The Dreaming Goddess

Chapter One: Leaving Home

Mother had always wished for a daughter, but William had never been able to meet her expectations.

William had known it his entire life. He'd seen it in her disappointed glances as she trained, her blonde hair flowing. But he couldn't think of that right now; he had to train in the art of music.

He scarcely heard the music as his hands flew over the minstrel's harp. The white garb he was clad in was loose around his hands as he strummed the instrument. Blonde hair fell over his shoulders as Rusara watched beneath a dark hood and green eyes. The cavernous hall he was in seemed to warp and mutate the sounds. William kept his eyes away from the skeletal figures carved in stone on the high ceilings above. He hated this room with a passion.

A fire was burning in the hearth, but his hands were still cold. So why did Lady Rusara insist on having her lessons here? There were many smaller, better rooms. So why did Rusara always insist on the most unpleasant one?

William had grown to hate these stones around him.

But it hardly mattered. No one questioned Lady Rusara except Father; he'd been gone for years. Even Mother wouldn't dare.

"You're thinking too deeply," said Lady Rusara, brushing a strand of blonde hair from William's face with one gray-skinned hand. You haven't touched the strings of your harp."

William rose and looked at his harp, carefully carved and fit for his hand. William loved his harp, but it was getting small for him. He hadn't realized he'd drifted off. "I'm sorry, Rusara. I'm... I'm not in a good state of mind."

"That doesn't matter," said Rusara, pulling down her hood. "Someday, your life may rely on your ability to play the harp. If you have not practiced, where will you be, then?" She paused to draw a small strip of dried meat and offered it to the crow on her shoulder, Skullcracker. Skullcracker snapped it up and flew up to land on the rafters.

"Dead, I suppose," said William.

"Exactly," said Rusara, "now start again."

William played once more. His hands felt unnatural as he plucked the strings. The proper melody always eluded him, no matter how he tried to make music. The task was difficult to master at the best of times. It was far harder than swordplay, but he much preferred the music.

"Passable," said Rusara, "you need work and ought to be a bit less stiff. If you fear failing, you are more likely to make mistakes."

"I'm nothing like Mother, am I?" asked William.

"That may not be as bad a thing as you think," said Rusara. Every person is different, William, and few are exactly like the people who bore them. You have Azgora's hair and strength, but your eyes you take from your father—that and much of your personality."

"Father is a great hero," said William thoughtfully. "He's a victor of many battles. But I'm not like him."

"You don't have to be," said Rusara with a smile. "A person may serve their nation, people, and god in many ways. Vanion didn't think much of his chances either. He was only a passable warrior at the best of times. Yet his cunning turned him into a great leader. So continue to improve yourself; you may be great one day."

"I don't want to be great," admitted William. "Is that why Mother hates me?" Would that he could gain anything from her but scorn. Yet he served little purpose in this place, held back long after all the others had gone.

"Azgora doesn't hate you," said Rusara. "I've seen her when she hates someone, and it's altogether different. She is unsure of how to react to you. She was very set in her ways when I first met her, with clear expectations. Vanion defied those expectations, and that attracted him to her.