PROLOGUE:
One thousand years passed and he still could not find her. Nothing… even after he deployed shadows under every tree, rock, and nook. There was not even a trace of her after making his treaty with the elven sons of Maluthene. Days turned into nights, and nights turned into generations, only to devolve into wars, spilled blood, conquests, and many bent knees. His puppet, the realm of Maluthra, the fearsome stone-elf tribe of Martauk, emerged to prominence because of him but few knew why.
As the years passed, he found comfort in the shadows. There was peace in the darkness, where no one could see him or the slogging slavery of The Black Chain bound to his waist. The shadows were his spies. He did not need to be in one place for his power was in the cool of all valleys and the shelter of every shade.
Numerous forests were set ablaze with black fire from the raging storm of The Ever-Night. The immolated bones of countless innocents from towns and cities were nothing to him. How could he appreciate mortality? It was a foreign concept to him. The realms of The Footlands learned to live in fear; to cower in caves when he came, or surrender to his armies without even a fight. His warriors became fat with the sweatless taste of easy victory. Swords became dulled and nobility rich. He could have done this forever but he was tired of Maluthra’s reliance on his power. There had to be another way.
After a mere three hundred years in the world of Zailar, Deralius went into hiding, after his dramatic staged “death” in war. Whispers of his ascension into deified air became a religion. In the wake of his apparent “demise,” the stone-elves elevated him to the chief of Maluthra’s Shadow-Gods. He cared nothing for the worship of elves or humans. It was all worthless to him. As the years passed and he ruled The Footlands from the shadows, all that mattered to him was her. After so many victories in war and mortals slaughtered, the beast of The Black Chain ate its fill of mortal misery and was sated for a season. The weight on Deralius’ waist was lighter because of it. His burden felt physically easier but inside was an insatiable beast of his own that only wanted one thing.
Killing indiscriminately was no longer a pleasure, for one more second, hour, or day without her touch felt like one granule of eternity in an ocean of desolate despair. Now he wanted more than merely the Kiss of The Ages. He wanted her. All of her. At all times. Forever.
He hated this curse of immortal mortality, this ruse of feigned death, but he knew the pact he made with The Black Chain. It could not be broken, otherwise he would return forever to the prison of the Eternal Scar. For seven hundred years, he withheld his power and labored among stone-elves, men, werewolves, witches, and giants, cloaked in the guise of mortal flesh… different forms, and various races… learning… waiting for any hint of his beloved Eloria.
He would fool those whose confidence he had gained and then orchestrate his “death” repeatedly every hundred or so years just so that The Black Chain could feed off of their heartfelt grief and sorrow. Just when he considered the thought that he would never find her, her scent returned anew. In the Red Forest of The Four Towns, he could sense her presence revivified in the wind, titillated by just the brush of a gale on his face. This time, he was clad in the disguise of a young man of magic. This had to be her.
The Red Forest
The early morning is quiet and dark in the southeastern Footlands. Elezir, a weary middle-aged father, trudges forward in a shoddy wagon. A wall of tall crimson oak trees rises around him as his two tired ponies drag their hooves along the dusty path. The straight dirt road now takes a circuitous right turn away from the dense forest ahead of them, suggesting avoidance.
He halts the wagon with one flick of his wrists. Letting go of the leather harness, Elezir looks ahead, his eyes suddenly aglow.
Wonder cradles his deep voice. “Sunny! Look! This is The Red Forest, and the Beredrin River is...”
“... gleaming like a star,” interrupts the teenage daughter, leaning out over the edge of the wagon. Her flowing white hair is lit with the glowing vapors of the river. She attempts to drag herself out of the wagon by her arms but then Elezir kindly reminds her, “Enjoy the light of the river. I’ll be swift. Hopefully with what we’re looking for.”
She snaps her fingers and blows her white bangs away from her stunning eyes.
“I know. Too big to piggyback now. I’ll wait here.” She drops her shoulders after a glance at her diseased and crooked legs.
Elezir knows her sensitive heart. He fights tears and holds her face between his meaty palms, uttering softly, “I’ve given up my healing business in Wereld and Gorthen for you. I have no regrets. Just a spike of the ‘hanardeh’ root will perfect my tonic. You will walk, my dear, and soon. I promise you.”
