The Larenth River gurgled through the green hills, though it was lower now, half dammed by the ruin of Celievsti to the south, and without Elethris to purify the waters, they were growing dark with the corruption the Borchstogs polluted it with. Baleron did not know how much longer they would be drinkable.
The hosts passed very near one of the great forest-gardens, and he longed to explore it before it would be no more. As Grudremorq had driven the men and elves north, Baleron had seen country more wondrous than any he’d imagined, dales and fens and rearing mountains, yet as soon as Grudremorq reached it his hosts set it aflame. Forest-gardens withered and blackened. Grassy fields became wastelands. They smoked to the south even now.
Baleron was taking a deep draught from his flask and appreciating the scenery when the Archmage Logran Belefard approached.
“The fight goes ill,” said the mage, not making it a question. Tall and thin, with steely hair and beard, he looked tired and old, but his brown eyes shone with vigor. And sadness. Elethris’s death had had a profound impact on him.
“Aye,” Baleron affirmed. He was one of the captains of the rearguard defenders, protecting the group from Grudremorq’s outriders, who had harried them constantly since leaving the ruins of the White Tower. Serathin and elves from other towers and settlements had joined them and aided them, but it was a losing battle and Baleron knew it. “They are too many.”
“Make them choke on us, boy.” The Archmage gestured to the forest-garden. “Get revenge for the rape of this land. You don’t know how precious this place is, how sacred the ground we walk. Did you know that much of what we see was shaped by Queen Vilana herself? I have seen her do it. She will walk upon a naked hill, singing, and grass and flowers and even trees would grow at her feet.”
“Amazing.”
“Oh, yes. And it is in this wise that she has arranged entire forests to her liking. Can you imagine? Power that comes from song? And many of her bloodline share the same ability.” He said this pointedly, and Baleron frowned. “Other elves share it, too, of course, but none so strongly. It’s staggering to think that she’s now a widow and will have to lead Larenthi alone.”
“We all lost loved ones.”
For a time they walked in silence. There were only the sounds of the hosts, of hooves on grass, the soft gurgle of the Larenth, wooden wheels and carts groaning under their burdens. Men and elves talked grimly, if at all, and their unwashed armor clanked and scraped. Baleron smelled sickness and oil when the wind was not blowing.
He thought of Shelir and Elethris and Felias, all dead, and he wondered, not for the first time, where Rolenya was. If she escaped as people say, where is she?
They were working their way up a green hill when a rider cantered by headed south, shouting, “We’ve reached the Ring of Peace! Clevaris nears!”
Baleron and Logran glanced at each other, ripped out of their musings.
“Clevaris ... “ muttered Baleron.
Logran’s look of woe retreated, and his eyes glimmered. “Shall we go have a look?”
“How fast can those old legs go?”
They ran to the crest of the hill, which was the southernmost hill of what the elves called il Liea-Frin, or the Ring of Peace—the tall green hills that encircled the Plain of Riel, upon which Clevaris lay. There he and Logran paused, and awe fell on Baleron. Below stretched a whitely glittering, walled city of towers and domes and great monuments. Its towers rose higher than any he’d ever seen save Elethris’s, and they were wildly, beautifully shaped. White and rippling, their lines were those of living things, flowers and breasts and lips and trees, all surrounded by greenery. Half the city seemed covered in forest, a part of it. The rippling blue ribbon of the Larenth passed through the hills and cut right through the heart of the city, and the wide blue, branching arms of the Larenth encircled it, serving as moats to the city. The moat was known as the Larenthellan and it was spanned by many graceful bridges under which white gondolas meandered. Elves purified the river in the pass.
“Beautiful,” Baleron breathed.
“Yes,” said Logran, his brown eyes gleaming. “I have lived for two hundred years, but the sight of Clevaris always makes me feel like a boy again.”
Baleron glanced behind him at the distant thunderclouds and veil of smoke, approaching like a wall of despair.
“Come,” he said. “Let’s go down to it.”
