Chapter Eighteen: Aedrasil and the Three Kings

“...I understand it is my sole responsibility to commune with and ensure that the needs of the Protector are met. I will lead the Grove Tenders and become a bridge between Mother Aedrasil and mankind, so that she can continue to watch over us and keep the Oathbreaker at bay. I swear under the eyes of the Pantheon that this shall be so, and I swear to carry out my duties with all my heart and soul, lest we fall into an age of darkness once again.”

—The Oath of the Head Grove Tender

It came as a great relief when the Children of the Wind finally stopped for the night. Although he’d barely walked, Ein’s behind was sore from the constant jostling of the wagon on the road. Ever since they’d left the Twisted Treeloc he’d been uneasy, catching glimpses of a cloaked man on a horse between the trees every few miles or so. Sometimes the rider would appear for an instant, a brief shadow flitting between the snow-specked trunks, and other times Ein would see him for a full few moments, a thin, scrawny frame with a cloth cape draped around his shoulders. Whenever he blinked, the figure disappeared. Ein decided that if he saw it again, he would tell Herod.

The troupers had started a fire and were sitting around it, singing songs and telling stories. Garax had made himself comfortable in the circle, laughing and jesting alongside Evaine as he picked at his teeth with a skewer.

“…and so it was that Lady Reyalin found herself alone on the mountain, facing Emir the Bonecrusher with nought but a broken blade,” the storyteller said. He made an exaggerated gesture with one hand, lifting it above his head to emphasize the giant’s height. “Being one of the eotun, Emir stood almost as tall as the mountain itself. It was all Lady Reyalin could do to avoid falling into the fissures that opened with each of his steps.”

“How did she escape?” Evaine asked.

“Lady Reyalin clapped her hands together and raised her sword to the sky,” one of the troupers said, picking up from where Garax left off. “She called upon the gathering storm and caused the lightning to strike it, turning it into a sword of light. With that sword of light, she slayed the—”

“That’s not how it goes,” another trouper interrupted. “She stabbed Emir with her broken blade and then called down the lightning, channelling it into the eotun. Emir was killed then and there, and when she drew her blade again it was fully formed and glowing like the Light itself. She carried that magical lightning sword with her for the rest of her travels.”

“Neither of those versions are correct,” Garax said. “Lady Reyalin sang to the storm and called down lightning, that part we can all agree on. The lightning struck Emir thrice, and on the third strike it killed him. Those are the facts.”

“What about her magical lightning blade?”

“Everyone knows she got her magic weapon from Emir the Bonecrusher!”

“Lady Reyalin never had a magic weapon,” Garax answered. “That’s just something they added in to make things more exciting.”

There was a flash of white and a distant rumble. The storyteller and his listeners broke away from their chatter as a strong wind ripped through the trees, spraying snow across the campsite. Ein looked up as well. The stars were gone, replaced by a wall of angry grey clouds marching across the horizon.

“How fitting,” Herod mused. “It looks like there’s a storm coming.”

“You know,” Garax began, “before the eotun went extinct, people used to think storms were created by two of them wrestling each other. They say the eotun were as big as the dragons and just as fearsome. Never make a giant angry or he’ll call down the fury of the storm upon you.”

“Faerie tales,” Herod scoffed. “Though we’re not ones to talk, since we make our living off of them.” He smiled to himself and then looked at Ein. “In either case, eotun or not, we have ourselves two capable relict-slayers to protect us.”

“Oh,” Evaine exclaimed, as if she’d suddenly realized something. “No wonder there are so many rumours about the Children of the Wind.” She waved her arms excitedly, gesturing to the people in the green and gold around them. “They say you’re everything from fighters to healers to craftsmen, even though that’s not the case at all. It’s because of the people you travel with, isn’t it? You simply use their reputations to build on your own.”

“Indeed. That is our way, young flower,” Herod nodded. “Words, you’ll find, are the greatest weapons one can possess. We’ve had all manner of people travel with us from sorcerers to assassins and knights of the Legion. Even though they only come with us for part of the way, their feats latch onto our legend just like rumours passed down in a game of Felen Whispers. Many times we avoid conflict entirely simply because of the stories they tell about us. It’s a rather useful form of protection.”

A fork of lightning split the sky. The rumble that followed seemed to come from deep within the earth, dark and angry. Ein wrapped his cloak tighter around himself.

“Do you have any other stories?” Aren asked Garax. “Before the storm hits and we’re all forced into our tents.”

“Yes, please!” Evaine said excitedly. “There are so many stories you haven’t told us. Right, Ein?” She turned around and looked at him. Ein shrugged.

If there’s time to tell stories, there’s time to sleep, he thought. We won’t catch Alend and Talberon by sitting around a fire, telling stories.

