Caeden

Prologue

The early morning sun was moments away from bringing the day as the man quietly opened the kitchen door for his morning walk. Edwyn enjoyed this time of the day, when all was quiet and the worries of the day hadn’t yet woken the inhabitants of the manor house from their peaceful slumber. He breathed in the crisp morning air and gave a sigh of contentment; it would be a glorious day. The man walked alongside the rows of kitchen herbs and wildflowers the cook had planted towards his favorite place to watch the sunrise. As Edwyn climbed the small hill that overlooked the garden wall, he was surprised to notice a figure already sitting on the crude wooden bench at the top. Drawing closer, the man smiled with pleasure as he recognized the dark form in the dawn light.

“You’re up early if you’ve beaten me to the sunrise, my son.”

The young man turned away from the breaking dawn to smile at his father. The likeness was unmistakable. Both father and son had simple but strong features: clear blue eyes that shone when merry yet stormed over when angry, set deep into a chiseled face marked by lines of worry and laughter in both the younger and elder. Both men were well built and looked as if they could both wield a deadly blade, as in fact both had done in past days; yet their calloused hands were gentle and their arms were not unaccustomed to giving great bear hugs. In fact, the only differences one could see between the two was the amount of wrinkles around the eyes and the generous amount of salt colour in the tawny shades of Edwyn’s hair and beard.

“Actually, Father, you could say I’m up rather late.”

“You’ve been up all night?” Now that the sun had broken over the horizon, Edwyn could see his son more clearly. Caeden did indeed look as if he had spent an uneasy night, still dressed in the clothes he wore for traveling into the neighbouring villages, now looking more unkempt than usual.

“Were you out traveling late yesterday? We didn’t see you at the table last night.”

“No,” said Caeden, “I was back before supper. I just couldn’t sleep, something has caught hold of my mind and I can’t shake it.”

The father nudged his care-worn son over and sat on the bench next to him. “You must have been preoccupied indeed to skip a meal. You’re usually the first one to sit and the last to leave.” That brought a smile to Caeden’s face for a moment, but one that didn’t reach his eyes. Edwyn sat silently with his son, wordlessly watching the sun spread over the surrounding villages on the lower slopes of the mountains. His son would talk when he wished, or else he wouldn’t have come out to his father’s morning spot. The early birds were warming up their carefree melodies when the young man spoke.

“I went to the village closest to the Dark Forest yesterday.”

“Ah, that stubbornly superstitious one at the base of the mountains, Leaffig?”

“Yes, that’s the one.”

“Dreary little place.”

“They’re so wrapped up in fear, Father. Fear of the Forest, of each other, of anything strange to their set ways of life.”

Edwyn nodded silently, a sad furrow creasing his brow. “But, Caeden, you’ve been there many times, and have never come back this troubled before.” Caeden sighed, stood up and began to pace on the path before the bench and his father. Now Edwyn could see how agitated the young man really was. “Tell me, son, what’s wrong.”

The young man paused, looked at his father, and with a deep breath plunged into his tale. “I had a dream about Leaffig; you remember, I told you about it at breakfast not a week ago?” Edwyn nodded.

“You seemed upset about something. Wouldn’t eat much of your breakfast that morning either,” he said with a slight chuckle.

Caeden started pacing again, talking and gesturing with his hands as he marched. “I was in Leaffig, facing the center of town, and all the people were going about their normal daily activities. But something was different, they were all moving so slowly, dragging their feet as if something weighed them down. I looked at their feet, and saw that all of them had shackles bound around their ankles. I went up to a woman and asked her, ‘dear woman, why are your feet shackled?’ She looked at me as if I had said the grass was purple, and cackled at me. I pulled aside a young boy and asked him the same thing. He called me crazy and ran after his friends, if you could call it a run, it was more of a shuffle. I went and stood by the well in the center of the village and shouted at everyone, asking why they were bound, and asked if didn’t they want to be free. But I was met with silence. I then realized that except for the voices of those I had talked to and myself, I hadn’t heard a single noise in the whole village. Suddenly, I heard a soft sound, like a muffled whistle, behind me. I turned and looked, and there where the well bucket should have hung was a cage, and in it a tiny sparrow. The bird had been locked up by the townspeople, because they couldn’t find any shackles small enough to fit its feet. The bird tried to sing, but every time it did, a villager would come and smack the cage, frightening the bird into silence. Right before I woke up, I saw something golden in the bottom of the cage. It was a key, and somehow I knew it was the key to unlock all the shackles of the villagers.

