Prologue - Secret Names

Prologue


The hunger for love is much more difficult to remove than the hunger for bread.
Mother Teresa


Connor

         The battlefield rang sharp and clear with the clang of steel on iron. All around Connor were flailing bodies, pale and sweaty with exertion yet unforgiving from the experience of hundreds of battles. Connor's brother, Kieran, stood next to him, dancing back and forth parrying blows from enemy soldiers while laughing and jeering.
         “C'mon! You filthy fox beard! You weak halfwit!” shrieked Kieran, pure joy adulterating across his fine features.
         Connor was distracted, attempting to hold his own amongst three other men, while keeping watch over his brother. Kieran had near the strength and skill of men with twice his age and training, but, he had the wit and attention of the boy he was. If he missed one sign -
         “Kieran!”
         The soldier's spear drove through Kieran's armor, sliding neatly into place between ribs, placating the steel's thirst for blood.
         Connor lunged over and held his iron hammer high above his head. His eyes blazed with rage and bloodlust. In one clean sweep, he brought the hammer down and made contact with the enemy's skull. The crunch of bone squelching into brain matter burst into his ears and made him queasy, but he ignored the growing unease and turned back to the three that were accosting him.
         He unsheathed his sword and, true to his reputation as the fiercest of all warriors this side of Guire, slew the three with quick swipes across their throats. Their blood spilled onto his breastplate as they toppled forward, faces frozen in shock and resignation.
         The battle raged on for many more hours, and Connor's reputation grew. He stood guard over his fallen brother's corpse, mercilessly slaughtering any who came too close. Tears flowed freely, undisguised, down his face, although he kept them from soiling Kieran's body. Carcass after carcass joined the pile of enemies growing steadily larger around him. The crimson sanguine liquid that filled their veins flowed out of the bodies, seeking solace in the warm, loamy soil, forming a pool around Connor's leather boots and soaking into the soles. Soon, every step he took was marred with a sweet fluid pressing ever deeper into his feet.
         Just as the magenta hues of dawn stretched their lazy arms around the sky, a voice broke out, “We have defeated Norlandum!” A chorus of cheers followed this pronouncement and men's helmets flew into the air, knocking a few on the head on their way back down. His own cheers joined the throng, but they were meager and halfhearted and a heavy grief clouded his words and mind.
         A hand clapped on his shoulder. Connor turned to find Roric's sorrowful face peering into his. The man's large, watery brown eyes were filled with pity.
         “I'm sorry, Connor,” he said softly, “I saw what happened and had I not been distracted, I would have saved him.”
         Connor patted his hand. “It's alright. Everyone was distracted. No one could have helped. It was Sister Fate that slew him, not the warrior.”
         The other man nodded solemnly. “Kieran had built up a reputation nearly equal to yours. You can be sure he will have a burial fit for the head of the Vanguard. He will be sorely missed.” After gripping him on the arm, Roric left Connor to grieve in solitude.
         He collapsed next to his fallen brother and allowed to his tears to plop onto Kieran's hollow cheeks. Already, Death seemed to have taken hold. A grey tint spread across his face and his grin, frozen in place, held none of the cheeriness or laughter it did in life.
         Connor ripped the spear from his armor and with a feral roar flung it into a nearby corpse. His weeping stopped. He felt no grief, no fear, no anger – just a hollow emptiness that threatened to consume his very soul. His brother, his best friend, the one he turned to when he had no one else – the very light of his life – was gone. Forever. There are no words to explain what he felt.
         After a time, he lifted Kieran's body, draped it across his shoulders, and began the long trek back to the palace in silence.

*  *  *

         Kieran's funeral passed in a blur of silent men, women's tears and meaningless honorifics. Roric stayed true to his word and the ceremony had no equal in Connor's history. That did nothing to allay his grief, however. His brother's death was a cavernous hole in his chest, eating away at all things physical, such as flesh and sinew and blood, and all things mental, such as happiness, joy and love.          
         He spared no time for thoughts of the past, however and tried to endure the macabre event. Another ceremony would follow this, one far more celebratory to the visitors.

