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  "The outlays will only take place every six months," replied King Caedmon. "We can reevaluate this plan at any time. We will start this plan immediately and in six months we will determine if we continue with it. I am prepared to make that decision every six months if we need to."

  "Very well," conceded Evan.

  "Now that we have the beginning of a plan for our nation's defense," continued the king, "I want to turn to something more personal to me. I am very concerned about the life of Prince Antion. Lady Nola, you know more about the Talent than anyone else here. Can you shed some light on exactly what is happening?"

  Lady Nola was a thin gray-haired woman, but her voice held a commanding presence. When she spoke, everyone sat silently in rapt attention.

  "Much of what the Talent is capable of," she began, "is unknown. What is known is that certain people are born with a gift, or a curse to some, of the ability to perform deeds that others are incapable of. The most common usage of the Talent is demonstrated by wispers in healing. We have the ability to heal and communicate with the body in ways that others cannot understand. Sometimes the Talent offers insight, such as determining the sex and health of a fetus. Other times the Talent can be directed to fight infections and close wounds."

  "Pardon the interruption, Lady Nola," King Caedmon said, "but I am not looking for a general description of a wisper. Many of us have seen or experienced the wonders of your work. I want to know specifically about my son. Did someone wielding the Talent cause the headaches? Why are the Borundans so interested in Prince Antion? Can you help us with those questions?"

  "There is spell of mind interrogation that is known to wispers," frowned Lady Nola, "and it is possible that it could cause headaches, but the only way to be sure would be to try it."

  "Then please do so," instructed the king.

  "Oh, no," the wisper shook her head vigorously. "I cannot do that."

  "You do not know the spell?" the king frowned in confusion.

  "I know the spell," replied the wisper, "but it is only used to aid victims of accidents. To use it otherwise is to risk bringing the Talent to bear upon yourself. I will not be a part of that."

  "Even if I command you to?" asked the king.

  "Even then," the wisper replied adamantly. "You do not understand the power of the Talent. It must only be used to help people, never to take advantage of them. This is more than a question of ethics. The Talent can consume the wielder."

  "But you would be helping me," Prince Antion said.

  "No," Lady Nola shook her head. "I would cause you pain. I use the Talent to alleviate pain."

  "What do you mean by consuming the wielder?" asked the king.

  "The Talent is the most power force of all," explained the wisper. "When it is used, it builds inside the body of the wielder, wanting to be used again, but the problem is, it wants to be used in a similar way to the way it was previously used."

  "So if you use it for nefarious ends," asked Evan, "it wants to be used for more nefarious purposes?

  "Exactly," nodded Lady Nola. "It works the same for wholesome wielders too, but there is a major difference. A wholesome wielder uses the Talent sparingly, but the opposite is not true. It is similar to a man who consumes too much ale. The more he drinks the more he wants to drink until it eventually consumes him, and he is no longer able to function, but with the Talent the wielder does not just pass out, the Talent takes over and begins using itself."

  "How do you stop it?" asked Evan.

  "You don't," answered the wisper. "Do you understand now why I will not cast the spell on Prince Antion?"

  Most of the advisors were nodding, but Prince Antion stood again.

  "No," the Arin prince said. "My life is in danger, and I do not know why. My only clue is that it has something to do with the Talent. Your spell may indeed hurt me, if you can really state that a headache is a serious pain, but not understanding what I am up against will kill me. I cannot believe that a wisper never causes pain in the performance of their duties. You are a healer and your healing must often cause minor discomfort in your patients. As for doing something nefarious, I am pleading for you to help me. There would be nothing nefarious about it."

  "I agree with my son," declared King Caedmon, "but I will not force you to do anything you feel uncomfortable with, Lady Nola. You will be in some way healing him, but the choice is yours."

  The room remained silent for some moments while Lady Nola fidgeted. Eventually she nodded in agreement.

