Songs of the Dying Earth

striped mauve and black. On his right thumb was a ring of black stone. His sharp features seemed a perversion of Thiago’s own. What had once manifested as a roguish quality, the product of a quick wit and a penchant for irreverence, seemed to have been eroded by the years, resolving into an imprint of cruelty and capriciousness. The sight of him captivated Thiago. It was as if his view of the world had lacked only this lean figure to complete it. Now, seeing him in the flesh, his loathing for Cugel was given such weight and substance that he understood what he had felt before was a shadow of his true hatred of the man. He was so overwhelmed with revulsion that he could not even make a pretense of being unconscious; he stared at his cousin like a hawk watching supper emerge from a hole until Cugel directed a cursory glance his way.

“Cousin!” A smile sliced Cugel’s features, but did not touch his eyes. “I would not have recognized you if you hadn’t declared yourself to Diletta. You’ve grown so formidable. You have been exercising, have you not? All those scars, so much gray in your hair! I trust life has not treated you unkindly.”

Thiago was unable to muster speech.

“What has led you to seek me out after all these years?” Cugel asked. “A desire to rekindle our childhood bond? Judging by your expression, I think not. An old enmity, perhaps. But what? I cannot recall ever having done you injury. Certainly none to warrant so desperate a journey as you must have made.”

Thiago managed to croak a single word: “Ciel.”

Cugel squatted beside him, tipped his head to one side. “Ciel? It has a ring, I admit, but…” He smacked his forehead. “Not that blond poppet you were smitten with during our formative years? A sweet bite of the apple, that one. By now, she must be a grandmother. Is she well?”

“You know she is not.” Thiago worked at his bonds.

“Ah, yes. I remember. A pity you weren’t there to save her, but you had your priorities in those days, always busy at your brutish sport and your revels. Blaming me for Ciel’s death…you would do as well to blame a bee for sipping from a flower.”

Thiago tried to sweep his legs out from beneath him with a kick, but Cugel, agile as ever, avoided it and caught his ankle. He dragged him forward and left him in front of the machine.

“I have better to do than listen to you whine about a girl dead a quarter of a century.” Cugel flung open a transparent door in the face of the machine and indicated the ovoid chamber within — it contained two padded seats. “In moments, we will be away to a pleasant world far from this moribund planet and its dead sun.”

“Sylgarmo’s Proclamation has yet to be proven,” Thiago said.

“Has it now?”

Smirking, Cugel went to the wall and pressed an indentation. With a grating noise, a portion of the wall retracted, creating as it did a large circular window.

“Welcome to the last morning of the world,” said Cugel.

The sky as revealed by the window was black. Not pitch black, but black pervaded by a sickly glow, the source of which hung nearly dead-center of the window: the sun. Though it was at ten o’clock high, he could look directly at it and for a long moment he could do nothing else. Pale orange plasma filmed across the surface of a sphere that resembled an ember left over from a blaze, a great round ball of crusted carbon cracked and seamed with fire. From points on opposite sides of the sphere there arose enormous crimson effulgences, plumes of solar flame with the aspect of two mismatched horns, flares flung out into space that seemed as though they would eventually form into pinchers that would pluck the earth from its orbit. It was a ghastly, soul-shriveling thing to see. A dread weakness invaded Thiago’s limbs. Ruskana clapped a hand to her mouth and Diletta put a hand on the wall for support. For his part, Cugel appeared enlivened by the sight.

“Ruskana! Take a last look around,” he said, rubbing his hands together. “We want no interruptions. Quickly, girl! Diletta! See to the provisions.”

The sound of Cugel’s voice enlisted Thiago’s hatred once again. He had made progress with his bonds, but needed more time.

“Ruskana!” he shouted as the girl mounted the stair. “There are only two seats inside the machine. Do you believe he will be here when you return? Every woman he has ever known, he has played her false.”

“Ruskana is to ride astride my lap,” said Cugel. “This has been discussed. Now go!” He waved her on.

