THE BETRAYAL
THE BETRAYAL
In the homes of the council members, all is silent. Dargellous, Trepasor and Tarilaous think nothing of Garilaous. They already made their decision in the council chamber. Ramsor has the strength to protect Castargan; there is nothing else to think about. Bragolous and Condrator consider Garilaous. He is the rightful heir to the sovereign. They also consider Ramsor’s great strength. They weigh each choice carefully. Drakasor trembles as he sips from his goblet of wine. His heart is heavy for he realizes his only son has betrayed Tarilaous and Castargan. On the morrow he will cast his vote for Garilaous.
While Castargan sleeps, no one notices the star explode except Aracalis. The four moons fall into eclipse. Blackness takes hold on the night like death but Aracalis sees in the darkness and keeps faithful watch.
In the darkness, Drakasor sleeps. Ramsor contemplates his father’s betrayal and nurtures the hate that swells in his wicked heart. “Traitor!" What manner of father would betray his son? I, Ramsor, am the mighty one! Is it not I who breathes fire hotter than Hades itself? Is it not I than can fly faster than any dragon other than the foolish Tarilaous? Is it not I that is wiser to rule all the worlds? Is it not I that shall win the battle and be master dragon? Ahhhhhhhh, in all the realm of Castargan it is my own father who betrays me.” Ramsor’s resentment develops into rage. Thunderously he bolts towards his father and with a potent slash of his claw he tears his father’s heart out.
A tear falls from the eye of Aracalis.
ADALAMON
The smell of thunder fills the air as Adalamon sits around the warmth of the blazing fire, all too consciously aware of his solitude. Melancholy eyes stare impassively into the darkness as if to contemplate some profound subject but all that exists is his own emptiness. Smoke drifts unsympathetically establishing teary water marks on his lashes. He squints from their sting. The golden glow from leaping flames cast prowling shadows on arched shoulders weighed heavily with discontent and uncertainty. His feet shuffle about nervously in the powdery grey ash and occasionally he shifts to relieve the strain on his aching back. Ignored embers fall on his clothes burning small holes that only add to the emptiness. Clenching a dried twig, he snaps it in half in a feeble attempt to stop his mind from dwelling relentlessly on memories that battle forth endlessly like sparks from the scorching fire. His eyes flicker with anger as he struggles to understand why his mother was incapable of providing the nurturing he craved. When his father was away, she would find other arms that would bring her some sort of pathetic affection. A fever took her when he was ten, leaving him to become a man far beyond his time. Provoked by her indifference he tosses the twigs into the fire unsympathetically. Caedamon, feeling repulsed and betrayed, took his son and became even more preoccupied with Sequeller’s dissenters and left the village in favour of supporting the cause. They became the nomads of the Edbyrga Woodlands pursuing Sequeller’s evil factions who are infamous for their violent crimes, corruption, lies, and deceit that continued to spread like a deadly disease. Adalamon developed into a well-regarded and highly skilled tracker by the time he was thirteen. After his father’s death, he took up his cause against her factions. He would have fought against her regardless, but his father’s death only made him more dedicated to the cause.
Clusters of his men move throughout the Edbyrga woodlands. None set up camp for more than a week in order to avoid capture.
The thunder of hoof beats and alarming rumbling of voices stir the camp. Barak dismounts quickly and moves his tall muscular body with determination through the camp. Sequeller’s legion burned his village to the ground when he was twelve. She carefully planned her assignations with secrecy and swift battle. Adalamon’s eyes dim to a dark grey sadness with memories of smoking charred bodies scattered endlessly across Barak’s once lively village. He recalls the blackened smoke rising upwards in the distance. Drawing nearer, he and his father stopped and watched in anguished silence as screaming villagers tried to escape the scorching flames and vile assassins. They could do nothing but watch until the departing silhouettes of Sequeller’s army left. Once safe, they rode quickly only to find charred remains of lifeless villagers.
Quickly they searched the smouldering ruins, leaving nothing unturned. Adalamon found Barak near death in an old fire pit covered with tree branches not dry enough to set aflame but enough to smother someone with smoke. Adalamon and his father brought him home and stayed by his side until he regained his strength. Barak remained and together they grew as brothers. Caedamon taught Barak tracking skills just as he taught his own son. United in cause they battle each their own demons.