  "I do believe that my use of the Talent will help you to understand what you are up against," she stated. "I hope that I am right. Sit down please. I want two of you to support him in case he faints."

  Two of the advisors rose and flanked the prince. The wisper stared at Prince Antion for several seconds before the prince's hands flew to his head. While everyone's attention was on the prince, the wisper fell off her chair. King Caedmon rushed to her side and helped her to her feet. The entire room sat in shocked silence as they thought the Talent had consumed the wisper.

  "I am fine," Lady Nola said as she waved the king away and sat down in her chair.

  "Are you sure?" asked the king before he moved from her side. "Did the Talent consume you?"

  "I am positive," declared the wisper, "and no, the Talent did not consume me. How do you feel, Prince Antion?"

  "The headache is as I expected," he answered. "There is no doubt in my mind that it is the same feeling that I felt in Borunda. I now know that they were indeed causing my problems, but I still do not know why. Why me?"

  "I may be able to shed some light on that now," the wisper replied. "My collapse was not the Talent consuming me as some of you asked. It doesn't work that way. With the Talent one is consumed little by little, not all at once. There is no cataclysmic change. The changes happen over time, and they are subtle. What caused my collapse was a shock I received. You, Prince Antion, are filled with the Talent. I have never seen anything like it."

  "Me?” questioned the prince. "You must be mistaken. I have no ability with the Talent."

  "That is not exactly what I meant," clarified the wisper. "I do not think you are a wielder of the Talent, although you could be I guess, but the Talent is within you."

  "What does that mean?" asked the king.

  "I really don't know," answered Lady Nola, "but it explains their interest in you. They sensed that you are filled with the Talent, and they see that as a threat to their plans."

  "Then they will want to destroy him," surmised General Fergus. "That is why they had to be sure of his identity. We have a very serious problem on our hands, King Caedmon. No matter how many soldiers we have, there is no way that we can guarantee protection for Prince Antion unless we lock him in the palace. They will send assassin after assassin until they succeed."

  "That is not going to happen," declared the prince. "I would rather stand and fight them one-by-one than live in a prison for the rest of my life. I will not do it."

  "And no one will ask you to," the king said softly. "I thank you all for coming on short notice. What has been mentioned in this room will not be repeated. This meeting is ended."

  Lady Nolan and the advisors filed out of the room leaving King Caedmon alone with his son. The king walked over to Antion and embraced him. For a long time, neither of them spoke.

  "What am I to do, Father?" Prince Antion finally asked. "I cannot live the life of a convict, but neither can I allow my existence to bring trouble to Arin's doorstep."

  "General Fergus is correct," the king said softly. "I would give my life to protect you, but even that would not be enough. If what Lady Nola said about the Talent consuming wielders is true, the Borundans will never give up trying to kill you. They won't be able to stop even if they wanted to. The Talent will demand that they continue."

  "Why me?" Prince Antion shook his head.

  "I believe there is a reason for it," King Caedmon replied. "I will not pretend to know what that reason is, but I do believe that you
have been chosen for a specific reason. I want to believe that the Talent is using you to counteract the evil that is brewing in Borunda. Perhaps that is why they are so eager to get at you."

  "Of course," brightened Prince Antion. "Lady Nola may not know the answer, and we may not know the answer, but the Borundans know. They see me as an obstacle to their plans, so that is what I must become."

  "And how are you going to do that?" inquired the king.

  "I have no idea," admitted the prince. "I imagine the first step should be to find someone who understands the Talent better than Lady Nola. Perhaps there I will find the answers that I need."

  "An acceptable plan," the king nodded approvingly. "Where will you start looking? I could round up everyone with knowledge of the Talent in all of Arin."

  "No, Father," the prince shook his head. "I cannot let my enemies know that I have stumbled onto the reason for their interest. If just one of those people speaks about my interest, they will learn of it in Tarent."

  "Then how can you ever approach anyone who knows about the Talent?" questioned King Caedmon.

