Preview - 1º Capítulo Versão Inglesa/ 1st Chapter English Version

A Versão Inglesa exige uma diferente abordagem à escrita, a fim de manter o estilo "arcaico" e "rebelde" que o livro precisa. Mas graças ao apoio de Leah Dodendorf, está a avançar. Este é o 1º Capítulo em bruto, ainda sem correcções devidas. A quem quiser contribuir com emendas à estrutura do texto, ofereço lugar e nome na "mesa de heróis"; derradeira página reservada a honrarias.		The English Version requires a different approach, so the "antique" and "rebel" style of writing can be achieved. But thanks to Leah Dodendorf, it's viable. This is the 1st Chapter, raw, still without amendments. Anyone willing to contribute with corrections to the text will be well received, honored with name and seat at the "hero's table" - a last dedicated page.
Chapter 1   Commitments   It is told that hot winds herald the coming of summer, and along the Ambaria's coast, the sea turns green, garnishing the sand with olive-green hues. Many things are told by those taking shelter under the External Great Wall. They are afraid of desert and drought arriving from south, beyond the great red dunes. It is said that Summer has come, a time for harvest and strong wine, a time for partying and praying. But, at the top of the Internal Wall, where one of few wickets gives way to Solus, Capital Citadel of Ambaria, the young Prince, Realm’s hope, watched the horizon, leaning sadness over a stone crenel. His time lost in thoughts, copper hair by wind entertained, dark and dry skin unaware of morning’s warmth. Summer was there, but the moment was absent of taste, far from memories of playtime, by mother’s hand, Queen Sura, when both shared merriment and mischief, when people laughed and sang the graces of Kingdom and Queen. Unaware fingers tore the crenel stone and eyes spaced over the left sandy groove. An empty taste… even in the limestone carried down the river Dário, these Great Walls built by so many men. Before, one would break nails in such a rash action. Now… cursed earth, the stone seemed dry grout, waiting for catastrophe - a time’s gift to all things. The young prince sighed and questioned his mother’s blessing of vitality upon the earth. In spring, he recalled, her magical chant awakened the plants, carried the bustle of bees and many animals, anxious for the renewing of life’s cycle. But spring was gone already… sad and bare, daughter of harsh winter. Without flowers, without fruit… people said it was time of feast, but what was there to celebrate? With a new sigh, a deep one, he pounded the crenel with flat fist. A laugh awakened him to the day; a strong and hoarse laugher that he knew so well: “Ouch, we have a prince in a bad day. Run, pirates, flee, thieves, Vallirian, prince of Ambaria, the short sized great watcher, has awakened in a foul mood! Ha!” The boy looked at his Body-Guard, entertained in a full chest laugher, and admired his size. Ulfric, the voluminous Northern warrior that had settled in lands of Ambaria, was a veteran of countless wars, a giant of muscle and blond hair, that he made sure to flare in long strands and thick beard, well pruned and tressed in a pair of tufts, as his people used to. “Are we grumpy, small Prince?” Ulfric smiled to his young warded, awaiting an usual answer, in defiant words or gritted teeth growls. “Bah! The day is not a promising one, and you toy with my size!” proud of his height for a fourteen year old boy, Vallirian saw no jest when measuring against such a mountain as Ulfric. The prince knew that he would never reach that high, no matter the training. This warrior, taller than Trolls, was an impossible and irritating goal, flaunting his size against a young lord’s growth. Vallirian sighed, avoiding the matter and resumed a stern eye. Ulfric laughed, scratched the thick beard, fixed the mail on his shoulders, and adjusted the strap that held the wooden and bronze shield over left shoulder. The prince crossed arms, keeping the serious stare at him. “So? Did you come to the wall just to enjoy the landscape?” the boy asked, expecting a worse day if no useful purpose was given to the conversation. “Oh, right…” Ulfric coughed, cleared the voice, aware of haste in the matter, knowing it quarrelsome by own experience. “My Lord, I am your body-guard, appointed by Holy Queen Sura, and it is my duty to… well… guard your body against any foe. But, more than that, I bring message from the Central Harbour.” Vallirian twisted his nose, already aware of the nefarious news, gifted on him the day before. “The boat has arrived.” he blurted with contempt. “Ship. It’s a ship, Prince Val.” Ulfric corrected. “Boats are used by fishermen. Ships are bigger, with many sails, with two or more banks of rowers.” the blond