Globusz^® Publishing 

lyse woke in a cold sweat, fighting the blankets knotted about her legs. She groaned, hiding her face beneath her pillow, trying to ignore the call of the day. The rustling of the trees outside seemed a lingering leftover of the disturbing dreams and murmuring voices of the night. She rose quietly and padded over to the window. The forest lay thick and impenetrable in the darkness. She shivered. In the glass, her reflection shivered back at her. Prodding gently at the dark circles below her eyes, she tried to remember how long it had been since she had slept properly.

'Two weeks and three days,' she reminded herself. That had been when the dreams had begun. If only she could remember them as easily, then perhaps she would not dread the coming of the night and lie, counting the cracks in the ceiling and listing the next day’s chores, rather than succumb to the frightening arms of sleep. Pulling her blonde hair back into a bun at her nape, she washed and dressed quietly, then closed the shutters so that the rising sun did not disturb her brother still sleeping soundly on the opposite bed. She gazed lovingly at Jarok’s curled figure, one hand under the pillow, the other wrapped tightly, as always, about the pouch in which he kept his numerous 'treasures'. Tenderly brushing his black hair back from sleep-flushed cheeks, she kissed his temple before pulling the blankets back up about his chin and tiptoed out of the room.

In the main room she opened the door and shutters to the morning sun, then turned to the basket for kindling to light the stove and prepare breakfast. It was empty. As usual, Jarok had forgotten to fill it before he went to bed. She really was going to have to be a bit stricter with the boy she told herself, not for the first time, as she went to the woodpile around the side of the cottage. Suddenly, a black mass hurled itself upon her. She cried out in surprise, hugging it to her body.

"Royle! I swear... one of these days!" She glared at the cat in exasperation.

“Honestly, I don't know why I put up with you. If it wasn't for Jarok... ”

Unperturbed by the oft-heard words, Royle rubbed his head along her neck and purred gently in her ear. Tweaking one of his own in response, she dropped him gently to the ground. Picking up as much wood as she could carry, she went back to the kitchen while Royle wandered off into the bedroom to wake up Jarok. By the time Alyse had breakfast on the table he was dressed and sitting in his place, the cat, like his ever-present pouch, curled up on his lap.

"Morning Alyse!" Jarok’ smile broadened into a wide yawn. He placed his hand over it quickly with a murmur of apology.

"Eat now, before it goes cold."

Jarok picked up his spoon, then put it straight back down again.

"Guess what I found yesterday? My best ever yet! It's too beautiful to be hidden away, so I want to you to have it as an early birthday present." His head deep inside his pouch of valuables, Jarok paused in his search when Alyse tapped his bowl with her spoon. Looking up and seeing the well-known raised eyebrow, he quickly stuffed a spoonful of porridge into his mouth before resuming his search.

"One of these days, you'll fall in there and be lost forever!" She laughed, watching in fascination the variety of expressions that sped across his features. When they arrived at a look of triumph, she knew he had found whatever he was looking for.

"Close your eyes first," he insisted. "And no peeking!" Alyse did as she was bid but instead of the expected 'look now’ she heard a loud spitting hiss. Her eyes flew open to see Royle scoot from Jarok’s lap and straight across the table, scattering everything in his path. Jumping up quickly to avoid wearing the descending porridge, she shook her fist at the fleeing cat. Jarok studiously avoided looking at the furious Alyse as he began trying to clean up the mess, praying that Royle would have the sense to steer clear until she had calmed down. Maybe in a day or two! If only he could do the same. Then all thoughts of mess, blame and retribution were drowned by the sounds of mayhem outside. Alyse threw up her hands and rushed outside where a dusty, slightly dishevelled man was gripping the offending cat by the scruff.

"Does this belong to you?" He asked, offering them a look of apology for the manner in which he held it, when they nodded their assent. 

"His name's Royle. On account of his royal bearing," said Jarok holding out his arms to the cat.

"On account of his being a royal pain in the neck," muttered Alyse, flicking a half glance back towards the mess waiting in the kitchen.

"My apologies, Sir Royle. Had I realised your standing I should have been more respectful of your person. Cymon, is my name. At your service." He flourished a bow to the glowering cat, and then turned to the two children watching him with quite different expressions. The boy was grinning delightedly. The girl, he feared, thought him quite mad. "And at your service also mistress... young master. My apologies again, for appearing in such a fashion and for the mishandling of a member of your family."

"Feel free anytime," breathed Alyse, shooting the cat a glance that said it was lucky it wasn't her hands around his neck.

"I just stepped into the clearing," the stranger continued as though he hadn't heard her mumbled comment: ‘when Sir Royle launched his attack on my poor horse intent, I believe, on tearing him to pieces. I had to restrain the cat in such a manner in order to protect the both of us.’

The horse snorted and kicked out a back leg and while the adversaries in question eyed each other. The man went on to introduce himself properly.

"My name, as I said, is Cymon. I'm a traveller from across the Great Plain. My home is called Phelise. Perhaps you've heard of it," he asked, almost hopefully. Alyse said she had not, and asked him what it was he was doing here.

"Ah, yes! I said I'm a traveller... more of a runaway really." He saw the look of concern that filled her face as she pulled the boy close to her side. "Nothing like that," he laughed, shaking his head. "My mother was trying to marry me off but I’m not ready to settle down just yet and so I left home in rather a hurry. Anyway, yesterday my horse developed a painful limp that has been growing steadily worse. Down in the village they said you had a way with animals and might be able to help. I'll pay you, of course, for your trouble," he added quickly. As though on cue, the horse lifted it’s right foreleg off the ground, holding it in a manner that suggested great discomfort. Her concern for the poor animal’s suffering aroused, Alyse moved over to it and gently ran both hands down the affected area.

