A Princess of Stone: Prologue

Fathers and Sons

   The elf, Dakk Darkmoon looked up at the stars glittering like gems against the glowing sapphire sky and thought of the goddess Desna, who, while the other gods created the world, went about placing these billions of sparkling jewels in the sky.  Maybe that is the wisest path, he thought, to fill your days with what you most love, caring little for the daily labors which rob us of our joy.  A pang of loss stung him as he realized he would never hold his wife beneath these stars again.  He did not savor this sting as his eyes drifted down to the priestess of Calistria and the veiled figure resting peacefully on the linden pyre.  Elves did not typically burn their dead, but Wenn, his wife was from Skaldia what he and others call “The Land of the Linnorm Kings,” and it was her wish to go to her ancestors in their fashion.

   “Tyanya lle a' i' giliath vanwa a' Sovngarde,” the priestess intoned.  Dakk appreciated that touch, though ‘Sovngarde’ did not roll well off the elven tongue.  Sovngarde… would he ever deserve to join his beloved in that hall of heroes… he who was out hunting when the orcs descended on his home.  How his son survived the attack, he did not know… did not care, merely thanked all the gods.  “…lye sina edainme Calistria,” the priestess continued.  Calistria, ‘The Savored Sting,’ the goddess of revenge, lust and trickery, favored of the elves in Golarion; Dakk’s least favorite now, for it  was She who touched his only son’s heart as he stormed out of their ransacked house… it was She who filled his boy’s heart with the lust for vengeance…  It was Calistria who spoke through his son Cryx’s lips when he heard, “…AND I WON’T REST TIL EVERY VILE ORC IS DEAD… DEAD!!”

   Dakk watched as the first flames began to caress his wife’s body.  Tears rolled over his fair cheeks as he realized that he would never see his son again… there were so many many orcs.

 

* * *

   “I am ready, father!” Gaius said, rushing into the courtyard, adjusting an ill-fitting helmet.  He had found it in an old trunk in his father’s wardrobe. The old scale hauberk fit him better; almost as if it were made for him and not his father several lustrums before his birth.  He had left the white cape behind in his haste, and the cold winter air bit through the steel scales.  The rising sun had just started to paint the sky the color of blood.

   “You are, Gaius,” Rufus Tulius replied; a proud smile crossed his face as he looked at his son. Wasn’t it just yesterday that he was a boy swinging a wooden sword; now look at him, grown into a man. “You are indeed.  You are quicker, smarter, and most certainly stronger than most other men I have known.”  He patted his son on the shoulder, “Including your old man.” Rufus smiled wider.  “But you are not of age.  In a year’s time…”

   “It doesn’t need to be official, father,” Gaius interrupted.  “I could be your squire!”

   “Now Gaius, you know the law.  What is the first delta?”

   “Discipline, Father.”

   “That’s right; Discipline.”

   A cohort of pike men turned into the street.  The rhythm of their marching joined that of the hammering, sawing and cadence that was the ever-present din in Castle Firrine’s air.  Rufus’ steed snorted and stomped the ground impatiently.  Rufus’ face disappeared as he slid on his gilded barbute helmet.  He cinched the chinstrap and swung into his saddle.  The sun, finally piercing the morning with its first rays shone of the golden plate of his father’s armor.  His pure white cape furled in the chilled breeze.  A brilliant sun and sword symbol of Iomadae emblazoned on it.  Gaius gazed at his father, unable to be disappointed seeing his father and he knew that he too, would one day be a knight of Ozem.

   “Stay here, Gaius,” His father said.  “In the spring you will go to the War College in Vigil, and when you are of age, you will join m…”  He paused.  “…the ranks of the valiant.  I am very proud of you, my son.”  Rufus Tulius caught and held his sons gaze before he continued.  “…and I love you.”  Gaius heard a tone in his father’s voice that, at seventeen, he was still too young to recognize.  The knight spurred his war horse and galloped out among the warriors of ever vigilant Castle Firrine.

   “I Love you too, father!”