warrior opened massive arms, measuring the size of a ship against that of a boat. “Yes, a ship.” stressed the grumpy prince. “Those of Argo have two banks of Redori[1], two big, squared white sails with a red Eagle, and a huge bronze ram in the prow.” with a hand’s wave, Val diminished the majesty of the vessel. “Well, the ship from Argo that carries princess Calipso and all of her entourage, has arrived.” finished Ulfric, before the young lord could lessen more of the event. “Calipso!” muttered the prince. “Ulfric, I am so against this royal agreement between Ambaria and Argo! It was bad enough, having my brother Egon wrecking part of the armada in a selfish conflict against the Citadel of Argo. And here I am, appeasing Gods and Men, marrying an Argonian.” Val gestured both hands, displaying frustration. “An Argonian, Ulfric! An amazon that goes by hunting deer, aloof at her own boots’ care! Damn it!” Vallirian threw the blue linen cloak over left shoulder and advanced to the wall’s steps, crossing Ulfric with a flat jab to the leather and iron mailed chest. The giant guardian followed him with stare and smile cut upon the thick blond beard. He scratched the neck over sweaty leather collar and followed the prince’s pace, wondering for warm words against such a troubling subject. “It could be worse… maybe one of those maidens from Petra, with bracelets and necklaces and gold embroidered satins…” “And full face painting. Agh!” Vallirian laughed, imagining such a bride. “Painted before birth, they say. And their bath’s water swirls with the colours of rainbow.” he added. Burst into laugher, they descended the staircase into the porch where a pair of Solus’ militia soldiers greeted them, with spears uncrossed and bashed shields. Val still looked behind, to stairs and top of the wall, before entering through the small door of iron-shod wood. Inside the wall, by the stone corridor where footsteps echoed in fresh and damp emptiness, they soon arrived to the exit connecting Trade Street, the main place for delivery and sale of goods, with direct connection to the Central Harbour, where all vessels were supplied in the marine trading route of Turquoise sea. The Street was full on both sides with tent and booth, with marketing made over wood and cloth. Colourful awnings hid the sun, casting many a shadow, where passers-by sheltered with gaze at merchandize, with price bargained. At Street’s entrance, the prince’s Guard held formation, as Ulfric commanded before walking the wall. With Vallirian’s presence, the Legate[2] rushed, wasting no time. “My Lord!” the soldier shouted, standing in salute, with fist against bronze breastplate - the used military gesture in all Ambaria. “Your escort awaits command!” he proceeded, after a prince’s greeting of gently raised right palm. The tenth of soldiers wore the same uniform, with bright blue gown, with gold patterns, with bronze and leather breastplates matching greaves and bracers in metal - the hoplimachus armour of warriors trained in warding and defence. Polished solar helmets glared with multicoloured manes, long through cloak and back. Oval shields in wood, bronze and painted leather were raised in left arm, showing symbol of the Guard of Solus: the shielded Sun and the sea’s horizon. In right hand, a terrible flaxia was yielded: a large curved blade over pole of five feet, six inches tall. Ulfric joined the Guard’s Legate, with sign of marching to the decury. Vallirian stared them with a smile, admiring the strict discipline of the paired formation lined up behind. “It’s amazing. They never argue who picks right and left…” he remarked to the northern giant. Ulfric looked as well, used to Ambaria’s soldiers military handling, not without a regard for his people’s warlike manner: “In my land, no one would line up. No way. They would march as they please, and no Chieftain or mother would set them straight!” they both let a short laugh, lashed by stern eye of Guard’s Legate. Prince and escort crossed Trade Street, with sure gait, greeted by merchants and citizens. Kids eluded chores and joined the march, playing a game of soldiers, gathering sticks, rattan and straw lids - improvised spears and shields in tiny warrior’s hands. Vallirian noticed the scarce times, the plates of corn and bean almost empty, the yellowed vegetables and small fish drying at the sun. Yet, people cheered little things: a music by bards played, a spring dance from Ifri’s Temple virgins, a game of bone and shell… he felt unfair, he felt selfish for sulking, when all around him struggled for a moment of joy. They soon reached the Wharf, passing the wide area cobbled in limestone, where several piers of thick varnished wood extended over water, where large pillars emerged, cut from trunks