Fate Rides Wicked: Volume I of the Lerilon Trilogy Read Free Page A

and directed the group of searchers to Tych’s room.
Corl finished his spell and sat next to the bed, asleep, when
the searchers entered the bedroom of Tych’s three-room
suite.
    Tych sat up and greeted his father. “Sorry about that,
Corl was practicing shape-changing and scared me half to
death. I fainted and he brought me back around.”
    “I felt him casting a spell.”
    “So I wouldn’t have nightmares about the shape I saw
him in.”
    Morg walked over to Corl’s chair and pushed it over
backwards. The sleeping wizard sat up and looked at his
son. “What was that for?”
    “For scaring us after you scared him.” Morg glared at
his father.
    “Yes, I suppose I should have stayed here. It’s over
now, though, and he’ll be alright.” He stood and rubbed his
back. The area glowed for a moment then he took his hand
away and picked up the chair. “The prince must rest now,”
he said to the group, “let us depart.”
    Tych lay back down, totally oblivious to his white lie.
When the searchers reached the hallway, Corl took Morg’s
sleeve and waved the others towards the stairs. “Tell
Greentree I wish to see her in her chambers.” One of the
courtiers nodded and sped off ahead.
    In a few minutes Greentree found them in the living
area of their suite. Before she could speak, Corl raised his
hand and began. “Tych truly believes that I scared him,
thanks to my spell. The truth is something different.” The
wizard told his son and his son’s lover the events of the last
hour.
    Greentree was in tears and practically cracking her jaw
from biting down too hard. “Elef fredair thigen, fate rides
wicked. What can we do to help him?”
    “There is only one thing that can be done, but I must do
it. You must not question anything I do. Many things will
happen, some evil but most good. My solution must be
recognized as final. Are we agreed?”
    Greentree’s face was now set with determination. “If it
will prevent further torture, so be it.”
    “It will make him more than you might have imagined.”
    Once again the lawn was filled with tables laden with
food and the endarils ate. This party was for the prince
reaching adolescence. The one hundred year old Tych sat
at the top of the lawn in a chair of honor. Around him sat
his family, from Corl down to his seventy-five year old
sister, Cert, and sixty-five year old brother, Crat. The
closeness of age between Tych and Crat and Cert baffled
all of the endarils but they had decided to let time explain
it.
    This time, however, existed for Tych and not matters of
fate. The feasting wound to a close and the prince handed
his plate to his servant. He stood on the stool in front of the
chair and the lawn fell to silence, the distant memory of the
powerful scream still giving them pause.
    In his royal white cloak, Tych di Corl said, “It is
traditional that every daril choose his or her profession at
age one hundred, from the endarils to the thrandrils.
Tonight it’s my turn.
    “Ten thousand years ago, we were alone on this
continent, but for the dragons and the animals. Now we
share it with other intelligent and not-so-intelligent
creatures. Ten thousand years ago, life was simpler. Now
we have a need for a profession none of us wishes we had a
need for—professional fighters. Following the path of my
mother and my older brother, I therefore have chosen
fighter, with the goal of becoming as great a warrior as both
of them.”
    “Hail to the prince, a fighter!” cried the other endarils.
Morg stood with a box in his hand and his subjects reached
for gifts.
    The king waited for attention. “My loyal friends, as a
token of my love and respect for my son, and to symbolize
my acceptance of his decision, I present him with this gift,
made by the neftir in his honor and by my request.” The
wizard turned to his son and held out the box. Tych lifted
off the lid and took out a long jeweled scabbard holding a
sword