Disclaimer: As you all know, I don't own any of Eddings' characters. Although, technically, I suppose you could say that Bevier's mother is mine… because I don't think that David Eddings made any mention of her. So… yeah! First character of mine! grin Don't worry… there will be more. nod nod

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Chapter Two

The journey back to Arcium was the longest he ever remembered making. On his way, he stopped at Chyrellos, and spent a day there, praying for forgiveness of his sins, and he prayed for Kalten's as well. After he felt sufficiently purged, Bevier left for his home in Arcium again, going quickly, but not so fast as to over-exert himself or his horse, Caedryn.

An excruciating four days later, the young Cyrinic arrived at his home. Though he was bursting with apprehension, Bevier forced himself not to rush; he very nearly calmly dismounted and passed his grey stallion to the able-handed stable boys. Unhooking his Lochaber and his packs from the saddle, he walked inside and nonchalantly tossed them—well, the packs he tossed. He placed his axe down with care—into his room before heading to his mother's suits.

The servants milling about his mother's suits recognised him, and smiled wanly, their joy to have him come home over-masked by their sadness for the lady of the house's welfare. The permitted him entrance to her room, and he strode in, concern writ over his olive-hued face. She was sleeping at the moment, and the servants who were tending to her backed away as Bevier approached. His mother was pale, paler than he remembered, and she looked underfed. He knew this was not the case, however; the servants loved his mother dearly and would never allow her to go hungry for whatever reason. As he drew near, she stirred and wrinkled her nose a bit.

"Bevier," she said weakly, not bothering to open her eyes, "it's nice of you to come see me, but go wash up first. You smell like an armoury that's been rained on for a year."

The young Arcian flushed. He had completely forgotten that he was still in full armour. He wouldn't normally have ridden in it, but it was more of a hassle to carry it than to wear it, so he had worn it.

"Yes, mother," he replied obediently, and left promptly to wash up.

In about a half an hour, Bevier returned to his mother's room and found her sitting, propped up on several pillows, and the young Arcian was dismayed to see how thin and fragile his mother had become. She smiled faintly when she saw him, clad in a soft tunic and hose instead of steel.

"Mother," he said, sitting on the bed beside her.

She lifted her arms slightly in a silent request and he gladly leaned over and hugged her. Bevier distraughtly noted how light she was, and he tried not to let his worry show in his features.

"How have you been?" he asked her.

"Dying," she replied, rather placidly.

"Mother!" he exclaimed, taken aback.

"Oh, please, Bevier. Don't act so surprised. You know it, I know it; everyone here knows it. I've been dying for quite some time now, and I can feel the pain of it starting to ease away. The time is soon, I think," she added pensively, as if she were talking about the weather, or the state of politics.

"Mother, don't say such things," her son nearly pleaded, his dark eyes searching her face.

She smiled benignly and touched Bevier's cheek lovingly. "My dear, dear son," she said gently, "everyone dies sooner or later. It's something we can't change no matter how much we want to, because it is all part of God's will."

He swallowed down the lump in his throat and blinked back the tears that threatened to spill forth. "That doesn't mean I have to like it," he whispered.

"No, of course not," she answered, pulling him into a hug again.

They sat there for a moment until his mother drew back, sniffing.

"Where are my manners? Preceptor Abriel called for you while you were in Cimmura. He said that he wanted to speak with you when you got back, but he also said that not to rush; it apparently isn't all that urgent."

Bevier nodded. "I'll go see him in a few days, then. Thank you, Mother." He was loath to leave her so soon, but duty was duty, after all. It was like his mother had said, that there are some things that happen—or that one must do—that aren't pleasurable, but must be done, since it was all part of God's will.

What neither of the Arcians knew, however, was which will of which god—goddess, more accurately.

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A few days later, the Cyrinic Champion saddled Caedryn and rode off to the Cyrinic Chapterhouse, regretfully leaving his frail mother in the hands of her capable servants. It wasn't that he didn't trust the servants, but he would have much rather been by her side as well. He sighed and pushed those thoughts to the back of his mind as the Chapterhouse drew near. Two large, pristine Cyrinic knights at the gate, their visors down, greeted him.