of great Red-Guana. Prince and escort’s footsteps sounded over planks, spreading creaks far ahead, mixing with shout and voice of sailors, of fishermen and loaders, busy in the carrying of goods, strenuous in the fixing of net and vessel. Vallirian passed several piers, those of smaller boats, of fishing and shuttle, until he reached a bigger area, where larger structures allowed warships and freighters. At the third pier, an Argo’s royal ship was docked, imposing a red painted hull, lowered sails and paddles collected. Five busy sailors moored it with thick hawsers, while another, after placing the plank for passenger’s exit, seeing the arrival of prince and Guard, hurried above with shout to the officer. A bald head with black curly beard peeked over bulwark, goggling at the presence of a standing prince with impatient stare and hands to waist. A wave was hasted to deck, and voices of command spread through the ship. Soon, two Argonian spearmen descended the plank, lining side by side over pier. They wore reinforced leather armour, polished to perfection, white tunics with red embroidery, to the length of elbow and knee, where leather greaves strapped. Round shields of wood and leather displayed the red Eagle of Argo inside a yellow circle, and spears of bronze tip rested against shoulder, held in attention by right hand. Dark hair waved at sea breeze, revealing a silver tiara upon forehead. Calipso stepped over plank, with hand grip on balustrade, and for a moment, she peered down, to her bespoken. Olive-green eyes cleared at sunlight, compelling awkward severity to the tanned face, reminding statues of ancient War Goddesses, those emerged by chance in fishing nets. The princess’ lips wore the natural rosy hue of sea women, an unexpected colour from peeresses of a City rich in satin and spice trade. Two maids joined behind her, followed by several well spruced men, of merchant, envoy and adviser guise. Behind them, four soldiers queued, pressing space, like sheaf of carrots confined. And still, the princess kept position, stern over plank. Finally, against silence and defiant pose of Vallirian, whom hands in waist seemed challenge to a charging bull, Calipso puffed, bending lower lip, and by plank she advanced, trying grace in each step, forcing the escort to keep up with stumble and mumble. The soldiers kept form, though, and their shields pressed unobtrusive where several fat posteriors delayed. Ulfric nudged the prince, with light gesture, with wink and foolish smile upon beard. Val eyed him a serious stare, resuming the princess’ assay of proud and noble gait. She wore a light tunic of white linen, with round neckline cover, and a leather corselet, clasped with three buckles. A large belt held a curved sword by left side, in a sheath of red, of gold relief and white cloth braid. The tunic covered thighs, under leather straps sewed to corselet, still showing tanned and strong legs. Her greaves kept the Argo style, strapped from knee to foot, over leather sandals. In left arm, Vallirian noticed, Calipso wore a bracer of hide and bronze, a protection to the forearm’s inside, from hand to elbow. Archer? He though, quickly looking for the weapon, found in hand of a maid, match to an arrow filled quiver. The recurve bow shone at sunlight, showing the white bone, the fretwork grip. Of arrows, Val only saw shaft, white wood of poplar, maybe, and large grey feathers, surely of goose. A red cloak Calipso wore, also, fastened by a pair of silver brooches, and she kept it wrapped in right hand, with wise care against any stumble. Too long seemed the scene, compelling the moment. And while princess came closer, Vallirian whispered a note to his Bodyguard: “No tits.” Ulfric choked a laugh, hiding mouth behind a large hand, and Val smiled, readying the blue cloak for a customary bow. Of the advisers, a fat one stepped ahead in search of position, lining by side, between prince and princess. He waited, eagerly, until the young girl stopped and gestured him a sign. “Calipso, Princess of Argo, daughter of Eurigon, General of the 1st Legion of Silver Amazons, Lady of Carpis and Chief Priestess, by blessing and grace of Apolon!” blustered the man, the bloated balloon, full of chest and belly. Vallirian stepped forward, pushing cloak with left hand, bending body and head with formal bow, offering a right hand to the princess. The short silence was cut, not by hand, but by Calipso’s cold voice: “Prince Vallirian, I suppose?” Val stared her, unsure of answer: “Yes, I am Vallirian Basura, son of Sura Baharé, Holy Queen of Ambaria.” “It’s still hard to accept that a war between our nations, started by your brother Egon, would end with a promise of marriage and peace.” The extended hand of young Val seemed