Chapter 12 The Vision
That evening, Rowena sat stiffly at a long table crowded with rowdy soldiers.
The air was thick with the scent of sweat and spilled wine. Goblets clinked and voices boomed, every conversation a contest of bravado.
Against all odds, Gareth had carved out a place among them, earning their respect with both his strength and his wit. He and the Dissolver swapped stories with the men, trading jests and scars, their laughter ringing louder than the rest.
Rowena felt completely out of place. Her posture was rigid and her hands were nervously wrapped around a cup she barely sipped.
Yet, despite her discomfort, she couldn't help but beam, pride blossoming in her chest as she watched Gareth.
She was bewildered by his magnetic charm and the way the soldiers flocked to him after his victories—and losses-- in the games.
Beneath her smiles and laughter, though, a deep dread grew, coiling tighter with each passing moment.
She kept glancing over her shoulder, eyes darting to the royal table at the far side of the clearing.
The King and his council huddled together in tense discussion, their jeweled fingers stabbing the air, faces flushed with agitation. Every so often, a withering glance or a pointed gesture made it painfully clear their focus was on Rowena and her companions.
Anxiety gnawed at her stomach.
She wondered if Gareth's boldness would be the final nail in their coffin, sealing their fate before the night was done.
She waited patiently for a lull in the conversation before urgently catching Gareth's attention.
Leaning in, she whispered, "Gareth, I think you may have angered the council."
Gareth kept his pleasant demeanor as he glanced back at the King's table.
"They'll get over it," he shrugged, returning to his wine.
"Gareth!" Rowena hissed. "The council's opinion matters! These are very powerful people."
Gareth smiled at her, cool and untroubled.
"The people loved the games today," he said. "Many agreed it was the best tournament in years."
"It's not the people's opinion that matters," Rowena urged. "If we speak to them now, perhaps we can placate them before it's too late."
Gareth recoiled, holding up his hands. "Woah, we? No. Absolutely not."
"Please, you have to trust me—"
Gareth cut her off. "Everything will be all right." He placed his hand gently on hers and flashed a crooked smile. "I've had enough experience to know that speaking to angry nobles is always a bad idea."
Frustrated, Rowena pulled her hand away. "Don't jest! You just don't understand. This isn't your world, Gareth. You don't realize how serious this is."
Her sharp words surprised him, cutting him to the core. His confidence shattered and his smile disappeared in an instant.
Typical, he thought.
Looking at her with sad eyes, he murmured, "If you think you should talk to them, then go. But the boy and I will stay here. There's no place at that table for us anyway."
Seeing the pain in his eyes, Rowena instantly regretted her words. But it was too late—they hung heavily in the air.
"I—I'm sorry," she stammered. "I didn't mean—"
Gareth held up his hand, masking his hurt with a crooked smile.
"It's all right. I know my place—and yours. A woman of your standing doesn't belong among these drunkards anyway." He laughed weakly, gesturing to the rowdy faun around him. "You should go."
With that, he abruptly turned back to his goblet, swallowing the last remnants of his wine. Then he slammed it on the table and called out,
"How about another round!"
The entire table roared in response, and Gareth carried on as before—though Rowena could tell he was masking the ache.
With a heavy sigh, Rowena reluctantly left the celebration and made her way to the King's table.
Zephyrah, who was sitting to the left of the king, noticed her approaching and stood.
"Lady Rowena," she called in a sing-song voice, "we wondered when you might join us."
The conversation at the table fell silent. The council members' faces turned to stone.
Rowena curtsied gracefully, only now noticing the streaks of Gareth's blood drying on her sleeves and the brown smears on her skirt from kneeling earlier. Her soiled dress stood out under the council's cold gaze, and heat crept into her cheeks as she stood exposed.
Jhas'tir motioned toward an empty space at the table. "Please, have a seat," he said, voice cool and emotionless. There was no smile on his face, nor anger—he was entirely unreadable.
Rowena nervously settled onto the large, elegant pillow meant for a faun. The council members on either side of her subtly leaned away, as if her very presence were intolerable. Tension hung in the air until Jhas'tir broke the silence.