“I suppose we have enough time for one more,” Garax thought for a moment. “Have you heard the story of Aedrasil and the Three Kings?”

“Please,” Aren said. “Who hasn’t heard it?”

Evaine scowled. “I haven’t. And neither has Ein. Right, Ein?”

“Well, it’s not a story that would be well-known in the more secluded corners of Faengard,” Herod remarked, poking at the fire. “Besides, it’s been a while since we’ve told it. I think it would be a good exercise to refresh our memories. You don’t mind if we take this one, do you, Master Garax?”

Garax shook his head. “Be my guest.”

“There’s no way I’d ever forget a story,” Aren said, glowering at his father. “What do you take me for, some ordinary trouper?”

Herod waved his hand. “Go on then, son. Enlighten our young visitors.”

“Alright, I will. Are you ready?”

The sky flashed again. The rumble that followed was closer now, only a split second behind. The smell of rain was heavy in the air.

“Once upon a time, there lived a girl named Aedrasil…”

Once upon a time, there lived a girl named Aedrasil. She was born in a time of darkness, right when the Great War was at its worst, with Al'Ashar’s forces laying waste to all life across Faengard. The land was rife with murder and rape and all manner of sin, for the people had given up hope and had fallen into depravity in the face of imminent doom.

Aedrasil was a beautiful girl, with lovely long hair the colour of molten gold and eyes like polished emeralds. Her skin shone with a warm lustre, like the sun from happier days, and when she spoke her voice was like a birdsong winding its way down the mountain.

Aedrasil was exceptionally gifted, even for a person born during an age of miracles, and her magic rivalled the greatest and wisest of sorcerers. When she was old enough to speak, she was singing the flowers to full bloom and felling great trees into firewood for her family. By the time she was of ageWhen she was old enough to bleed, she could already sing great chasms into the earth and cause entire rivers to change direction. By the time she came of age, her Song was capable of levelling mountains, a feat that bordered on the godlike.

During this time, Faengard was still broken into three separate kingdoms, each with their own ruler. The Three Kings, as they later came to be known, had forged an alliance amongst themselves and were the last remaining obstacles standing between the relicts and the end of all things good in the world. While the Alliance stood fast as best they could, the prophet Morene Gylfaginor set out to search for the golden-haired girl she’d seen in her dreams. She reached her, but not before the relicts did.

They came marching upon Aedrasil’s quiet village in the middle of nowhere, twisted faces leering, malice in their eyes. They came like a shadow creeping across the land, slowly and steadily, a plague sweeping over all things living and beautiful. It was the first time Aedrasil had ever seen or heard of such nightmares. Wherever the servants of Al'Ashar walked, the land withered. The grass dried and crumbled into dust, the trees shrunk into shrivelled husks, the sky itself became red and grey like the desolate wastelands of Nephilheim.

Aedrasil was a gentle girl by nature, but when the relicts came plundering and pillaging the place she called home, her magic erupted from her breast in a song of frenzy. She called to the earth and commanded it, carving a deep trench around her village that swallowed the encroaching darkness, and called forth fire and lightning to purge the land of its touch.

In the aftermath of the battle, Morene explained to her the state of the world and its need for her talent. Being an honest and dutiful person, Aedrasil agreed to join the Alliance, at least until the war had been won and the relicts driven back from the land.

Morene took Aedrasil to meet the Three Kings, and from there they fought and won many battles. Aedrasil shaped the earth itself, creating chasms, raising mountains, flooding and redirecting rivers to protect the people. When she wasn’t fighting she was being taught to wield her Song by Morene. Several landmarks she’d terraformed still remain to this very day.

Many years passed, and Aedrasil’s magic grew more and more powerful the more she used it. Even Al'Ashar the Oathbreaker himself came to fear her, for she held more power at her fingertips than the greatest of armies, rivalling even the gods in the Age before Ages.

However, as powerful as she was, she was but one person, and there is only so much one person can do.

Slowly the relicts advanced, tearing across the land, razing it to the ground without mercy. The allied forces were driven back, surrounded on all sides and forced into the last safe city in Faengard—Aldoran, home to the Heart of the World. The felen, the dweor, the humans and the dragons and the eotun gathered in the City of Twilight to prepare for what would be the deciding battle.

Morene Gylfaginor and her disciples approached Aedrasil that night with a daring plan that might just give them the edge they needed to win. Within the Heart of the World lay all the Spirit of Faengard itself, a near limitless supply of energy to fuel her magic. If Aedrasil could draw upon it and maintain her focus, there was a possibility she could wield it to cast a spell on a scale like no other and drive back the relicts once and for all. However, there was a high risk that came with handling so much power. Death was a serious possibility, even with the aid of Morene and the Druids of the Skyward Circle.