"I can't feel anything amiss. Perhaps it's just a strain and he will walk it off."

The horse took two exaggerated limps forward, hanging its head almost to the ground. Alyse’s face filled with pity as the horse whinnied distressfully.

"Then again," she mused, "a good rest may be the better course of action. Especially, if he has been over-ridden. Tired muscles can be very painful." She glared accusingly at Cymon’s guilty flush. With a pronounced sigh for the thoughtlessness of men, she pressed her hands to her cheeks and brushed her little fingers across her lips. It would be unfair, if not cruel, to ask the horse to walk back to the village stables.

"He can rest in the barn." She strode off determinedly towards the barn before she could change her mind. "I have grain and hay. We'll see how he is in the morning."

Reaching the barn before them, she raised her hand to shield her eyes from the sun as she watched them approach. Just for a moment, she got the impression of a tall, lithe figure, feet barely touching the ground as he walked, dark green jerkin over a brown shirt, with a wide- ribbed belt, brown trousers tucked into short boots, arching eyebrows above dancing, brown eyes and pale blonde hair which reached down to cover pointed ears. A slender hand was draped across the neck of his horse, whose white coat gleamed silver in the sunlight. Then they were beside her in the shadow of the barn. The short, stocky young man with mousy-brown hair tied back with a strip of leather and the dusty, sorry-looking chestnut. She blinked away her fancies, chiding herself that she was getting as bad as Jarok, led the horse into the stall and went to fetch a nose-bag of grain while Cymon gave him a quick rub down with a handful of straw. She fit the nosebag over the horse’s head and two of them left him there, munching happily.

Cymon looked around as they walked the thirty or so paces back to the cottage, whose thatching, though still sound Alyse assured him, had certainly seen better days. A number of planks in the barn were rotted and broken and one of the shutters on the cottage window hung at an odd angle. Yet despite this, which he thought gave the old place charm and character, the area was clean and tidy. Everything was either stacked neatly against the cottage wall or, as he had already observed, hanging in their precise spots on nails inside the barn. At the rear, the forest hugged the cottage close, threatening to engulf it, but out front was kept at bay by a border of dense shrub preserving the lush green clearing across which walked. He noticed too, that the cat had made itself scarce. No doubt acting upon advice from the boy whose face was a picture of assumed innocence, too perfect to be real.

"My name's Alyse by the way," she finally informed him. "This is my brother, Jarok." She tugged the boy’s hair playfully, as they walked past him. "Have you had breakfast," she half asked, half offered.

"I did... yesterday," he gave a rueful grin.

"As you can see," she said, as they entered the kitchen, "we were also quite forcefully informed of your arrival." A distinct note of irritation heightened her voice and Cymon thought the cat did well to keep a low profile as she took it out on the innocent dishes. "Sit. It won't take me long to get this cleaned up." True to her word, the mess was quickly cleared away and three, steaming hot bowls of porridge placed on the table. Nobody spoke as they emptied their bowls, Cymon doing so somewhat self-consciously under their constant gazes.

"What's it like... travelling," asked Jarok, as soon as Cymon had put his spoon down. "You must have loads to tell."

Cymon watched the dreamy expression already beginning to fall over the boy’s face and saw his first chance to create a place for himself in their group.

"Ah! The lure of the open road! The thrill of freedom stirring the blood! What can compare to the sun on your back and the grass under your feet? Never are two days the same. Different people... different places... Exciting towns and cities full of hustle and bustle from dawn to dusk... Enticing ruins that lure with the memories of past ages and long-forgotten heroes, whose shades still wander their stones re-enacting their glorious deeds. Mighty waterfalls that fill raging rivers, dry, dusty deserts with their vibrant green oasis, mountains, too high to climb, separated by lush, fertile valleys, wildlife and birds of every description to delight the eye and trap the unwary. And you know what's best of all?" Jarok shook his head, mouth agape and black eyes bulging.

"There's nobody but yourself to tell you what to do!" The words were barely out when he felt the sting of boiling water on the back of his hand as Alyse slammed his mug upon the table. He looked up into stern, un-amused eyes that drew his attention to Jarok, who sat transfixed in a world of his own, caught up in the romance, not the reality. Alyse raised an eyebrow in an unspoken question as to what he was going to do about it. Cymon took a deep breath and broke Jarok’s daydream.

"Actually," he admitted in a matter-of-fact tone, "it's cold, tiring and very, very lonely."

Jarok came crashing down to earth with a bump, disappointment replacing the wonder on his face. Alyse wore a broad smile of satisfaction as she sipped her tea. As she took the dirty dishes to the sink, Cymon leaned across and tapped Jarok gently on the hand to get his attention.

"But it's fun," he mouthed to him. The giggle that escaped the boy had them both looking guiltily over at Alyse, in case she had noticed their exchange. When she showed no sign of having done so, Jarok wiped a hand across his forehead in a playful gesture of having escaped a fate worse than death. Cymon joined in with a silent whistle. Alyse smiled to herself. Any doubts she had about allowing Cymon to stay were abated by this instant friendship and rapport that had sprung up between him and her brother. Jarok had an uncanny knack of sensing the inner self of a person and she trusted his judgement. Cymon’s voice broke through her thoughts, asking if there was anything he could do to repay her hospitality.

