Rolenya sang, pouring her heart and soul into her song, driving back the darkness that encircled her.
Dressed in white, a white light seemed to glow from within her, suffusing her, and she was the only light in the neverending blackness, which was full of a seething tension. She stood at the edge of the high platform that jutted out into what Baleron had called the Black Temple, that vast space at the core of Krogbur where the Shadow’s presence was the strongest.
Somewhere in the enormity of all that blackness, he was there, listening, watching. She tried not to think about it, about him, tried solely to focus on her song. It was difficult. She was alone with Gilgaroth, more at his mercy now than at any time since she’d been freed from Illistriv.
She sang on. Every night since Baleron’s leaving, Gilgaroth had asked her to sing for him.
Now below her yawned a black abyss that seemed endless and might very well be; this temple, this well, could run all the way through the roots of Krogbur and beyond, into the very bowels of the earth, or into some strange netherworld, for all she knew. She stood in the very place where Baleron had lopped off his own hand; his blood likely still stained the ground, if she could but see it. She hated this place. Its evil almost suffocated her. The very air vibrated with malignant passions, and made her feel unclean.
Yet this is where Gilgaroth had brought her every day for the last week. She would sing, and he would listen, spellbound, for hours. She found it hard to believe that such a terrible being could appreciate what meager elements of Light and Grace she could offer in her voice, and it made her wonder if Gilgaroth might not have some of those same qualities after all. If so, he was an even more pitiable creature than she’d imagined.
On this day, after she’d been singing for over an hour, two flaming slits opened in the dark well of the temple, above her and before her, suspended over an abyss that made her shiver just to contemplate.
The eyes of fire widened.
“Beautiful,” breathed Gilgaroth. His voice sounded like flames licking stone, and she didn’t know if he were referring to her or her voice.
She refused to look at those burning eyes, refused to be sucked into his mesmerizing stare. She sang on, loudly and with all the force she could muster.
“You are my treasure,” spoke the Tempter of Man, watching her with what appeared to be genuine fondness. “It’s been too long since I’ve listened to the silver song of a daughter of the Light.”
The eyes dimmed and closed. The Shadow, subdued by her voice, relaxed ... and drifted.
She sang on.
Should I? she thought. Should I do it now?
She paused, fearful, and her heart trembled.
She almost did it—almost—but her courage failed her, and she continued to sing, until at last, she thought again, Now! I must do it now! But still she was afraid.
It was a mad idea. A mad, impossible plan. But what else could she do? She’d thought about it all this last week, but so far she couldn’t bring herself to do it. Growing up in Havensrike, she’d often read tales of Elvish princesses that could stop the heart of a thing of darkness with their song, and such stories had been among her favorites. Those princesses could weave spells with their songs. They could entrance a listener and bind the listener to them—they were spells of love, some of them, but some were spells of power.
Now that she knew she was Elvish, she’d began to wonder if she could do this, if she could sing such a song. After all, her mother, her true mother, was said to be able to call entire forest-gardens into being with just her song.
Come! What do I have to lose?
But what if he finds me out? What then?
She steeled herself. Reaching deep within, she searched out the well of Light she knew to be inside her.
There! Slowly, very slowly, she began to weave strands of Light from that well into her voice.
Gilgaroth’s eyes remained closed.
She sang on. Could it be done without schooling? Could it be done on instinct alone, fueled by sheer desperation?
Give me courage, beings of the Light, she thought. Give me strength.
She sang on, faster and faster, as loudly as she could, but now she injected something new into the song. She tried to weave a spell, a web—tried to lay a foundation for ensnaring the listener. She could feel the tools to do this with, could feel how it might be done, and it was far more complicated than she would have thought. How had those fairytale princesses done it? How had her mother?
Against her will, her thoughts turned to Baleron, but she forced these thoughts aside. She had to concentrate, had to dredge up those latent abilities of binding and unbinding.
The Shadow’s eyes sprang open, and Rolenya almost screamed. She’d been found out!
“A visitor comes,” he said.
