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 I

Spring, 1720

Outside Belvedere

 

A worn cowhide hung over the man’s slumped shoulders, draping the ink black Percheron on which he rode from withers to tail. The man’s deep set brown eyes betrayed exhaustion, his angular face wrinkled and baked by an unrelenting sun, a thick gray beard, unkempt, proliferated across his face and down his leathered neck. His clothes, threadbare and outsized, possessed a beggar’s odor.  A small gold amulet swung across his broad chest like a grandfather clock with every step of the horse’s long gait, the lone indication of title and privilege. Though unrecognizable to the odd passersby, this was Magnus, Knight of the Order and fifth King of Belvedere.  

 

The north road had deteriorated in Magnus's absence, rutted by a thousand muddy cart trips. This morning, the path ahead was cloaked in remnants of fog that clung to the massive sessile oaks that lined 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 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. 

 

Until the battle of 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 clung to the hope that all would be as it had been the day the Belvederan army had left for the north. 

 

To his left, the great Hemsford River raged southward toward the sea, cascading whitewater that by midsummer would slow to a crawl. 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 beckoning the farmers into the fields where they would plant for a shortened growing season. This river is the very lifeblood of Belvedere, he thought.

 

Ahead, at the edge of the dirt path, a hooded figure stood hunched in the flat gray light. A beggar, perhaps, thought Magnus, as his eyes strained to recognize the man. Ahead, one by one, the men nodded respectfully to the elder as they passed. 

 

Just in front of Magnus lumbered the makeshift jail cart that had been fashioned by the Belvederan soldiers to transport Darkbrow, the defeated nemesis, back from Bendargon to stand trial. How ironic, thought Magnus, that this fallen angel is mere yards from me, his life spared after all the pain he has inflicted. 

 

As the last comrade passed by, Magnus watched as the bent figure, clad in a dark cloak and laboring upon a crooked staff, turned toward him. Atop his massive horse, Skye, the King approached. As he neared the man, 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 joy filled Bewilder’s heart. He stared down at the timeless spirit, Havelin, the wise and contemplative elder. She offered a broad smile. Of course, he thought, who else but my trusted sage would be first to welcome me home. 

 

As a child, Magnus 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 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 crisscrossed the hills and meadows that surrounded Belvedere. She taught him of nature's plenty and life’s endless mysteries. Over the decades, Havelin had been his teacher, guide, sage, and seer, an enigmatic figure whom he loved with all his heart.

 

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

 

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