At fifteen, Aedan had felt mortified to act out the gheallie Sidhe with a mere child of nine. Back then, that had been Michael’s favorite game. Based on the second part of “The Legacy of Kings,” the gheallie Sidhe, or “Hunt of the Elves,” told the story of how the Elven Court resisted the incursion of the human tribes into their lands and how elven knights roamed the countryside, slaying any humans they encountered. This resulted in a war that lasted many years, but the elves were steadily pushed back from their territories because the humans had a weapon they were powerless against, namely, priestly magic.
Elves had mages of their own, but their spells were based upon the natural forces inherent in wood and water, field and air. They had never worshiped deities and could not comprehend this strange new source of power. In the end, the elves retreated to the forests, and the power of the Elven Court was shattered. All that now remained of the vast empire they once ruled were several isolated elven kingdoms scattered across the wooded regions of Cerilia, such as Tuarhievel, Coullabhie, Siellaghriod, Cwmb Bheinn, and Tuarannwn.
At one time or another, during Michael’s relentless obsession with the gheallie Sidhe, Aedan had played elven warriors from each of those distant kingdoms, dying countless times—and never quite dramatically enough—from the spells of Michael’s “priestly magic.” Sometimes Michael took the part of elven mages for variety, but that was even worse. He would hide behind the tapestries hanging in the halls and leap out at an unsuspecting Aedan, slaying him with elvish spells.
“Boola-boola-ka-boola!”
“What was that, Your Highness?”
“Boola-boola-ka-boola!” Michael would yell out again, flinging out his arms and waggling his fingers. “It’s an elvish melting spell. You’re dead!”
“Elven mages do not cast melting spells, Your Highness. At least, I am fairly sure they don’t. Besides, that did not sound anything at all like elvish.”
“If I say it’s elvish, then it’s elvish! Now melt!”
“Forgive me, Your Highness, but exactly how am I supposed to do that?”
Michael would stamp his foot and roll his eyes impatiently, as if any moron would know how to melt on cue. “You’re supposed to grab your throat and make horrible, gurgling noises as you sink down to the ground into a puddle of stinking ooze!”
“Very well, Your Highness, as you wish.” And Aedan would grab his throat and choke, gurgling as hideously as he knew how, meanwhile sinking to his knees and collapsing to the floor, trying his best to look as much like a puddle of stinking ooze as possible. His performance was never quite satisfying enough.
“Aedan, that was terrible!”
“Forgive me, Your Highness, I tried my very best. But I’ve never melted before. Perhaps if you could show me how?”
Whereupon Michael would demonstrate the proper way to melt, and as Aedan watched his histrionics, he would be forced to admit that Michael did it better.
“Now do it again, and this time, do it right!”
Often, Aedan would have to die at least half a dozen times before the prince was satisfied. It wasn’t long, however, before Michael’s nonsense syllables and outflung fingers were replaced by the lethal force of wooden sword and shield, and Aedan found miseries anew as he was repeatedly battered into submission by his young prince in the role of Haelyn, champion of Anduiras at the Battle of Mount Deismaar.
The third part of “The Legacy of Kings,” and the source of Aedan’s current woes, was “The Twilight of the Gods,” which told the story of how Azrai, the lord of darkness, had pursued the Six Tribes into Cerilia, determined to subjugate the people and wrest them from their gods.
Azrai first enlisted in his cause the goblins and the gnolls of Vosgaard in the northern regions of Cerilia, and gave their leaders priestly powers. Through cunning and deception, he then corrupted the Vos tribe, who had fallen from their worship of the moon god, and left the path of magic for the way of sword and mace. Next, Azrai sought to seduce the demihumans, the elves and dwarves, by tempting them through dreams and omens. The stoic dwarves did not fall prey to the blandishments of Azrai, but the elves had burned with the desire for revenge ever since the humans took their lands and pushed them back into the forests. Swayed by Azrai’s promises of the destruction of their human enemies and the restoration of their lands, once more, the elves prepared for war.
The kings of the Cerilian tribes were quick to realize the danger and joined forces, setting aside their differences to unite against the common foe. But even as the two armies met in combat, the warriors from the Adurian lands arrived to join the fray on Azrai’s side. Realizing that Azrai’s victory was within his grasp, the old gods appeared to their besieged followers at the land bridge between the continents of Aduria and Cerilia, where the mortals were trapped between their enemies’ forces.
Each god had chosen a champion from among his or her followers to lead in the final battle. Anduiras, the god of the Anuireans, chose Haelyn, who best exemplified all the virtues of a noble knight. Together with Roele, his younger brother, and their standard-bearer, Aedan’s ancestor, Traederic Dosiere, Haelyn led the tribes in one last, desperate assault against their enemies. Arrayed against them were the armies of the southern lands, in addition to the humanoids, the treacherous Vos, and the warriors of the elven kingdoms, all led by Azrai and his champion, the traitor, Prince Raesene, half-brother to Haelyn and Roele, whose ambition led him to betray his people and sell himself to the dark god.
Michael, indisputably, was always Haelyn when they played the game, but no one ever wanted to be Prince Raesene. The casting of the role of the Black Prince would always be the occasion of an argument among the young nobles of the Imperial Court, and depending on his mood, Michael would either settle things by force of royal prerogative or else stand back and watch his playmates settle it themselves. At such times, Aedan would be forced to step in and break it up while Michael watched with glee, delighting in the bruises that his future chamberlain received as he tried to separate two homicidal eight-year-olds armed with wooden swords.
This time, the matter had been settled peaceably, thanks to Aedan’s diplomatic skills, but it still left Michael in a surly mood. He had been denied his halflings and had revealed his lack of knowledge, due to his indifference in his studies. Now his choice for the Black Prince had been successfully disputed, though Aedan had tried to smooth things over as best as he knew how. Still, the future chamberlain had seen that stubborn set to Michael’s jaw before and knew exactly what it meant.
Someone was going to catch it when the “battle” started. It wasn’t likely to be Derwyn, who had whined about being picked to play Raesene, because now he was on Michael’s side as Prince Roele. Corwin, however, had been chosen to play the goblin general, which meant he was a likely target, despite being a year older and almost twice the size of Michael.
Aedan sighed with resignation. He would have to make a point of staying close by Corwin’s side so he could interpose himself if things got out of hand. As the Black Prince, it would be logical for him to challenge Haelyn, and he could thereby step in to take the brunt of the assault. It would mean more bruises, because Michael never held back on his blows, and though he was only twelve, a wooden sword could still raise a nasty welt, especially since Aedan wore no armor save for a light skullcap. Being older and much bigger, he had to take care to control his blows, which was more difficult while wearing armor. Meanwhile, his armored young opponents would flail away at him for all that they were worth, and he would once more wind up black and blue. However, better that than risk the chance of Corwin ringing Michael like a gong. Aedan didn’t want to think about the problems that could cause. By all the gods, he thought, I hate this game.