absorbed into the empire, things won’t be so bad for them.”
“How can you say that?” Magnes’ voice rose to a near shout. “First, they’ll never surrender. Second, you know what the average human believes about them. You believed all of that rubbish yourself!”
“Brother, I…” Thessalina began, but Magnes cut her off.
“The empress doesn’t want the elves as subjects. She wants them all removed and Alasiri repopulated with humans. This isn’t a simple war of conquest, Sister. It’s a campaign of extermination!”
Thessalina leaned back in her chair, jaw set. “What would you have me do?”
“Damn it…I don’t know!” Magnes cried. Immediately, he regretted his outburst and the anger within him trickled away, leaving a dark stain of sadness in its wake. He cursed the powerlessness that threatened to drown him in despair. In truth, there was nothing either of them could do to stop any of it, just as Thessalina had said.
“I can’t come with you,” he murmured. “I won’t bear arms against the elves.”
“I’d be lying if I said I’m surprised,” Thessalina sighed. “You’ll stay, then, and run Amsara while I’m gone.” Her words, for all their softness, still fell upon Magnes with the unmistakable force of command.
“Thank you,” he replied. An enormous yawn threatened to break apart his jaw. “Gods, I’m so tired. I’ve been on the road for over two weeks. I need to go to bed.”
Thessalina nodded. “Your old rooms aren’t too dusty, I hope. I had standing orders to keep them clean just in case you returned, but two of the chambermaids left service so we’ve been short-staffed.”
“They aren’t bad. A little musty, is all,” Magnes replied.
“I doubt I’ll see my bed much before sunrise,” Thessalina said. “There’s still so much to do.” She reached over and laid a hand atop his. Her fingertips and palm felt as callused as any peasant’s. “I’m glad you’ll be here to look after Amsara while I’m gone, Brother. Our people have always loved you. They’ll feel safe with you here.”
“Our people have nothing to fear,” Magnes replied quietly.
Magnes woke later that night with the sour taste of nightmares on his tongue. Afraid to go back to sleep, he rose, pulled on a tunic and trousers then slipped his feet into a pair of old sandals. A shadow among shadows, he made his way out of the keep and headed across the yard toward the chapel. He paused outside the door, then looked up at the glittering vault of the night sky.
He pushed the heavy wooden door inward and entered the silent chapel. Two brass lamps burned on the altar, filling the room with dim golden light and flickering shadows. A sweet residue of incense hung in the air. With faltering footsteps, Magnes made his way down the center aisle, past the front of the altar painted with representations of the gods, to the staircase leading down to the crypt. An unlocked iron gate barred the entrance. Realizing he had no light, Magnes stepped over to the altar and grabbed a lamp. He thought of the last time he had come here, on that long ago night he and Jelena had fled Amsara.
Now, guilt pricked him as, trembling, he descended to the crypt. In the cool darkness, the departed generations of Preserens, rulers of Amsara for over three hundred years, rested in silence. The tiny pool of light cast by the altar lamp allowed Magnes to find his way through the rows of sarcophagi without stumbling. As the most recent internment, he knew his father’s sarcophagus would lie near the front.
He found it alongside the slightly smaller one containing his mother’s remains. Both were fashioned of gray marble, topped with lifelike effigies of their respective occupants. Magnes paused to gaze at the carved stone likeness of his mother. The blank eyes stared, unseeing, at the ceiling. The face bore little resemblance to the woman he only barely recalled from childhood memories.
Magnes raised the small lamp higher to illuminate his father’s tomb. The unknown artist had done a superb job of coaxing Duke Teodorus’ plain, blunt features from the dark stone; it seemed at any moment, the father would awaken from his cold slumber to arise and denounce his treacherous son.
A strangled sob clawed its way past Magnes’ clenched teeth; he collapsed to his knees beside the tomb. With shaking hands, he set the lamp atop the carved folds of the effigy’s gown.
Tears wet his cheeks as Magnes laid his hands over his father’s chilly marble fingers. “I’m sorry Father,” he sobbed. “I have no right to ask for your forgiveness. I was always a disappointment to you! I wish with all my heart I could have been the son you wanted. I just couldn’t. It was never in me.”
He stared into the empty eyes of the effigy, as if by sheer force of will, he could draw a response from the stone. Duke Teodorus remained frozen, implacable, unreachable.
How long he sat slumped beside his father’s tomb Magnes didn’t know, for he had lost all sense of time in the dark and stillness. Shadows crowded around the tiny pool of light cast by the altar lamp like the spectral presences of his departed progenitors. They surrounded him, accusing, his father’s angry spirit standing at the fore.
Staggering to his feet, Magnes snatched the lamp and fled. He slipped on the slick stairs, cracking his left knee on the brutal stone. Groaning, he stumbled up and out of the crypt, then paused just beyond the gate. Breath ragged with agony, he massaged his knee, trying to get some sense of how badly he had injured it. His probing fingers told him nothing.
The chapel’s narrow windows glimmered like pearl rectangles within the blackness of the surrounding walls. Dawn was fast approaching. Magnes had been down in the crypt for most of the night. Wearily, he limped toward the front of the chapel, pausing to replace the altar lamp in its rightful spot, then he slipped out through the door to the yard.
Already, he could feel his knee stiffening as he made his way back to the keep. As he passed the kitchen, he heard sounds of activity within. Cook and her staff were always the first ones up and working well before sunrise; the bread had to go into the ovens before anything else.
When Magnes came at last to his rooms, his knee throbbed with such fierceness, he feared he had torn something loose. As bad as it hurt, though, it felt as nothing compared to the pain in his soul. By visiting his father’s tomb, he had hoped to ease some of the guilt tormenting him since his return home; instead, he had accomplished the opposite. What peace he had found while living and working with the Eskleipans had been shattered like a dropped mirror into a thousand jagged shards.
Thessalina’s words rang mockingly in his head. Magnes groaned aloud.
Who, in all of Amsara, could help him?
He returned to his bed, but sleep refused to come.
On the Brink
Four days later, beneath the banner of the Duchy of Amsara-three black lions rampant on an azure field- Thessalina rode out of Amsara Castle at the head of a force numbering some four hundred foot soldiers and a hundred light cavalry.
The ruddy early morning light painted helmets and spearheads with crimson. High atop the castle walls where Magnes stood, the sound of marching boots rumbled like distant thunder. He watched Thessalina’s army until it had dwindled to a dark smudge on the horizon, then limped back down the stairs and headed across the yard toward the kitchen. He wasn’t really hungry but the part of his mind which could still think rationally reminded him he must eat.
He allowed Cook to serve him a bowl of hot oatmeal, accompanied by a thick slice of bread, fresh from the oven. The look and aroma of the food elicited no response from his body. Each bite became a monumental struggle. Just as he decided to give up and leave his meal unfinished, Claudia appeared at his side, her own