"Did you enjoy the festivities today, Rowena?"
Rowena drew a shaky breath, unsure if a trap lay in his question. "Yes..." she said slowly.
"The members of this council placed bets this morning, before the games began. Imagine their surprise when they noticed the unexpected... change in the challengers."
There it was—the sly smile he wore when he believed he had his victims cornered.
"Well, you can imagine Gareth's surprise when Quindarr, himself, asked him to participate." Rowena shot back, "It was an unexpected honor."
The council members' eyes widened. One of them spoke up:
"Tell me, Lady Rowena, do the noble women of Etheria always eat at the same table as their champions?" His gaze lingered on the blood on her sleeve, his lip curling in disgust.
Rowena dropped her hand to her lap and fidgeted with her fingers beneath the table.
"No," she said quietly. "He is my friend as well as my... champion—" The word felt strange on her tongue, yet oddly right. "I don't see the harm in sharing a drink with him to celebrate his victories."
"You mean his defeat," another council member sneered, laughing mockingly. "It was quite a shot to his head."
"Indeed." Another joined in, laughing heartily, "And after the walloping His Majesty gave him yesterday, it is a surprise he has any intelligence left to function."
"Intelligence? Is that what we're calling it?"
The nobles rolled with laughter.
Rowena's face twisted, her cheeks growing hot with rage.
It all came rushing back to her.
Beneath the glamour of riches and nobility lay a dark society of people who cared only for themselves, viewing commoners as soulless, emotionless husks. She'd attended many balls and parties, hearing tapestries of insults and atrocities spill from the pretty lips of the rich.
After so long in the wilds, dreaming of being back among her own people, she was surprised by the distaste she now felt.
Jhas'tir held up his hand, and the laughter quieted.
"Come now, friends. You risk upsetting our friend with your jests." He looked to one of the council members, "Drymoth, perhaps you would like to continue telling us of your plans for the southern orchard."
Rowena's eyes drifted around the table, taking in the bored faces as Drymoth droned on. For a brief moment, her gaze met Zephyrah's, who offered her an apologetic look.
Forced to remain at the table through the boring prattle, Rowena allowed her mind to wander. She listened to the music nearby, the soft melody and ethereal voice that rang out into the night. She strained her ears to hear over the chatter:
"To the Guardian of the Forest,
The champion of nature,
Long may you live.
The friend of the King
An oracle of wisdom,
Many lives you preserve.
Snow white and elusive
As mysterious as your prophecies.
A crown of bone you wear,
Ever watching, ever hiding.
Mighty hooves make nary a sound.
Yet your enemies run in despair..."
Suddenly, Rowena's heart began to pound in her chest as she listened to the words of the song.
"Lady Rowena." The King's voice broke through her thoughts.
She startled and gasped, clasping her hand to her chest.
Zephyrah's voice was heavy with concern, her eyes wide. "Lady Rowena, are you feeling well?"
Rowena flushed, painfully aware of all the eyes now fixed on her.
"Y-yes." She stammered, "It's just... that song. I couldn't help but overhear. What is it about?" Her voice trembled slightly.
One of the councilmembers stated proudly, "It is about The Guardian of this forest. It is a titan of ancient times."
"A direct descendant of the realm of the Ancient Power." Another added pointedly, "It takes the form of a large white stag, and it has roamed this forest since the birth of this world."
"Does it... appear to you in person, or in a dream?" Rowena asked, picking at the edge of her fingernail until it bled, her pulse thundering in her ears.
"Does it appear to—" A councilman scoffed, crossing his arms, as if she had asked an incredibly stupid question.
"Why do you ask this?" Zephyrah questioned, her eyes fixed intently on Rowena.
"When my companions and I were traveling on the road, we had a dream." Rowena explained, "I think we may have seen that guardian the song speaks of."
Jhas'tir's once, stone face became ashen, and his eyes grew wide.
The councilmembers objected staunchly.
"Nonsense!"
"Impossible!"
"The Guardian only reveals himself to The King!"
"Heresy!"
They looked angrily at their King, fists clenched and fuming.