  "I will have to become someone else," declared Prince Antion. "I will change my appearance and my clothes. I am sorry, Father, but I will have to forsake my given name."

  "You have nothing to be sorry for, Son," the king replied with tears welling up in his eyes. "You have always been my greatest accomplishment, and I could not be prouder of you than I am today. I will speak to Evan and arrange to have gold deposited around the world for you. What name will you be using?"

  "No, Father," the prince shook his head. "I will take some gold with me, but that is all. I will not reveal my name or my destination. That spell that was used upon me is one that reaches into your head and steals your thoughts. It is safer for all of us if I keep my thoughts to myself."

  "How will you survive?" frowned the king.

  "I am not without skills," smiled Prince Antion. "You have brought up a decent son, not a pampered boy who cannot take care of himself. I will be fine."

  "If anyone can make it on his own in this world," smiled the king, "I believe it is you. You tell me what you need, and I will see that it is supplied."

  "My needs will be simple," replied the prince, "a horse, a weapon, and a bag of gold."

  "You shall have the finest of them all," agreed the king.

  "No," the prince shook his head. "I will take what is mediocre and normal."

  "And when will you go?" asked the king.

  "Tonight," answered Antion. "Too many people in Anatar will recognize me if I leave during the daylight, and there is no sense in delaying my departure. If I falter now, I may not summon up the courage again in the morning."

  "Will you say goodbye to your mother and sister?" asked King Caedmon.

  Prince Antion stared at the floor for several moments without answering. The king could see the emotions tearing apart his son and tears came unbidden to his eyes.

  "I shall dine with the family," declared the prince. "Afterwards I will express my undying love to mother and sister, but I will leave it to you to explain my absence tomorrow. I do not feel good about saddling you with this burden, but I do not think I could bear their protestations to remain in Anatar. I am sorry, Father."

  "Never say those words again," the tearful king commanded. "You are embarking on the greatest act of self-sacrifice that I have ever witnessed. You have absolutely nothing to be sorry for. Never say those words again to me."

  Prince Antion hugged his father tightly, and tears fell from the eyes of both men.

  As promised, Prince Antion spent dinner with his family. He deflected all talk about the trip to Tarent and instead focused the conversation on what the women had done while they were away. When the dinner was complete, Antion requested a private audience with his sister and then his mother. They both knew that something was afoot, but they both sensed that the time to discuss it was long past. As the rest of the royal family made for their beds, Antion slipped out of the palace and mounted a randomly chosen horse from the stables. He rode around the city for an hour making sure that no one was following him and then he exited the city along the coast.

  Chapter 8

  Goodland

  Capri was a small nation on the Koar-Anatar Road. Its stretch of seacoast was among the most beautiful in all of the Land of the Nine Kingdoms. Long, sandy beaches paralleled the road in some places, while dense strands of pine forested other sections. There was no major city in the small country, but three towns of decent size rested among the palm trees of the coast. The three towns were gathering places for Capri merchants in between their long journeys around the world. It was in these towns that wagons were overhauled, teams of horses bought and sold, and warriors hired to escort the wagons.

  Goodland was the westernmost of the three towns, and it sat on the edge of a pristine bay where the coast came close to the Koar-Anatar Road. It was a mere day's ride from the Arin capital of Anatar, but it was worlds apart in atmosphere. There were no protective walls in Goodland, nor was there any form of authority. What did exist in Goodland were many large stables, craftsmen galore, and a dozen inns and taverns. It was at the dingy taverns where those looking for work gathered to meet prospective employers.

  Prince Antion rode into Goodland sporting a three-day growth of hair on his face. His clothes were dirty and wrinkled, but not torn or worn out. He looked very much like a man whose money had run out, but only a short time ago. His body was firm and muscular, and the set of his jaw held an attitude that showed he was not yet ready to admit defeat. His eyes constantly moved ahead of him as well as to his sides and portrayed a man who was wary of his surroundings, but not afraid of them. In fact, he looked just like most of the men who rode into Goodland in search of work.