"Well, for a start, you could fill the water butt," she told him. "Jarok will show you where."

Jarok shot Cymon a sympathetic smile that told him quite clearly he would indeed pay for his board. Cymon gave him a resigned shrug in return.

"The sooner we get started, the sooner we'll be finished," he said, shooing Jarok through the door ahead of him. Alyse watched them go deciding she liked this Cymon more and more, though she had no illusions that the water butt would actually get filled any time soon. She had not missed the quick wink he had given Jarok and if she knew her brother, he would bombard Cymon with a hundred and one questions the moment he thought they were out of her earshot. Watching them cross the clearing, Cymon swinging a bucket in each hand while Jarok danced along beside him, her spirits rose. She had not seen her brother this happy for a long time. It would do him good to have some cheerful company. She did her best to fill his life, but she had not been feeling quite herself for a while, and even before the dreams began, he had been left pretty much to his own amusement. Alyse gave them until mid-day before following them down to the stream. Cymon’s soft tones drifted towards her before they came into view, recanting tales of daring. She stopped to listen, finding the gentle, musical lilt oddly soothing.

"... So there he was," she heard him say, "sweating and bleeding from the many bites and claw wounds he had sustained.

A young colt, barely bigger than they, bucking and kicking for all he was worth. Even though his strength was beginning to fail, he wouldn't give up. Snapping the muzzle of any that ventured within range, eyes rolling white as he screamed his defiance of them. They'd have to go through him to get to his dam! Even from the distance he was a fearsome sight and those wolves must have thought so too, for they could've easily brought him down otherwise. His dam was already gone by the time I arrived and I feared he would soon join her, for he was in a bad way and had lost a lot of blood. But he did pull through and I named him Defiant, after his nature. He seemed to like it... and me, for he's never left my side since."

Alyse, who had been occupied trying to match this description with the sorry-looking nag in her barn, jumped when Cymon’s amused tone invited her to join them. Completely embarrassed at having been caught eavesdropping, Alyse would have preferred to turn and run but she knew that would only amuse him still further. Jarok also jumped up guiltily at the mention of her name, but was saved an impromptu ducking by the swift hand that shot out to grab his belt. He turned around as Alyse stepped into view and was frozen by the full force of her frowning displeasure that proceeded to drop pointedly to the empty buckets.

"I'm sorry Alyse, truly I am," Jarok rushed to accept the blame as he bent and hastily replaced his absent socks and boots. "It wasn't Cymon’s fault. We just sat for a moment to catch our breath and I asked him to tell me a story. And they are so... interesting, I sort of just forgot the buckets."

Alyse turned to Cymon, who shrugged his shoulders and raised his hands in front of him in surrender. Under her continuing glower, he pulled his feet from the water, picked up the upturned buckets, which they had been sitting on, filled both and handed one to the boy.

"Jarok,” Alyse called after him as he trudged off disconsolately, his head bowed into his chest. "Take that one straight into the kitchen, will you dear?"

Jarok beamed in relief that she was no longer angry with him. The spring returned to his step and the bucket seem less heavy. Cymon quickly pulled on his boots and hurried after Alyse, swinging the bucket into his left hand so that it would not catch her leg.

"You're very patient with him."

"I wasn't really angry with him in the first place," she admitted.

"I never thought you were," answered Cymon. Alyse shot him a quick glance, aware of the hidden reference to her embarrassment in the remark. Then gave a wry smile. "I indulge him, yes," she directed her reply to his first statement. "It's not an easy life for him, living as secluded as we do. Perhaps that's the reason for his strangeness. You know, sometimes as I watch him, I wonder if he really belongs here at all!" She paused for a moment then gave a soft laugh. "Certainly his mind is elsewhere for a lot of the time. Besides, we only have each other and to remain angry with him, would only make us both unhappy." She stared after her brother with a look of intense love. "Don't get me wrong," she went on after a while. "I don't spoil him. Well, I try not to," she conceded to Cymon’s look of total disbelief. "Anyway, I'm his sister, but what of you? You show considerable patience for someone you hardly know," she pointed out.

"I think," he replied thoughtfully, "that it would be impossible to remain a stranger to Jarok for long plus he's a good listener and as you've already discovered, I do so love to talk. There's been little chance for it on the road. I found it safer to avoid the busy inns and taverns, where I might enjoy some company. Many a rogue lies in wait in such places, sizing up his next victim. So, apart from Defiant, I've only had myself to talk to. It's been a pleasure to have such a responsive audience."

By now, they had reached the cottage and Cymon emptied his bucket into the water butt.

Alyse placed her hand on his arm as he made to replace the bucket where he had found it.

"I don't mean to be rude," she said hesitantly, "but have you been on the road a long time? And the majority of that time has been spent outdoors," she continued when Cymon nodded, "away from the amenities offered by these inns and such like...?"

"That's right," he agreed. "The last time I stayed at an inn was... oh, ten... maybe twelve days ago." Cymon suddenly threw back his head and roared with laughter, so loudly that Jarok appeared to find out what was so funny.

"Your sister... " Cymon’s laughter increased as Alyse’s face turned bright red, "has just delicately informed me that I am in sore need of a bath!"

"Alyse!" Jarok gasped, staring at his sister in amazement before joining in Cymon’s merriment.