* * *
The men and those that had become part of their train were met on the Plain of Riel by a host of elves under the leadership of Lord Cesdron; his chief lieutenant was Prince Jered, the young son of Felias and Vilana whom Baleron had heard much of. Baleron saw him from afar, tall and golden-haired, straight of back, with a clean, unlined face, and Baleron felt humbled, for when he looked into the mirror he saw one bowed and broken, his face scarred and lined with worry, his eyes troubled, his dark hair showing streaks of gray.
There beside the banks of the Larenth the elves gave succor to the survivors of Celievsti and the men who had brought them there. The Havensri stayed, awaiting the arrival of Grudremorq, who had been slowed by the army of Erethil, a city that had stood for five thousand years but after this week would likely stand no more.
Prince Jered invited Baleron and Albrech into Clevaris, extending an invitation from the Queen.
“But I’m il Enundian,” Baleron said.
Jered’s open expression did not change. “The Queen would not invite you into Clevaris if she thought you were a danger.”
What she thinks and what is may be two different things.
When Jered withdrew, Baleron took his father aside. “I will not go,” he said.
Albrech looked surprised. “Why? Don’t you know what an honor it is? Mark me, I don’t like the elves, but you cannot throw this offer in the queen’s face.”
“Wherever I go, destruction follows, Father. Clevaris is too beautiful. I would break it.”
“Bah! I was at Oksil, too, or have you forgotten? And I was at Celievsti. I didn’t cause their destruction. And neither did you. So quit this foolishness before I strike you!”
“It was my Doom that did it. I know it.”
Albrech’s hard eyes turned flinty. “I may not know much about Light or Grace, son, but I know one thing, and that’s that no sort of curse felled the White Tower. Only one thing could do that, and that was Elethris’s death, and the deaths of his highest chiefs. Some spy, some assassin, slipped in amid the confusion and brought this about. That’s what did it. Not your Doom. Not some prophecy. A few inches of steel.” He added bitterly, “Or teeth.”
Baleron thought on this. Perhaps his father was right.
“Good,” Albrech said, seeing his stance soften. “Now come.”
Prince Jered escorted them into the city, but Baleron still felt such grief that he could not fully enjoy the spectacles that waited within. And indeed, there were so many wonders, so many lofty things, that most became a blur to him, great trees and mansions, song drifting from a tower. The palace loomed like a cluster of white towers bestriding the river ahead. Not only did the Larenth pass through the heart of the city, Jered told them, it actually entered the palace to form the bathing pools of the Queen. At last Jered led them to the wide marble steps that led up to it, and they ascended past thick marble columns towards the great open doors. It was said that the doors of the Palace were always open. Jered led them inside into a great hall.
“Welcome,” Jered said.
Albrech seemed to be regarding Jered strangely. Baleron watched his father’s face and wondered what that look might signify, but Jered seemed not to notice.
“We are not here to gawk,” Albrech said. “Take us to the queen.”
Nonplussed at the king’s shortness, Jered’s gaze strayed from Albrech to Baleron.
Baleron shrugged. “He’s always like this.”
Jered laughed. His laugh was easy and good-natured. The light made his blond hair shine. “This way,” he said.
He led them up a winding staircase that cut through an open space so high that Baleron grew dizzy, and down a certain hallway. Servants and soldiers moved about in small groups, tending to business in a grim and efficient manner. It was clear that war had come upon them. Jered led King and Prince Grothgar up another set of stairs and then another. Baleron was panting and out of breath by the time they began rising up a spiral, and he realized they were ascending to one of the ivory spires. Remarkably, though Albrech was sweating and out of breath, it was Baleron who had to call for a breather. Just the same, Albrech did not protest.
When they reached the top, Jered ushered them into an ornate suite and there Baleron received his first glimpse of the queen. He saw only her back, for she stood looking out a window cut in the wall gazing out over her city. Her hair was golden, but it was the only thing bright about her. She wore all gray, the Larenthin color of mourning. Her very posture seemed withdrawn, and she looked very frail. Could this truly be the legend that had summoned much of the forests of her country with just her voice, that had helped build the mighty kingdom of Larenthi alongside Felias?
Though grief-stricken, she was graceful and regal, and when she turned Baleron saw lovely jade green eyes and a face that held classic lines of beauty, with high cheekbones and a proud chin. He had heard it said that she drew strength from the earth like a river draws strength from tributaries, but her lips were thin and her ageless face looked ashen. A few of her hairs seemed to be turning white at their roots, and Baleron wondered if grief would turn her golden hair to snow. He found himself hoping it would not.
