I

Spring, 1719

 

A tattered bearskin hung from the man’s slumped shoulders, covering his horse’s back from withers to croup. Perhaps in his sixties, the man’s eyes betrayed his exhaustion, his weathered face wrinkled, a thick gray beard covering his face and neck. A small gold amulet swung across his chest with every step of the horse’s long gait, an indication of title and privilege. His name was Bewilder, King of Belvedere.  

 

The north road had deteriorated in the King's absence, rutted by a thousand muddy cart trips. This morning, the path ahead was cloaked in remnants of fog that clung to the sessile oaks lining the Hemsford Road. The land of Belvedere, entrusted to him by his father, held the familiar smells of humus, peat, and decaying leaves that had been delivered by the spring rains for millennia. These were the cherished fields and forests of his forebears, passed down as expectantly as salt at a banquet table. For five generations, peace had ruled this land. 

 

And then had come Bendargon.

 

The quiet pounding in his chest rose as he anticipated the Castle’s presence, for he feared what may await him inside its towering granite walls. Despite his inner armor, he carried hope that all would be as it had been the day his army left for the north. 

 

When he was a boy, Bewilder had played character and creature in these forests—peasant, pauper, nobleman, and knight. These were the woods where he had been befriended by Cyril the Cormysh elf and coaxed to accept his birthright as heir to the mysterious Well of Runes. In days long past, he had imagined himself the great white stag of Belvedere lore, standing atop the Twin Spires, the rock parapet that overlooked the sprawling valley, surveying the hills and glades that were as much home as was the castle itself. Today, however, trepidation ruled his heart. 

 

To the east, the great Hemsford River raged southward toward the sea, tumbling whitewater that by midsummer would again be just a meandering stream. It was May and the winter snows had been ample, holding warm days at bay. The cold, unspoiled waters that flowed from high in the Grassmere brought sustenance to the land, greening it and cajoling the farmers into their fields where they would plant for a shortened growing season. This river is the lifeblood of Belvedere, he thought, blessing this fair kingdom with riches only Mother Earth could provide.

 

Ahead, at the edge of the road, a hooded figure stood hunched in the gray morning light. Perhaps a beggar, thought Bewilder, as his eyes strained to recognize him. Ahead, each soldier nodded in reverence to the crooked old man as they passed. 

 

Just ahead of Bewilder lumbered the makeshift jail cart that had been fashioned by the Belvederan soldiers to transport Darkbrow back to stand trial. How ironic, thought Bewilder, that this fallen angel was just yards from him, spared after all the atrocities he had committed. Once a quiet boy living in the Castle with his mother, Josephine,who was the children’s nanny, he had inexplicably become Bewilder’s arch enemy and the nemesis of all of Belvedere.

 

As the last comrade passed by, Bewilder watched as the bent figure, clad in a dark cloak and laboring upon a crooked staff, turned toward him. Atop his draught horse, Skye, the King approached. As he neared, the hood fell back, revealing a truss of gray braids spun into an ornate bun—not a man at all. 

 

The ancient, haggard face gazed up at him, and as their eyes met, a wellspring of emotion filled Bewilder’s heart. He stared down at the timeless spirit, Havelin. The wise and contemplative sage offered a broad smile. Of course, he thought, who else but my trusted mentor would be first to welcome me home. 

 

As a child, Bewilder was blessed with the finest teachers. His was an education truly fit for a prince, jealously guarded by his mother and sought after by royals from near and far. Though surrounded by the most learned scholars of the day, his true education had come during his years spent with Havelin as they walked the hills and meadows that surrounded Belvedere, teaching him of nature's plenty and life’s endless mysteries. Over the decades, Havelin had been his guide, teacher, sage, and seer, an enigmatic figure revered throughout Belvedere.

 

The King pulled back on Skye’s reins, trying simultaneously to yank his boot from its stirrup, his sword sheath banging at his side. Havelin gazed up at him, waiting patiently, a droll smile spreading across her wrinkled face.

 

“My dear Havelin!” Bewilder exclaimed, his boots hitting the dusty path. He rushed to her, gathering her up in his arms and spinning her around.