"Well he is,” said Alyse defensively, resisting the urge to stamp her foot, they were already having far too much fun at her expense. Their laughter continued to assault her ears as they took the tin bath down off the wall and carried it around the side of the cottage for privacy. As she prepared supper she was serenaded by the sound of singing and splashing water. She could not catch the words but she had the sneaking suspicion that she was the topic of their song. At least they both had the grace to look shamefaced as they seated themselves for supper. She quite enjoyed herself making them squirm guiltily beneath her icy glare but she couldn't keep it up for long and soon they were all joining in the fun of the day over a thick, tasty vegetable stew followed by hot apple pie. Both Cymon and Jarok ate heartily but Alyse merely picked at her meal, blaming the unusual day for her lack of appetite. Cymon said nothing, though he did not miss the troubled frown that crossed Jarok’s face before he lowered his head to his plate. As Alyse listened to the warm banter going back and forth across the table, she marvelled at how easily and effortlessly Cymon had slipped in. It was almost as if he were already one of the family, one who had simply been away for a while. Her eyes followed his movements as, having sated his hunger. He leant back in his chair and rubbed his hands over his stomach with a sigh of pleasure.

"That was an excellent meal," he said. "Thank you."

"You're welcome," replied Alyse.

Watching him, sitting there in her father’s old clothes, telling jokes and making faces with Jarok, Alyse was swept away by memories of happier times when her parents were still alive. Of it’s own volition, her tongue spoke the words that extended the offer of a bed for the night, to one of a few days. Jarok grinned so widely that she thought his face would split as Cymon, gratefully and with pleasure, accepted her offer. She alone appeared to be surprised by her words.

The few days drifted into weeks as Cymon became firmly entrenched into the family unit. A mixture of big brother and favourite uncle, he replaced the broken planks in the barn and repaired the thatching on the cottage roof. No mention was made now as to his leaving, instead Alyse talked of building a lean-to on the side of the cottage so he would be more comfortable, especially now the nights were drawing in and there was a coolness in the air. There were times when Alyse caught certain wistfulness in his eyes, and thought he had something more he wanted to say. Then he would seem to change his mind and disappear to do some task that needed finishing. But not wishing to spoil this newfound sense of contentment and security, she did not press him.

During these weeks, Cymon learnt that their mother had died the night Jarok was born, and their father had immediately moved them to this place, which he had found abandoned by it’s previous owners. Then he too had died, less than two years later, leaving Alyse to raise her brother alone for the last six years. She had been forced to grow up quickly, leaving most of her childhood behind at her mother’s bedside and severing its final ties with her father’s passing. Despite enormous pressure from the local villagers, she had refused to be separated from Jarok and the two of them had survived against the odds. Her hard life had given Alyse a strong will, with its fair share of stubbornness, and had produced in her a maturity that is rarely found in a young girl of sixteen years. A woman’s eyes looked out of the child’s face and the palms of her slender hands were calloused by years of hard work. Though uneducated, she possessed great intelligence and a wide knowledge of plant and herb, both for food and medicinal purposes, attained solely — Cymon discovered to his horror — by an often-dangerous practice of trial and error. Jarok was her life and her joy, as she was his. That Alyse doted on the boy was plain to see from the first. His happiness and well being, was the core around which the rest of her life was planned. It was impossible not to be affected by the deep love that surrounded them and it was not long before Cymon was drawn in also, and his reasons for being there became faded by his desire to be there and soon he had almost forgotten them completely.

Jarok became his faithful shadow and followed him everywhere. It took little pestering for Cymon to be persuaded to teach him to swim in the shallow pool not far downstream from where they had filled the buckets. He also taught him how to play the little flute that he carried and when the boy appeared one afternoon with just the right-sized piece of wood, it seemed quite natural that Cymon should leave what he was doing and make Jarok a whistle of his own. In fact, Cymon was learning increasing day by day, that he could not say 'No' to Jarok at all. Even Defiant was not immune to Jarok’s unexplainable charisma, as Cymon was to discover the day he came out of the barn to find the horse walking about the clearing with Jarok upon his back. Cymon stood in amazement, for Defiant had never allowed anyone to ride him but himself.

"Look Cymon, no hands,” Jarok squealed excitedly as he spotted Cymon there and lifted his arms in the air. Cymon was only grateful that Alyse had decided to make a rare visit to the village. He called Defiant to stop and lifted Jarok down, reminding him that he had not asked his permission or, more importantly, Alyse’s to ride Defiant. Jarok sobered up quickly at the mention of his sisters' name. Alyse however, proved to have no objections provided stayed close to supervise. She also insisted that Jarok undertook all the more mundane things to do with caring for Defiant, so that he would understand there was more to it than just riding and having fun. While Cymon applauded her sense, Jarok listened to the growing list of 'things to do' and wondered if it was really going to be worth all the trouble. He discovered it was, getting as much pleasure from caring for the horse as he did from riding him... well almost!

Sometimes Cymon and Jarok would ride double and go off into the forest, where Cymon taught the eager youngster how to track, how to walk softly and stealthily over the forest litter, and how to double back, all in the guise of playing 'hide and seek'. But best of all, to Jarok’s mind, were the stories. For long hours they would sit on an old tree trunk or lay on their backs watching the sun filtering through the treetops while Cymon would tell of glorious battles and gruesome monsters in faraway places. They would often arrive back at the cottage to get their ears chewed by Alyse, furious that they were late for supper again, but she never stayed angry for long and supper would appear piping hot, from the oven, despite her threats to let them starve! It became something of a ritual. They would kiss her on the cheek and say 'Thank you', as sweetly as they knew how. Then all three of them would laugh together and sit to eat.