She relaxed, breathless, then caught the sound of air being split by something large. She wheeled about, her song forgotten, as the huge black multi-legged mass of the Mogra rose up from the shaft, ascending under her own power, drew abreast of the platform, then leapt on the stage directly behind Rolenya.
Eyes wide, Rolenya stared up at the horror that was the Goddess of Mists and Sacrifice and stifled a scream.
“Lovely,” said Mogra. “A golden voice in a lightless gloom.”
“My songbird,” said Gilgaroth, his terrible mouth a gash of flickering red in the darkness. Fires from his throat bathed his sharp teeth in a lurid red glow.
“I hope that singing is all she’s done for you, my Lord. Now go along, little pigeon,” said Mogra, “for Lord Gilgaroth and I shall make our own sweet music now.”
Caught between these two implacable forces, Rolenya froze. Should she go around Mogra, or under her, threading her way through the forest of huge spider legs? The thought petrified her.
Mogra made the decision for her. The Spider Goddess coiled her many-jointed limbs and leapt straight over Rolenya’s head and disappeared into the blackness where Gilgaroth waited. The Dark One and the Shadow-Weaver wrapped each other in an unholy embrace within a darkness so deep even Rolenya’s elvish eyes could not penetrate it.
“Go,” commanded Gilgaroth. His fires were no longer visible.
There seemed a great movement in the dark—restless and wild, full of need and desire and ancient wrath. Shadow swelled and swayed and pulsed. A great power throbbed in the blackness.
“Go!” bade Mogra.
Rolenya turned her face from the unholy union and descended the endless stairs without another word, glad to be away. As she went, she emitted her own radiance—an ability granted by her heritage and transferred with her soul, not her flesh. This was fortunate, as there was no other light to be had. Her white light revealed one stained black stair at a time, her pale bare feet touching down one after the other.
She wondered why Mogra had come. Perhaps the Shadow-Weaver had heard rumor of her songs and in jealousy had decided to visit the Black Tower? Rolenya doubted it.
She wondered if her spell-song had begun to work on Gilgaroth before Mogra’s arrival, and if she should try it again next time. The thought terrified her.
As she descended the spiraled stairs that wound along the temple walls, terrible noises chased her from behind, roars and screams and howls and grunts—an unholy din as though Hell itself had been unleashed, and perhaps it had. She did not look back.
* * *
It seemed he spent half his life imprisoned, Baleron mused as he languished in the palace dungeon, which had been converted from the Husran catacombs. In fact, the room he now occupied was not a prison cell—not originally—but a crypt. Oddly appropriate, he thought.
It was a comfortable enough cell, though, dry and warm, very much unlike the pits of Krogbur. He was becoming a connoisseur of prisons. Sadly, it meant that though he traveled between different peoples, he existed outside any one country, any one family. He was utterly an outsider, treated as hostile by all sides.
He would be glad when this was over. Then perhaps he could find a place where he belonged, even if it was only a place for his spirit. He didn’t expect to come out of this war alive. He would die, he knew, and his spirit would spend the rest of eternity dwelling on his mistakes; he had to minimize those mistakes now, or he’d be one woeful spirit.
But it seemed that any decision he made was the wrong one. Every choice he faced led to some unendurable consequence, whether it be the fall of the Crescent or the misuse of the woman he loved.
And what did it matter, really? Rauglir had made the choice for him. Ironically, Gilgaroth’s backup plan (Baleron now realized that that’s precisely what Rauglir was) had landed him here, where Rauglir’s targets were safe from him. Baleron only hoped his father and Logran stayed far away. He didn’t want to rot in prison, but it was far better than the alternative.
When his first visitor came, he’d been stuck in the crypt for two days without food or water, and he was sorely in need of a drink, his throat parched and his stomach gnawing at itself like a weasel in its den. His dreams continued to haunt him, and he could feel Rauglir like a shadow inside him. An iron collar about Baleron’s neck weighed him down, and chains sprouting from it rooted him to the floor. Iron rings to either side of the collar bound his hands.
They must think he was some wild, ravening beast that needed to be forcibly restrained, he thought. The worst part was they might be right.
