The Winds of Crowns and Wolves Read online

  “I’m here to see a family friend,” he stated, “Daniel the lute player, I’m not sure if you know him.”

  Seemingly not fazed by Neach’s presence, the guard’s stepped aside and allowed him free entry into the city limits. What he saw upon his entry nearly stopped him in his tracks.

  For as far as the eye could see, masses of people filled the city streets and flocked from shop to shop with bundles of goods in their hands. Stone buildings lined the streets and housed everything from an apothecary to a butcher. The city was alive with the spoken word of virtually every person who was on the street. On such a cold winter’s morning, Neach expected to see very few people out.

  But then again, Neach wasn’t sure what he was expecting exactly. For a man who had never left the valley which he called home, Leirwold was a shocking discovery in his young adolescent life. To see things of all natures, from all places, available for purchase in a small area was breathtaking. The scenes that were taking place out on the street far surpassed anything his mind had ever conjured in reference to this place.

  His expectations, little they were, were blown out of proportion when he entered those city gates. The hustle and bustle of city life seemed to invigorate his cold and wet body as he headed to the left down a street labeled “Wold Way”.

  “Such a strange name for a street,” he thought aloud.

  However, he could not argue with its connotation as he was sure that he would find someone in this general direction. The city beckoned for him to enter its grasps and he headed down the street to do just that.

  So away he went, down into the heart of the city.

  He couldn’t help but notice the extraordinary architecture which surrounded him with every step. The buildings looked like something out of a story conjured up by someone with an equally extraordinary imagination. On either side of the street, a line of buildings complete with ivory and gem encrusted edifices ran parallel to each other as if they were two rivers of wealth and glory running simultaneously.

  His feet clanked along the cobblestone as he made his way further into the city. Even on its outskirts, Leirwold was a truly remarkable place. People, elderly and children alike, comprised the entirety of the walking space and gave birth to the city as a living organism.

  He had walked for nearly half a mile before something caught his eye on the right side of the street.

  There, nestled amongst the vast expanse of shops and eateries, was a shop that was simply titled “The Musician’s Room”.

  The only person whom Neach was aware of that may or not have been living in the city still was the man from the story his father had told him. This “Daniel” was the only inkling of hope that Neach had of navigating the city and he had put every single ounce of effort into finding this man.

  As he entered the space, his gaze was met by the steely reciprocity of who he could only assume was the owner of the store.

  The man sat, crouched beneath the counter, but just visible enough to ward off potential shoplifters. He was wearing a raggedy shirt and had a prominent beard hanging from his chin. The beard was one of the first things that Neach noticed. Since his childhood, he had hoped to grow a massive beard like those of his ancestors.

  He strolled around the shop looking at the various instruments which were on display. Fiddles of oak and guitars of mahogany littered the walls in a collage of musical beauty. Their craftsmanship evident in the multitude of delicate cuts made into each one individually, the instruments acted as a representation of the man’s life. Each one personified a specific event that he held dear within his heart.

  Neach seemed to have lost himself in the dazzling aesthetic pleasure of the instruments as he found himself drifting into a daydream once more. Thoughts of his family back in Spleuchan Sonse glided through his head unfettered by the gale winds also occupying the space. He was quickly brought back to reality by the shrill, yet quiet voice of the owner of the shop.

  “What is it you want, boy?” he asked.

  The people here were better spoken than Neach’s family, but Neach identified with this lack of colloquialisms more.

  He had spent a fair deal of time in his younger years reading through the texts that his village housed. Tales of fiction, historical significance, and simple education all intrigued his budding mind. Through his consistent application of these texts, Neach developed a much more advanced style of speech.

  He was often harassed for it by others in the village. His father and brother, as well as, his mother had grown up with the minimal education and desire for further knowledge that would be feasible in the village. There were many instances where he found himself ostracized from the community because of the way he spoke.

  Calmly, Neach responded in a respectful fashion.

  “Sir, do you know of any lute players within the city?” Neach queried, unsure of the impending response.

  The man seemed perturbed by the question and his response was equally agitated.

  “Boy, there are hundreds of lute players in this city, possibly thousands. Get out of my shop if you’re going to waste my time” he reprimanded.

  Neach was taken aback by the anger in the man’s response.

  His hesitation was met by a prompt physical response from the old man as he attempted to push out the door and back into the street.