“I couldn’t stop thinking about that dream all week. So, yesterday morning, I grabbed my traveling gear and walked down to the village, just to prove to myself that the people really weren’t imprisoned. When I arrived, the people ignored me as usual, tending to their own business; except for the children, who usually come running, begging me for a story.”

Caeden paused in his pacing to smile at his father. “They’re so courageous and bold in their trust of complete strangers. When does this...this…atrocity of closed-mindedness towards things we don’t know or understand invade our precious and limited childhood? If only we were all as open and loving as children.”

Edwyn smiled at his son’s short tirade. “It’s because you tell them wild and crazy adventure stories that they flock to you. And honestly, I don’t think you ever really grew up, Caeden, so you really fit in with them well.

Caeden’s eyes twinkled for a moment as he grinned at his father’s jest, but then turned thoughtful again. “I felt like I was looking at the town with new eyes though, Father. No, the villagers weren’t bound and shackled by iron chains, but by the talismans around their necks, their ridiculous sayings and motions to void off the dragon, and the fear in their eyes bind them just as tightly. They aren’t free to laugh and joke and sing. Oh, to hear that town sing again! Do you remember, Father?” Caeden sat again next to Edwyn. “Do you remember the sounds of the wooden flutes and harps that would rise up from the valley every winter and spring solstice?”

“You have a very good memory, son, if you can remember back that far. You must have been two or three years old when the last festival was interrupted by the dragon from the depths of the Dark Frost. Ever since then, the villagers haven’t made music again, or even laughed or shouted, for fear the dragon will hear and come back.”

“But Father, you killed that dragon that next spring! Why should they fear any more?”

The older man sighed. “They believed the lies of that old crazy hermit. He told them the dragon had a mate, and that it wants revenge. Nothing I or any of the other hunters could say would convince them. We did not see any other evidence of a mate in the forest. But the fear had already taken a strong hold on them.”

Both men were silent for a while, each deep in their own thoughts. Presently Caeden spoke into the stillness.

“I saw her, Father. I saw the little sparrow.”

When he didn’t say anymore, the old man turned to look at Caeden. Surprised at seeing unshed tears in his son’s eyes, the man asked, “The little bird in your dream? Son, what about a little songbird is moving you so?”

“She’s not a bird, Father; she’s a little girl in the village. I’d never seen her before yesterday. I was sitting at the well with the children, when I saw peeking around the fishmonger’s barrel a pair of large brown eyes. I saw little more than that, but I got a vague impression of an old face on a child’s body, hidden under layers of dirt. But her eyes, they were so expressive; it’s like they were talking to me, telling me the secret things of her heart. She was drawn into the story I was telling, Father. It was like she was traveling to those far off places with me, so great was the hunger in her eyes for adventure. The fishmonger saw her just then and thought she was stealing a fish.”

The young man’s voice caught with angry passion; he stood up and began pacing once more. “He started hollering at her, calling her a thief, a useless urchin, and other things I don’t want to repeat. The depths of fear and pain that came out of her eyes broke my heart. I could see that this wasn’t the first time she had been treated like nothing.”

“What did you do?”