"Who art thou who wouldst enter into the house of God?" one of them asked.

"I am Sir Bevier, son of God and brother to this exulted house," the Arcian replied.

"Canst thou prove that thou art truly a son of the Most Holy, and a brother to this divine house?"

At that prompt, Bevier reached into his tunic and pulled out a silver pendant that all the Cyrinic knights wore, distinguishing them from those who would pretend to be of the order; the intricacies of the design was hard to reproduce by mere amateurs.

"By troth, thou art a true son of God and brother to this house." The knight who spoke raised his visor, the other following suit soon after. "Thou may enter, noble Sir Bevier." A smile broke out over the knight's face. "And welcome back," he added in a normal tone, opposed to the formal one he had donned while going through the ritual.

"Thank you, Sir Llowen. I presume Lord Abriel is in his study?"

"Aye, I believe so."

"Yet again, thank you." He didn't have to nudge Caedryn forward between the two knights, who moved obligingly out of the way for him. "May God be with you," he said to them.

"And with you."

Bevier left Caedryn with the novitiates in the stables and made his way to the main building inside the sturdy walls of the Chapterhouse. He didn't bother to go to his room and don the cowled robe that the knights normally wore when inside. He strode purposefully down to the preceptor's study, the layout of the building not unlike the Pandion's Chapterhouse. He knocked lightly on the door and awaited Abriel's summons.

"Enter." The voice, unlike Sparhawk's had been, was strong and unwavering. Then again, Abriel didn't have three other titles and a wife and daughter to think about.

The young Arcian went into the room, closing the door softly behind him, then straightened and bowed low to his preceptor. "Thou art kind to bid mine lowly self entrance," Bevier said formally.

"Thou art noble enough to earn it," Abriel said, concluding the short ritualistic greeting. "What brings you here, Bevier?"

"My mother said that you had stopped by and wanted to talk to me about something," Bevier said, taking a seat.

"Ah, yes. I did." The preceptor sat back in his chair and folded his hands in his lap. "There have been some rumours of a new order of knights somewhere in Pelosia."

Bevier nodded. "Before I left Cimmura, Sparhawk informed me of that."

"What else did he tell you?"

"Nothing more than that there were rumours going about. That's all he knew as well."

"I see. The people have been reporting strange things when they claim to have seen these 'knights'."

"Oh? What sort of strange things?"

"Dragons."

Bevier stared at his preceptor a moment and stifled a laugh. "Dragons?"

"Yes, I do believe that's what I said."

"You can't be serious!"

"I'm not the one making these claims, Bevier. The people in Pelosia are," Abriel replied calmly.

The young Arcian shook his head. "I find that hard to believe. The dragons, I mean," he clarified.

Abriel nodded. "As do I. Which is why I'm sending you to find out if there's some substantiality to these rumours, and that it isn't just some renegade Styric magician playing some hoax." Obviously, Abriel was thinking back to the renegade Pandion, Martel.

"That's more probable," Bevier said, although a bit unsure of himself, considering Aphrael.

"I'm glad you think so. I want a full report on what's really happening out there. No rush, though. If it is a hoax, then there really isn't much danger." He didn't say anything about the possibility that the rumours might be true.

Bevier took his cue and stood, bowing. "Of course, Lord Abriel. I'll ride out to Pelosia in a few days. I… I want to stay with my mother a little longer."

"I understand completely, Sir Bevier. She was looking…" Abriel paused.

"Not well?" Bevier said bitterly. "Yes, I know. She thinks the time is near."

"I'm sorry," Abriel said most sincerely. "If there's anything I can do…"

The young Arcian shook his head. "Don't trouble yourself with it. It's just a bit disconcerting to hear her talk about her own death so… nonchalantly." He took a deep breath. "She's in the hands of God now—or, at least, she will be soon." A morbid streak was running through the Cyrinic Champion as of late. Maybe this little expedition would do him good. It would keep his mind off his mother… most of the time. He had been getting restless as of late anyway; his soul yearned for travel. As much as he didn't want to leave his mother, he didn't want to have to think about her dying… he didn't want to have to see her dying.

Saying a final farewell to his preceptor, Bevier left the study, and slowly made his way out of the Chapterhouse.

