Illustration (c) 2010 Walter Simon
Thorlin struggled forward, the marble floor beneath him hard and unforgiving; he felt weak and cold. Blood covered his face and chest, most of it his own. He had tried… tried to protect the Dragonstone. He fought them, but he was not strong enough to do his duty.
Ilerya, Goddess of Light, had to understand and could not condemn his soul to eternal torment; he had tried. His blood-crusted hand clutched for his pendant, the image of Ilerya’s shimmering face emblazoned on the circle of sliver. His groping fingers fell short as one last gasp of breath rushed from his lungs.
* * *
Roland squinted, the bright summer sun blinding him as he walked through golden fields of wheat. He wore a white tunic and leather pants; his armor was packed away in the satchel he carried on his back. His sword rested comfortably on his hip. His steps were light and agile without the heavy armor weighing him down.
A well-worn dirt path came into view. Just a small break in the endless grass, but he stopped and stared at the brown, dusty soil as if it were a snake. He ran his hands through his dark-blond hair, a surge of nervous anticipation running through his body. He was home.
Home. It was a dim memory of safety and warmth. He barely remembered his village. His father died when he was twelve, and his mother, Mira, could not feed all of them. Roland, the eldest, took it upon himself to leave; that was sixteen years ago.
In all that time, the village of Veltin had not changed. Memories came flooding back to Roland as he walked. Everything was the same. The path still ran next to the Cold River inn, and the elders still gathered in front of it, trading tales of times long past. The village even smelled the same, a mixture of green, growing grass and freshly baked bread.
“Ho there, good sir. What brings you to Veltin?” a soft female voice called.
A young woman in an apron appeared from the side of the inn. She carried a large bucket of water that sloshed to the side as she walked. Her hair was jet-black, and she looked familiar to Roland, but he had no name to put with her face.
“I seek Mira, the weaver. And her sons, Thorlin and Daemon,” Roland replied.
“Oh… I am sorry for your loss. If you hurry to the cemetery you might catch the end of the ceremony.”
“Ceremony? What ceremony?” Roland asked, the words coming out in a rush.