“There have been a thousand Ruskanas before you,” Thiago said. “Beginning with my Ciel. We quarreled, she and I. Cugel lured her to a solitary place on the outskirts of Kaiin, under the guise of offering advice on how she might repair the relationship. There he drugged her and she died…whereupon he fled. Do not expect better of him, I caution you.”

Ruskana hovered near the top of the stair, the picture of uncertainty.

“Did you expect me stand my ground while you raised a mob?” Cugel made a derisive noise. “That was ever your way. To choose someone you believed was weak for a scapegoat and excite the public temper. But there is no mob here, only these two devoted women. I have come too far and endured too much to be thwarted by the likes of you.” He held his fisted right hand to Thiago’s face, showing him the ring of black stone. “This is Iucounu’s ring. I bested him with his own magic. I have bested demons, giants, creatures that would leave you trembling. What did you hope to achieve against me?”

Cugel stood over Thiago, his face a neutral mask. He reached into the folds of his cape, produced a parchment scroll and tossed it onto Thiago’s chest.

“A gift, cousin,” he said. “The Spell of Forlorn Encystment. It is an option you may wish to exercise. Ask yourself if life is worth living imprisoned within the earth when there is no other choice, and act according to your answer.” He turned to the stair. “Quickly now, Ruskana!”

The girl darted up the last few steps and pressed a stud in the ceiling; a section of the ceiling began to lift.

“She was done with you, Thiago,” Cugel said. “She complied with my every desire.”

Ruskana shrilled a warning. Derwe Coreme had slipped through the opening and stood at the top of the stair, wearing a man’s shirt and trousers. The two women grappled briefly and Ruskana fell, cracking her head on the marble floor. Derwe Coreme spied Cugel and came toward him, knife in hand, face twisted with rage. Cugel darted for the egg and she screamed — it seemed ripped from her chest, furious like a raptor’s scream. She hurled the knife, but Diletta pushed Cugel aside. The knife took her in the throat, penetrating both sides of her neck, and she collapsed. Derwe Coreme hurled a second knife, but it clanged off the door of the egg, with Cugel safe inside. Spatters of Diletta’s blood dappled his cheek, lending him a clownish aspect.

Derwe Coreme sprinted down the steps and pounded on the door, screaming all the while. Cugel’s expression was one of bewilderment. It was as though he were asking, Who is this scarred termagant? He busied himself with final preparations, ignoring her screams…if, indeed, he heard them.

Thiago burst the cords that constrained him.

A humming proceeded from the egg as Cugel, eyes closed in concentration, spoke the activating spell. Thiago got to his feet, and, standing beside Derwe Coreme, confronted him through the door. His spell complete, Cugel opened his eyes and smiled at them with the sweet tranquility of a man gone beyond judgment. The humming rose in pitch.

Thiago gave the egg a tentative push. He cleared Derwe Coreme away from the door, backed off several paces, and ran at it, striking it with his shoulder.

Cugel’s smile faltered. Thiago had another run at the egg, and this time moved it slightly. His shoulder ached, but he made a third run. Concern was written on Cugel’s face, but then the humming evolved into a keening and the egg appeared to be covered in sparkling silt, a film that vibrated over the metal surfaces. Cugel’s smile returned. Thiago charged again, but was repulsed violently and thrown onto his back. The egg rippled, winking bright to dark. Soon it grew insubstantial and vanished, leaving a translucent afterimage in the air.

Thiago studied the afterimage as it faded. Was there a trace of desperation in Cugel’s smile? The beginnings of fear? Was it a true smile or a rictus leer, a sign that his cousin was at the end in extremis? Perhaps Thiago’s bull-rushes had taken a toll, or perhaps Pandelume’s egg had borne Cugel to a less pleasant world than he had imagined and his expression was the initial register of that place. It was useless to speculate. One could but hope. He sank to the floor beside Derwe Coreme, who sat with head in hands.

“He did not know me,” she said mournfully.

Thiago thought to reassure her, but had not the energy to do so. After a bit, he put a hand on her shoulder. She stiffened, but permitted the contact.