Chapter 1
For many years I did not know who I was and where I had come from. It seems as if I have spent my whole childhood in a fortified castle near the borders of our enemy land, Sharlilai. My master has always told me that I was different from everybody else in the castle. But I am more than just different, I am an outcast. I have always been and I will always be; even after the dragonhead has sunk together with me to the bottom of the sea, people will always call me Heraldin's bastard. Back in the days when I was a young man, other pages called me like that and told me that I should be grateful for what my king had done for me. Unfortunately, I realize now, they were right. The greatest thing King Naghren has done for me, is letting me live with my master. If he had wanted, he could have sentenced me to death the minute I entered his castle. But he did not, instead he gave Heraldin the permission to adopt and train me.
Now, I would like to tell you the whole story of my arrival but I recall only vague memories, and I am not sure if what I remember is the truth. After so many winters, I fear that my mind is full of visions that have little to do with what happened that day. But, there is one thing that I am sure of: that night, I died as an anonymous boy and was reborn again as the only page of a mighty warlock named Heraldin. For I did not recall any details of my previous existence, my master gave me a new name, an elfin name, Deäron. Soon I realized that my name was something peculiar as nobody wanted to call me like that, apart from Heraldin. Thus I was called Elf by most people. Not that I was one, but the king told me once that my appearance reminded him of an old elfin friend; a man he had not seen in a long time and he did not know if he was still alive. But, this acquaintance of his has nothing to do with the story I am about to recount.
On my sixteenth birthday, Heraldin gave me a golden medallion as a gift for becoming a man . It did not look unusual nor did it contain any secret. But as I sat on my bed later that night, staring at the runic figures on the medallion, I started rethinking what I had accomplished in my short, yet somehow turbulent life. I felt the need to know more about myself, about my upbringing before my master had found me, more dead than alive. I had a few theories about my early childhood, but none of them made any sense. Sometimes I considered being a fallen angel, doomed to spend my days on earth. While on other occasions, I imagined that my family had left me behind because I was rather a burden to them than a gift. Either story brought discomfort and dismay, saddening my mind so badly that my master did not know what to do with me. Do not get me wrong, my master was probably the wisest wizard of his time, but he did not understand human emotions at all. He belonged to the race of the Solkarians, a high regarded tribe of warlocks whose powers came from the ancient Gods themselves. It is said that in exchange for power, they lost their emotions. Nobody knows if this is the truth, but it would be a logical explanation for none of the warlocks can experience any kind of emotion. Unfortunately internal struggle has caused them to be nearly extinct and if the tide does not turn rapidly, there will be none left, which is a shame as a great amount of ancient knowledge will vanish with them. No man has actually ever understood how a nation of cold-hearted but very wise wizards could slaughter their own kinsmen, but it has happened before and will probably occur again.
Nevertheless, that night I decided to no longer dwell in misery, but to undertake some serious action. I had no plan yet, but I knew that I wanted to find the place where my roots were hidden.
Since I was too eager to fall asleep, I went to the courtyard, where soldiers were listening to the tales of Yiar, the minstrel, while drinking golden mead. I had just come in time to hear the last lines of his tale:
"Thus spoke the men of the North, mourning for their master.
For the hero's passing's left a hole, in their hearts forever.