out of place, as Calipso kept on with rebuke. “Know, oh prince, that this union will be against my will!” Such aggressive words forced admonishing from a maid - a dame of mature age, of experienced and determined garb: “Milady! The protocol!” It was an unexpected and aggressive approach. Calipso was decided to forsake ceremony and honour, to drop a whole cask of frustration over the unprepared prince: “I did not train since child in the art of war, in the service of Apolon, to be… delivered to a spoiled brat, one without knowledge of a Realm’s management! Moreover, one younger than me!” she measured him, assessing his age. “I’m already fifteen! I won every shooting competition in Argo. This is an outrage! My father should have committed one of his bastard daughters!” The lady-in-waiting sharply pulled her cloak, with shaken disapproval: “Princess Calipso! Such behaviour! And mistreating your sisters like that! What would your father say?” “Should I care?” she threatened, pulling cloak and crossing arms, with a defiant stare to prince Vallirian. “Wipe that protocol if you can, mama’s boy!” she thought, amused. Vallirian looked at his Bodyguard, unsure, and Ulfric shrugged, adding a large smile as answer. “Well…” he tried. “I’m fourteen years old, and I too have siblings. They gather at the Brethren’s-Council, and theirs is the management of Solus. Only Egon went wrong. But you, Argonians, had the chance to wreck him in battle…” that last part of speech seemed unsuitable, and Val quickly tried to avert from it with better words. “But I am tall for my age! Taller than you!” Ulfric groaned through gritted teeth, incredulous of such a childish brag. Calipso clenched her lips, stupefied with Val’s answer, but she found no time for verbal counters. The boy was already evening the matter with proper words: “I am sorry, if I insulted your Highness with foolish boasts. This marriage is a treaty between Nations. A treaty to end the war wrongfully started by my late brother. Our will has no measure in it. It is my duty to welcome you, to escort you for a whole summer in the City of Solus. And, in time, maybe, to prove worthy of your friendship, and settle peace between Ambaria and Argo.” Vallirian delivered the speech as best as fourteen years could, trying to recall a whole week of protocol lessons that his Tutor, Epimetos, persisted to educate. Ulfric eyed him with astonishment. Such eloquence seemed displaced in boy's lips. Calipso was also surprised. She expected a duel of words, a hasty return to Argo, in time for the new wine fair. With stare to advisors, she found smiles and nods, approval to the young prince’s mature behaviour. The oldest maid shared the smile, leaving hand over Calipso’s shoulder, gently pushing her to the boy’s side. “A summer in the city of Solus, between southern fishermen…” she thought. A slap of destiny reminded her of old time and wish, before the conflict with infamous Egon, when all she wanted was to visit Solus, to ride the overland trade routes, and, above all, to meet Queen Sura, the one they called immortal. Great uproar rose then, heading from eastside harbour. A rabble approached, clashing against city guards, and no order or shield seemed to keep them away. Fishermen, farmers and craftsmen they were, maybe five dozens of elder and wives, with kids dragged by hand. With shout and gesture, with pointed finger and crafting tool they objected, against Argo, against princess and entourage. The city guard crossed spears, pushing them back, but the mood grew rampant, unstable. Ulfric hurried a sign to the Legate of Prince’s Guard, and the officer, with haste, raised horn to lips with strong blow. The alarm echoed deep through the harbour, stopping the rabble unsure. The City Guards looked behind, to a prince that advanced with sure step, with soldiers by side - threatening in readied spears and shields raised. Running footsteps came from Trade Street, from far Westside of Harbour. Several patrols would soon be there, and the event controlled. But Val wanted to know the reason behind such rout in a well ruled and peaceful city. With prince’s approach, the rabble murmured his name, and that of Holy Queen. Many hid their voices, calmed their hands, except a few, a handful, carried away in words against Argo. The watchful Guard backed a step, pointed spears, and opened space for the prince’s speech. “What’s wrong with you, people of Solus? Why do you raise voice and fist against your Prince, against your Queen?” Val did not wait for an answer - he forced it, with finger pointed at an old man. “Speak, elder. Show your heart.” The old fisherman choked an instant, unsure of answer against his lord, but, encouraged by others, with push and mumble, he dared: “Milord, my Prince, we