Barak places his strong hand firmly on Adalamon’s shoulder. “Sequeller’s factions are especially restless tonight. There are rumblings of her gathering a legion.” A gust of wind whispers caution as an icy chill runs up Adalamon’s spine. His pale eyes become alert with the anticipation that evil watches in the darkness. “Shall we break camp now?” he asks restlessly. “Not now, none will travel on this night. The storm approaches swiftly. Her factions sit closely around their fires in preparation of savaging the realm.” Adalamon nods in agreement but Barak’s words are of little consolation to him. Every man in his army has been preparing for that elusive day when they will come upon Sequeller’s factions in full force. Smaller battles are destructive enough. Large drops of rain make shrill hissing sounds as they disappear on red hot coals. Lightening flashes give way to the deafening roars of thunder that warn the men of impending danger. Apprehensively they take cover for the night.
KASANDRIANA
Through the realm and down the passageway, just on the other side of the portal lays Brianna’s endless rolling horizon of golden wheat fields rustling in the breeze. Life remains rather tranquil and uneventful here except when it’s disturbed only by the natural order of things that are quite usual like birth, marriage, death and the planting and harvesting of wheat. Everyone knows everyone and nothing in particular ever happens here.
Past the rolling wheat fields, to the north, near the river, is the small village of Solyce. The quietness of the village itself remains unfulfilled. It’s vacant of adventure and tends to remain rather motionless aside from the gentle moving river that flows on past the village. (Describe motionless.) To the south, amber waves of grain whirl in the hot wind next to fallowed fields swirling little dust devils in the air. Finally, Brianna’s rather melancholy valley back is dropped by Heaven’s Pillar to the west.
Heaven’s Pillar, towering over the rolling wheat fields of Brianna, stands alone like some incompatible stone that evolved into a mountain over centuries of striving to escape the repetitiveness of a mundane existence. It’s like a constant indication of a bridge seeking to connect itself between heaven and earth. Kasandriana stands at the very edge of the pillar and scours over the remote sod homes and barns appearing like insignificant blemishes positioned centrally in neatly arranged sections of golden distant hills.
Kasandriana is from the twelfth tribe of Brianna. They are the watchers of the stars. Through each generation the eldest child holds the legacy of stargazer and inherits the land. Other children work and live on the land until they marry and set up their own homestead or move to other distant villages. Kasandriana is the daughter of Alden and the younger sister of Keyon, Arval, and Rylan. The youngest child is Dagan.
In each season, excluding winter, Alden travels to distant places to study the stars and meets with other stargazers for discussions about what they learned. When he returns home from a long journey, and when other time allows, he brings Kasandriana to the top of the pillar because he understands her thirst for the unknown and her longings for more than her life in Brianna.
Ever since she can remember, from the pinnacle of Heaven’s Ridge her father pointed out new stars appearing and old ones dying. She remembers the last time he counselled her as she searches the stars for some sign of her own destiny.
“In all my travels I never found a better spot than this to sit and fix my eyes on the stars. Here, not only do I study them, I also immerse myself in their glory. Kasandriana, no encounter exists by chance. Never be afraid of what you don’t know. If you struggle to keep what you have in the moment your fear of loss will deaden your journey. The journey that lies between life and death is where you will find your true destination. You have a purpose in your life that can be discovered and realized: it is written in the stars. Don’t be afraid to move forward when the time comes. Seek your destiny.”
This is what Kasandriana loves most about her father. He always listens to his heart and never worries much about material things. Shrugging off another failed attempt to discover her destiny in the stars she shifts her eyes back towards the valley.
A wind begins to stir like the presence of some mysterious design. Loneliness creeps through her veins as she stares longingly into the valley’s vast expanse of solitude. Deep within her soul, the aching desire for something else burns.
“I have more than enough space to myself, yet I am trapped. I need more than to just exist on the land and read stars. I want to live.”
A single tawny leaf falls twirling towards the ground like a soft sweet surrender to winter.
Lingering at the edge, she imagines dancing amongst the stars and encountering companions of other distant worlds. In her soul she knows they are there: she always knew.
Darkness begins to encase her world. In the distance hangs a silvery crescent moon against a sapphire sky. Clusters of
white flickering stars outline her silhouette. A great restlessness stirs inside her and she pulls her hooded cloak snugly around herself and heads back down the well worn trail.
The weathered and worn appearance of the sod hut is woven from years of fond memories. She gazes out over the field under the moonlight sky and listens lovingly to the tall stalks of wheat bending back and forth whirring in the wind like a gentle lullaby. Inhaling deeply, the rich scent of ripe wheat cautions her of the toil to come.
Her father sits by the window where he always sits. Knotty branches and flickering candlelight frame his jet-black silhouette.
The creak of the door startles him a little and he gazes up from behind an almost spent candle and lays down his pen.
Kasandriana takes notice of his weary eyes and a face etched with age as she bends down and gently kisses his cheek.
“Father it’s late.”
