Whill of Agora: Book 1 - Michael Ploof (e book reader for pc .TXT) 📗

where he was. Before him what had been the table was now nothing but kindling. The chairs had all been blown back, and the many banners upon the walls were riddled with holes. Zerafin went to the king and Abram in turn and extracted the splinters and healed their wounds.

Whill saw the blood of both and was sickened. “I am so sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt anyone, I—”

“We know, Whill,” said Mathus. “It is no matter.” He got to his feet with Zerafin’s help.

“I’m afraid it is. And a dire matter at that,” Zerafin said. “Once again you have nearly killed yourself, Whill. Your training cannot wait until we reach Elladrindellia. For your sake, and for the sake of those around you. Your training starts today. You must learn to control the energy.” He looked towards Avriel. “And the emotions within you.”

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Whill sat in the garden across from Zerafin. The sun had descended beyond the castle walls, but not the unseen horizon. The sky was dark blue, with hues of red and orange announcing the oncoming dusk. No breeze stirred within the garden; it was as silent as a tomb. Zerafin sat looking at Whill for a moment. He was seated on the grass, legs crossed one over the other in a meditative stance. Whill mimicked Zerafin’s posture and stance and awaited his command.

“All creatures possess emotion,” the elf began. “Some more than others and some more intensely than others. You, my friend, seem to possess a great passion, which is neither good nor bad. But if you cannot control those emotions, and you continue to let them manifest into uncontrolled energy, then you will become a danger to everyone around you. Do not despair, Whill. You are human, after all, and we have come to learn that humans not only let their emotions run wild, but thrive on them as well. You could say that you humans are addicted to your emotions.”

Whill listened intently, though he did not quite understand what Zerafin meant.

“Close your eyes, Whill, and think of nothing. Focus on your breath and nothing more. You see how shallow and quick it is. I would like you to breathe as deeply as you can, slowly, ever so slowly. Now hold your breath there for a moment before letting it go, slowly, ever so slowly. That’s it. Breathe in, breathe out. Clear your mind. Straighten your back, raise your chest, and lower your shoulders. Relax the mind and body. Let yourself be at peace.”

Whill did as he was told, and a feeling of great peace overcame him, freedom from his troubles, emotions, and responsibilities.

“This is called earth pose,” Zerafin said. “We elves use this pose for reflection, to calm the mind and body and create unity throughout.”

Zerafin said nothing more for some time as Whill continued to relax. After a time he spoke again. “Now slowly open your eyes, and come back to the garden.”

Whill reluctantly obeyed. He opened his eyes to find Zerafin smiling at him.

“How do you feel?”

Whill thought for a moment. “I feel...refreshed, calm, and relaxed.”

“Good. We will delve deeper into the many stances and meditation techniques of the elves in the future. For now I would like you to practice this stance daily, for as long as suits you. Now. Close your eyes again.”

Whill did so and waited further instruction. Moments passed, and then suddenly Zerafin slapped him across the face hard enough to make it hurt. Whill opened his eyes suddenly and broke his stance. “Why did you do that?”

Zerafin laughed. “Why, indeed? Focus on your emotions now, Whill. How do you feel?”

Whill put a hand to his cheek. “Angry, of course.”

“But why are you angry? Did you decide to be angry?”

“No, I did not decide to be angry. You slapped me and that made me angry!”

“Ah. So I have the power over you to make you feel as I wish. By my actions, I can determine how you feel. Is that what you mean?”

Whill knew Zerafin was getting at something, but did not quite know where he was going. Moments passed as they stared at one another. At last Whill proved the more impatient. “No, you do not have that power over me. I feel the way I wish to feel.”

“Really?” asked Zerafin, and slapped Whill hard again. “So I did not just change your attitude, your emotions? Do you feel no different now?”

Whill was fuming, his nostrils flared, his fists clenched. He could not deny what Zerafin implied. “Alright, yes, you made me mad. So what? Anyone would be angry after being slapped.”

“Would they, now?” He leaned back onto one elbow. “Now I ask you, did I make you upset, or did you decide to be upset when I struck you?”

Whill thought for a moment. “You made me upset.”

“Wrong, my friend, wrong. You, or the world around you, have taught your brain through your life experience that you must become angry when someone slaps you. You are reacting to the world around you through a set list of responses you have chosen for yourself. You are no more in control than a sailor in a storm. And with the power you now possess, and the power you will soon gain, that simply will not do.”

Whill realized Zerafin made perfect sense, and he could not help but feel a little embarrassed. He decided to test the elf’s theory. He pretended to be pondering, then quickly brought his hand up to slap Zerafin. But the elf proved the quicker and stopped Whill’s hand inches short of its destination.