want no Argonians here! We have sons and grandsons dead at sea. They fought with Egon, with the colours of Ambaria. It’s unfair, it’s an insult to them! We lost our future, and yet they come, with Argo’s sails, to mock our sorrow! We are not slaves, we are not defeated! Our children call for vengeance!” Shouts and angry words rose above rabble: “Go back to your land!” they asked, with clenched fists and accusing fingers. Suddenly, Vallirian raised arms, and the exalted crowd silenced, afraid, looking around and high, where storm or curse could fill the sky, surely by will of youngest son, of Queen Sura, of Goddess Ifri’s Avatara, of one Immortal Sorceress that could bring Life to the bleakest land. “How many centuries have we lived, people of Ambaria, in peace with our neighbours, by the hand and power of Queen Sura? Do any of you remember eldest times, before Ambaria, when Sura brought the forefathers of your great-grandfathers to this land?” Vallirian shouted, questioning the rebellious. Silence was answer, which no elder could break, for none have lived as long as Mother Queen. And Val kept the speech, trying sense upon people: “Ambaria was forged in peace and trade with neighbour Nations. Solus is a coastal city of Turquoise Sea, not an Imperial City, nor a Pirate’s Den! We don’t brew wars, we don’t own the Sea, we don’t steal others and burn their vessels or harbours!” The people kept silent, lost against such words. “Egon’s piracy was never approved my Queen Sura!” Vallirian dared. Complaints rose among protesters, against disrespectful reference to late prince Egon, by many, the chosen of Goddess Ifri. But Vallirian pointed at the rabble and raised a higher voice: “Your sons and grandsons were dragged in a war that should have never happened! Argo and Ambaria were at peace. They both fought against the Junic Pirates! They both defended the Turquoise Sea and the trade routes! But Egon, he risked all my Mother’s work!” the prince’s amber eyes pressed over them, withering the anger, quenching the mood like a fathers’ stare to cranky children. “Who was Egon?” Val kept on, with flame like eyes, ready to burn the daring. Silence was broken by woman’s voice, by shout of elder in mourning black, with courage and memory of Queen Sura’s doing: “Pirate! Egon, the Pirate! Three sons he stole me!” The word echoed among rabble and rose higher, until birthed a new name. “Egon, the Pirate”, shouted the people, and Vallirian felt bitter. He looked back, to princess Calipso. She was surrounded by entourage, by soldiers, and with crossed arms she watched, she waited, while the uprising settled. Ulfric walked closer, sure of princess safety, when everything went wrong. An old man groaned, and a child was thrown to floor. Growl and shove came, the rabble shaken like a boat against waves’ surf. A craftsman, still wearing a burnt leather apron from smiths work, was brutally pushed against spear of the City Guard. The soldier timely raised the tip and blocked the fool with chest and arm. From inside rough crowd a hooded man jumped, tall and slender, wrapped in black leather and linen grey, quick through Guard’s line of defence, with dagger stabbed in armpit of a distracted soldier - a vulnerable place unprotected by breastplate. The blow followed with weapon thrown to the right side, forcing another soldier to parry with spear pole. The blade bounced against leather armour, and stopped lost, over wood planks of pier. Vallirian found himself unsteady against the unexpected event. And that allowed the stranger a short run, three steps under a barring spear, until hand could grab the prince’s cloak, with strength, shake and twist. Everyone halted, seeing Vallirian with Krisia[3] against neck, with copper hair pulled by a strangers’ hand. Ulfric raged and cursed his slow reaction, the failure of a bodyguard’s duty. With grey hood dropped, all saw the man that kept Val hostage, that pulled him to high wall cover, against stone and mortar - the huge scar from brow to deformed lips, the empty left eye, the tattooed bald-head, the dark and cracked skin matching worn leather. Ulfric goggled, and his rage grew even more: “Hémer! Skaferion[4] of the Anquilos!” All were dumbfounded. The Anquilos, with five banks of oars, with a big blue sail with golden sun and crossed tridents, with terrible Pyrtolos[5] catapults, was the heavy warship of prince Egon, the spreader of chaos upon Turquoise Sea. Hémer laughed, with mad grimace, closing the twisted dagger against Vallirian’s throat: “Hémer, Hémer, bringer of glory to your filthy sons. Carrier of Ambaria’s power to the gates of Argo!” he shouted, enjoying the panicked rabble, backing more, against wall’s safety. “You should be dead, pirate!” Val challenged. “Yes, I