Touched by her father’s single-minded devotion, she sheds a tear but quickly wipes it away. Watching him depart, she sings hymns, still with hope despite never walking.
THE HEALER
The light of the Beredrin River fades at mid-morning. Elezir returns to the wagon. Tears run down his eyes as he considers how he will break the bad news to her. He thinks of the long road until this point, the hours of study, the dream that seemed as distant as the stars. All the successes of his life—being elected to the Healer’s Guild twelve years ago, selling his potions to kings and dignitaries abroad—are nothing compared to the joy of healing his beloved “Sunny.” Now that will have to wait for yet another day and another journey. How will she receive the crushing news?
Reaching the shaded outskirts of the forest, he shakes off the devastation, looking back at the towering oaks, glazed with the titian patina from the beaming sunlight above.
“Sunny, I may have to go deeper into the forest,” says Elezir with sunken shoulders.
No response. Silence. His steps quicken as he runs through the edge of the forest toward the wagon.
His voice plummets to despair, almost hearing the pounding of his own heart. “Sunny? Sunny? Where are you?”
He sprints to the wagon. His breath beats harder and faster as the fear takes control. Dropping his hunting knife, he tears the wagon apart, throwing out his rucksacks to see if she’s sleeping underneath them.
She is not.
He reaches amidst the heap of his belongings and finds his metal scabbard. The sound of metal pierces the quiet morning; the shine of his sword gleams off the sunlight as he carelessly tosses his scabbard along the dusty road.
He darts back into the vast Red Forest, his face steeled in the anger of vengeance. In the rush of the hectic moment, Elezir overlooks one small detail: one of the ponies is also missing.
Sunlight peaks through the thick hands of the red oak trees. Rustling leaves mix with the sounds of snapping branches. A whoosh of wind crosses the snaking paths of the treacherous Red Forest, alerting the beasts of the trees.
“Sunny! Sunny!”
His eyes twitch. His breathing accelerates. The grip on his sword becomes tighter as he swings his way through the underbrush and into the thick of the woods. Memories of Sunny inundate his mind while dashing past the gangly arms of low-hanging vines. Like the tangled forest he runs past, he remembers flashes of yesteryear. The day he mysteriously found her at the edge of the Beredrin River, covered in swaddling clothes, becomes the horror of seeing her crooked legs. The day she first speaks is now also the night that sores break out on her legs. Like branches, each memory connects one to the other; a moment of joy fused unto the tail end of another painful disappointment.
He stops to catch his breath and listens to the heartbeat of the forest. No blue jays are chirping their usual song. Even the river slows down her melodic bluster. All he hears is his breathing and the relentless hammering of his own besieged heart… but then he hears something familiar.
A violent gust of wind rips through the southern edge of The Red Forest! Following it, he darts down the crimson slope. Numerous trees skirting the edge of The Red Forest are snapped like twigs. Looking up at the labyrinth of downed oak trees, he forces himself to believe that he will find her well, despite her handicap, fighting the flooding flow of fear taking his heart.
Tightening his grip on his latched sword, he sees a young man in a dark-violet cloak. His daughter rests among a bed of dry leaves but the young man is far too close to her.
Elezir dashes towards him, sword in hand.
“Get back, scum!” he screams.
Sidestepping tree and stump, Elezir flings his sword. Just missing the young man’s ducking head, he tackles him, punching him repeatedly in the face. He lunges at Sunny, holding her cold body in his arms. Her skirt is raised high beyond her knees. Rage ensues.
“Bastard!” roars Elezir.
The young man screams, “Wait! I healed her! Put her down and see!”
He lays his daughter down on the forest floor. Yanking the lodged sword from the nearby tree, he dashes forward. The young man stumbles over a mess of dewy leaves, crawling away on his elbows and heels. Elezir raises his sword for the kill but just before he drives the sword’s tip into his chest, a scream stops everything.
His daughter screams again, writhing in pain on the forest floor. Elezir slides down the leafy slope, grabbing her in his arms. Her body convulses. She gazes emptily into his eyes as if he is not there.
He caresses her cheek with his finger, whispering in tears, “Don’t sleep.”
Her skin becomes flush with the rush of blood. Her limp muscles tighten again. She mumbles, “My legs!”