For the first time, Jhas'tir's mouth hung open, but he could not form words.
After a moment, he finally spoke,
"Surely, you are mistaken. There are a great many animals in this forest. You likely saw something else." His unsteady voice and wary eyes betrayed his unease.
"No," Rowena defended, "My companions and I were visited in a dream while we slept. Each of us had the same dream—"
Zephyrah cut her off, "Perhaps we should continue this conversation at another time, Lady Rowena." She shot her an urgent glare.
But it was too late. The councilmembers were enraged.
"You see, Your Highness? I told you they are here to frighten our people!"
"Yes! We should imprison them immediately!"
"They work with our enemy!"
The one beside Rowena stood abruptly and grabbed her by the wrist, yanking her from her seat.
She shrieked in pain and begged, "No! Please! I did not mean to offend!"
Across the clearing, Gareth sprang from his seat and raced toward the commotion, wild fear and rage burning in his eyes. The musicians stopped playing, and every creature fell silent, eyes glued to the unfolding scene.
Jhas'tir's eyes flicked from the councilmembers to Rowena, then to Gareth as he quickly approached. Abruptly, he stood and shouted,
"Am I not the King! Do I not decide who is guilty in my own kingdom!" His voice resounded like thunder through the silence. "Unhand Lady Rowena." He growled through gritted teeth.
The faun reluctantly released her, tossing her wrist aside. Gareth was at her side in an instant, helping her to stand, then wrapping his arm firmly around her. Rowena clung to him tightly, her heart and mind racing.
"What is your ruling then? Your Majesty?" A councilman spat, his arms crossed and chin raised, eyes fixed on the king.
Jhas'tir was silent again, his eyes settling on Zephyrah, who shook her head slowly in response, as if reading his mind.
He drew a deep, wavering breath. "Zephyrah will settle this matter. If there was indeed a prophecy, she will present it."
"Your Highness," Zephyrah whispered, "I beg of you. Please reconsider..."
"Come now, Oracle." A councilman snapped, "Your King demands it."
Zephyrah squeezed her eyes shut and nodded, reluctantly. Then, with one last pained glance to Jhas'tir, she made her way to the open space in front of the musicians.
With shaking hands, Zephyrah untied a silken sash she had been wearing around her waist, grasping the end of it in one hand.
Then she stooped low, posing with her arms elegantly outstretched.
She waited until the musicians began to play a droning and mysterious melody.
Then, she began to dance, slowly, gracefully.
At first, Rowena and Gareth watched, caught between confusion and awe, but after a few moments, they noticed the sparks.
When Zephyrah would raise her arms over her head, she would occasionally snap the fabric, and radiant light would appear in the air above, as if sparks were flying.
Slowly, the sparks turned into tongues of fire that grew into a broad, steady flame.
In the flame, flashes of light became images, unclear at first, but growing clearer as she danced.
Finally, everyone could plainly see Gareth, Rowena, and the Dissolver lying on the path. The images flashed forward, revealing glimpses of the three companions in different moments. The Guardian Stag appeared before them, its features ominous and terrifying as it reached toward their hands.
Rowena buried her face in Gareth's chest, trembling. He instinctively drew her close, cradling her head, but even he grimaced as the next images appeared: the darkness, the rot, the dead rising to devour the living, the forest ravaged.
Some onlookers began to cry or scream; others backed away or covered their eyes. Zephyrah danced on, eyes closed, her body moving as if in a trance.
"Stop—" Jhas'tir croaked, his voice barely above a whisper.
The crowd continued to panic. The councilmen staggered backward, their eyes wide in terror.
The King ripped his eyes away from the images and yelled, "Stop! Zephyrah!"
Zephyrah's eyes finally shot open, and she tripped over her own feet and fell to the ground. The flames disappeared.
When Zephyrah raised her head, tears streamed down her cheeks as she looked desperately into Jhas'tir's wide eyes.
The entire courtyard was silent.
"The festivities are over! Return to your homes." Jhas'tir demanded, his voice breaking. He turned abruptly and stormed off. The councilmen glared at the outsiders, then scrambled after their king.