His visitor was Logran.
“You’re alive!” Baleron said. He rose to his feet, the chains clinking around him. He took a step forward, all the chains would allow him, and two members of the prison guard brandished their swords at him.
“Don’t try any of your tricks,” warned the senior officer.
“Please, captain,” Logran said, “don’t poke any holes in him for the time being. Agent of the Dark One or not, he is the Heir.”
The soldiers lowered their blades uncertainly.
“The Heir?” Baleron said. If he was the Heir, that could only mean ...
“We’ll get to that,” the sorcerer promised.
“But how? How are you here? I felt your spine sever.”
“Yes,” Logran admitted. “That is not my fondest memory of you. And it nearly did for me, true enough. But somehow my brethren managed to put me back together again. Our art has come far in the last few years, I really must say. Though I must give credit where it belongs, to Elethris and his Flower. They’re what really saved me.”
Soberly, Baleron said, “It’s good to see you again.”
“Likewise.” Logran looked about at the guards. “Why don’t you leave us alone for a moment? I promise to keep both eyes on him at all times.”
The captain nodded reluctantly. “We’ll be right outside if you need us.” The soldiers withdrew, the captain throwing one last scowl at the prince and saying, “You’d better not try anything or it’s me you’ll have to face.”
Despite himself, Baleron laughed. After all the horrors he’d been through, this pudgy, squinty-eyed little man thought he could intimidate him?
Logran had water. As Baleron drank greedily, he noted that the sorcerer seemed hale and hardy, much improved from when he’d resided at Grothgar Castle; Baleron now supposed that then the sorcerer had been wasting away in grief over Elethris and Celievsti, but purpose had rejuvenated him.
Logran smiled, and Baleron frowned. It was good to know he hadn’t killed the old man, but it was annoying to find the sorcerer in such good humor.
“What did you mean, I’m the Heir?”
Logran’s good humor fled. “Prince Jered was cut down this morning upon the walls of Clevaris. He was battling a powerful Grudremorqen, one of Grudremorq’s oldest and most powerful sons.”
Baleron let out a breath. After he’d found out that he and Jered suffered a like affliction, their Dooms, he’d often wondered what it might be like to consult with his brother—to compare notes, as it were. Now he’d never get that chance.
“And Kenbrig?”
“Also fallen. Killed shortly after your departure by ... that thing.”
“Rauglir.”
“Yes. I had the satisfaction of destroying him myself, at least.”
Baleron gritted his teeth. Rauglir mocked his every move. Baleron didn’t know the nature of his left hand, not exactly, but he had suspicions.
“What ails you?” the Archmage asked, perhaps seeing his expression.
“Rauglir ...” Baleron stared at his scarred left hand and tried to waggle his fingers. Almost to his surprise, they waggled.
“Rauglir is loose,” he muttered.
“What was that?”
“You should’ve trapped him.”
“What do you mean?”
“You said you felt a taint in me.” Baleron flexed and clenched his left hand. “I think he’s inside me, Logran. I think he’s the one that stabbed you.”
“Are you sure it was not your Doom?”
“I’m sure. Otherwise why would Gilgaroth have had me chop off my hand, then reattach it? See the scars if you don’t believe me.”
Logran looked noncommittal.
Baleron’s mind returned to Kenbrig. Baleron and his brother had never been particularly close, but he would miss him.
A more pressing issue faced him, though: what did it mean that Jered had been slain? Did the Dark One betray him after he’d fulfilled his Doom? Would Gilgaroth do the same to Baleron? But surely Jered’s purpose had not been fulfilled, or Logran would have told him that news first.
“The Queen, the City,” he said, just to make sure. “How do they fare?”
