merchant types. All of them looked important. He was glad that none of them could see the swan refuse that was caked to the back of his britches. Nonchalantly, he sniffed at the air around himself, and was happy to find that he didn’t smell of the stuff.
He was just beginning to relax in the strange environment, when everyone who wasn’t standing, jumped to their feet. Not sure what else to do, but stand with them, he did so, but he was careful to keep his behind against his chair’s back.
“King Jarrek the Redwolf of Wildermont!” an announcer called out in a booming voice, while a staff thumped heavily on the floor.
From behind a row of heavy curtains a tall, worn looking man limped into the room. As he gained his chair near the head of the table, the announcer called out again. “General Spyra, Commander of the Blacksword, and her Majesty, Queen Willa.”
“Enough! Sit please. Please, sit!” The Queen’s voice was adamant. “This is a war council, not a Summer’s Eve dance.”