Caeden sighed and relaxed his clenched fists. “Nothing. By the time I stood up to defend her, she had run off down the alley. I asked the children who were with me who she was, and no one knew. They had never seen her before. I finished telling my story, and after sending the children off, found a washerwoman who had come up to the large well to draw water for her family. I asked the woman who the little girl was, and she said that the ‘runt’ was Zipporah, the eldest daughter of the smithy and his wife. She said that the little one never said anything or made much noise when she was in the village running errands for her mother. Called her a hard worker though, said that the girl’s mother works her to death running errands while she looks after her younger children. The washerwoman admitted to never seeing Zipporah run around with the other children like a little girl should, laughing or playing. She cowers away whenever other kids her age come near. I asked her where the smithy was, and she told me not to go there, as it was the closest home to the Dark Forest, and what with the bellows and fire it was like as not the dragoness would come there thinking it was her mate. She kissed her talisman and pointed the way, turning back to her washing. I thanked her and started walking through the village. I didn’t get very close before I heard the voice of a very tired and exasperated mother calling to her kids to be still. Round the corner came barreling two overly-dressed, plump children, fighting each other over a toy. They were quickly followed by the mother, who seemed frustrated with the little urchins, but she talked sweetly to them, and told them to apologize for running into the story-teller and to run along. She herself seemed pleasant enough as she apologized and invited me in for dinner. I declined the offer, saying I needed to head to my home village soon.

"We parted pleasantly enough, but as I turned to leave, I heard the woman’s voice change drastically as she hollered to the girl Zipporah within their hovel. Honestly, Father, if the washerwoman hadn’t told me earlier that she was the woman’s daughter, I would have made the poor child out for a slave. The little thing came out of the kitchen covered in soap suds, apparently from washing up the dishes, and stood there shivering with fear, or it could have been from the cold, her dress was in tatters and far too short. Her mother scolded her for being so slow with the chores that morning, and then piled more chores on her to finish before supper. Oh, Father, the despair and exhaustion that was in her eyes! but she softly said, ‘yes, Mother,’ and walked back into the hovel. It broke my heart, and fired up anger within me. But what could I do? All they know me as is the traveling story-teller who comes by every once in a while. I had no right to tell that woman what to do with her children.”

Edwyn grunted. “That was very wise of you, Caeden. Truth be told, I might have backed you if I had been there with you, and would have marched up to that woman and…would have made an utter fool of myself, because nothing could be said that wouldn’t sound like a scolding washerwoman.” Edwyn sighed with frustration, for the passion that lit Caeden’s eyes on fire had been passed down from generations of strong men, and his father was by no means the least of these.

“I’m sure that little Zipporah was the bird in my dream, Father. The desire for freedom was so strong in her eyes, but she is the most caged of them all.”

“And if your dream was true, she might hold the key to freeing the rest of the villagers from the shackles they won’t acknowledge.”

“Yes! And who knows what else she may do with freedom given to her.” Here the young man knelt down at his father’s feet. “Please, Father, give me permission to rescue this little sparrow from her cage?”

The proud father smiled down at his son and placed his hand on the tawny mane that seemed on fire in the warm morning sun. “Yes, my son, you may set out on this task. Do you know how you’ll go about setting the little one free from this metaphor of yours? It’s not as easy as fighting a dragon-at least you can shoot arrows at one of those.”

His son chuckled at the joke and reassured the man. “I’ll let you know my plans before I carry them out, Father.”

“Good! Well, it’s about time you had something more exciting to do around here than sword practice and eating me out of house and home!”

The men’s laughter was broken by a subtle cough behind them. “Good Morning, Baxter!” said the men.

“Good morning Sire, Your Highness. I didn’t want to interrupt, but I thought that since Prince Caeden hadn’t any supper last night, he might be interested to know that the cook is almost finished making breakfast.”

“Excellent!” said King Edwyn. “Help your father up, Caeden, my knees aren’t what they used to be.”

“That’s preposterous! You almost beat me up the stairs to the tower library yesterday!” laughed the prince as he pulled his father off the bench.

“Oh, that was just practice,” said the king as he patted his son’s back.