*  *  *

         “Rise, Sir Connor,” King Torlan said in his booming voice, “as my vassal and accept this sword as a symbol of your new status as Head of the Vanguard.”
         Connor balanced the blade on the tip of an index finger. Perfect balance, supreme craftsmanship exonerated through steel. A red ruby, a personal favorite of the queen and the reason it was used in all creations for the king, inlaid the ornate silver hilt. With one deft movement, he sheathed the sword and stood, facing his lord – and then his eyes found her.
         Queen Adelynne was a woman of intense beauty. Her foreign eyes, slanted upwards and an odd golden-teal color, lent some credibility to the rumors that she was elven-born. Generally, the eyes were hard and put Connor in mind of a menacing tornado, but at the moment that her eyes met his, they softened. They were gently reminiscent of a babbling brook, the water singing as it lapped over moss-strewn rocks and rainbow trout. She smiled, her bright red mouth painting a striking contrast against her ebony skin, and nodded to him.
         He felt his heart leap.

*  *  *

         Connor lay in his goose-down mattress two weeks later, unable to sleep. At first, he had attributed his insomnia to his new quarters in the west wing of the palace. Although he was upset about leaving his home, he acquiesced. This space was far more accomodating to his new duties. There were large bay windows enveloping two of the walls that overlooked most of the grounds. The rest of the palace needed no sentry as it was backed by a large wall of rock jutting from the mountainside. He could stand at the windows overlooking the training of new recruits or stand watch if there was a threat to the safety of the royals.
         After he had grown accustomed to his den, he settled upon the thought that perhaps his sleeplessness came from the guilt of Kieran's death. Then he realized that although the loss saddened him greatly, he felt no guilt. He had lost many others close to him before – it happened frequently in his line of work – but he had never lost sleep. One learned to move on and focus on one's primary obligation.
         He finally admitted to himself the true reason. It was to come soon. Ah, there! A lovely sound milled through the open panes. His lady, Adelynne, took a nighttime stroll in front of his window every eve, without fail. He wandered to the window and rested his elbows on the ledge, staring down at her through the faint light of the stars, watching her graceful walk and listening to her melodic voice.
         How he longed to walk with her and add his voice to the harmony! The thought of his head on a chopping block restrained him. He feared that soon his restraint would waver, however.
         But, oh! That face, that voice, that – presence. The love he felt for the Queen of Guire equaled no emotion any man held for any other woman, he felt sure.
         Connor stayed, bathed in the rays of Grandmother Moon, for many hours after she had gone, replaying her notes over and over in his mind.

*  *  *

         “You love 'er, eh?” Maebhe, the witch-woman, asked wheezily.
         “Aye.”
         “So. Who is this magical woman to have captured the 'eart of the most obstinate bachelor in Guire?”
         “I - I cannot say.”
         She cackled. “You do not 'ave to say. I know. I know.”
         Connor swung his head towards her, shocked. “You do?”
         “Ya do know that the punishment for cavorting with our lady is beheading, aye?”
         “This is none of your business, witch! Can you make it or not?”
         She jammed one gnarled, sandpaper-colored finger into his chest. “Just calm yerself down now, boy. I can make it and make it I will. But you know the price, as do I.”
         “What do you want for this one?”
         “I'll 'ave to think. Give me a minute.” She drummed on her temples for a moment. “Ahh! Got it.” She smiled at him until he grew impatient. It didn't take much time.
         “What?! I grow weary of this banter. Tell me.”
         “I'd like – a swan feather from your cap.”
         “A swan feather.”
         “A swan feather.”
         “Fine.” He plucked it from his hat and handed it to her, glowering.
         She immediately pushed into his hands a small, dark purple vial. “One drop creates lust. Two fer infatuation. Three fer conditional love. Four – and she'll die for ya. Take great care, boy, not to misuse it.”
         “I won't. Many thanks.”
         “Be careful . . .”

