The scuffle of footsteps echoed loudly in the tight confines of the catacombs, and they were all Giorn Wesrain could hear, save his labored breathing and the tap of his cane.
“What’s this?” he asked.
They’d come to a squat hall with rooms to either side. These had been empty rooms when Giorn had left, but now he saw tombs on each side. Feeling something tear in his heart, he limped into one room and stood over the stone-carved sarcophagus, fashioned to resemble a bearded warrior king—Harin Wesrain, as he had been years ago. Though the representation was idealized, and Harin in life had not been particularly war-like, Giorn recognized him instantly.
“Father ...”
He ran his unmaimed hand over the tomb, patting his father’s chest.
Fria came up beside him. “It was a lovely funeral. Niara sang The Passage to Sifril. It ... was most beautiful.”
“I still can’t believe he’s gone.”
“Neither can I.”
Giorn forced himself to cross the hallway and enter the next tomb, going slowly, his footsteps seeming to echo forever. He moved to Meril’s sarcophagus and stared down at the chiseled representation of his brother—flat and lifeless, he thought, devoid of the devilish charm Meril had evinced in life. Yet it was him. There were his chubby, babyish cheeks, there his full lips, his strong jaw, wavy hair.
“Meril ...” Giorn laid his forehead against the representation of his brother’s. It was disconcerting to realize that Meril’s real forehead would be gray and rotting just inches beneath the lid. “I’m sorry.” How could their last words have been in anger? And because of Raugst.
For a time, he stood there, staring down at the sarcophagus, but then he noted Fria’s absence and turned to see her silhouetted against the doorway.
“Won’t you come in?”
She shook her head. “I can’t.” Her voice was thick. “He abandoned us, Gi. Abandoned Fiarth.” In a quieter voice, half to herself, she said, “Craven.”
He hadn’t the time to explain to her what must have really happened. He could not believe his brother would have taken his own life, but Raugst had all the motive in the world. Sighing, he bid Meril farewell and returned to the hallway. Time to go.
A secret passage connected the catacombs to the castle’s dungeon, so Giorn was able to avoid the guards that Raugst had surely posted at the entrance to the dungeon level. Giorn had expected to find the cells teeming with dissenters, as it was always the way of tyrants to populate their dungeons vigorously, but to his surprise the place was largely empty. For some reason, this made Giorn hate Raugst all the more. The traitor had the love of the people.
Fria must have seen his expression, for she squeezed his arm. “He’s put on a good show, that’s all. Made the people think he’s one of them.”
Giorn hobbled along on his cane, wincing at every step. He said nothing.
“Don’t worry, Gi. We’ll find a way to end him.”
He smiled humorlessly. “Oh, I’ve thought of many ways. It’s just about all I can think of.”
She looked at him strangely and said no more. She had seemed subdued since her foray into the castle.
Shortly they reached the cell of Duke Yfrin at the end of a dank hallway, near a small, barred window. This was about as good as conditions in the royal dungeons went—relative privacy and natural light, even a view of the grounds if one strained one’s neck. Giorn found the Duke drowsing in a corner, and Giorn smiled, this time with warmth. The Duke looked rested and healthy, with a white, bushy head of hair and beard, and a nose red from too much drink over the years.
Giorn cleared his throat.
The Duke blinked his eyes and glanced up blankly. When he recognized Giorn, he exclaimed with surprise and climbed to his feet.
“It cannot be! Look at you!” He crossed to the bars and gripped them with pudgy hands. “What did they do to you, lad?”
“There’s no time to tell, my friend. We must get you out of here.” When Fria had gone to fetch the cane, she had also retrieved her set of the dungeon keys, passed on by Meril, and given them to Giorn. Now Giorn produced the keys and shook them before the duke’s widening eyes.
“Could it be that I’m still dreaming?” said Yfrin.
“If so, don’t wake up. We’re on the verge of getting out of here.”
Giorn unlocked the door, and Duke Yfrin wrapped him in a tight hug, then embraced Fria. Even Fria’s handmaiden got a kiss on the hand, which made her blush prettily. The Duke laughed.