“Practice? For what?” Caeden said incredulously.

“For beating you to breakfast this morning!”

With that the king dashed off laughing down the hill towards the kitchen door, with his protesting son hot on his heels, leaving Baxter behind to roll his eyes, muttering to a perched sparrow, “Sometimes I wonder if they realize they rule the whole kingdom, or even if they realize they’ve grown up.”


Chapter 1

“Zipporah!”

The young girl cringed at the high-pitched screech of her mother. Drying her hands as she ran, Zipporah frantically ran through the list of things she may have forgotten to do that would have her called away so soon from the laundry. The boys were fed and with their father in the smithy, little Sophyrah changed and laid down for her nap, which would now probably be short lived due to the sudden shriek of the blacksmith’s wife. Dishes washed, the meat stewing over the fire…that must be it, thought Zipporah, the fire has died down and the stew getting cold. She began to mentally calculate the risk of stopping to grab an armful of firewood when the call came again.

“Zipporah! Where are you, girl?”

Zipporah put on an extra burst of speed until she reached the door of the hovel, where she paused, smoothing out her dress while she caught her breath. She lowered her gaze, stooped in the low doorway and approached her mother, trying to still the fearful twitch of her fingers by burying them in the folds of her soiled skirt.

“Where have you been?! I’ve been calling you for the last half hour, have you gone deaf?”

“No, Mother. I was out by the river washing…”

“Did I ask you for an excuse? Here, take Sophyrah, she’s woken up and has soiled her underclothes. There is a man here, same one who came a few days ago, the one Khael and Donwyn mowed over.”

Zipporah’s heart skipped a beat while she walked over to her screaming sister’s crib. The story teller! If she was lucky, he might stay for dinner and she would be able to listen to his wonderful tales, maybe even finish the one she had heard the day the fishmonger ran her off. Zipporah pinched herself and returned to listening to her mother’s rambling.

“…don’t understand how a man who dresses so respectably, even for a traveler, could not afford to pay up, but your father has agreed to exchange the work for tutoring lessons for the boys. The sword will take some time to mend, so he should be here for a few weeks, and I expect more effort on your part to make sure this place stays spotless! And furthermore…”

Zipporah let her mind wander again while the tirade continued. She knew well what company meant: less food for her, more work around the house to do, keeping Sophyrah with her at all times so as not to get in the way, more laundry, more dishes, and all to be done in less time than she was usually allowed. The young girl sighed as she finished cleaning up her sister. There would be no time to listen to the stories, no time to let her mind wander to the far off places she imagined were out there somewhere. No, best to push those thoughts aside. Here in the hovel at the edge of the Forest there was no room for hopes or dreams.

Picking up the infant, Zipporah turned back to her mother, who was still ranting, but mostly to herself by this time. “Yes, mother, I’ll make sure it’s all just as you say.”

“Good! It’s about time. I’ve let you get too lazy. Now take your sister and go finish the laundry, I want a clean and dry tablecloth on this table tonight, and the guest will be taking your bed, so make sure you put the spare blankets on it tonight.”

Zipporah strapped Sophyrah into the makeshift carrier sling and left the hovel. She was halfway to the stream and the abandoned laundry when a runaway tear fell slowly down her cheek. She hastily wiped it away; it was no good to cry, just a waste of time and energy. Shaking her head and pushing the emotions away, Zipporah looked down at her sister, who had fallen asleep to the slow rocking rhythm of Zipporah’s stride. A rare smile pushed its way onto the young girl’s face as she gazed on the innocent face.

“You are so very blessed, Sophy, not to care about anything that is going on around you,” Zipporah sighed as she kissed the infant’s forehead. Carefully taking off the sling, she placed the little one down on some soft moss far enough from the spray of the stream and went back to her work. Soon she was lost again in the steady rhythm of scrubbing and beating out the dirt, and almost unconsciously began to softly hum a beautiful melody while she drudged along.


Chapter 2