Her gaze went from Albrech to Baleron, then back. “Thank you for meeting me,” she said with a voice that was trying to be strong, trying to push past the sadness, and only partly succeeding.
“Thank you for having us,” Albrech replied, using his most diplomatic tone.
“I will leave you,” said Jered, closing the door after him.
“He is a likely lad,” said Albrech, an odd note in his voice.
“So he is,” said Queen Vilana. “We are very fond of him.”
Baleron found that a bizarre comment. Of course she would be fond of her son!
“Shall we sit?” She gestured, and they sat. “Would you care for a drink? I think you will find our water sweet and refreshing.”
“No more pleasantries,” King Grothgar said. “After the long climb, I don’t have the energy to engage in idle chatter.”
She stared at him mildly, then nodded. “Very well. I forget the limits of a mortal body. But are you not thirsty?”
“I am not.” His voice was a whip.
She sighed. “Then I will make it simple. First, I called you here to thank you for lending aid to the survivors of Celievsti. Without you, they would surely have been overrun.”
“Just you remember that.”
She ignored the ungracious comment. “However, it is the second reason I brought you here that weighs on me, for I would keep all troops close by.”
“Yes?”
She seemed to summon her strength. “Go,” she said simply. “Take your troops and go. Return to Glorifel with all speed. I foresee war shall be upon you soon.”
“War come to Havensrike?” This clearly startled him, and Baleron too. Suddenly, his hands were clammy.
“How can you be sure?” Baleron asked.
The queen looked at Baleron, then Albrech. “It is what I have felt—what I have seen—in waking dreams, waking nightmares. Mark me well: Gilgaroth is launching the Final War, and both our kingdoms will be tried and tested in the days ahead. We are the twin pillars of the Crescent, and the Crescent is the guardian of the Wolf. Should we fall, the Wolf will devour all. We must survive if there is to be any freedom left in the world. I will do my part here. You must protect Glorifel. It is near the border of Havensrike and will be his first point of attack once he crosses over.”
Looking chastened, Albrech said, “If what you say is true, my men and I must be off at once.” He rose. “Though I hate to leave you in such dire straits ...”
“They are dire indeed,” she admitted. “Even now the Shadow burns and razes the country that I have spent many long centuries building and growing and tending to. But we here in Clevaris will be safe for a time. We keep our waters pure, and strong. Grudremorq will not get past them easily, and if he does he will have to face our walls.” She paused. “Thank you for aiding us, for honoring our alliance and going to war with us against Ungier.”
“Do not thank me for that, woman. Curse me instead! By being predictable I’ve helped damn us all. Our war on Oksil brought the fall of Celievsti upon us—some assassin slipped through—and maybe in time the fall of the Crescent itself.”
“Yes. These events are like beads on a string. One follows the other, and they are all connected, and all along a straight path, a path to our destruction. And, honestly, I do not know how we can defeat the Breaker this time. He has grown mighty indeed, and the Omkar are sundered from the world, as was his intention when he Broke it.”
“He has a plan,” Baleron said suddenly, speaking past the lump in his throat. “I don’t know what it is, but these beads on a string you mention—well, I’m the string.”
“Bah!” said Albrech.
“No,” said the queen. “Let him speak. It is why I invited him here. Go on, Prince.”
Baleron nodded shakily. His mouth was dry, and he could hear the tremor in his voice as he said, “Gilgaroth cursed me and sent me to Celievsti after he’d slain Itherin. I’m no expert, but it seems to me that this must’ve weakened the White Tower.”
As he had hoped, Vilana supplied the rest. “It would. And it would make the tower more vulnerable, relying solely on Elethris and his most powerful apprentices to keep it aloft. Though Elethris reared that spire, Itherin’s power kept it mighty. With her death, it was diminished greatly, though he tried to hide it.”
Baleron nodded. “Gilgaroth knew that once I reached Celievsti, we’d make war on Ungier, and he set a trap for us—for Grudremorq to crush our armies and, I suppose, to allow for an assassin to infiltrate our number, though how he did that I don’t know. Have you any notion?”