*  *  *

         That night Connor waited for her on the grounds with a bottle of the finest wine he had access to. He poured in a drop – just one.
         He only had to wait a few minutes. Weeks of watching her had given him perfect timing. Queen Adelynne came strolling by, casually singing in her rapturous voice. Her noble face turned in his direction and she halted.
         “What brings you out here, Sir Connor?”
         He smiled and sauntered over to her. “You know, my lady, every night, I try to fall asleep at a reasonable hour – and every night, your voice keeps me awake.”
         Her returning smile was guarded. “I apologize. Perhaps I shall take my walk in a different part of the grounds.”
         “No, no. It's quite alright. I'll learn to sleep through it.” He pretended to take a swig of the wine. “Would you like some?”
         She shook her head. “No, thank you.”
         “I insist, I insist! Here,” he mimed drinking from the bottle once more, “it's fine.”
         Adelynne cocked her head to one side, letting her auburn tresses collect on one shoulder. “Very well.”
         He handed her the bottle and she took a sip. “Mmm. That's delicious! Wherever did you find this, Sir Connor?” One long draught found its way down her throat. Then another. She stumbled and collapsed onto his chest. Looking up at his face, she grinned and smoothed back a lock of his raven hair. “Mmm. Connor?”
         “Come, m'Lady, perhaps you should rest.”
         “No! No, no – no.” She wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him, softly at first, then growing in deliberation and intensity.
         He returned her kiss with much fervor, and, although his heart felt a slight twinge of guilt, he thought he might be able to sleep that night.

Adelynne

         Queen Adelynne paced in her study. What could she do! Assuming the witch was right, and Maebhe was always right, a two-month old child grew in her belly. Torlan musn't find out. She had to send him away before her stomach distended and the truth was found out – but how?
         She sat at her writing desk and began a letter – from the duke of Shea.

*  *  *

         Sir Connor stood before Queen Adelynne. She looked worn, her cheeks were sunken in and fresh crow's feet peered from the corners of her beautiful eyes.
         “You seem tired, m'Lady,” said Connor.
         “Yes. I was never meant to be contained as I have been for these past months.”
         “I don't understand.”
         Adelynne held forth a small creature wrapped in a gauzy, light pink cloth. He took it from her arms and stared in amazement as understanding rippled across his features.
         Her melodic voice rang out once more. “I have named her, 'Kella'.”

Connor

         Queen Adelynne sent Connor to Ryanne.
         “There is a duchess there,” she said, “known as Gabrielle. She will care for Kella.”
         The voyage was a long and hard one that would take several weeks. Connor had Roric accompany him to help care for the infant during the treacherous journey.
         Kella turned out to be a surprisingly hardy child and seemed to fare even better than the men most of the time. She also showcased a number of odd – talents.
         One of them showed up in the third week of travel.
         Hail the size of small boulders fell from the sky in a torrent. The men were forced to set up camp under the shelter of some trees jutting from the mountainside. They sat in the tent, Connor holding his infant daughter in his arms, feeding her a formula given to him by Maeve, and staring fearfully at the walls of their shelter as the hail that found its way through the branches pelted the sides.
         “You think it'll hold?” asked Roric in his gruff voice.
         “I certainly hope so. I can stand a bit of hail but her – her skin is soft as a fur coat. She's mortal. She bleeds.”
         Roric laughed. “We're mortal too, old friend.”
         Connor's smile was feeble and weak. “After all we've been through, sometimes I forget.”
         “As do I.”
         They quit speaking, hoping to conserve some energy. The tent did little to keep them warm and the frosty air was biting, like knives sliding into their flesh again and again.
         After a time, Connor noticed something unusual. His sleeping Kella was burning up – or at least, compared to him. Heat was radiating from her body, soothing his skin. He called Roric over.
         “Sit, close to her. Do you feel it?”
         Roric's face grew puzzled and he began rubbing his hands over the top of her body as one would over a blazing fire.
         “Yes. Yes, I do. That's odd.”
         A hailstone finally made its way through the tentskin and knocked Connor on the shoulder. He jumped and Kella woke.
         Her bleary eyes looked about and a tiny, olive colored hand emerged from her blanket. She waved it about a bit, almost carelessly and a large bubble grew out from her chest, surpassed the walls and encompassed their entire camp. She smiled and went back to sleep.

