Jonathan Rogers - The Way of the Wilderking

Steren gave Aidan a wry smile. “Any mention of Aidan Errolson, any whisper about the Wilderking, sends him into an insane rage. There’s no talking him out of anything when it comes to you.”

“So these Aidanites…” Aidan began.

“You know about the Aidanites?”

“Percy told me about them,” he said, a little embarrassed.

“Those fools are going to tear this kingdom apart, and they don’t seem to care.” Aidan saw real anger in the prince’s face. “Why they feel the need to force themselves on the ancient prophecies, I’ll never know.”

“I have nothing to do with those people, you know.” Aidan suddenly felt the need to justify himself.

“I know that,” Steren answered. “Of course I know that.”

“But when you hear about the Aidanites, see what they’re doing, does it…” Aidan paused. Did he want to know, or did he not want to know? “Does it make you feel bitterness toward me?”

Steren sat quietly, pondering how to answer Aidan’s question. “I love Corenwald,” he began, slowly. “I don’t just mean the throne of Corenwald. I mean Corenwald itself-its people, its lands, its creatures. And if ever I am king, I expect I will go down in history as one of Corenwald’s greatest kings. I’m not boasting, I hope you know.”

Aidan thought of the admiration that shone so clearly on the faces of the men at Last Camp, and he knew Steren was right. He had grown into a leader of tremendous charisma and ability. He would indeed make a great king.

Steren continued, “And yet I know the Wilderking prophecy. I know it is not God’s purpose that the House of Darrow should stand forever.

“But I still haven’t answered your question, have I? You asked me whether I ever feel bitterness toward you. Sometimes I do. For the last three years, I’ve been at Tambluff Castle learning what it is to be a king. And learning the hardest way possible, I don’t mind telling you. The burdens I have borne these three years-to watch my father’s court disintegrate around him, to be his only comfort and support. Meanwhile, you’ve been in the Feechiefen Swamp doing who knows what. You had no choice. I understand that. I don’t blame you. But I hope you won’t blame me either when I say I felt a pang of resentment when I heard people declare that Corenwald never will be happy until Aidan Errolson is its king. Aidan Errolson, who was frolicking with feechies while I was already bearing the burdens of kingship without any of its benefits.”

Aidan nodded, humbled by Steren’s words. “The Aidanites may be right,” Steren continued. “I know they may be right. The time of the Wilderking may be upon us. It may not be the purpose of the living God that I should ever be king.” There was evident pain on his face when he spoke. “But I will say this: If you are ever to be king”-he pointed a finger at Aidan, not in accusation but for emphasis-“you’ve got a lot to learn yet-things you can learn only on this side of the river.”

Aidan had the strange feeling Steren had outgrown him in the past three years. Steren, who had looked up to Aidan when they were younger, had grown into a man, into someone very like a king. Aidan, on the other hand, felt he was much the same person he had been when he took to the Feechiefen.

At last Aidan spoke. “Steren, I am as loyal to the House of Darrow as I have ever been. And when you inherit the kingdom of Corenwald, God willing, I will be proud to follow you.”

“If there is any kingdom left to inherit,” Steren said absently, staring across the treetops. Then, with a slight shudder, he came back to the present. “We should be going,” he said. “Which way are you headed?”

“West,” Aidan answered. “Up the Overland Trail.”

“Then I’ll go east. I’ll circle around and come into Last Camp from the east side, tell the men you escaped that way. That should give you a head start.”

Aidan embraced his old friend before they parted ways. “I don’t reckon we’ll ever talk again like this, will we?”

Steren looked down through the treetops. “No, I don’t suppose so. Not so long as my father is king of Corenwald.” Looking into his friend’s face, he added, “But, Aidan, you’ll never have a more devoted friend than I.”

Dobro was showing Percy basic tactics of feechie fighting when Aidan got back to the moss bed where he had left them. Given the head start Steren had provided, they agreed they no longer required the secrecy afforded by treetop travel. They could safely use the Overland Trail, and they would make much better time. Hustingreen was the nearest village. There they could buy supplies, even horses, for the rest of their journey to Sinking Canyons.

They hit the River Road just below Longleaf Manor, Errol’s lands, which now belonged to Lord Fershal of the Hill Country. The front fields, once so robust with wheat or sometimes corn, had gone to broomsedge and thistle. Even from the road, they could see that one of the shutters on the front of the manor house was hanging askew.

“Fershal doesn’t even live there,” Percy remarked. “Spends all his time in Tambluff.”

“What about all the farmhands?” Aidan asked. “How do they make a living now?”

Percy shrugged.

“And who’s growing food for the villagers in Hustingreen?”

Percy shrugged again. They quickened their pace, eager to put the sad sight of their old home behind them.

The travelers were almost in sight of Hustingreen when they saw the first of the Aidanites’ posters. Tacked to a tree on the side of the road, it read in thick, black letters, WHEN FEAR OF GOD HAS LEFT THE LAND, TO BE REPLACED BY FEAR OF MAN; WHEN CORENWALDERS FREE AND TRUE ENSLAVE THEMSELVES AND OTHERS TOO;

“These foolish people,” Aidan grumbled. “They don’t know what they’re talking about. They don’t know what they’re doing to Corenwald.”

A few steps farther down the road, a second poster was tacked to a tree on the other side: WHEN JUSTICE AND MERCY DISAPPEAR, WHEN LIFE IS CHEAP AND GOLD IS DEAR,

Aidan snatched the sheet of palmetto paper from the tree and ripped it in half, then half and half again. “How I’d like to rip the man who put these up,” he growled.

Dobro watched Aidan carefully, not sure what to make of his behavior. He couldn’t read and wouldn’t have recognized the Wilderking Chant even if he could read. He assumed this was a strange civilizer custom.

Aidan snatched the next poster: TO THE PALACE HE COMES FROM FORESTS AND SWAMPS. WATCH FOR THE WILDERKING!

And the next: LEADING HIS TROOPS OF WILD MEN AND BRUTES. WATCH FOR THE WILDERKING!

Aidan was furious. These meddlers, these Aidanites, couldn’t leave well enough alone, could they? They had to stir up trouble, had to force themselves on the ancient prophecies. Now Aidan’s family was outlawed and living in the most godforsaken patch of ground in all of Corenwald; the civilizers had narrowly missed all-out war with the feechies; Aidan was running for his life and would never see his beloved Feechiefen again-all because of his so-called followers and their posters. HE WILL SILENCE THE BRAGGART, ENNOBLE THE COWARD. WATCH FOR THE WILDERKING!

Aidan snatched it down and stomped on it. “I’d like to silence a braggart or two,” he observed. JUSTICE WILL ROLL, AND MERCY WILL TOLL. WATCH FOR THE WILDERKING!

“Let me do this one,” Dobro suggested. He was eager to adopt the ways of the civilizers, however strange they seemed. He contorted his face into a fierce scowl, imitating Aidan’s expression. He ripped the paper from the tree, balled it up, and jumped up and down on it, bringing his knees almost up to his chin with each jump and flailing his arms. “I’ll bragger the silence,” he snarled. “I’ll fool the folks what don’t know what they’re doing.” Percy doubled over laughing at Dobro’s bad imitation of Aidan’s outbursts. “Looks like the Aidanites have a new enemy,” he said. Aidan couldn’t help smiling himself, in spite of his irritation.