“I cannot perceive his mind. I stretch out my thoughts, but he blocks me, then tries to ensnare me.”
“Enough talk,” Albrech said shortly. “We must be off.”
“This is important,” Baleron told him. “My Doom triggered all this, and I’m afraid my Doom will trigger still more.”
Vilana studied Baleron closely. “I do not believe in the prophecy of il Enundian, yet I sense somehow that you will decide the issue one way or the other.”
“Bah,” snorted King Grothgar. “He’s just a pup. What can he do?”
“I am no pup,” Baleron said.
“No,” agreed Queen Vilana. “You are something far more dangerous.”
“You’re talking to a prince of Havensrike, madam,” King Grothgar growled.
Baleron shook his head. “Elethris told me my Doom was fulfilled, that I was free. But he was wrong. I tried to believe him, but that was before Celievsti. Can you feel it, Queen Vilana? Feel my Doom?”
“It is like a shadow on this place.”
“Damn it! I knew it! Elethris said it was weak. What lives were lost because of that, I wonder?”
“It was not the Enemy he underestimated, it was the importance of a single mortal man.” She matched his gaze levelly. “I do not make that mistake.”
To that, he said nothing.
“There is more,” she said. “Worse.”
‘Tell us.”
“When Celievsti fell, when its bonds broke, the powers that held it together should have returned to the land. They did not. They were ... drawn away. Siphoned off to the south.”
“How is that possible?”
“I don’t know, but I know where it went, and what it is for. Gilgaroth swallowed it. Even now that power sits in his belly, changing, being corrupted to a form he can use. When it is ready, he will vomit it forth and raise his own tower, the one the singers tell of in songs of the end times, the black tower of Krogbur. It is said that from the base of Krogbur his Champion—you, Baleron—will lead his hosts forth to the final battle.”
“Surely there’s some way you can rid me of this curse,” Baleron said.
“While Gilgaroth lives, your Doom will follow you. It is wound about your very soul.”
He shuddered. Suddenly he remembered something and sat up. “Gilgaroth. He told Ungier that the Moonstone had aided him somehow in regards to my Doom. I overheard their conversation. He didn’t explain what he meant by it, though.”
Slowly, she nodded. “Yes, the Moonstone … It seems to be an important piece in this whole business, even if I don’t understand how. But perhaps this explains it.”
“How?”
“Reports just recently came from the high temple of Illiana that they perceive that the Moonstone has not simply been taken, but corrupted, enslaved to the dark powers.”
Baleron and his father traded an uneasy glance.
“That sounds rather dire,” said Albrech. Then he snorted. “What exactly is this Moonstone, anyway?”
“You have never heard of it?”
“Oh, I know it’s some Elvish trinket, some artifact of long ago. I don’t believe the rumors that it was created by Illiana herself.”
Vilana smiled sadly. “Yet it was, in the long ago, back during the dawn of Man. What do you know of the War of Light Divided?”
“Rumors and lies!”
“Yes, you do not believe that Elves and Men were once one, but it was so. Once we were all blessed with the Light of the Omkar. But then one noble house, ruling a large multitude, fell to the lies and seductions of Gilgaroth. They rebelled against the High King, and many died—the first great kinslaying, of which many laments are sung. The rebellious noble house was defeated and driven away, and the Omkar held a great council in their shining city, back before their holy realm was sundered from ours. Many Elves, myself included, remember dwelling among the gods in long ages of peace and grandeur before coming into the wider, wilder world and trying to wrest it to our will. Little did we know then that there was no going back, although so it was foretold, and we were warned.
“At any rate, the Omkar decided that as punishment for their great crimes the rebellious noble house and their followers would be exiled forever and stripped of the Grace that had been their heritage. And so the diaspora of Man began, and your kind spread all over the world, changing and becoming disparate as you went. But one of the princes of that house, and his following, repented of the deeds of his family, and begged forgiveness from the Omkar. He pledged their love and loyalty to the Light, and in truth he and his following had abstained from the slaughter. Some had even fought against it.