The deeper Cymon became enmeshed in their lives and the more he got to really know them, the more he marvelled that two children of the same parentage, who had grown up with no outside influences, could be as different as chalk and cheese as these two: One mature and responsible, the other totally innocent and full of dreams — blonde Alyse with delicate, cornflower-blue eyes and Jarok with hair and eyes as black as the rich soil of Phelise. Cymon often wondered if their parents were as unalike as these two but on the occasions he had ventured to talk about them, Alyse had become vague and reticent. It obviously still pained her deeply. Jarok of course, had been too young at the time of their deaths to remember anything.

As his affection deepened, he began to worry about them much more than his position warranted, especially so about Alyse. She had not regained the appetite that had eluded her on the day of his arrival and the dark smudges under her eyes were now black hollows. Jarok had told him that Alyse was not sleeping properly and woke early each morning, long before dawn. He had caught her rubbing her temples many times, as if she had a headache, but she always denied it. Cymon had also noticed these symptoms, had often seen Alyse in the darkness, standing in the open doorway and staring up at the night sky when she thought everyone else abed. Still he kept silent, thinking it was not his place to intrude. But then yesterday Jarok told him he had followed Alyse, not to spy he insisted, only to practise his tracking skills. As soon as she was far enough away from the cottage she lay down and started crying. Cymon knew he could no longer stand idly by and watch them hurting each other, for indeed they were. One desperately trying to hide the fact there was something wrong; the other desperately trying to hide the fact he noticed. He would talk to Alyse after Jarok had gone to bed this evening, he decided.

Alyse had also decided it was time to clear the air. It had not passed her by that, while they had told him all about themselves, Cymon had not reciprocated. Though she trusted him, she had to face the fact that they knew no more about him other than he had revealed that first day and those wistful moments she had witnessed kept coming back to haunt her. She had put off having this talk, dreading that the outcome may result in his moving on. She would miss him for himself, for she had grown very fond of him. She would miss his conversation, his sense of humour, the way he had with Jarok. She paused in her thoughts. She would she admitted honestly, miss most of all, the feeling of security she had knowing he was around, especially after what she had been hearing in the village disturbing rumours about slaughtered livestock and mysterious disappearances which, should they be believed, were heading in their direction. Add these to the recurring nightmares and the once friendly forest had taken on a menacing quality, especially after nightfall. The once soothing noises of the night now held an eerie, threatening tone that frightened her. She had not felt such fear since the morning she had woken to find her father was no longer there to guide her. She was so scared that Cymon would leave. She did not know what they would do if he did, even though a voice in her head reminded her they had managed all these years before he came. She did know, that alone, she would not be able to protect her brother if these rumours proved true. Her commonsense told her to leave well enough alone and just be thankful for Cymon’s presence. She had tried, but that other voice kept insisting that he was hiding something. It battled with her trust and affection and it won.

She found Cymon weeding the vegetable patch and called his name as she approached, miming the action of sipping tea when he looked up. He put down the hoe, wiping his hands down his trousers as he carefully stepped over the rows of vegetables to join her in the kitchen.

"I needed that," he said gratefully, after swallowing a long mouthful from the mug awaiting him on the table.

"You must have read my mind!" His laughter died when she did not respond and then he noticed the seriousness of her expression as she toyed with the handle of her mug. "Why so serious?" His heart suddenly skipped a beat. "Has something happened to Jarok? Has he had an accident? Is he hurt?" He leapt from his chair and strode towards the bedroom. " Where is he?" he finished in alarm, finding it empty.

"Jarok is fine. He's out treasure hunting," she told him.

"Is it you then? Are you sick?" He dropped to his knees beside her, feeling her brow.

"Cymon, sit down,” she ordered irritably, slapping his hand away. "While your obvious concern is most comforting I would rather you calm yourself. You sound worse than Jarok.

There's nothing wrong with either of us. My worry Cymon... is you."

"Me?" Incredulity raised his voice at least an octave.

"Yes. You." she affirmed, taking a deep breath. "What are you doing here, Cymon? Why did you come?"

"You know why! Defiant had hurt his leg and you... "

"Please,” she cut him off, eyes flashing angrily as she banged her mug on the table. "Don't insult my intelligence a second time. I may not know as much as you but I'm not stupid! I must admit I was completely taken in at the beginning. Amongst his other talents, Defiant is an accomplished actor. So good in fact, that it took me a full week to realise he was faking. He tended to forget which leg he was supposed to be limping on,” she grinned fondly at the memory as she gazed out of the window to where Defiant stood. His head turned in her direction as though he were aware they were talking about him. She wiggled her fingers to say hello and he returned to his grazing while she turned back to Cymon. She placed her elbows on the table, rested her chin on closed fists and stared at him long and hard without a word. Cymon waited with growing apprehension.

"Who are you, Cymon? Really? Don't we deserve the truth," she finally asked the inevitable question.

Cymon was cornered, and he knew it. Trapped between a rock and a hard place, as reason at last caught up with desire and reality reared its ugly head into the fantasy world he had created. He pushed his fingers through his hair, scratching his suddenly itching scalp beneath which his frantic mind was trying to decide what to do. His orders were to tell them nothing but the Elders had not counted on her astuteness. His orders had also been to get her and leave and he had taken scant notice of those, his guilty self reminded him. A loud sigh escaped him. He wished he could escape her intense gaze as easily. She was right though, he told himself firmly. She deserved the truth. 'Hang the Elders!' he though rebelliously. He had too much respect for her to attempt to lie to her again, whatever they said. He had never really been happy with the deceit, indeed from the first he had tried to avoid it by mentioning Phelise. He fixed her gaze with his own, so that she would recognise his honesty.