“Clevaris stands, but barely. Grudremorq has fouled the River and corrupted the Larenthellan; he sends his sons into the moat and their heat boils it away. It kills them, but they weaken it, and he’s dammed up the Larenth upstream. The elves would’ve run out of water by now, but Queen Vilana stopped the flow in time, and since then a dam has been constructed at the northern end of the City, and they have water enough to last ... for a time. But Larenthellan, the moat that protects Clevaris—it no longer serves as a barrier, and the Fire God can now lead his troops across it to assault the walls of the City directly. Meanwhile the Whiteworms and Swans protect the City from the air, but their numbers dwindle, and the Darkworms and glarumri seem endless—although where these Worms come from I can’t imagine. There should not be so many ... ”
Then Jered had not accomplished his task. The mystery of his death deepened, and Baleron was determined to find out the why of it. After all, the spawn of Oslog knew not to slay Baleron, so why didn’t they know to spare Jered? Was it because Baleron was ul Ravast and Jered simply a pawn?
“Several of Vilana’s highest and most powerful elves have been murdered,” Logran continued. “Right in the Palace, too. There’s a traitor amok, and no one has any idea who.”
A sudden headache bloomed fiercely, yet the prince managed to say, “I don’t think he’ll kill anyone else,” before the pain overwhelmed him and he fell back, gasping.
Logran knelt over him and placed a hand on Baleron’s head. The Archmage concentrated, closing his eyes, and quickly Baleron began to feel better, but Logran gasped and hastily removed his hand. He staggered back, as though afraid of Baleron.
“What—?” asked Baleron.
Logran let out a shuddering breath. “The Wolf’s touch,” he murmured. “I felt it upon you ...”
Baleron maintained eye contact. Slowly, steadily, he said, “I don’t serve him, Logran. I don’t. It’s Rauglir, he’s in me. It sounds absurd, but it must be.”
“You’re tainted ...”
“He’s the taint. Don’t you see? Give me a sword, I’ll chop off my own hand right now. Then you’ll trust me, and I’ll be free ... of Rauglir, at least. My Doom will still—”
“I doubt anyone’s going to give you a sword again, Baleron, not for a long, long time.”
“But you believe me, right? I’m. Not. Evil.”
Logran regarded him sadly. “I don’t know what you are, Baleron.” He gathered himself together and stared at the chained prince with sad brown eyes. “Your father has instructed me to determine your status, whether good, evil, or other. Tell me truly, Baleron. Are you an agent of the Wolf?”
Baleron paused, lowered his eyes. “Almost, Logran. Almost. Even now I’m not sure what the right thing to do is, if there is a right thing. But no, I’m not working with the Enemy, though later I might wish I had. Just by cooperating with you, I’m ... well, you would not believe me if I told you, but trust me, it will have terrible consequences on someone I love.”
“Why should I believe you?”
“Because it’s me, Logran. You’ve known me all my life. You know what I would or wouldn’t do. You must trust me.”
“You stabbed me in the back.” Logran breathed heavily. After some moments to calm himself down, he said, “I clearly can’t let you walk around freely, can I? Your father has given me custody of you. He says that since it was my life you tried to steal, you are mine now.”
“Your sorcerers have already tested me.”
“Tested and failed, but there are further tests we can do ... though they won’t, I fear, be pleasant.” Logran sighed. “I need to rest. We’ll see each other again soon. Try not to kill anyone in the meantime.”
“No, wait! What of Rondthril? Why do you need it? I must know.”
Logran paused, seemed to steel his resolve, then disappeared out the door. It shut with a harsh clang, and Baleron was left alone once more.
Sinking back to the floor, he eyed his left hand. Could it really be Rauglir? Once again, he flexed and clenched it, and it obeyed him ... but for how long?
“You don’t fool me,” he told it.
Suddenly he heard dark, familiar laughter inside him, and his eyes widened.
“So it’s true! You’re really here. Gods!”
More laughter.
Something cold crawled up Baleron’s spine, like little spiders made of ice. My body is not my own. Without warning, a feeling of utter horror overwhelmed him, and he shook in a sudden convulsion, lifted his head and screamed. His voice echoed off the walls of the crypt, and the guards looked nervously in at him, but they did not enter. Hastily they slammed and bolted the door.
For the rest of the morning Baleron languished in the catacombs, contemplating his hand, before finally he received his second and last visitor.