“The Omkar had made their decision, though, and abided by it. All save one. She, Illiana, mother of the Moon, fashioned a great working, pouring much of her love and skill into it, and the result was the Moonstone, which draws power from and is a faded echo of the glory of the Moon itself. She gifted the Moonstone to the prince, who had separated from his family and formed his own House, as a sign that there was still hope for Men and to be an aid to them in the wild, unconquered world beset with Shadow, since they would not have their Light to draw upon any longer.”
“A pretty fairytale, perhaps,” said Albrech. “What does it have to do with us?”
“Much, by the sounds of it. Long has Gilgaroth sought to destroy the Moonstone, and long was it used as a weapon against him, which is what Illiana had intended. I counseled the custodians of the Moonstone, the mortal Order of Illiana, to hide it in a place of safety and to keep it far from the front lines, but they said that there it would be useless and that they would be overrun. So it was decided to be a bulwark against evil, and I deem that it was effective for many years. Yet then it was taken, and corrupted, and now that great weapon of the Omkar has been enslaved by Gilgaroth and turned against us. It was the Last Gift of the Omkar to Man, and a beacon of hope in dark times, but now I see little hope. Gilgaroth has twisted the Moonstone and used it to deepen and tighten the noose of the Doom about your son.”
Baleron felt a chill. “Is that the way of it, then?”
“I fear it is. I am most sorry.”
Albrech glared at her. “Lies.”
“Perhaps the Moonstone can be recovered,” Baleron said, clinging to hope. “Perhaps it can be purified.”
“No one knows where it is, or how that might be done,” Vilana said. “Yet I will ruminate on it, and try to come up with an answer. Because you are correct. The only hope I see for you is the destruction of the Moonstone, or its salvation. Yet I know not how to purify something tainted by Gilgaroth, and … in the event it could be destroyed, think about what that would mean. The Last Gift … gone … leaving us with precious few weapons against the Darkness.”
“Better than having the weapon aimed at us.”
“Yes. Perhaps.”
“Enough of this,” Albrech said. “I grow weary of such high talk, especially when I can believe so little of it. Just tell me what can be done for Baleron.”
Vilana regarded the prince solemnly. “There is no way I can remove your Doom, Baleron, without killing you.”
“Enough of that,” growled Albrech.
Ignoring him, Baleron told her quietly, “Then kill me. Whatever it takes, this Doom must be destroyed.”
Albrech physically pulled him to his feet and shoved him toward the door. Baleron shoved back. The two locked angry eyes on each other.
Vilana’s melodic voice cut the tension. “Easy,” she said. “Easy.”
A lightness settled over Baleron’s mind, and his father relaxed, as well. The two took a step back, both breathing heavily.
Baleron turned to the Queen. “Do what must be done,” he said.
“I told you that you could decide the issue of the war one way or the other. But you must be alive to do so. As much as I hate to let you loose into the world, for I recognize the threat you pose, I must release you for the good that you can do. You may damn us yet, but you may save us, too.”
Relief swept him. To his father, he said, “Perhaps it would be best for me to leave you. I would not have my curse follow me to Glorifel. I will go out on my own, where I can cause no further harm to anyone. I will wander the forests and strike down what enemies I can in my own way.”
Albrech snorted. “I told you that I would need you in the days ahead, son. So I shall. Don’t run off on me now. If the queen’s vision is true, then our darkest hour has arrived. Do not abandon me now.”
Vilana watched the prince carefully. “It is in your hands,” she said.
* * *
The king ordered the men to ready themselves for another long journey. They were weary and dispirited, but they obeyed. After he had finished issuing orders, the king stood before his tent and smoked a pipe, gazing upon his soldiers with pride and grief. Baleron, who had completed his duties, approached him, and together they stood side by side, neither speaking. The breeze whispered over the tall green grass.
“What have you decided?” the king asked finally.
“First tell me of Rolenya. I know she’s an elf. What I don’t know is why.”
Reluctantly, Albrech nodded. “Yes. It’s time. Past time. She may be dead.”
Baleron had been thinking the same thing every minute of every day since Celievsti’s collapse. “She was seen escaping. And not all the survivors stayed at the site. We found them scattered all over. She might still be out there, roaming the hills of Larenthi.”
Albrech expelled air harshly through his nose. “Perhaps.”