“Shh,” Giorn said, putting the stump of a finger to his lips. “We can’t let them hear us.”
The Duke’s expression fell, his gaze settling on the finger. “What did they do to you?”
“Never mind. We must hurry.”
“You mean he’s still in charge?” When Giorn nodded, Yfrin slumped. “When you showed up, I thought ... but no matter. I’m sure there’s still hope.”
“There is. Some of it depends on you.”
“How my I help, my lord?”
“We must go to your home. We’ll go through the secret tunnels and leave the city—it’s under siege—then make our way afoot until we can find mounts somewhere. Fria’s supplied me with some gold, so that shouldn’t be insurmountable, if you’ll pardon the pun.”
Duke Yfrin’s enthusiasm visibly waned. “Afoot, and you with a cane ...” He stared at Giorn’s shattered leg. “It’s still bleeding ...”
Yes, and it burns like fire. The medicines the nurses had given Giorn had made the pain bearable, but no more. “I know. The situation is less than ideal. Nevertheless ...”
“Gi’s right,” Fria said. “You can’t stay here. You must get out of the city and rally the nobles against Raugst.”
“It’s the only way,” Giorn said.
“I wish I could give you horses,” Fria said.
“The tunnels won’t accommodate them.”
She nodded, then kissed his cheek. “Are you sure you’ll be all right?”
Giorn smiled. “It has to be safer than staying here. I need time to heal and gather supporters.” He paused. “Are you certain you wish to stay? It won’t be safe now that Raugst has revealed himself to you. And should the city fall ...”
She looked down, and he saw the telltale glimmer as tears coursed down her cheeks, but she did not make a sound, nor did she let him see her face. A brave young woman, he realized.
“I’m sure,” she said. “It’s the only way for me. Someone must keep an eye on him, and perhaps, if the opportunity arises ...”
“Don’t get yourself killed doing it. I want to have some family to come back to when this is all over, and you’re all there is.”
“I am still your uncle,” Duke Yfrin said.
“That you are,” Giorn agreed, heartened. “Now come. It’s a long walk we have before us, and the tunnels may not be as empty as we would like. We must have our wits about us, and our arms.” He patted the sword at his waist and the dagger at his chest.
At the cue, Fria pressed a sword and dagger on the duke, and he stared at them dumbly, almost as though he’d forgotten what they were, but then he shook himself and strapped them on.
“It’s been awhile,” he muttered, “but I’m sure it will come back to me.”
“Hopefully you won’t need them,” Fria said. Her eyes were clear now. Her left one stared upwards, as though in prayer.
Giorn began hobbling back the way he had come, and the others followed. Through the window, he had been hearing the far-off but constant susurration of war, but now began to fade. Was the battle drawing to a close?
He ground his teeth as a stab of pain coursed up his right leg and kept going.
* * *
Niara looked at him levelly. “You did what?”
Framed against the stars, Raugst was just a black shape on the terrace. The stars were beginning to fade as light grew toward the east.
“It was the only way,” he said.
She rose from the couch and went to him. The warm wind whispered over the balustrade and felt good against her cheeks. Her robe danced. “The only way to what?” she asked. “To bring down the Crescent?” Fury rose in her. She wanted to beat at his chest, but that would only amuse him.
Looking down on her, half-smirking, he said, “Perhaps. But perhaps it will save the Crescent.” He turned and stared toward the sun just thrusting over the eastern horizon. “Believe it or not, Niara, it was the only way, the only thing I could say to Vrulug to make him stop. Otherwise those Borchstogs would be sacking Thiersgald right now and the rest of the Crescent not long after.”
Part of her anger dissipated. “Would you ... would you truly have opened the gates to them?”
He did not even hesitate. “Happily. And I would have waited upon my throne for Vrulug to come to me. I would have had you across my lap, naked and bleeding, and he would have come into the Throne Room, him looking up at me for once and ...” He sighed, and she could hear his longing. “But that’s gone now, a dream dead, slain by that kiss you gave me.” By the red light blooming to the east, she could see the sadness in him.
“I certainly won’t apologize for it,” she said. In a smaller voice, she added, “But perhaps I shouldn’t have saved you from Giorn.”