*    *    *

         Gabrielle held a grinning Kella in her arms, and cooed at her.
         “Now, gentlemen,” she said in a thick, romantic accent, “tell me more.”
         Both men began babbling about the strange and wondrous things the child had shown them on the way and she held up her hand in a silent plea for them to stop.
         “The Queen, as you know, is rumored to have been elven-born. I, as Lady Adelynne's lifelong confidante, do not know if this is true. Kella's surprising abilities, however, give some credence to the gossip.” She smiled. “Either that or the Queen is a natural-born enchantress and has kept it hidden for these many years, which I doubt. That one is not so unusual and she would not keep it hidden.
         “Whichever it is, Kella is none to be feared. Here she will be taught to control and direct her abilities safely and how and when she should use them.”
         Connor looked down a moment. “Will I be able to see her?”
         Gabrielle's features were sympathetic. “Yes, however, not often. The trip here is long and you have your duties in Guire. The King's life is in your hands. It is surprising to me that he did not have you accompany him to Shea. He's still there, is he not?”
         “A courier that arrived a week before I left said that he was on his way home. We have about three more months before he gets here, assuming everything goes as planned.”
         “Ahh.” She nodded her head and looked to the sky. “May Father Sun and Grandmother Moon keep watch over him throughout his return.”
         “Aye.” He hesitated, then asked: “May reports be sent to me of how she's doing, what she's learning . . .?”
         “Yes, Sir. She will be taking lessons in magic, as I have said. Also the noble arts as she is descended from royalty. Perhaps some combative classes.”
         His eyebrows rose sharply. “But she's just a girl!”
         “Yes. However, she is the daughter of the Head of the Vanguard and the Queen of Guire. Should her geaneology ever be found out, she may need to protect herself. And I have a feeling that she will have a rather rough upbringing, whatever we do to ease it.
         “Teaching her some of the basic skills that you, yourself, have will not only give her a tie to the father that won't be there, it will give her something that no other girl has – a talent to be truly proud of.
         “You may spend a few nights here, if you wish, Sir Connor, but then you best be on your way. You've already been away from Guire too long.”
         “Yes, m'Lady. I should leave now. Goodbye will be harder the longer I wait.” He took the smiling infant in his arms and held her tightly. He could feel her mood change and she sent a vast array of pictures into his mind that startled him - memories of him on the way to Ryanne. In those memories were complicated and profound emotions: love for her father, and sorrow for his near departure. She understood what was happening.
         He stood stock-still as he absorbed this. Then, he just hugged her tighter. When he finally let go, matching tears rolled down their cheeks. He kissed her nose and handed her back to Gabrielle half-heartedly.
         “Madame la duchesse! Madame la duchesse!” A courier sprinted across the grounds toward Gabrielle, who turned to Kella's father and Roric.
         “This is 'goodbye' for now, sirs. I have business to attend to and a child to put to bed.” With that parting sentence she walked to the messenger and began speaking rapidly in a beautiful foreign tongue.
         Roric gripped his comrade's shoulder. “Time to go, my friend.”

Kella

         “I want you back in this door at four pm sharp tomorrow. You hear me? Quatre! On time!”
         “Oui. I will be here, sir. Goodnight!”
         Kella's Latin instructor harrumphed. “Bonsoir, mademoiselle.”
         She laughed scornfully and shook her head as she walked away. “Silly Monsieur Aveneil – thinking he can keep hold of me! Ha!”
         She quickly made her way through the palace, dodging serving maids and couriers. If she heard one more rumor about why madame la duchesse kept her (“I heard she's an illegitimate daughter of the Queen”, “I heard the duchesse had an affair with a stable boy!”, “Oh! The scandal!”) she would punch something. That reaction wasn't very ladylike, but Kella wasn't a normal girl – and she'd had enough.
         She shut the her bedroom door behind her and leaned against it, sighing with relief. Then she looked at the clock – and almost jumped out of her skin.
         “Oh, my! I'm late! I'mlateI'mlateI'mlate!”
         She flung open the doors of her armoire and picked out the dress she'd been saving for her meeting with Aloin.
         The crushed velvet clung to every shapely curve in her young body and the burgundy color accented her tanned skin wonderfully. A golden silk sash was loosely tied about the waist and it matched the gold accents on the shoulders and hem of the dress.
         Kella tied her cascading, sunshine blonde hair into two long braids and swept them up into a loose bun on the back of her head. Some rouge lent a bit of color to her cheeks and she painted her lips a dazzling ruby-red. Her eyes she left alone. They were beautiful all by themselves.
         Standing before a mirror, she took it all in.
         “Oh. My. Goodness.” Her mouth dropped open. She had no idea she could ever look so beautiful. Once again, her eyes traveled back to the clock. “Oh, no!”
         Without wasting another moment she hastened out the door, to the gardens on the edge of town, to meet Aloin.

