Page 8 of Destiny of a King

The Council Chamber

“What is this message from Lord Oaken that cannot wait?”

King Dravic shrugged out of his damp cloak and tossed it to a waiting servant without taking his eyes off the travel-worn messenger.

Snow melted from the man’s boots onto the stone floor of the council chamber. His cloak bore the marks of many days’ hard riding, pine needles still clinging to the heavy wool. He did not bother to look for Adira. She knew enough that she was to remain in the room with him.

And she did. She settled onto the cushioned bench near the hearth after a servant had hastily taken her cloak and gloves from her. Her gaze moved from the messenger to Tavish, then to the elderly woman standing silently at the far end of the council table, whom she had seen before now, though she truly did not know who she was.

She was tall and slender, her long white braid resting on her chest. Though time marked her face, it did so gently. She stood with easy confidence that ignored both king and council. She neither fidgeted nor sought anyone’s approval, waiting with the quiet patience of someone who had lived long enough to know there was little to be gained by rushing.

The messenger, however, was the opposite, switching from foot to foot, wringing his hands without realizing. He was definitely nervous. But she could hardly blame him standing in front of such an intimidating king.

Adira kept watch of the woman, the messenger, and the king. She studied each face carefully, trying to make sense of what had interrupted her time in the forest.

The messenger bowed. “Lord Oaken sends his respect, my king, and bids me to deliver an urgent message.”

“Then out with it,” Dravic ordered.

The messenger bowed respectfully. “Lord Oaken asks that Wynn travel to Driochmor without delay. Morvane symbols have been found carved into trees beyond the lands where the clan was last known to dwell.”

Dravic’s brow furrowed. “Morvane?”

“Aye, my king. Lord Oaken recognized the markings at once. He believes they are no longer keeping to the deepest part of the forest. The symbols have begun to appear farther out, each one more distant than the last. He fears the clan is on the move.”

“I know nothing of this Morvane Clan,” Dravic said, turning to Wynn. “Who are they?”

Wynn was silent for a long moment before answering.

“Long before your grandfather’s reign, the Morvane were among the most gifted clans in Driochmor. Their magic was respected… until they hungered for more.” She paused briefly. “They embraced dark magic.”

Even Tavish shifted uneasily.

Wynn continued. “No one knows exactly what power they sought or what price they paid for it. Only that those who survived withdrew to the deepest reaches of Driochmor where few, if any, dared follow. They have not been seen in at least twenty years. Many believed they had died off, their bloodline finally ended.”

“But Lord Oaken does not believe so?” Tavish asked.

“Nay,” the messenger answered. “He believes these markings prove otherwise.”

Dravic folded his arms across his chest. “If the Morvane have remained hidden all these years, why reveal themselves now?”

Wynn looked directly at him. “A good question that is not easily answered. But one thing is certain. Morvane markings are never carved without purpose.”

“And that purpose?” Dravic asked.

Wynn slowly shook her head. “That is what Lord Oaken hopes I can learn.”

The messenger nodded. “He believes any information on the Morvane has been hidden from him. Every vision he attempts concerning them ends in darkness, as though a veil has been drawn over anything to do with them. He asks that you allow Wynn to touch the markings. If the future cannot be seen… perhaps the past can.”

Wynn lowered her gaze thoughtfully. “Dark magic never truly dies. It waits.” Her eyes lifted to meet Dravic’s. “Something has awakened it.”

Dravic gave a thoughtful nod. “So, Lord Oaken requests that Wynn return to Driochmor.”

“Aye, my king,” the messenger confirmed.

Raised voices suddenly echoed beyond the council chamber door.

It drew Dravic’s attention and annoyance. “Who dares disturb us?”