tales of his father’s conquests. Whichever he chose, the tale would really begin when the dark stranger came to Yaskatha.
Outside the librarium’s high windows, raindrops glistened in the sunlight and a rainbow glimmered above the Palace of Sacred Waters. Somewhere in the city bards sang of ancient lovers, and storytellers spun sagas of war and doom. Wine poured and flowers bloomed. Plowmen planted the fields beneath the rushing clouds of spring. Uurzians lived, loved, died, hoped, died, d, dreamed, wept, and laughed. A thousand thousand stories unfolded like the petals of numberless flowers, composing a pattern whose complexity was too great for a single mind.
The only way to make sense of nature’s grand design was to isolate the threads, follow the individual strands in the weave of the world. To capture the essence of life itself on parchment with a spell of ebon ink. One tale at a time.
He picked up his quill and dipped it into the flask of dark fluid.
He thought of his friend who had lived, died, triumphed, and lived again, and he pictured the King and Queen of Yaskatha lying in some shady bower. They would have many heirs to read this story.
In the brazen haze of daylight, he touched quill to page and began his spell.
The broad streets of Udurum were full again. Not with bustling and rowdy Giants, but Sharrian refugees eager for homes and work. They carried bags of gold and precious jewels from the treasury of their dead city, placed into their hands by Vireon the Slayer. Spring warmed the black walls of the city, and the Sharrians walked humbly through lanes built by Giant hands. They spread their wealth gradually among the folk of Udurum and forged lives for themselves the way Giants used to forge steel here.
Vireon looked across his city from a balcony on the high tower of Vod’s palace. His mother had gone south to visit her daughter and new son-in-law in Yaskatha. She had given him the crown before she left, and Udurum applauded her choice. Even the fiercely proud Uduri knew the city would be stronger with Vireon as its King. The Giants who went north might even return when they heard the tale of King Vireon whispered about their cold fires.
Shaira lingered long enough to bless his marriage to Alua. Shar Dni’s fall and the murders of her entire extended family, brothers, sisters, nephews, nieces… it had all been too much for her. The lines of worry marred her face, and the burden of Queenship must come off her shoulders. So Vireon took the weight of the crown, made Alua his Queen, and now his mother would know at least a little happiness. She would have many grandchildren. He expected she would live out the remainder of her life in warm, sunny Yaskatha. It reminded her of Shar Dni as she had known it in her youth. He would visit her when duty allowed it.
Now Udurum had both King and Queen again. Alua turned her natural wisdom to the fields and orchards. The blooms of spring had never come so thick and vibrant. Vireon watched the dancers of the spring festival in the streets below, and the lilting music filled his ears.
She came from the tower to join him on the terrace, wrapping her cool arms about his chest from behind.
“Shall we go down and join them?”
“It is expected,” he said.
“What troubles you? This should be a time of joy. The frost fades and the earth sends forth its bounty. Speak to me.”
He breathed deep of the sweet northern air. Along the southern horizon, the Grim Mountains looked tiny and insubstantial, black fangs crowned by white mists.
“At times… I still think of Tadarus,” he told her. “And the other one.”
She knew of whom he spoke, as she knew he could never again say the name.
She kissed his mouth softly. “The past is set in stone… the future is a mystery… but the now is what you wish it to be. Your memories honor Tadarus. Let that honor give you joy.”
He held her in his arms while warm winds danced about the tower.
He said nothing of Fangodrel’s last words, the hatred he spat as his scorched head flew from his shoulders.
My blade interrupted that curse… stole it from his lips.
I reject his curse.
It is only the reminder of a sad revenge.
The only true curse is that of memory.
Alua was right. He must forget the one and honor the other.
I reject his curse.
They entered the tower and lay together, the melodies of the festival wafting in through the windows. Later they went down into the streets and sampled the delights of spring.
He still did not understand Love.
Or Sorcery.
But this simple joy in a world filled with sorrow…
Perhaps this was the beginning of Wisdom.
Epilogue
It took far longer than he imagined. His body congealed from mist to mud and finally to cold, weary flesh. He awoke in the center of runes and sigils carved into the floor. He blinked but could not raise his head. Here, in the highest chamber of the thorny tower, he knitted together a body from fluid strands of shadow. The windows were curtained, so he could not see the passage of days outside, but it must have been many. Eventually, after an eternity of gnawing hunger, he rose from the frigid floor and stood on two legs.
The second ring of runes lay empty.
Where was she? Ianthe should have manifested here at the nexus of her power. She had given him this knowledge, helped him carve the runes. On her shelves the skulls and tomes were cluttered and dusty. The great desk and its chair were empty but for the usual piles of scrolls and moldering volumes. The decanters and bottles along the walls stood festooned with cobwebs.
She had never returned.
She must be truly dead. Annihilated by Vireon’s bitch.
He shivered at the memory of his burning agony. That was his physical body… The first death was the most difficult – so Ianthe had told him. This new body was a shell, a creation of his will and the power of the blood. His belly ached for more of that red wine.
Now the pale ghost of Tadarus stood where Ianthe should be.
“You are avenged,” he told it. “Vireon has killed me. You may go now.”
And the ghost was gone.
He stared at the blank spot on the basalt stones where she must appear. He wept a few tears, then remembered the Glass of Eternity. He approached it, bending its obscure surface to his will. A blur of colors and shapes swirled inside the flat pane, taking no form he could identify. The more he concentrated on Ianthe, the less he recognized. There could be only one answer… The Empress was d ead and he was now Emperor of Khyrei. Or would be when he descended from the tower and laid claim to the throne. A city of ignorant, loyal slaves awaited him.
Perhaps this was not such a terrible loss.
He turned from the mirror and glanced at the books of antique lore, the texts of inscribed sorcery. He would miss her tutelage even more than her kisses. There was so much more to discover in the labyrinthine kingdom of sorcery.
Something drew his eyes back to the glass. It swirled now of its own accord and turned to solid black. A starless void hung open before him. A distant hum rang in his ears.
Something gleamed in the darkness… a star? No, a mote of azure crystal. It fell toward the mirror, hurling end over end, growing larger. He recognized it as a wine bottle crafted of delicate gemwork. Opal or sapphire.
