The Power of a Few

Family ~ 6

~10 Years Ago~

   "No, it's mine!" Mel squealed. She reached a plump hand across the table to snatch the arrowhead from Zalon.

   "I found it," Zalon said, withdrawing further into the plush cushions. His half-sister stretched out her fingers and a small glimmering ball of violet energy appeared in her tiny palm. Her brow furrowed in annoyance.

   "Give it."

   The eight-year-old pointed her finger, and the power loosed. The glowing force smashed into Zalon's chest, flinging him and the couch across their playroom. Pain erupted over his body. Zalon hit the wall with a gasp and slumped to the floor. His chest felt warm. He lifted a hand to touch it and raised it to his face. Blood dripped down his fingers.

   Mel ran across the room and snatched the arrowhead from his hand.

   "Ah! Mine. Mine. All mine," she sang as she danced across thick carpets toward the wide mahogany door.

   Zalon felt queasy from the sight of his own blood. He struggled to rise but doubled over in agony. His eyelids were heavy. Unconsciousness draped over him like a warm fur blanket. He tried to call for Merianda, but he scarcely achieved a soft croak. Coldness stole away the warmth of his blood. It seeped into his bones, chilling him to his core. He still heard Mel triumphing around the room when the large doors burst open.

   "What was that-"

   Zalon barely heard the maid's scream. He was so tired. Maybe he should close his eyes and fall asleep.

   Merianda jolted him awake as she struggled to lift him.

   "Mel," she said, "What happened?"

   "He wouldn't give me the pretty rock, so I took it."

   Mel's voice sounded so far away.

   "We need to find your mother. We'll talk about this later."

   The long corridors of the castle became a blur of shadows and tapestries as Merianda raced to the High Princess' chambers, Mel continuing her little victory dance behind the maid. Zalon felt a soft bump as she pushed open the doors to his mother's room.

   "What is this?!" The High Princess' voice was as sharp as a dagger and cold like a winter night. It stung Zalon's senses and chilled the blood that dribbled onto Merianda's dress. He shuddered. He hated it when his mother was angry.

   "Your son, milady, is wounded," Merianda said, "Should I bring him to the Ward for healing?"

   "Magic can't heal, you dolt."

   Zalon could barely make out his mother's face. Only her narrow eyes seemed to cut through the haze clouding his vision. She examined him like the robins she used for her rituals.

   "Forgive me, milady," Merianda answered.

   "Again?" She asked.

   "It would seem so, milady."

   Zalon's mother sighed, annoyed of the disruption.

   "Take him to the Kreoul. Only he can heal such an injury."

   "Yes, milady."

   Once again Merianda carried Zalon through the winding corridors of Kever K'Shaw, this time to the throne room of his grandfather. Undra Kyhelius, Kreoul of Yi'il.

   He faintly heard Merianda request the guards to inform the Kreoul of the gravity of his grandson's injury. The soldier's heavy footsteps disrupted the fatigue that was smothering him. He could feel Merianda shaking under his weight. He was a small child, but Merianda was a frail woman, meant to carry only the trays of food for him and Mel.