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A week later, Bevier found himself strolling through the gardens of his beloved home. It was the middle of the night, and he wasn't quite sure how he got there. He remembered dreaming about the Bhelliom, and Aphrael. She had beckoned him from somewhere, but no matter how fast he ran to get to her, she seemed to always stay just out of reach. And so it was that he ended up in the gardens. Bevier paused by a particularly exotic-looking flower and supposed that he must have been sleepwalking to end up here. Taking a deep breath and savouring the glorious scent of the gardens before he left on another journey, Bevier sat down on a stone bench nearby. Soon afterward, the Arcian heard the sound of a crude shepherd's pipes coming from deeper within the gardens. Narrowing his eyes a bit, he stood and followed the sound, ready to scold Aphrael when he saw her, but he knew that idea was futile. He couldn't help but love the Child Goddess Aphrael—he didn't think that there were very many people who didn't love her.

As he expected, he found her perched on another stone bench, surrounded by dogwood trees and flowers of all sorts. Her little feet—which always seemed to have grass stains—were idly swinging back and forth as she played a happy little tune, though it almost sounded as if it were in a minor key. A smile crept over Bevier's face involuntarily as he neared the little girl, and it merely widened as she saw him and took the pipes away from her lips, her little rose bud mouth spreading in its own smile.

"Hello, Bevier, so nice of you to join me. You certainly took your time." She held her arms out to him and he knelt in front of the bench, hugging her as she smothered his face in kisses for a few minutes. "Now," she said when she felt he had been sufficiently kissed, "for the reason I've brought you here."

"I thought you might have had something to do with it," he said idly. "But couldn't you have just come to me?"

She grinned. "Oh, it's so much nicer here than it is in your stuffy room," she explained. Before he could say anything to that, however, the little Child Goddess held up her dainty fingers to his lips and continued. "I'd love to have idle chatter with you, Bevier, I really would, but I actually have a reason for being here."

Bevier nodded and obediently sat back on his heels, watching her intently. This caused Aphrael to smile broadly.

"You're such a nice boy," she complimented him. "But there's no time for that. The rumours that you've been told about aren't merely rumours. There, in fact, is a new order of knights in Pelosia. They aren't from this world, however." She paused a moment, as if expecting Bevier to say something, but when he didn't, she resumed. "I can't tell you what world it is, at the moment, though. That doesn't matter much anyway; you'll probably find out in due time." She thoughtfully tapped her fingers on the shepherd's pipes. "But you can't go into this not knowing anything. First things first, these knights will be unlike any knights you've encountered before. You'll see what I mean," she said before Bevier could ask anything, "when you meet one." Aphrael smiled, thinking over her plans for the young Arcian.

"How do you know I'll meet one?" Bevier inquired.

Aphrael feigned innocence. "I've got a hunch," she replied.

"Well, if you say so," the Arcian said.

Aphrael laughed, giving Bevier a number of kisses, and hugging him tightly. "You'll do just fine," she murmured to him.

Bevier pulled back and gave the small Goddess a puzzled look. He was about to ask her what she meant when he woke up. Sitting up in his bed, he glanced around, confused for a moment until he realised he was in his room. Shaking his head to clear his thoughts, Bevier wondered if he had actually been to the garden, and if he had actually met Aphrael there, or if it had all been a dream. He glanced out the window. He didn't think that he would ever be truly certain of either possibility; you could never tell with Aphrael. He was sure it hadn't been a normal dream, however; it felt as if it had really happened. His thoughts flickered back to the dream he and all the others had shared while they were in Zemoch, before reaching the city. That had been a dream, he was sure, but it had been so real. He sighed and decided not to think of that.

The little Goddess had told him that this new order of knights were different than any other order he'd come across before, but he didn't really see how that could be. Of course, each order was a bit different, Bevier granted her that, but the fundamentals, values, and chivalric codes were the same. The Cyrinic assumed that those values would hold true to any knighthood, for how could one become a knight unless one believed and practiced such ideals?

Deciding firmly that was the case, and that Aphrael was probably mistaken in her judgement—not wrong, only mistaken, mind you—the Arcian fell back on his bed and slowly drifted back to sleep. He would leave for Pelosia in the morning.