Aedrasil looked around at the country she’d grown up in and the state it had been reduced to. She thought about the village she’d grown up in that was no longer there, all the people whose lives depended on her. She alone had the power to end it all.

She agreed to the plan.

As the greatest of the relicts came marching into the City of Twilight, led by the Oathbreaker himself, Aedrasil entered the Heart of the World. With the aid of Morene and the Druids, she drew upon the energies of the world and cast the Sealing, a great warding spell that rippled throughout Faengard, weakening the relicts, shutting down each and every one of the portals to Nephilheim. With no more relicts streaming into the land, the Alliance made their move and fought back, cleaning up their weakened enemy, reclaiming their cities and lands in what would be known as the start of the Hundred Years War.

The Great War was over, but it had not come without a price.

Where Aedrasil’s feet touched the ground, her toes burst from her shoes and splayed into a mass of tangled roots. Her body and waist lengthened as she grew taller, longer, thicker, shooting towards the sky. Where her hands had reached upwards during the casting of the Sealing, her fingers branched outwards and opened into a grand canopy of leaves, the same molten gold and emerald as her eyes and hair.

Her body had changed into a tree to protect itself from the large amount of Spirit she’d channelled. Upon finding out what had happened, the Three Kings cried out in grief and tried to speak to her, but her mind had retreated so deep within itself that not even the voices of her friends and allies could reach. Even so, she was still channelling Spirit through the Heart of the World to maintain her spell, for the moment she faltered, the portals would open and the relicts would come spilling into Faengard once more.

Sometime after the final battle, when the world had begun to recover, the prophet Morene had another dream. She approached the Protector and there, nestled in the hollow of her roots were three newborn babies. They were three girls, daughters of Aedrasil conceived by magic. By some miracle of nature they’d survived, even after her death. Aedrasil’s spirit ran deep within their veins.

The three girls were eventually wed to the Three Kings, imparting their mother’s legacy to later generations. Even now, those who possess the blood of those kings are said to carry the latent power of Aedrasil herself.

“How does a woman conceive a child with no father?” Ein scowled. “Much less three.”

“It’s magic,” Aren shrugged. “It doesn’t need an explanation.”

“The laws of the world were different during the Age of Gods,” Garax said. “There are many things that were possible which are no longer possible now. Aedrasil herself was a miracle of nature, so it comes as no surprise that she was capable of things that might have been deemed impossible.”

White light flashed across the black sky, followed by a deafening thunderclap. The wind stirred uneasily around them. Rain began to fall, a light drizzle that grew heavier and heavier until it was a roaring downpour, all in the span of a few seconds.

“So the Ward Tree is wilting,” Ein muttered, as they fled for the shelter of the caravan. “And only those with her blood, which just so happens to be the blood of the Three Kings, can save her.”

Garax grunted as he eased himself through the flaps of one of the small tents that had been erected. The rain drummed a violent rhythm above them, threatening to rip apart the thin tarp.

“Who knows?” the old man shrugged. He winced as something in his back clicked. “Wyd help me, it’s cold.”

“Isn’t that what the story implies?” Ein pressed, remembering the conversation he’d overheard between Talberon and Alend. Alend possesses the blood of the Thorens. The blood of the Protector.

“It’s no secret that the Uldans are descendants of one of the Three Kings,” Aren continued. He’d wedged himself into a space not far away and had pulled a blanket over his chest. “The princess Celianna is the current Head of the Grove Tenders, the organisation which tends to Aedrasil’s well-being. Rumour has it that Aedrasil herself has spoken and needs the blood of the Three Kings for the rejuvenation ritual. It’s just word on the street, though. A lot of rumours have been flying around since the Great Winter started.”

“Sounds like we’re at the dawn of an exciting age,” Garax chuckled. “Something interesting always happens when those three bloodlines come together. Last time it happened we had the Rondo of the Three Kings.”

The sky boomed again, deafeningly loud, drowning out the conversation between Garax and Aren. Ein flinched and rolled over, only to find himself next to Evaine. She rubbed her shoulders briskly, breathing on the backs of her hands to warm them up.

“Aedrasil was just like us,” she murmured. “She left her village because of the relicts and became a hero. She became a legend. Maybe we’ll be like that too.”

Ein glared at her, but he doubted she could see him given how dark it was. “She turned into a tree,” he hissed, struggling to be heard above the howl of the wind and rain. “Nothing good comes out of heroes, Evaine. Have you ever heard a story of a hero who lived to a ripe old age and died in their sleep? I don’t think so.”

Evaine said nothing, but he heard her shift in her bedroll. The night passed with them huddled in their blankets, listening to the roar of the heavens above.