Crown of Vengeance

“Show me what I wish to see,” he commanded, and the Mirror did. It showed him the Bright World as the Brightworlders saw it. It showed him their lives and their fates. For a very long time, Virulan watched, and learned. He left the Mirror only to seek the silence and stillness that preserved his existence; at each Rising he returned to the visions of the Mirror once more. A thousand Risings came and went before he had learned what he must know.

And then he left the Obsidian Mirror, and went to the Heart of Darkness, and seated himself upon the Shadow Throne, and summoned Uralesse.

“I have learned what I wished to know,” he said without preamble when Uralesse groveled before him. “And I would hear your counsel.”

“Tell me how I may serve you, my king,” Uralesse answered.

“The Brightworlders cannot be slain,” Virulan said flatly.

Uralesse raised his head in shock, his pupilless yellow eyes going wide. “He Who Is has said it must be,” he protested.

“And so I have summoned you, for you will hear the Brightworlders’ secret and understand. He Who Is made us to destroy all the Light has made. He has not set us to destroy the Light itself, for that is a task He reserves for His own, once ours is done. But ours will never be done, my brother. He Who Is has given us great sorcery—but the Light has given life the ability to multiply itself, increasing faster than thought. Once you spoke of an ever-filling spring and I thought it merely clever poetry. But it is not. And we are few!”

His last words were a howl of anguish.

“Then we must be more than we are,” Uralesse said strongly. He dared to sit back on his heels at the foot of the Shadow Throne, but did not rise. “You who are the wellspring of all sorcery, who have dared to gaze upon the naked ugliness of our foe—you know their secret! We will take it and use it against them!”

For a long time, Virulan gazed at his counselor in silence. “Let it be so,” he said at last. “Summon our brothers.”

* * *

When all the Endarkened were gathered together, it was a communion of such beauty that Virulan nearly wept to behold it. Rugashag—Shurzul—Khambaug—Bashahk—Dhasgah—Gholak—Lashagan—Marbuglor— Arzhugdu—Nagreloth—Orbushnu—Uralesse—each was more glorious than the next. And each one of them was dedicated to only two things.

The destruction of all life.

And becoming the supreme power in the World Without Sun.

Virulan did not condemn such ambition: he shared it. Soft emotions of trust, love, and loyalty were suitable only to soft things, like the Brightworlders. But that hardly meant he intended to give up his supremacy—or have it taken from him. He had made his preparations for this moment carefully and in secret, weaving a skein of spells as delicate as the ones to create the Obsidian Mirror had been forceful. He was the last to enter the Heart of Darkness, and when he did, his brethren knelt to him in a great rustle of wings. Virulan seated himself upon the Shadow Throne and gazed upon them for a long time in silence before he spoke.

This is the last time I shall look upon you in the way you were made. The thought did not bring regret, but excitement. It was the first step upon the road that would end in the triumph of the Endarkened.

“He Who Is has given me many good things, and I have shared them all with you,” King Virulan said. “He has asked only one thing of us in exchange for all the pleasures He has allowed us. And now, at last, I shall make it possible for us to serve Him fully.”

He did not wait for the questioning rustle of wings to subside, but struck at once. Spellfire leaped from the walls, the ceiling, the very floor of the chamber, wrapping the bodies before him in a scarlet cocoon. His brethren— his comrades—fought magnificently, but they were powerless against a sorcery that fed upon the very magic in their bones. And when the sorcery had run its course, his brethren were changed.

All but one.

“I would not have you lack a true companion, my king,” Uralesse said, entering the chamber again. “And so, I took care to place myself outside the compass of your spell—though only in anticipation of your own foresight.” He bowed deeply. “If you were to be lost, my king, who would father the great race of Endarkened you will send into battle? And so, for the sake of peace in our realm, I thought the matter best settled at once.”

All about him, his once-brothers ran their hands over transformed flesh: deep bosoms and graceful hips, new beauty cloaking the ancient power of their birthright. Female, as the Brightworlders were female. From their bodies he would call a horde, a legion, a race of Endarkened. Thousand upon thousand, enough to darken the sky with their wings.

Enough to destroy all who walked beneath the sun and the moon.

It had been no part of Virulan’s plan to spare any of them the transformation. Just as he was first among the Endarkened, greatest in power, so it was only right that his seed should sow the death of all life.

Uralesse had tricked him, first anticipating his intention, then escaping his spell. It indicated a cleverness that Virulan did not trust … but which might prove useful in the war to come.

And if it did not, there were other spells, and sealed chambers within the Deep Earth.

“Foolish Uralesse,” Virulan said grandly. “You have exerted yourself for no reason. My spell was never intended to fall upon you. It is as you said: my intention was always to spare you, for the very reasons you suggest.”

Uralesse bowed low, but his golden eyes held a mocking light. “And now, my king? What shall we—your loyal and most submissive subjects—do now?”

Uralesse rose to his feet and spread his wings. Still on … her … knees before his throne, Rugashag gazed up at him, her savage beauty a display of fury and confusion. He stretched out one taloned hand and raised her to her feet.

“We shall wait, Uralesse my brother,” King Virulan said. “We shall wait.”

CHAPTER ONE

THE FALL OF FARCARINON

Even as we reckon time, our history is long—so long its beginnings have been worn away by the passage of time. Long before Man came to be, we were. It could be said that our history begins with the Endarkened, for that terrible conflict scoured away all that we had been before it, leaving us one purpose:

Survival.

—Peldalathiriel Caerthalien,

Of the Reign of Great Queen Vieliessar

Perchelion used to tell me the Hunt rode through every storm. When I grew old enough to question I said I did not believe her. I remember how she slapped me, and said I would never become a knight of my father’s meisne, for to doubt the Starry Hunt meant I would never wield a sword. I remember I laughed, and said there were not enough storms in all the year for them to do that …

Ladyholder Nataranweiya forced her mind to focus on such ancient trifles, for to allow it liberty would mean she thought of things it would not be good to think on now. Her child-swollen body shuddered harder than the cold should merit, even as the horse’s body shook with weariness.

Lightning stitched the woods to sudden brightness, and in its light she could see Falthiel, his face turned toward her, shouting something. She could not make out the words over the howl of the wind and the thunder of the horses’ hooves. Dioniron had given their mounts enough of the battle cordial to poison them: they would run until they died.

They would have to. Caerthalien’s dogs were a candlemark—no more—behind them now, and Nataranweiya knew they outnumbered the scant handful of her surviving protectors.

Suddenly her mount put a foot wrong, slipping and staggering through mud and autumn leaves for a handful of terrifying moments before finding its balance and running on. The near-fall jarred her agonizingly, but