King Grothgar entered the crypt and stared down at him, still chained to the floor. Baleron, who had been brooding unproductively, trying to mentally grapple with the alien spirit inside him, glanced up with astonishment as the door flew open and his father marched in accompanied by half a dozen guards, two of which held crossbows aimed at his breast.
For a long moment, father and son just stared at each other. Baleron could feel the disappointment radiating off the king like heat off a hot road.
“Your brother Jered is dead,” Albrech said abruptly.
“Logran told me.”
“Did you also know that Kenbrig had died, murdered by the same fiend that took your mother and possessed your sister—the same fiend that you rescued from the depths of Gulrothrog and led amongst us—not once but twice?”
The prince’s head hung a bit. “I know.”
“You,” said Albrech in disgust, “are now the Heir.”
Baleron had heard it before from the sorcerer, but he’d been so focused on the mystery of his hand that he had not had time to think much on it.
“Have you formally announced it?” he asked.
“No,” said Albrech. “I haven’t wanted to. I thought you dead, or worse. It turns out to be the latter. When I heard you were back, I wanted to see if you demonstrated any characteristics that would lend you to the job, and you can see the result of that. I suppose I’ll have to circumvent tradition and appoint one of your sisters in your place; there is one or two that seem competent enough, though the lot are involved in typical womanish schemes and silliness.”
“Appoint one of them, then. I’m clearly not fit for the job.”
“You’re a creature of the Dark One!”
“You said yourself that you know it’s me.”
“Yes, and you’ve given yourself to him. You’re weak, selfish, base.” The king began pacing like a caged lion. Suddenly he stopped and stared at his son acutely. “What were you gibbering about your sister the other day?”
“Would you believe me if I told you?”
Again the king stared at him sharply, appraisingly. “No,” he grunted at last. “Probably not.” He cleared his throat. “You missed her funeral, by the way. It was a small affair—one among many. We didn’t have the time to stage anything more elaborate, and it would’ve seemed crass to do so what with all the others. So many funerals, Baleron. So much death and destruction, and here we are in the End Days when we will see even more. Soon Glorifel will fall. I should not say it, but of that I have no doubt. Tell me, Baleron, how does one have a funeral for a city?”
“It doesn’t have to be that way, Father. Take your people north. Regroup with our allies. Build up your strength, then strike and strike hard. It’s the only way you’re going to win. Trust me. I know what you face.”
“And I know that every word that comes out of your mouth is suspect. Either you’re a willing agent or, as Logran tells me, you’re tainted, whatever that means—but either way I can’t afford to trust you. What I can do, however, is acknowledge you’re still family, and allow you to Jered’s funeral this afternoon—not that you’d know what time it is from this infernal night that hangs over us constantly.”
“Jered’s ... funeral? But isn’t his body at Clevaris?”
“It is, and it will be buried there. The Queen feels most strongly about that; he was truly like a son to her—more so than to me, I’m sure. She builds his tomb even now. But we will hold a ceremony here, as well, for he was after all our kin, not hers.” Albrech moved towards the door, then turned back. “We’ll have some of your clothes brought down. You don’t want to be wearing that to see your brother off in.”
“Rolenya—does she also have a tomb?”
The king looked pained. “She does,” he admitted. “Thanks to you.” His voice turned sour. “Never forget that it was you who caused this, Baleron. Her death, our fall, all of it—it’s on your head.”
Scowling, he swept from the room, taking his men with him, and they slammed the door shut behind them.
An hour later, a full dozen guards escorted the prince—now washed and in clean attire, which was a relief—up into the street that ran before the palace, where there waited a long string of black coaches pulled by black horses. Baleron was led into the back of a prison coach, nearly the last vehicle in the funeral procession, where he was locked inside, and, with a cry and the crack of whips, the procession was off.
They wound through the war-torn city, and Baleron gazed out from his barred window at the desolation of Glorifel. They passed the Street of the Arts, and Flower Lane, and the great temple to Illiana on Morning Row. Starving and desperate people thronged the streets, huddling against the chill of the false night.