A popping sound breaks the silence, and then a cracking of bone. The festering sores upon her legs vanish! Her atrophied ankles pop. Her stiff toes loosen their hardened curl.
“Sir?” interrupts the young man, rubbing his bloodied face. “She may arise. She is healed.”
She hesitates but then stands, wrapping her arms around her father’s broad shoulders, leaning her weight against his arms. She drags her left leg in front. The right leg follows.
The young man encourages her, whispering, “Come on. You can do it. Go ahead.”
Elezir feels no weight upon his own; no trembling arm over his neck. At once, as if from his very dreams, she stands on her own. Her legs are weak at first but then each step becomes lighter and easier.
“I can walk!” yells the daughter.
He embraces her, lifting her off her feet, spinning as pirouetting leaves off an autumn tree. As the moment settles in their hearts, they kneel on the leafy ground and weep.
“The day has come. It is now!” cries Elezir, oblivious to the young man’s gaze.
“We’ll run through the fields!” shouts the daughter. “I’ll run like the wind and never tire!”
“Yes, you will, darling. And I’ll follow you!” shouts Elezir, kissing her on her forehead. Amidst the joy, she turns to the young man. He is reclining on a boulder, enjoying their moment as if it were his own.
Tears of joy fill her eyes as she breaks down, “Thank you so much.”
The father follows behind, shaking his head in disbelief, “However you did it, we are forever grateful. A thousand sorrows for what I have inflicted upon you, my lad. If only I could heal your face for the thing you have done for my daughter.”
“All wounds heal, good father,” answers the young man, noticing the sun-insignia on Elezir’s leather boot, “Some faster than others. This one will heal fast for I know my skill has blessed a humble and worthy Ehrfastian family like yours.”
Elezir shakes his hand at first but then unashamedly hugs him. Letting go, he notices the crystal clasp of the young man that holds up his black cloak, “I saw a clasp like yours upon a statue close to here. It is the sign of the Dawn-Riders of old. They once fought against the curse of The Ever-Night. Tell me, what do you know of these forests?”
“I live here. I have since very young,” answers the young man, “my father lived here until war stripped these lands of our people.”
“Our people? asks Elezir. “Your family lived in these woods? Only the Dawn-Riders of Thelentor were known to live here.”
“I am his descendant, of the line of Chelron Halmen,” says the young man, with a sudden and confident swell in his chest.
“Halmen?” asks Elezir. “He was the first of the Dawn-Riders of The White-Lands. It is said that their powers were given by the maker of Zailar, the great Zulion, Son of The Flame.”
The daughter interjects, confused by all the grand names and titles, “Who are they father? You’ve never told me of the myths of The Dawn-Riders.”
“That clasp is no myth,” says Elezir. “Perhaps he can tell us the legend of The Dawn-Riders. Will you join us for some food? I brought more than enough rations for a quick bite.”
The young man hesitates to speak, still feeling his raw swollen jaw with his palm, “It is enough to see both of you joyful. I will leave now. Good day.”
“Wait,” answers the father, touching the lad’s turned shoulder, “You mustn’t leave us. It's not often that you see a stretch of forest destroyed by such a sudden burst of wind, is it?”
The young man looks at his daughter, smiling at her for just a short second. Flashes of eternity-past fill his fluttering heart; he remembers the touch of Eloria’s hand, the feel of her breath, and the scent of her presence. He remembers her soft lips and could almost taste her mouth but then…
“…my people have more in common with your people than you think,” interrupts Elezir. “Dine with us tonight and I’ll explain.”
The young man looks back at the destruction behind him; snapped oak trees footed by deep gnarled roots, obliging, “I shall stay. Lead me.”
A lost pony playfully emerges out of the scattered sagebrush of the forest, her harness tangled with leaves and flowers. Elezir calls the pony towards him, “Alena!” his voice testy and firm, “Come to me!”
After he hitches the pony to his wagon, they ride away from the Beredrin River towards the thick of the forests to the south.
As the wagon wheels creeks and sways back and forth, the daughter asks the young man, “What is your name, healer?”
“Derali… um… Corodred. And yours?”
She blushes, her eyes as warm as the sudden rush of wind swirling around her, “My name is Eloria.”
BOOK 1: THE LEGEND OF MOTHER-WIND, EPISODE 1