"I haven't so much lied to you Alyse, more withheld the entire truth. My name is Cymon. I am a traveller. What I neglected to reveal was that I was travelling specifically to be with you. As to who am I, perhaps 'what' would be a better word."

A strange circular hand movement accompanied low words she didn't understand, revealing clearly her sunlit vision of that first day.

"I am Elfin," he continued, his transformation complete. "We are Masters of Illusion. This disguise wasn't entirely to deceive you however," he assured her. "The Elders thought it would be less disturbing for you if I appeared as one of your own race. Also, we Elfin have learnt to our cost during the centuries, that it's safer not to advertise our presence in the outside world. It's also true that my home is called Phelise. I disobeyed orders telling you that, hoping you would recognise it so that I could reveal the truth to you, about both my mission and myself. When you didn't, I realised I'd have to bide my time and first earn your trust. I couldn't just walk in and force you to follow me... No matter what the orders," he finished silently.

"Phelise." The name seemed to roll across Alyse’s tongue like a caress, filling her with a strange longing she didn't understand. "The Home of the Firstborn!"

Cymon started with surprise, it was not a commonly known title of Phelise amongst the other races. He stared at her thoughtfully and sure she was unaware of the soft, mournful words that fell from her lips and equally so of the wistful yearning in her voice. This was confirmed when she asked where Phelise was.

"It's here, there, everywhere. My home occupies the same space as your world but it exists in the half time that lies between the heartbeats of your existence. You can only get there through one of four gateways that join our two worlds. So... that is who and what I am. As to my mission: the Elders have, for many centuries, kept a watchful eye on a wizard named Duman. Does this mean anything to you?"

"No, nothing at all," she shrugged.

"No matter. Recently it became known that Duman was sending — shall we say 'servants'— further abroad than ever before. Somehow the Elders discovered that you were their target and called the young men together and asked for a volunteer to bring you home. And so, here I am," he finished, spreading his arms wide.

Alyse lifted her mug, sipping slowly to digest all she had just heard. It seemed too incredible! Yet there he sat. His talk of a wizard and his servants gaining substance alongside his undeniable Elfin form, the village rumours and her ever-increasing unease.

"But why?" The muffled question finally coming from behind the mug she still held to her lips, in a kind of defence gesture.

"That part was also true. I really was avoiding my Mother’s ma... "

"Not that,” she snapped impatiently, her face re-appearing fully for a moment. "I mean, why does this 'Duman' or whatever his name is, want me?"

"That, I don't know. The Elders are very vague at times." He held his hand over his heart. "That's all I know. I swear."

Alyse searched his face for any trace that he was being less than totally honest. She found none. Slowly placing her mug down on the table, she rested her tired head beside it. She was hurt, confused and very angry. She was angry with Cymon for his deceit. Angry at these 'Elders' for forcing him to be so and for sending him to become a part of their lives that would one day be taken away; just like their parents. She was more than angry with the unknown wizard who obviously sought to harm her... why else would she need protection? Who were these people that thought they had the right to interfere willy-nilly in her life without her consent? Most of all she was angry with herself, for this wretched feeling of helplessness that swamped her. A feeling so alien to her nature that she despised herself for it. Cymon saw the slump in her body and felt deeply her sense of defeat. Though he wanted to, he knew he could not comfort her. She had to work this through for herself. Still, it was hard to sit, watching her suffering and do nothing. He was at the point of giving in when, to his relief, she suddenly drew herself erect, her face as stubbornly determined as he had ever seen it, eyes clear and steady and mouth set. He smiled inwardly. She was a survivor!

"So, where do we go from here," he asked, picking up his mug and leaning back in his chair.

"Until I've had time to think this through properly, nowhere — Jarok and me, anyway. You are free to do as you please of course." Her eyes clouded. She had offered him a way out and now feared he would take it.

"I'm not in any hurry," he sent her a soft smile to allay the fears written on her face. "What about Jarok," he asked. "Shall I tell him or shall you?"

"Time enough to tell him when it becomes necessary."

Cymon nodded and the air around him wavered once more as he re-cloaked himself.

The last barrier between them lifted, they finished their tea in companionable silence and the remainder of the day passed by uneventfully. Cymon finished the weeding, then set about stuffing some new mattresses from the last of the straw. Alyse, feeling better than she had for some time, went to pick mushrooms for supper. Perhaps she would find some of those large, split ones that Cymon liked so much. Jarok came back from his treasure hunting and retreated into the bedroom for a private inspection of his new acquisitions. He came out again full of excitement, waving his pouch at Alyse.

"I found it again,” he exclaimed. "I forgot all about it in all the excitement when Cymon turned up. You never did get to see it."

Alyse had no idea what he was talking about but she smiled indulgently.

"Well, I'm sure that whatever it is, I'll appreciate it all the more for waiting. I'll look forward to seeing it after supper."

"But Alyse, I wanted to show you now,” he persisted.

"Now," said Alyse firmly, "supper is ready. Run along and fetch Cymon before it gets cold, there's a dear. After supper you can show us both at the same time and it will be doubly enjoyable."