“My time is well spent. It is finished,” he replies as he hands Kasandriana the chart. “Stars are magical guides that will direct you to your destiny.” All her life she watched her father make chart after chart and listened intently to his premonitions. Kasandriana has always believed.
“Have you eaten your dinner yet father?” she asks as she rolls and fastens the chart carefully with a leather binding. A look of disappointment overshadows his face as she places it on the shelf.
“I am not hungry tonight. The bounty of my days makes me weary. It’s later than I thought.”
“Then off to bed with you, the harvest begins.”
“Hush my child, all things in due time. Winter is drawing near. Leaves that gave birth shaded us through summer and through fall enchanted us with bright fiery colours that are now fading and thinning on the branch. Listen, the wind blows in from the North.”
A gust of wind wails at the door. Naked branches knock loudly at the window panes. Kasandriana goes to her father’s room and closes his window. The stillness in the air between the howls of the wind is like a welcome solitude.
Slowly he rises from his chair and moves his weak and weary limbs with unhurried steps towards the bedroom.
Out the window moonlight shines over wind tossed wheat fields bowing and surrendering to the wind like waves of water moving to some unknown shore. The old dark shadow of the barn emerges against the starlight sky like an ominous presence. A lone shadow of horse and rider emerges on the road.
A blast of cool air forces itself through the door as Keyon enters. For a brief moment rascal winds whip hair across Kasandriana’s face and she hears the swishing of the wheat in the wind. Keyon quickly closes the door and pulls off his cloak.
“The wind is getting strong. The kernels are ripe and dry. The stalks can barely support their weight. Tomorrow, the neighbours will arrive for the harvesting.”
Kasandriana places a steaming bowl of soup down with neatly cut slices from a loaf of early morning baked bread. Keyon eats hungrily.
“Father looked rather tired tonight and never ate his evening meal. I am worried about him. He worked all day on a chart and would not move until it was finished.”
“People usually get that tired look when they get old. Did you read the chart?”
“Not yet, I will later.”
“You have that distant look upon your face again. The day will come Kas; the day will come.”
“It’s rather pointless to give me false hope. My life here is wasted. I need more than this. I want more than this repetition of things. Year after year there’s the planting, the growing, the harvesting. What changes? What is there for me except to marry a farmhand who will provide me with the same fate?”
Keyon rises and moves to her side. Tying a leather cord around her wrist, he replies, “Kas, you know you have a destiny, father foreseen it. Why do you doubt? It will come in its time. Wear this cord to remind yourself that your life is yours. May you always, dear sister, be protected and victorious where ever you are.”
Kasandriana gives her brother a long warm hug that feels like she’s clinging onto her last hope. “Goodnight dear brother.” She places a kiss upon his cheek and heads to bed.
From her bedroom window she wishes she could reach up and grasp onto a star. Another pang of loneliness takes hold of her and she feels more trapped than before. “Oh, what’s the use? I am trapped here!”
She crawls into bed and pulls the blankets over her head in a final effort to escape. She thinks about love, how she yearns for it and how it hurts. She imagines falling in love. She thinks of holding hands, of her first kiss, of happily ever after, then sadly she remembers her mother’s dying days. Her father has never since forgotten the pain. She decides she never wants to love, to feel that pain and to never forget it for the remaining days of her life. It’s like a perpetual wound to her father. Is it worth it?
The wind outside her window sighs and she falls into a deep sleep. In her dream she feels strong arms holding her. She dreams of dark figures moving around her. She dreams of other worlds.
A warm sun sheds rays of light through her window. She quietly watches the dancing particles of dust. Men are chatting in the fields ready to cut the wheat. It’s hot dusty work and she cringes at the thought of spending all her time cooking and washing over the next few weeks. She jumps out bed, muttering to herself, “Neighbours will soon be over to help with the cooking and feeding of the men soon enough.” She thinks about all the food that the women will cook: large breakfasts of porridge, eggs, bacon, and biscuits; for lunch sandwiches, cakes and large jugs of cool water will have to be taken into the field for the men; and for dinner the table will be filled with dishes of potatoes, gravy, fried chicken, bread, carrots and corn, and pies. She smiles at the thought of the women gossiping at the fence posts and in the hot kitchen to make sure nothing was missed over the spring and summer months. Soon weary men will be treading into a warm kitchen filled with the smell of fresh baked bread and bacon sizzling in the pan. Eggs will have to be cooked as they arrive so they are just off the pan for eating. She climbs out of bed. The harvest begins.