should. Dead beside your brother, but the Gods denied it. They brought me back to watch you stain his name, you pompous boy!” Hémer answered, pulling hair with wreaked disdain. “Your mother and all her balless litter, turning their backs to the Goddess Chosen, they will have their share! But today…” the vengeful skaferion of the Anquilos looked around, with hoarse shout listened through Harbour whole. “Today you die, traitor! Vallirian, lapdog of Argo! Glory to Egon, the Goddess Chosen!” Val reacted fast, reminding lessons from Ulfric and duel Master. On large bronze belt, where a low-carved lion’s head opened maw and covered belly, the prince placed the left thumb, grasping a small built-in claw. The movement kept fast, right at Hémer’s hand, where Krisia threatened. With bronze claw tip buried in palm, a terrible pain unleashed, forcing fingers apart - an uncontrollable spasm over the whole arm. The double blade clanged over cobblestone, rebounding to a far plank of pier. Vallirian rotated, holding the hand still clasped in his copper-colour hair, twisting it upwards, and by waistline, he quickly unsheathed a falcate, gripped upside-down, in oriental style. The weapon whistled with shiny arc, slashing Hémer’s forearm to the bone. Ulfric seized the chance, running the short distance between him and pirate, while Val backed away with a switch of sword hand, readying a formal combat style. Hémer screamed with pain, with both arms hanged and lifeless. He gritted teeth and tried again, swooping for the prince, but the giant Bodyguard was already too close. Huge was the hand and slap, so violent against right face, that Hémer was thrown back, against a warehouse’s stone wall. Old skaferion of Anquilos still tried a guard, useless against Ulfric’s big boot. The smashing blow went right at chest and sternum, and the spitting of blood, the mouth filled with red, were a clear sign of defeat. Slowly, with spasm and deranged laugh, Hémer slipped from wall to floor, still under crushing weight of the northern warrior’s boot, under furious stare - thick, his tense brows, rosy, the line of clenched lips under blond beard, and a bleary storm upon blue eyes. Ulfric kept the pressure, watching the man die under foot, until a last gasp evaded his smashed chest. Vallirian sheathed the falcate, looking at the rabble with frustration. And them, with bowed shame and fear kept silent. Two patrols bursted from Trade Street, closing the Harbour area. Val was done with words. He called the Royal Guard’s Legate, whom readily responded with run and attention: “Legate, scatter the people. Send them to their homes and work.” He ordered with undertone. The soldier struck breastplate and readied forward, but the prince stopped him by grip over arm and bracer: “No violence.” “Milord!” answered the Legate’s strong voice, backing twice before a turn and run, before gathering the Guard. Calipso came closer, and all her entourage followed. The Argonian Guard opened formation, walking behind, assured of the princess’ safety. Val stared her, trying a severe face. The wind blew from Turquoise Sea, tossing copper in his hair, revealing face in midday sun. The amber in his eyes, such crystal and vivid flame, honoured the name of Ambaria. The princess smiled, seeking words of solace: “Thus it sinks, the Anquilos, and peace returns to the Turquoise Sea.” “So I hope, for the sake of both Nations.” commented Val, trying a smile upon troubled face. The Royal Guard’s Legate returned with an elder, a short woman bent over parched and black wooden stick: “Lord, with permission, this woman asks for words.” Val eyed her, knowing the Healer of Ifri’s Temple. And he thought the introduction was fit for Calipso: “Princess, meet Belshab, Solus Alchemy Master. Her hands brew potions able to heal the most afflicted.” Calipso offered a tanned hand to the elderly woman, welcoming the greeting, the kiss and smile of chapped lips: “It’s a pleasure to meet the Princess of Argo. A fine young lady, she is, full of life. Just the measure to this land! Our Prince is very lucky with such a chosen bride.” The elder dropped a contented laugh, leaving choke to Vallirian and Calipso. None was eager to explain the difference between a bridal commitment and a real marriage. A nuisance, it was, the habit of all the Temple’s women in weaving marriage and love affair. “Thank you, Master Healer.” Calipso formally answered, adding her taste for the elder’s Art. “I will hasten to Ifri’s Temple, and attend your work. Apolon, the Sun-God, is a patron of Arts, and Healing is most esteemed in Argo. I myself, am a Priestess, able of Mending Magic by grace of our God.” “You don’t say! A happy coincidence, my dear! What joy will be, sharing the beautiful Art with such a promising