  He thought as quickly as possible before uttering a single sentence.

  “His name is Daniel!” he exclaimed, hoping to trigger a response from the man.

  The man pondered this statement and retorted with less vigor than the first time.

  “Daniel, eh, now we’re getting somewhere. I’m still going to need more information than that, but it’s a start.”

  A sense of hope was instilled inside Neach as he was guided back into the shop.

  The man ventured behind his counter and retrieved two chairs. He brought them forth to the floor of the store and invited Neach to sit down.

  “So tell me boy, what’s your name”, inquired the old man.

  Neach,” he responded quietly. The confidence he had mustered up to get to this point seemingly gone from his every orifice.

  “Neach, you aren’t from around here are you?” the man asked with a quizzical look on his face.

  His appearance must have been striking to anyone. The tattered dress her wore was representative of people from outside the city. He humored the old man with a response.

  “Out in the countryside, a village called Spleuchan Sonse,” Neach offered with a tepid tone.

  The man’s face lit up. His satisfaction was evident as the corners of his mouth curled upwards into a wrinkly smile.

  “Ah yes, Spleuchan Sonse,” the man repeated in a smooth tone that seemed to comfort Neach, “now I know which Daniel it is you’re looking for. Quite a talent,” the man concluded. A serene silence hung over the two as the man gazed outside without saying another word. His age was carved into his very flesh in the form of careening valleys and riverbeds in the wrinkles of his face. If you didn’t know better you could mistake it for a map of a rain deprived place.

  The man stood up and ventured slowly back behind his counter. Not sure of what his sudden departure meant, Neach reciprocated the man’s first question.

  “W-well, what’s your name, sir?” he asked, his confidence gaining with each statement.

  He stopped at the corner of the counter and turned back toward Neach. The counter was carved out of a reddish wood and had intricate patterns etched into its side. A masterpiece of craft, it was common for the insides of buildings in Leirwold to be furnished with such things.

  “My name is Lucas,” the man started, “and I am the instrument craftsman in this great city of Leirwold.”

  Neach remained seated and awaited the return of Lucas anxiously. He had gone past the counter and was rummaging around in the back of the store. Things were falling and it was apparent that Lucas was not the most organized person who had ever held residence in a shop.

  He emerg
ed a few minutes later holding a lute in his hands. Its oak body was brilliantly polished and it had multiple knots carved delicately into its face.

  Although Neach had never learned to play the lute, his brother Ealar had frequently provided background music at various festivals and town engagements. The instrument struck him with its beauty and to his surprise; Lucas beckoned for him to take hold of it.

  “This lute here belongs to the Daniel you seek,” the man stated.

  He held it in his hands and it was as if the songs of a hundred musicians before him reverberated in his hands and into his grasp.

  “Tomorrow I will tell you of Daniel’s location, but for tonight you must stay here,” Lucas said, “the snow has picked up again and night is fast approaching. There’s a guest room upstairs that you can claim for tonight,” and with that Lucas shuffled back behind the counter.

  Neach couldn’t believe his luck. He had made it safely to Leirwold and discovered the location of Daniel in such a short amount of time. He hoped that the rest of his time here would prove to be as rewarding.

  He headed upstairs to the room which had been pointed out by Lucas and placed his knapsack and the lute beside his bed. The exhaustion from the day’s endeavors seemed to be taking its toll on him and he slid beneath the sheets.

  As Neach fell fast to sleep in the cover of the shop in Leirwold, his mind ran and ran without his consent.

  VI

  He was running.

  He was running full speed through a forest which he didn’t know his way around. But still, something was pulling him through the thick of the wooded area and he was running from something; something which wasn’t defined, a kind of indistinguishable black fog chasing him from behind.

  He continued through the forest and all seemed to be pitch black except for the light of the moon above. It shone through the cracks in the canopy of the trees and provided a glimmer of sight for those below. The iridescent nature of the moon bounced off of the fog which was encroaching upon Neach as he ventured through the darkness.

  His heart was pounding, threatening to burst out of his chest with every palpitation; his breath was labored and his legs were at risk of collapsing beneath him. It felt as if he had been running for an eternity.

  Unsure of how much further he could run without collapsing from fatigue, what appeared before him was a comforting sight. In the clearing ahead of him he saw a glowing red light.