The long hot dusty days move quickly. Scythe blades glide forward though the wheat day after day. Swaths of cut grain stalks are placed on the ground and tied together with the plant itself. Day after day stooks of wheat are brought in from the field and thrashed. Men, women, and children together open the stooks and beat the wheat out of the straw. Day after day the women cook and at mid-day take food into the fields for the men. Finally, the chaff is removed. The harvest is complete.
Her father is well pleased. He looks at Kasandriana and says, “Your brothers have done well this year. They can handle everything.”
She looks into the horizon at the trampled and broken wheat field. “They worked hard and once the neighbour’s fields are harvested everyone will be content.”
Suddenly, her father slumps to the ground. Fear seizes Kasandriana and she drops down beside him. “Father, are you okay? Father, father, please, please answer me.” There is no sound, not even hers in this ungodly silence. She screams out, “Keyon! Keyon, come quickly!” She shouts his name over and over.
Keyon runs across the field and with a lack of breath questions, “What happened?”
“Father just collapsed. I don’t know. Will he be okay?”
Keyon lifts his father gently off the ground and quickly carries him into the house and lays him on the bed. Keyon demands, “Rylan ride to Solyce and bring the physician.”
“Kasandriana”, her father murmurs, “we all fall into the mortal silence of impending death. Even death is part of the eternal universe. I have lived. I have embraced life, it has been full. Turmoil always gives way to peacefulness. Seek your destiny Kasandriana, do not be afraid to go. Watch the stars, observe them and they will reveal your fate to you. They observed everything since the beginning. They mark the hour, the, day, the month and the year. Keep watch and you shall find your destiny.” He exhales and dies. Kasandriana falls over her father weeping. “Don’t go father, don’t go.”
Kasandriana gazes solemnly from the edge of the ridge. The horizon of Brianna has changed since she last looked upon its horizon. The wheat fields lay trample. In preparation for spring planting, she can see parcels of land where the soil has been turned before the snow falls. The colors of autumn now turned to lifeless shades of grey.
BLAH BLAH BLAH SHE GOES HOME AND KEYON SHOWS HER THE CHART..HAVE YOU SEEN THIS? NO. you should read it. Father completed it for you, kas.
Standing in silence at the edge of her world, she observes stars traveling slowly across the endless immensity of heaven.
Suddenly, a vibrant star collapses dramatically displaying an array of spectacular colours. An intense blue aura ejaculates from the star and spirals downwards embracing her and pulling her upwards. Weightlessly, she transcends higher and higher as she surmounts the heavens. Memory and time are non-existent. Without warning she drops on a pebbled pathway bordered by a densely wooded forest. Wincing under restrained cries, she rises from the dust-covered path and brushes off her aching body. Kasandriana looks around in confusion and tries to understand what just happened. “Where am I?” she mutters under her breath as she brushes back her hair.
Disoriented she looks from side to side at the unfamiliar vegetation. Twenty-foot red hardwood trees tower skyward.
Her hazel eyes examine them from the large gnarly roots to the very tips and then down again where tufts of dark green grass grow to about six inches high. She feels so small and insignificant. Her eyes move their way towards to the large cream and grey-spotted toadstools that come into sight between the trees in the cool moist shade. A variety of outsized mushrooms protrude from the crevices of tree roots. Along the pathway, large orange and yellow bell-flowers nod their heads toward the dew covered ground. Sweetly perfumed bell flowers contradict the scent of mushrooms. The forest smells dank and earthy with a unified assortment of fragrant plant life. Inspecting the pathway, one way, then the other, she wipes the humidity from her brow, . Her eyes follow the line of the forest to search out life but she spots no movement. Her eyes stop near a small bush not far from where she stands as she catches sight of two small flickers of light. Captivated by curiosity, she steps guardedly over the crackly forest floor. A finely crafted silver sword lies partially hidden under the bush. She picks it up and studies the superbly engraved hawk on the handle. Within the hawks eyes are stones like polished diamonds. “What mighty warrior carries this sword?” she wonders. “Perhaps he is close by.” She calls out, “Hello, is anyone here?” No answer comes.
Kasandriana begins her journey. So she begins a search that is honourable and sincere.
Hours pass as she persistently walks the long path ahead. Weariness surrounds her like forbidden fruit. Her arms feel the burden of carrying the weighty sword. Footsteps become struggle and struggle becomes toil and toil becomes respite. Shivers run through her as she crawls under an overhanging bush in an effort to rest her weary body. A warm evening breeze cradles her in the darkness until slumber falls upon her. Dreams mix together like a blue spiral whirling round and round.
Little sparkles of light partially awaken her. Small moving torches flickering along the passageway give it a peculiar glow. Shadows move with the light. Kasandriana falls back into the sleep-induced dream.
Written by Beverley Woznica