  All of the taverns in Goodland were located near the town's major intersection where a broad avenue ran from the beach and crossed the Koar-Anatar Road. A dozen wagons sat unmoving in the middle of the broad avenue, and the Arin prince knew that the masters of those wagons were looking for workers. He dismounted and tied his horse outside the largest tavern and walked through the doors.

  The sound and smell of the inside of the tavern assaulted the prince as he paused briefly inside the door to let his eyes adjust to the darkness. The tavern smelled strongly of stale ale, and the floor was sticky enough to make walking a conscious effort. Several dozen men were inside the tavern, and they all seemed to be competing to be the loudest talker in the room. The din was deafening, and Antion tried to tune it out. His eyes swept over the room looking for a seat where he could avoid conversation. Spying a seat at the far side of the room, the Arin prince made his way past the crowded tables and slid along the bench to end up in the corner farthest from the door.

  While he was waiting for the serving woman to take his order, another man slid in beside him. Antion's hand immediately felt for the small pouch of copper coins tied at his waist. It was a reaction that Antion had practiced continually over the last three days since his departure from the palace in Anatar. It was meant to reinforce the image of a man who was conscious of his last few coins, when in fact the small pouch was merely for show. Antion's much larger pouch with gold coins was securely hidden under his clothes.

  "Easy, friend," smiled the newcomer. "I'm not so bad off that I would resort to taking a man's meager belongings. The name is Babul. Let me buy you a drink."

  "Well met, Babul," nodded Antion, "but I've a few coins left. Still, I appreciate the offer. My name is Gunnar."

  "Welcome to Goodland, Gunnar," smiled Babul. "Where are you from?"

  The serving woman appeared and Babul ordered two mugs of ale.

  "Up north," Gunnar replied vaguely. "How did you know that I was new to Goodland?"

  "I saw you ride in," answered the man. "Have you come looking for work?"

  "I have," nodded Gunnar. "Do you know of anyone hiring?"

  "You're new to Capri then, too," laughed Babul. "You haven't done this before have you?"


  "No," Gunnar replied, worried that he was not truly prepared to blend in. "Tell me what I need to know."

  The man stared at Gunnar for a few moments without answering. The serving woman sped by dropping two mugs of ale on the table and scooping up the copper coins.

  "You're honest," smiled Babul. "Quiet, but honest. That's more than most men who come in here can say. First off, never bother to ask another worker if he knows of anyone who is hiring. That type of information is worth money. It is never given away for free."

  "I didn't know," apologized Gunnar.

  "That much I understand," chuckled Babul. "There are always less jobs than workers in Capri, and getting a job is competitive, and I mean very competitive. Let me explain what is going to happen soon."

  "I am appreciative," nodded Gunnar, "and I insist on buying your next ale."

  "Deal," grinned Babul. "I think I might like you, Gunnar from up north. In a short while a bell will ring loudly outside. That bell will indicate that the merchants are prepared to hire. Be careful when you get up to exit the tavern. It will be a stampede. I am not sure why," he laughed, "because nothing starts until everyone is outside."

  "So all of these men are looking for work?" Gunnar asked with disappointment clearly evident in his voice.

  "Yup," nodded Babul. "The merchants will take turns offering jobs. Almost all of the jobs will be for wagon escorts, but occasionally there are other types. The merchant will state the wages and the route the merchant will be taking. Those that want to apply for the job cross the street and wait."

  "Wait?" questioned Gunnar. "If only one of them is to get the job, what are they waiting for?"

  "The contest," answered Babul with a twinkle in his eye. "While a merchant could merely choose one of the workers to hire, they seldom know the quality of the men applying for work, so a contest is held. Pairs of men will square off with staffs and fight for the job. The winners of one group will fight the winners of another group until one man wins it all. The merchant usually offers the job to the winner, but he does not have to. He is free to choose anyone he wants."