“Regardless, I need to know.”
“Then come.”
Albrech ducked into his tent, which would be the last thing taken down. He sat on a bench at a table laden with maps, and Baleron sat across from him. From outside the canvas walls came the sounds of the troops preparing for the march, the beat of hammers as equipment was disassembled, the stomp of hooves, the rustling of satchels being stuffed, the cursing of soldiers.
Baleron studied his father closely. Albrech looked old and tired, but a relentless determination filled him, made his eyes gleam. This was the sort of man other men would follow gladly, Baleron knew. No matter his harshness, Albrech Grothgar was a true leader.
Now his eyes were troubled. “Are you sure you want to hear?”
“I’m sure,” Baleron said.
“Don’t say I didn’t give you the chance.”
“Go on.”
“Your sister,” said Albrech, “is not your sister.”
Baleron didn’t interrupt. Ever since seeing her standing next to King Felias, and even years earlier when he’d heard her singing at Gulrothrog, the prince had half-suspected something like this. Yet that did not make hearing it any easier.
Uncharacteristically perturbed, Albrech appeared to steel himself, and continued: “Long ago, before the time of the first Grothgar king, back when our relations with the elves were closer than they are now—and that would not be difficult—before we threw off the yoke of their lies, it was customary for Havensrike and Larenthi to exchange royal siblings: the Swap, as it was known. That is, Felias and Vilana would when they had a child send it to be raised by the Lord of Havensrike, and the reverse. When Queen Vilana was without child, they would ask for volunteers from among the noble houses. And thus it was, through the centuries. The Swap was good, if you like the outcome: our ties were strengthened.”
Baleron nodded. Royal wards or fosterlings were not that uncommon. Moreover, he vaguely thought he had heard of the custom his father spoke of, a custom supposedly lost in antiquity. “What happened when the child reached adulthood?”
“They’d be transferred back to their true family. Usually they were told the truth long before then, sometimes not. For good or bad, the Swap seemed to further the relationship between our countries. And so it was perpetuated. For a time.”
His eyes returned to his son, full of strength. “When our forefather threw off that elvish yoke, the custom of the Swap ended—at least, so far as the populace of Havensrike was concerned. Yet even in the height of his dislike for the elves, King Grothgar I recognized the Swap’s value. What better way could our two nations ensure we understood each other and respected each other than to allow our most noble sons and daughters to be raised by the other side once every fifty years? The bettered relations that came with it ensured trade, and exchange of ideas and resources.
“Even if he wanted to lessen the influence of Larenthi, he didn’t want to lessen all the benefits the Alliance. That would be folly. Yet he couldn’t continue the custom of the Swap, not in public, not after declaring the elves oppressors and liars, not after all but completely severing ties with them.”
“So he decided to continue the tradition in secret,” said Baleron, understanding.
“Yes. That way, the people of Havensrike would be under the impression that the yoke was cast off and our kingdom free, most of the elves driven out or encouraged to leave—save for the yllimmi, whom we needed, and a few rogues whom we didn’t. But in reality the Swap would still stand, and King Felias would know, and Larenthi would know, and our ties would still be strong enough to weather the storms, if not much stronger. Trade would still exist, to a certain extent, even if more heavily taxed, and naturally we would still fight alongside each other when the need arose. As to what story was used to return the children to their rightful homes—that we took case by case.”
He paused, gathering his strength, but before he could finish Baleron spoke. “So Rolenya is really King Felias’s daughter, not yours.”
Albrech stared at him for a long, tense moment, then finally nodded with a hissing release of breath. To Baleron’s surprise, tears hovered behind those dark, kingly eyes.
“Yes,” Albrech admitted, and his voice carried great sadness. “Though I grew to love her—and I’m ashamed for saying this—more than I loved my own children. Perhaps I shouldn’t be telling you this. Perhaps ...” He pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes. When he opened them, they were clear and dry, if his face no less pained. “Her laughter and her songs brightened the castle. I grew to think of it as dreary without her presence. She was one of the Light-born, true, but even among them she stood out. Of them all, she was most filled with the Grace of the Omkarathons, though she never seemed to realize it. I think that made me love her all the more. So much did I love the idea of being her father, and so much did I love her thinking it true, that I never told her otherwise. I know it pained Felias and Vilana not to be able to claim her all these years, not to be able to know her and be parents to her—but then they had my son Jered.”