At last the procession reached the royal cemetery, and Baleron (under heavy guard) was led with the others to the newly built tomb—surely less impressive than the one the Queen of Larenthi was having built, but handsome just the same—where an empty coffin would be installed on the dais within. Griffons, Great Swans and Whiteworms were carved into the tomb and wound along its white pillars.
A chill wind blew, black clouds blotted out the sun, and thunder rolled.
The funeral was a slow, solemn affair, as the royal family, or what was left of it, huddled together in the cold and listened to a priest of Brunril and Illiana say kind words about Prince Jered and his brave sacrifice defending the world against evil. Baleron ignored the sermon. He wondered how Jered had handled being in thrall to Gilgaroth, and why he’d died. It must have been a mistake, Baleron decided, a bloodthirsty Grudremorqen caught in the heat of battle.
Saddened by Jered’s death, Baleron found himself disappointed that he would never get to discuss Dooms with the legendary Prince of Clevaris who’d been the golden son, and yet not a son, of Felias and Vilana. Baleron had thought of Jered as his golden shadow, the prince who was everything a prince should be, and loved and renowned. But now it was Baleron, corrupt and rash and broken, that had survived. He wondered if perhaps Jered had simply found the only way out he could: to die in battle with a worthy foe. Baleron knew he would be lucky to do the same.
The funeral ended and the royals picked their way back to their coaches. No Glorifelans had been told of Prince Jered’s true identity, so there was no one to console the royal family, no crowd of supporters.
The king intercepted Baleron.
“I’ve been to many funerals of late,” Albrech said. “Most of them my own kin. My wife, my sons, Rolenya, even two true daughters lost when the castle fell. Baleron, you and I have never been close, but you’re the only son I have left, and I don’t want to attend your funeral, too. Neither will I allow a son of mine to rot in prison if I can help it. Report to Logran at once. He’s told me that there is a procedure he can perform—a Purging, he calls it. I won’t lie to you, son. It may kill you. He says it kills many. And it’s very painful. But perhaps it can burn this demon out ... and your Doom, as well.” He paused. “I’ll let it be your decision. Either make the dungeon your home, or submit to this Purging. Decide now.”
To Baleron, there was no question. “Do it,” he said.
“Guards, take him to Logran’s tower.”
* * *
As before, Logran had made his home in the highest tower of the palace, but this time a servant opened the door and led Baleron and his guards into the sorcerer’s inner sanctum.
“Shhh,” said the servant. “He’s performing a spell.” When they reached a comfortable living room infested by low, soft couches, he said, “Why don’t you take a seat?”
Too anxious to sit, Baleron moved out onto the balcony and surveyed the once-peaceful city. He knew all of its parks and museums and culture centers, all its grand monuments, its history and customs ... and yet from this high tower he could see beyond the walls. He could see the endless campfires of the Borchstogs, the dark hordes that waited just beyond, and from somewhere out there he heard war drums banging. Boom doom boom. Smoke stirred on the breeze. They would attack soon, he thought. Would that I had my old command.
Logran cleared his throat, and Baleron whirled around to see the Archmage framed in the doorway.
“You startled me,” Baleron said.
“A bit tense, are we?” Logran looked to the guards, then back at the prince. “So you’re mine, then.”
The captain of the guard said, “You’re to do your Purging.”
“I see.” To Baleron, Logran said, “You do understand this will more than likely kill you. There is only a very small chance you’ll survive, and even if you do it’s not certain the demon, or your Doom, or both, will be destroyed.”
Baleron shrugged. “If I die, they cease to matter. Just be sure to destroy my corpse when you’re done.”
Logran looked at him steadily for a long moment, as if to satisfy himself of something, and at last nodded. “I apologize that I didn’t make it to the funeral. I was ... working on something.”
“Rondthril?”
The Archmage nodded uncomfortably. “Yes, as a matter of fact.”
“Please, can you tell me just why that sword is so important to you? Why would you only admit me into the city if I had it with me?”