Jarok fidgeted all through supper, impatient for it to be over so that he could reveal his treasure. He planned it out as he ate. He would make them try to guess first. Three each maybe, though he knew they would never succeed. Then he would say they had to close their eyes and he would make them wait for simply ages. His free hand strayed often during the meal, to the pouch that sat prominently on the table. Eventually supper was over but things did not go as he planned.

"I've a special story for you tonight Jarok," said Cymon, just as Jarok was undoing the strings of his pouch. " It' called... 'The Ballad of Duman'."

Alyse’s head came up sharply. Her eyes wide in surprise, glared accusingly at Cymon whose own told her 'not to worry' in return. Jarok noticed neither reaction, the excitement of hearing a brand new story chased everything else from his mind.

"Duman," he queried. "Who's Duman? Is he good or bad?" He flung the questions into the air as he left the table, absent-mindedly slinging his pouch into its usual position across his chest.

"Ah! Duman,” replied Cymon theatrically, as he made his way more slowly to his after-supper seat beside the fire. Jarok sat down at his feet with Royle on his lap, tail twitching under his nose until he managed to grab it and hold it still.

Alyse took out the box of mending, settling herself at the table with a calmness she was far from feeling. She was annoyed by Cymon’s choice of story because she thought they had agreed earlier, not to mention anything to Jarok. She was also apprehensive as to its contents for her own sake, though she did not know why. Cymon’s eyes told her to trust him and she really had no choice but to do so. If she tried to stop him from telling it, Jarok would know immediately that there was more to it than just a tale and that would make him even more determined to hear it. So she sat quietly sewing as if nothing was amiss. Irritated at being so neatly out-manoeuvred, she carelessly stabbed her finger with the needle.

'Serve you right," she chided herself silently with a glare at Cymon as she stuck the bleeding finger in her mouth. 'On both counts!'

"A sad and tragic tale it certainly is," Cymon began, "but I'll leave you to decide for yourself whether Duman was good or bad. Or perhaps he was simply a mere pawn in the hands of others, more devious and evil than he knew." He took a deep breath and let it out on a long sigh.

"An Elf by Race was Duman. Once a noble and mighty warrior, loved and revered by all men of all races, at a time when Elfin kind walked openly and freely in this world, now, a wizard: powerful in the arts of dark magic. He abides in an impenetrable fortress carved from the mountain itself, whose sides have not known the tread of human feet for thousands of years and is guarded by gargoyles and demons summoned from the very depths of Darkness itself. A great, dark cloud hovers over it like a tarnished crown, shrouding everything in permanent darkness and a lethal mist seeps from the rock to destroy any who would be fool enough to venture there."

He paused to gauge the effect the story was having on his audience. Alyse seemed intent on her sewing but Jarok’s intensively sensitive and responsive imagination already had him lost in time and place, away in a mystical land of sorcery, spell casting and myth. Softly, so as not to disturb the boys' mood, Cymon went on.

"But, as I said, he wasn't always a wizard. Once he was just an elf, young by elfin time. Born into the tribe of warriors, he quickly rose through the ranks to command his own company. Then came the time of the Hurian Wars.

The Huri were, like the Elfin, one of the older Races. But unlike the Elfin, they became greedy and in their search for greater knowledge, delved into the mysteries of the Black Arts. They began to imagine themselves superior to the other races and to look down on them as lesser creatures, whose intolerable existence should be wiped from the Earth. So they waged war on them, to destroy them all. Even united, the other Races were no match for the Hurian sorcery and they began to despair. Then, when things were at their worst... help arrived! Nobody knew where they came from, for never had their like been seen before: five, glorious beasts, awesome in their beauty and might, as tall as ten men and twice as long. From their horned heads, to the tips of their pointed tails, they were covered in iridescent scales that nothing could penetrate. They rode the winds on huge wings as soft as well-worn leather. Razor sharp claws that could slice a man in two were seen to tenderly lift a baby out of harms way without so much as a scratch. Fierce and terrifying yet infinitely gentle were these awesome Dragons.

Each of them chose one. To ride its back in battle:

From the race of Man, Gregos was chosen.

From the Dwarves: Palach.

From the Soyex: U'min.

From the Fellis: Torje.

And from the Elfin: Duman!

Why, and how, the great beasts picked those particular warriors: is known only to them. All we know is that each one was skilled and courageous in battle, without pride or conceit for their deeds and willing to sacrifice themselves for their men and for the innocent.

By this choosing, Rider and Dragon became linked in some mysterious way, communicating by mind and emotion. They flew into battle at the front of the armies, laying waste to the enemy and leaving the ground troops to mop up any resistance. But the greatest weapon they brought was the ability to withstand the Huri magic. White fire issued forth from their mouths devouring the unnatural forces. Back, and back again, retreated the once mighty Huri, until they had only one stronghold left. The mountain they called Runic. None of the Races had a translation of this, so its true meaning remains obscure. Others called it Shadow Mountain. The Elfin call it 'Ak'thai'.