young lady!” Belshab was clearly pleased with the chance of teaching her knowledge, now that time and age stole memory and skill, and fear of failure haunted her every elixir. However, the woman reminded against euphoria, that she was there with other purpose: “Oh, my dear, dear, Prince Vallirian! I almost forgot. Let me see…” she started rummaging the large grey apron, pocket full, looking for something she knew somewhere. Val followed her hands, curiously, watching every pick of herb tuft, minute wooden box, and package of cloth or leather. Belshab stopped, suddenly, goggling eyes with memory glimpse: “Of course! I remember already, here it is!” she moved away the dirty white mantle from chest and shoulder, and, hanging by neck, revealed her purpose found. Slowly, she removed the necklace, brushing it around the thick braid of hoary hair, and presented it to Vallirian. It was a plain necklace, made from leather strap. The tip carried a dry, a palid and twisted piece of wood as only embellishment. The old woman shook the stretched hand, encouraging the prince to hold it: “It was my son’s. Always a lucky charm, a ward.” Her gaze dropped to sadness, and her voice withered. “Sadly, he stopped using it as soon as he thought himself a man. Egon took him, in the war against Argo…” Vallirian was lost to words. He picked the necklace, with shaken heart, with both hands, leaving a moment’s caress to the parched and wizened hand of aged healer. “It’s very old. From the desert tribes, the Kundali, the Snake-Men. I wish it grants you all the luck you need, my dear boy!” Belshab anxiously smiled, and closed the grasping hand of Vallirian with hers both. “Ahm… Thank you, Belshab” Val answered, receiving an elder kiss on his closed hand. After bow and fond goodbye, the old woman limped through harbour and headed for Trade Street, escorted by one of the City Guards. Vallirian turned to Calipso, of words unsure. “It’s a plain necklace, without any glamour.” The princess remarked. “But sometimes, the Gods leave a blessing in the smallest of things. Who knows? Maybe it is an artefact from an ancient Snake God?” she added, curious about any sign of divine power upon the piece of wood. Vallirian placed the leather strap over neck, and the fresh wind from Turquoise Sea brushed him, easing the heat of Summer. He listened to the lapping of water against thick wooden pillars, the cicadas far away, a sawing music between green grass smell, and… seagulls? He stared at open sky, at ripped shreds of white clouds, and saw no seagulls, nor green grass existed on dry fields of Solus. It was summer, not spring… he wondered, looking at the necklace: “Just a piece of wood.” He said, averting the princess from the ornament at his neck. Ulfric came closer, placing huge hands over Vallirian’s shoulders, and he reminded them of time: “The sun is at peak. Should we lunch, my Prince?” Val tried the princess with formal words: “A feast was arranged in your honour, lady Calipso. May I lead you?” “Just Calipso. And without formalities. I hate formalities.” she blurted. Val nodded, correcting himself: “If you may call me Val, and consider me a friend, I can do it willingly.” “Val, then. You will be Val, and I will be Cali. Friendship sound good.” Calipso concluded. Vallirian laughed, holding her left hand, pulling her to harbour’s north way: “Come on, Cali! We can’t leave the best dishes of Solus cool and wasted over a table!” The rough gesture and direct words left her absent of voice. She looked back, to her Nurse-Maid, but the lady-in-waiting just winked and shooed her with fat fingers. Of the advisors, with hands crossed over large bellies, just foolish smiles she saw, or reclined heads with content sigh. They all walked the harbour, straight for White Street - the large, date-palm flanked avenue, cobbled in limestone, where Ifri’s Temple rested half-way, where, at far end, the great Palace of Solus and Queen Sura awaited. ____________________ [1]Redori: Soldiers trained for naval battles, in the throwing of spears and flaming darts, also used by the Citadel of Argo as rowers in their warships. [2]Legate: In Ambaria’s military forces, it is a military rank equal to Captain. [3]Krisia: Weapon similar to a dagger, but with two parallel curved blades. Used to inflict ripping wounds, or as left handed parry and break against blades. [4]Skaferion: Ambarian name given to the commander of a fleet, according to number of warriors, crews and warships. The fleet number under a skaferion is flexible. [5]Pyrtolos: Ceramic hollow spheres usually filled with flammable alchemic mixture, able to burn over water. The shooting of pyrtolos could be complemented with flaming arrows that ignited the liquid after impact, or by using their own fuses.