He grabbed her shoulders roughly, forcing her attention to return to him. His face pressed close to hers. “Had you done that, girl, the city would have fallen. Giorn could not have dealt with Vrulug.”
“No, but he would not have opened the gates, either. He could have rallied the soldiers and driven Vrulug away.”
“It would have been a hollow victory, girl.”
“Do not call me girl.”
“It would have been hollow,” he repeated. “When the bridge is rebuilt, and Vrulug’s main force comes up from the south, Giorn could not have stopped them. But I can.”
“How? As king?”
Raugst leaned back. He looked weary. “We shall see. I know King Ulea is a beloved figure in Felgrad, and he’s sent me several messengers asking if I required his aid against Vrulug. I put him off, of course. At the time, I didn’t want his help.”
“Naturally. But now you’re prepared to kill him and take his place.”
“Don’t be cross. Sure, he seems a good man, but I’ve killed many good men. However, this might be the first time I’ve ever done so for the cause of good men.” He smiled humorlessly.
“I can’t allow you to do it.”
“You have no say in the matter. And as long as Saria hangs about my neck, neither do I. I must rid myself of her.”
Niara nodded grimly, recalling the woman that had accompanied Raugst back to the castle. Even Raugst’s minions had shown her deference, and fear. Could she be ... ? Surely not. The name must be just a coincidence. She couldn’t truly be Orin Feldred’s wife and betrayer.
Tall and stately, Saria had seemed like a queen, but there was something loathsome about her, too, something rank just below the surface. Raugst had shown her to the quarters that would be hers—Giorn’s old apartment in the tallest tower—where she had demanded that any prisoners he had be brought to her for her to feed on. Niara had understood then: she was rithlag, a dead thing that needed to steal the life from others in order to maintain her foothold in this world. Niara wondered if Duke Yfrin was even then lying dead at the abomination’s feet, drained and empty.
“How?” Niara asked. “How can you rid yourself of her?”
Raugst frowned, rubbing his beard. It was a very human gesture, and it encouraged her. Perhaps he was not too far gone, after all.
At last he shrugged. “I’ll worry about it when Thiersgald is safe.”
“So you mean to help us?”
“I would not say it if I did not.” In a lower tone, he added, “Not to you.” Something gentle, or half gentle, came into his eyes, and he reached out to her and took her wrists in his large hands. “You gave me mastery of myself, girl.” This time she did not correct him. “I ... I thank you for it.”
He bent down and kissed her lips. Giorn, she thought. Think of Giorn. She pulled away.
“No,” she said, and it was almost a choke.
Reluctantly, he let her go. Flushed and shamed, she quit the terrace and retreated indoors.
“I must leave,” she said.
“Niara.”
She paused, hating herself for it, and was about to turn around to face him when the door to Raugst’s chambers swung open, and a tall, voluptuous form stood silhouetted in the doorway.
“Saria,” said Raugst.
“Raugst.” She entered the room without asking, her black hair glimmering in the candlelight, set with ornate golden pins that made the black waves sparkle. Her jade green eyes swept the room and fixed on Niara, who shuddered. How many men did she feed from? Niara fancied she could smell the stench of blood coming off the woman—the thing. Saria looked very healthy, and roses blossomed on her cheeks. Her lips were very red.
“Niara,” she said. “I’ve been told about you. Interesting to find a priestess of the Moon-witch here, in the bedchambers of our lord Raugst ... .”
“She is mine,” Raugst growled. “Leave her be.” To Niara, he added, “Go. You will have no trouble. I’ve already given orders to the men.”
Warily, Niara circled around Saria, who turned to watch her. The amused, mocking expression never left Saria’s face.
“You don’t have to leave, dear,” Saria said. “You can stay and ... join us ... in our games. I’m sure Raugst wouldn’t mind.”
Stammering, not sure what to think, Niara said, “N-no. I ...”
Saria laughed. She turned to Raugst, seeming to forget Niara instantly. “By the way, you should know that one of your prisoners escaped. A duke, I think he was. A shame, really. There were so few other prisoners for me to take.”
“Duke Yfrin?” Niara had been at the doorway, but she turned back. “Is that who it was?”