“Jered is your son?” Jered, that golden-haired prince of Larenthi—tall and handsome and full of charm, who had already excelled as a leader and a warrior, and was loved by the Clevarisin—was of the Fallen? “So that’s why you were looking at him so oddly ...”
“I suppose, if I was. And right now he’s engaged in marshaling the queen’s troops to defend Clevaris. He’s your next-oldest brother, Baleron, and he’ll probably be dead within a fortnight. Yet,” he reflected bitterly, “I would pay that price to have Rolenya back. She was the light of my life, the beat of my heart, and always will be, whether she lives or no. I hope she does. With all my heart, I hope she lives, that she escaped the destruction of the tower and even now is hurrying home. Her first home. To me.”
Baleron cast his gaze down. He found it difficult to breathe suddenly, and it seemed that everything was growing dim in his vision and flashing black spots danced around him.
He’d suspected the truth before, but knowing it made a difference. All he’d been told growing up had been a lie. The girl he’d loved and played with and spent so much time around was in fact not kin at all. Not even human. His best friend, his truest companion ... a piece of political fiction! And yet, when he thought of her smile, the smell of her hair ...
Lord Grothgar leaned over and squeezed his shoulder. “You had to know, my son. Maybe I should have told you years ago, but maybe not. I haven’t gotten to know you well, but I did know her well—quite well. I considered a day empty if it passed without a hug or at least a smile from Rolenya. And when she sang ...” He sighed contentedly. “Well, from her I got to know of your various exploits—infantile, most of them, I must say. But then, I suppose it was that captain that put you up to most of your pranks, if not Rolenya herself. She thrived on mischief. Thrives.”
He massaged his temples. “You loved her well, Baleron, and I gather she added heart to your days as well as mine. Had you known the truth, perhaps that would’ve dimmed your days, just a bit. It would have certainly dimmed mine; in telling you, I would have broken the illusion of being her father. Sometimes ... sometimes I even let myself forget.”
He patted his son’s shoulder soundly, and now he was more his old self, cool and confident. “You were the closest to her, Baleron, and so now you’re all I have left of her. For I must think of her as dead or I will go mad with thwarted hope. I must content myself with reading her echo in your eyes, vague and dim though the echo may be.” At this, Baleron smiled humorlessly. His father went on: “That’s why I favor you now—not because of your years of torture and slavery, not because you saved her life, time and again. And certainly not because I want to give you the chance to redeem yourself for helping cause the deaths of tens of thousands of people. Though all of that too. I am not without heart, not altogether. But act well, and act wisely, and I will continue to favor you so. Act the fool, as you used to do, and be treated as such. Do you understand?”
“I understand.”
“So that’s it. That’s the secret I’ve kept from you your entire life. Do you hate me?”
The prince sat and stared at him for a long minute. Simply, he said, “No.”
Albrech nodded. That was it. There were no wasted words of emotion between them. For his part, Baleron was surprised his father had even asked the question. Albrech had never cared about what he thought before.
The king rose to his feet and seemed on the verge of saying something, but Baleron spoke first: “I ask only one thing.”
“Yes?” Albrech seemed impatient.
“If I go back with you, I want to be given a command.”
“A command of what?”
“Of soldiers, what else? You said you would give me a position of responsibility.”
Albrech grunted. “So I did. So I did. And I shall, but as to what extent ... I don’t know. I never saw what became of your slave-liberation party. The reason I gave you that command was because those men had seen you return a hero after saving Rolenya. But when we return to Glorifel, the men there will just look on you as they did before. I will think on it.”
“Think hard, Father. The only thing that keeps me going is the thought of drawing the Enemy’s blood. Give me a weapon to do it with. If you don’t, I must find another. And it likely won’t be in Glorifel.”
Albrech regarded him levelly. Suddenly, unexpectedly, he smiled, though it was not a happy smile. “It is the only thing that keeps me going, as well. So, then, you will return?”