The Wielder of Light stepped out onto the balcony and joined the prince at the balustrade. Leaning on it, he peered out at the city. It was so large and so full of sparkling lights, like a reflection of the night sky on a still lake, that it took Baleron’s breath away. He could see Logran’s appreciation for it, his love for it, shining in his brown eyes.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” said Logran.
Baleron knew him well enough to know he was leading up to something; he hadn’t come out here to discuss the view.
“Yes,” Baleron agreed, playing along.
“I’ve lived here for many decades, Bal. I was your grandfather’s and your great-grandfather’s closest advisor as well as your father’s. I’ve played a large role in shaping and preserving this fair city.” He paused. “It was I who guided the rash King Grothgar the First into preserving the custom of the Swap.”
That surprised the prince. “You mean you’re the one responsible for ... Rolenya and me ... ?”
Logran smiled. “I think your loins had more to do with that than I did, Baleron. Nevertheless ... yes, without me you would never have known her, let alone known her well. And, I suspect, a great deal of this whole despicable affair never would have come to pass, at least in its present incarnation.”
“What do you mean?” Baleron said warily; he did not want to push the limits of what he could reveal, did not want to needlessly face the pain again.
“I strongly suspect that Gilgaroth is using your sister against you in some fashion, though how exactly I cannot guess.”
Baleron held his breath, saying nothing.
“He’s possessed you, or part of you, somehow, Baleron. I believe you now. But he would never use one method alone to control an agent such as you. He would use your own heart against you. It is his way. It is, I suspect, how he was able to manipulate Prince Jered—oh, yes, I know about him. The Queen and I keep in constant communication, and she had doubts about him since the first murder.”
This was of great interest to Baleron, but he still said nothing.
Logran looked at him levelly. “And of course you’re here in Glorifel to fulfill the same function.”
Baleron didn’t deny it. “Can you drive it out of me—Rauglir?”
The sorcerer made a pained face. “I ... will try, Baleron. But I make no promises. If indeed this Rauglir is inside you, it may well be that you and the demon are ... entwined.”
Baleron grimaced, then laughed bitterly. “With it and my Doom both, my soul should not be lonely. If only I could just lop off my hand and be done with it! But then, I suppose, my Doom would still be there.” He groaned. “Do your Purging, Logran. Do it now.”
The Archmage shook his head. “It will take me time to prepare. We will begin on the morrow.”
Baleron noticed that Logran would not meet his gaze. The sorcerer’s eyes were wet and troubled. He knows the Purging will kill me, Baleron realized. Or if it does not that it will fail.
Strangely the prospect didn’t bother him. He almost longed for it, for the final answer to his Doom.
That icy feeling throbbed uneasily in his chest, and he smiled grimly. Yes, be afraid. On the morrow you die, my constant companion. You too, Rauglir.
He looked out at the lights of the city. “And my sword?”
The Archmage raised his eyebrows. “Your sword, alas, has been a disappointment.”
“How?”
“Well, as I was saying, I’ve taken tremendous pride in helping to steer our great nation over the years, and I had hoped, with your sword, to be able to steer it from this present brink.”
“How?”
“It knows the Dark One’s will,” said the mage. “It can sense it, interpret it, and it will not defy it. I had hoped to be able to use Rondthril, to tap into it somehow, to be able to divine his will myself and so predict his future actions, or at least be able to prepare a defense against his current ones.”
It was certainly a worthy notion, and Baleron could see why the sorcerer had been so keen to get his hands on the sword.
“But it didn’t work?”
Air hissed out of the sorcerer’s long, aristocratic nose. “Alas, its primitive sentience—if it can be called that, which I begin to doubt—is too rudimentary. It knows the Wolf’s will, can sniff it out like a dog can sniff a smell, but it can’t be made to tell me what it knows, just as a dog couldn’t describe a smell.” His face looked deadly serious in the darkness. In a low voice, he added, “It was my last hope.”
Baleron started to answer, when suddenly horns and alarm bells sounded an alert, starting at the walls and spreading inwards.
“Gods protect us all,” Logran breathed. “Ungier attacks.”