  As he got closer to it, he realized that the light was actually something he had grown accustomed to seeing. It was a wolf, red in its body with small orange flames emanating from its fur. Like a smoldering wood fire, the wolf stood its ground as Neach ran past it. Its presence seemed to halt the progress of the black fog, sending it back into the depths of the forest from whence it came.

  And then he woke up.

  The heart palpitations and heavy breathing were very real, as he woke up in a pool of his own sweat in the bed of the shop where he had laid his head the night previously.

  In a state of shock and disbelief, his eyes darted to every corner of the room, hoping to gain his bearings once again.

  Everything was just as he had left it. His knapsack placed perfectly, not moved an inch since his initial rest.

  He was confused.

  Neach sat up in his bed, tearing off his covers simultaneously. The labor of the dream which had plagued his thoughts that night had taken its toll on him.

  As he sat on the edge of his bed, he was forced to confront the fact that these wolves kept visiting him, both in his dreams and in his life.

  “What did it mean?” he thought to himself.

  Surely the recurring theme meant something of some significance. But who could he talk to? Anyone who he made privy of the information would deem him insane and simply a “crazy young boy”. He would need to approach the situation in due time. For now his focus would remain on finding out about his parents and how he came to reside with his family.

  He garnered the strength to rise from his bed and descended down the stairs into the main area of the storefront.

  Downstairs, Lucas was awaiting his arrival with a piece of toast and an egg. A traditional breakfast in the countryside, it was obvious that he was doing his best to make Neach feel at home.

  The egg was runny, like the many rivers which wound themselves through Duncairn. In combination with the toast, it created a vat of warmth and comfort within Neach’s body.

  Outside a light snow was falling. Remnants of the earlier storm, surely, it had left a slight coat upon the surface of the road.

  Ever since he was a child, Neach loved the snow. Something about its simple elegance and reflective properties made him feel at home, as if he belonged. He had spent countless nights as a boy, beside the fire in the living area of his hut back in Spleuchan Sonse with the snowing fall rapidly outside, covering the valley in a blanket of white.

  He was at peace when it snowed. The homogeneity of snowfall gave a sense of order and rhythm to his life. It was as if it provided a tangible heartbeat, of the world, of his village, into the sky for all to see. The harder it snowed, the more fragile their hearts; each passing storm a threat to the very existence of the crops which provided them with sustenance.

  They ate in silence, not a word was needed to communicate the sentiments that both held. They were strangers; one had been gracious enough to let the other stay in his home for the night to escape the snow, the other was hell bent on a journey to find the truth behind what his father had told him earlier.

  As the last bit of egg was mopped up by the bread, Neach stood up from his stool. Lucas motioned for him to sit back down again before making a statement.

  “I’m not sure why it is you are here boy, but, the man you seek lives in a home about a mile north of here. The street’s name is Tuler and it is a strange yellow stone residence; you can’t miss it,” Lucas proclaimed.

  Neach mulled over the information for a few seconds before posing a question of his own for Lucas.

  “Why is it that Daniel’s lute was here, sir? As a musician, isn’t it critical to have your instrument with you at all times?” he asked.

  Lucas laughed to himself, a deep wholesome chuckle.

  “Why, yes, son, yes it is. Unfortunately there are times where the fates have decided it is best we do not perform, only when nature allows the player free reign over his instrument may he then perform to his full potential,” Lucas concluded.

  In his best attempt at grandiose philosophical rhetoric, Lucas had struck a proverbial chord within the very foundation of Neach. In a controlled manner, Neach prevented himself from getting carried away with what it was that Lucas had said, and he carried on toward the counter.

  “So I shall take this to Daniel, with any message?” Neach asked.

  Lucas’ face writhed into a smile and simply stated the following:

  “Tell that boy that sometimes, the things he believes need fixing aren’t necessarily broken in the first place.”

  With that profound statement, equally regarded as nonsensical by Neach, the village boy took the lute from Lucas’ hands and proceeded out the door into the light winter snow.

  Had it been snowing any harder, Neach would have been hard pressed to preserve the status of the lute until his arrival at Daniel’s home. Fortunately, just as he stepped outside, the snow began to let up and gave him the solace of a dry walk northward.

  His mind was running at the pace of the wild deer as he contemplated the potential interactions that the two would have. Unsure if Daniel would even remember his father or not, Neach began to question what it was that he was doing here, alone, in the capital.