Zerafin laughed. “When you can do that, I will have no more to teach you.”

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Roakore sat in his room upon a couch that was too soft, answering the questions of a boy who was too curious. He was glad to hear a knock upon the door. “Come in, me friend, please do!”

Whill peered in. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything.”

“No, no, do come in an’ sit down a bit. We were just chattin’ is all.”

“Roakore was just telling me how the dwarves use the dirt and stone from the tunnels they dig. I always wondered where it went.”

“A good question indeed,” Whill agreed. “Roakore, would you mind if Tarren and I had a word?”

Roakore stood. “No, not a bit. Was ’bout to get a breath o’ fresh air, anyhow, need to stretch the legs a bit. I ain’t used to being cooped up like this.”

Tarren gave Roakore a confused look. “But haven’t you lived most of your life in caves?”

Roakore could only give a weak laugh at being caught in his contradiction. “Right, then, ye two talk. I’ll be about.” With relief, he left the room, closing the door behind him.

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Tarren began to speak but Whill silenced him with a raised hand. Whill got control of his emotions before facing the boy, and then took a deep, long breath. Before he could speak, Tarren asked, “What is it, Whill?” His demeanor had changed. His face was flushed, his eyes haunted. “Is it my family? Please, what is it?”

“Yes, Tarren, it is. It seems that when the pirates took you, a fight must have broken out, you see. Word has come from Eldalon...”

Tarren shook his head. “No, no, no, please say it’s not true, please, no. I saw the smoke, I saw the fire—when they were rushing me off to the docks, I knew something bad had happened, but I thought—I hoped—”

His shoulders shuddered as silent sobs racked his body. Tears began to slowly fall from his nose. Whill leaned closer and spoke softly. “Cirrosa’s men killed your family, Tarren. None survived the fire. I’m sorry. Oh, dear boy, I’m so sorry.”

Tarren looked up at Whill with eyes that pierced his heart. “You can save them. You can use your powers. Bring them back, Whill, please, bring them back!”

Whill pulled Tarren to himself and held the sobbing boy as his own tears fell. He rocked Tarren as his muffled voice pleaded, “Bring them back, bring them back.”

Whill pulled away and held him firm. “I cannot, Tarren, no one can. My powers are limited to the living, not the dead.”

“But that baby! You brought the baby back! You did!”

Whill shook his head. “The baby had only just begun to pass. Her spirit still held to this earth. That is why I could help her.”

Tarren was left unable to speak.

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Avriel sat in her room in a meditative stance. She had extended her consciousness outside of herself, and had witnessed the exchange between Whill and Tarren. She withdrew to give them privacy during this moment and slowly opened her teary eyes and returned her attention to herself. She had been witness for more than six hundred years to the cruelty and pain life so often dealt, yet it had not hardened her to the point of apathy. She brought her knees to her chest and hugged them. “The poor boy.”

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The morning sun slowly rose, its rays spreading across the world and finding their way to Whill’s closed eyes. He awoke to find Tarren leaning against the thick stone balcony rail, silently overlooking the courtyard. Whill sat up but did not stand. He didn’t know how to approach the lad. Tarren sat like a statue, unmoving, seemingly lifeless, and Whill knew only too well the pain the boy felt, if not as deeply.

Whill found his words at last and went out onto the balcony. Despite the early hour, the courtyard below was bustling with activity. Soldiers marched past in groups of four, while others sparred or practiced at the archery range. Though there were countless things to see below, Whill could see that Tarren focused on nothing before him. He simply stared forward, unmoving, distant.

Whill spoke softly, choosing his words carefully. “Tarren. I’m sorry about your family. I could say that I feel somewhat responsible for it all, for merely coming into your life. But Abram, I am afraid, would prove one way or another that I am not. These things happen, he would say. They cannot be changed, and they cannot be altered. I do beg to differ.” He looked into Tarren’s distant eyes. When he did not look back, Whill gently grabbed his shoulders. “Tarren I was not strong enough to see. I did not know. If I had, I would have stopped it all from happening—know that I would. But believe me when I say—no, I vow—that no ill fate shall befall you again. So long as I am here and able to stop it, nothing will happen to you. I swear on my life.”

At last Tarren met his gaze. “I miss them.”

Whill fought a lump in his throat. “I know you do, lad. Of course you do. But take heart in the time you had together. Honor and remember them always, and you will have gained their approval forevermore.”

Tarren hugged Whill but this time did not sob. “What will become of me now? Now that my family is gone?”

How ironic life was, Whill thought. How often the parts we play are changed, whether we are ready or not. Seldom could one pinpoint when and how one’s life changed, when one had to step up and take on the unknown. But Whill knew at that moment that this