As the armies encamped around Ak'thai, Duman captured a Huri spy... a mystery in itself. He spent long hours alone, interrogating him. After many days he called the other Riders together and told them that, not only had he found a way to end this war once and for all but, if they so desired, a way which would enable the Races to retain the balance of power against the Huri, so that the Dragons could return to their home. His offer was sincere and genuine, or so it was believed at the time. So did the Dark Magic allow Duman to believe perhaps, as its insidious nature wormed its way into his heart corrupting him totally and irrevocably... only Duman knows the truth of his heart at that time. Under the guise of aiding their friends on their homeward journey, Duman lured the other four Riders and their Dragons to the place he had prepared. The warriors he interned in an unknown, crystal tomb. The Orbs now containing the Dragons, he kept with him in Ak'thai. Then he returned to the camp, saying that the Huri had surrendered, the war was over and everyone, like the Dragons, could all go home. They didn't argue. Why would they? This was a warrior hero whom they trusted, besides, they'd been away from their loved ones for too long and were eager to get home.

Only one thing marred Duman’s victory, making it incomplete. Ecos had not been with the others and Duman could not find him anywhere. Too late to save his brothers, Ecos concentrated on thwarting Duman as best he could and in doing so, leave hope and help to be found in the future. He centred all his power and focused it into his eyes, half in each. Ignoring the pain he removed them from his body and using the little power he had retained for the purpose, encased them in amber, for he knew that this and only this, could conceal the Powers' presence from Duman. He sent them far away. To lay hidden in separate locations until found by one with a pure heart. A silent prayer echoed in the wind that the one would use the Power, to put right the wrong that had been done that day.

When Duman at last discovered Ecos and realised what he'd done, he was enraged and turned him into stone — dead, but not dead. The last remnant of the once powerful Dragon destined to be forever, a silent and powerless witness to his brothers' enforced slavery to evil. And there, so legend states, they all remain. For many centuries Duman has searched for the 'Eyes of Ecos'. Many believe it's only this search that keeps him from turning his attention to the other Races, like the Huri before him."

Utter silence filled the room as Cymon finished his tale. Tears slid down Jarok’s cheeks as, for long moments, he continued to dwell with the long-forgotten Heroes. He felt anguish for the loss of Duman to the forces of evil and great sadness at his betrayal of his brothers-in-arms. He felt the despair of the trusting Dragons that placed themselves in the hands of one they thought their friend and who then forced them into a servitude so against their nature. He grieved for them all and for Ecos, fated to an eternity of guilt, blaming himself for not acting sooner as the glimmer of hope he had planted faded with every passing century, until there was nothing left but the painful acceptance of reality. Jarok longed for a way to help them. Cymon bent down to wipe away his tears. His hand fell short as a soft moan came from Alyse.

She had long since stopped her sewing and sat, eyes fixed in his direction, in horror and fear. Her hands were upside her cheeks and she was sobbing. Cymon’s words about the 'Eyes of Ecos' had brought clarity to the dreams that had been disturbing her. Pictures blinked on and off in her mind. She saw the glowing, orange aura of the amber stone. She remembered staring deep into its liquid centre that flowed like molten lava: Ever moving, alive, luring her closer and closer into its kaleidoscope of multi-coloured motion. She recalled the coldness of its casing in her palm, of comparing it to the warmth emitted from within, the way it throbbed in her hand, pulsing beneath her fingertips as she stroked it in wonder. She recognised now the murmuring voices encouraging her as she lifted it up to her face. Encouraging her, as she placed her own eye against it for a closer look at its enticing centre. She screamed out in agony as white-hot needles stabbed into her eye, clawing at her face in an effort to remove them.

Cymon and Jarok were at her side in an instant. Cymon held her arms to prevent her from hurting herself, while Jarok called her name over and over, trying to bring her out of her nightmare. She began to shake uncontrollably, all colour draining from her face, and then she slumped unconscious into Cymon’s arms. Jarok, frightened by this behaviour from his normally solid sister, tugged frantically at Cymon’s shirt.

"What's the matter with her, Cymon," he cried, in a voice thick with dread. Cymon shook his head. The boy was frightened enough, without hearing his suspicions. Drat the Elders! They knew of this. They should have sent someone to help and guide the child, not an ignorant youth that knew only the ways of battle. What were they thinking of? But he said none of this to Jarok, instead he forced a broad grin and as light-heartedly as he could, made up the best excuse he could think of.

"She really got into that one! I guess I'm a better story teller than I thought."

It sounded worse than lame, even to his ears. Jarok obviously thought so too.

"I'm not that much of a child, Cymon," he replied resentfully.

"I know and I'm sorry for treating you like one. The truth is, I don't know what's wrong."

Jarok followed Cymon into the bedroom, pulling down the blankets as he laid Alyse on the bed. They sat on opposite sides of her. Jarok took her hand and laid his cheek in her palm. Cymon leaned over and put his arm around the boys' shoulders as he began to cry. Gazing at them both, so young and vulnerable, Cymon decided he would have to convince Alyse to allow him to take them both home immediately and not take 'no' for an answer. He should never have waited so long, he berated himself. He sat with his arm about Jarok until the boy had cried himself out and began to sway tiredly. Then he swept his legs round, easing him onto the bed beside Alyse. He did not even consider separating them, even though Jarok would have been more comfortable in his own bed. He paused in the doorway for a final glance at the sleeping pair. As he did so, Royle padded into the room, unaffected by the scene he had just witnessed. Cymon envied the cat his ignorance as with feline grace, he leapt onto the pillow and curled up beside Alyse’s head, purring gently in her ear with a soft, soothing rhythm that hardly disturbed the silence.

"I leave them in your tender care, Sir Royle," Cymon whispered, pulling the door closed behind him. "But if it's all the same to you," he poked his head back in, "just for tonight, I think I'll stay by the fire."

A gleaming eye winked once at him before closing, as if in unspoken agreement and permission of the elf’s' request.