Baleron grimaced. “Yes,” he said at last. “I will go home. After three years, I will go home. I only hope that you do not regret it.”
* * *
All fled the wrath of the Great Wolf as he thundered through the wastelands. He was a giant, flame licking his lips, his eyes blazing with fire. Rumor spread of his coming, and the Borchstogs made sacrifices in the path he would tread, and all prayed in their black temples, but none dared stand in his way.
He was more than two hundred feet high, and his shadow stretched long before him, shriveling all it touched. Impatient, he ripped through time and space to reach his goal.
A great, burning power filled him, the energy of Celievsti. He had swallowed its essence, and it had made him strong. But it burned. Light and Grace had been wound together in order to make the White Tower, and they tormented him now, filling him with a great pain. The pain made him angry, and that is why no Borchstog dared near him, even when he passed beyond Oksilith into Oslog. There Borchstogs knew who their true master was. They had not been influenced by Ungier.
He passed deep into the Black Land. Days he traveled, and weeks. At last he came to the heart of his empire, a vast, blackened plain dominated by many volcanoes and rivers of lava. Here he stopped.
“Now it begins,” he said.
He changed into his two-legged, humane form. He felt the energies within him, the power. For over four thousand years Celievsti had stood, but in only a matter of weeks in his flesh its energies had been corrupted. They pained him no more. They were his, and he had woven them into the tapestry of Illistriv, the Second Hell.
Now he exerted himself, and the land cracked and broke. A huge fissure ripped the earth, and fire spurted from it high into the night. Gilgaroth stared into the flames, and he smiled, for he gazed upon the fires of Illistriv. Finally, after ages of dreaming of it, he had brought his Second Hell to earth. It was still in him, still bound to him, but here, in this one place, it was now a part of the fabric of the World.
Then he threw forth his power and raised the Tower, the great, dark tower of Krogbur, the very center of the Second Hell. It rose up under him, and the earth split, and the pit of flame widened. The Tower bore him up. It rose and rose, and the earth shook, and the air blistered with heat. At last the Tower penetrated the roof of charcoal clouds, and stopped.
There Gilgaroth stood, on a high terrace of the Black Tower, staring down into the raging Inferno that leapt halfway up Krogbur’s length, gazing down into the flames of the Second Hell. In them burned the souls of those he had devoured over his long years—millions of them. He gazed upon the tortured spirits swimming through the pyre, circling the immensity of the Tower. They flashed like white fish, running from the shadows that pursued them. And he smiled.
Krogbur was center of Illistriv, the very heart of Hell.
“Soon,” he vowed, “this will be the Black Heart of the World.”
* * *
And in the depths of the Second Hell, a spirit wept.
There was more than fire and pain in the deeps of Illistriv. There was more to the Second Hell than the Inferno. There were mountains and forests and cities. There was an entire half-world, a world of Gilgaroth’s sole creation. In it he was the absolute lord.
Most of the souls he devoured went into the Inferno. There over thousands of years they were consumed, and the energy they released fed him, made him stronger. To some of the souls, however, he gave special treatment.
One such soul, given a mock-corporeal form, wandered a garden nestled in a quiet corner of the Second Hell. Despairing, weeping, she clutched her shoulders as she walked. It was cold, but even worse, she could feel the evil on the very air. This whole place was drenched in it, soaked in it, made of it, as though it was mud that could be dried into bricks and used to fashion dwellings and towers. It sickened her, worried her. How could she be here? How was this strange place possible? Was she doomed to spend eternity here?
She drifted through these black thoughts as she walked through the garden. Trees and flowering bushes loomed over her, almost menacingly.
As it happened, the garden bordered a forest. And the forest . . . was dark. Very, very dark.
She feared to go too near that forest. Things dwelt there. Horrible, hideous things. Vast things. Unnatural things. Watching her. She could feel their eyes on her, even now. Thinking of them, she started to cry even louder.
No, she told herself. Don’t give in. That’s what He wants. He wants to see me broken. But I won’t break. I won’t! I’ll stay strong. Strong for Baleron. Someday he will come for me, I know it. Someday he will free me from this Pit.
Just then, some fell thing stirred in the wood, and trees leaned and cracked. She started. Be strong, she repeated to herself. Be strong!