*    *    *

         Kella blushed as Aloin recited her beauty to her.
         “Have you seen your eyes, amor? Like two windows, looking out on the world, distant, yet compassionate. And your hair - “ He reached out a hand to smooth back a flyaway on her forehead. “ - It is magnificent when you leave it down, like a cascading waterfall, only, uh – not the right color - “ She giggled. This time it was his turn to blush, but he continued, “- but when you put it up, like tonight, your beauty takes my breath away.”
         Their talks of her beauty and his kindness and their love continued far into the night, until all that could be seen were Kella's eyes glowing in the wane light from the stars.
         “It's so dark. Kella, do that – that thing that you do,  s’il vous plaît?”
         She reached forth one hand to the heavens, and if a passerby were to see her, it would seem that she plucked two stars from the very sky. For all Aloin knew, she did. Whether they were truly stars or not, two glowing orbs positioned themselves on either side of the couple. At first, the heat was excruciating, but with a wave of her hand Kella turned the temperature down 'til it was bearable, even comfortable.
         “Je t'aime, amor.”
         Her breathe caught in her throat. “I – I love you, too.”
         Then he kissed her. Her heart seemed to stop beating. He kissed her again and this time she held him close. Never. Never, never would she let him go. This beautiful boy, she thought, this beautiful boy loves me. Me! Never. Nevernevernever.
         So out of her mind was she that she didn't even attempt to protest when he unbottoned his trousers and started to slide her dress up her legs.

*    *    *

One month later.

         “Gabrielle,” moaned Kella just before a fresh wave of nausea hit her belly, “what is going on?”
         Duchess Gabrielle sighed and rubbed Kella's back solemnly. “I think – I think you are pregnant, ma chère.”
         She lifted her head from the chamber pot. “Oh, no. Aloin.”

*    *    *

         “You are pregnant?! Oh, no. Kella. I cannot be a father!”
         “Then maybe you should have been more responsible!” Kella's blonde hair had taken on a crimson hue. It seemed to billow around her head in a grotesque halo of fire. She walked in circles around the grass and where her feet touched, the ground burned. “How could you do this to me?! My name is ruined! I shall never be able to marry. My life is over!”
         “What are you talking about? Me? You weren't complaining last night!”
         “You stupid, stupid boy! You know the people will expect you to marry me now?”
         He sputtered, mouth agape. “Marry  you?”
         “Yes, Aloin. Marry me. I am carrying your child, the spawn of your flesh.”
         “I'm not going to marry you.”
         She stopped walking in circles and stared at him. Her wonderful eyes, once filled with life, hardened and became cold. “Excuse me?”
         “A child, Kella?”
         “Yes. A little girl.”
         “How could you possibly know that?”
         “I just do.”
         “I have to think about this. I don't have time for a daughter. I don't have the money to take care of her. I don't know how to take care of a child!”
         “Oh, really? Just last night you told me you loved me. Where is that love now, boy?”
         “I – I know I said that, but – I'm only eighteen! How am I supposed to know what love is? I have to think about this.” He started to walk away.
         “Don't think! Tell me now! Are you going to be there for this babe? For me? Or not?”
         He turned to look at her and his mouth was set in a grim line. “I'm sorry, Kella. I have my own life to live and things to worry about besides a slobbering, puking baby.”
         She looked down. A spear appeared in the midst of the burning grass. Aloin didn't make it fifty feet before she flung the weapon through the middle of his back.