“Perhaps. Does it matter?”
Niara lowered her head, not wanting to meet the other’s questioning glance. “No.”
She left the room, but not before turning back one final time to see beautiful, wicked Saria glide across the furs of Raugst’s room toward where he still stood on the terrace. She moved in lithe, cat-like strides, a panther on the prowl. Raugst seemed to tremble as she wrapped her arms about him and pressed her head to his chest. Then she turned her face, very deliberately, toward Niara, and smiled.
Without anyone touching it, the door slammed shut in Niara’s face.
* * *
Niara did not see Fria as she left the corridor, but Fria saw her.
The baroness’s eyes widened and she felt the breath catch in her throat. Startled, she withdrew into an alcove as Niara passed by. The priestess’s head hung down, obviously in preoccupation. Heart racing, Fria watched her go. What had she just seen? Fria had come to visit Raugst after she’d learned of his return to negotiate a new place for herself in the castle, but had hesitated when she heard voices beyond the doorway. She had expected anything but Niara emerging.
What could it mean? Surely the High Mother had not, would not ... It was a thought too horrible to entertain. Yet what else could it mean? Niara had no business with Raugst. And after what Giorn had implied about what he’d seen at the temple, Fria could only imagine one reason for a meeting between the two.
How could she? She’s High Mother! Could Niara have been lying the whole time? Fria wondered if she had been right to throw the bitch in the dungeon. And to think Fria had cried about it to Giorn and begged his forgiveness!
She realized she was shaking. She certainly wasn’t in any condition to visit Raugst any longer. She waited in the darkness, giving Niara enough time to make good her exit, then emerged and descended from the Tower of the Baron. Fria would not be wanted in her marriage bed, not anymore—not that she would have accepted her place there in any event. Besides, it was soiled now.
Fria thought of Kragt. He would come for her, she believed. He wanted her, and she had roused his interest in the feasting chamber. She didn’t think he would take her—Raugst’s wife— without her leave, and so she did not fear him. Could she turn the situation to her advantage? Kragt would make an excellent tool to use against Raugst, that was certain, and Raugst’s destruction was the reason she’d remained behind.
Still shaky, Fria made her way to her old bedchambers and flung herself on the bed. She struggled to keep the tears at bay, but there was so much inside her, so much anger, so much fear, so much sadness, that they burst out despite her best efforts. Niara had been all but a mother to her, and Fria loved her dearly. Must she now add the priestess to her list of enemies? It was unbearable. Not only was her beloved Raugst an agent of the Enemy, not only was he surrounded and supported by his lackeys, now he had the support of the High Priestess.
With an overwhelming feeling of horror, Fria realized it was up to her to kill them all.
* * *
Raugst stared down at Saria in his arms.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
She was all big eyes and pouting lips. He could see how Orin might have been deceived. And back then she would have been ... different. Mortal. Perhaps even honestly conflicted.
“Only seeking protection in your big, strong arms,” she said, snuggling closer.
He said nothing. Though her appearance seemed innocent, her words were all mockery.
“And they are strong, aren’t they?” she continued. “Strong—and loyal. These are arms that serve the One. Yes?”
He tried pushing her away gently, but she was as iron. “Yes,” he choked.
Her arms drew tighter about him. “Truly?”
“Yes,” he said. He could barely draw breath.
Her arms drew even more unyieldingly about him. His ribs ached. Wheezing, he said, “What—?”
She hugged him, and he felt something begin to crack in his chest. He struggled against her, pushing, wrestling, at last, in desperation, about to hit her, knowing it would be futile—
She stepped away, and her eyes were shards of green ice. “That was to show you who is master here. Your body is big and strong, Raugst, but that’s because the Master gave it to you. It is your soul that matters. My soul is stronger. I am deeper in the councils of the One.”
Touching his tender ribs, he scowled. “What gives you the right to be stronger? I was born in Oslog. I am of it. You’re from here—an enemy.”
She smiled, and he had to admit it was a seductive smile. “I was,” she admitted. “Then I found our lord, great Vrulug, ruler of ancient Ulastrog. I did not come willing to his bed, I admit—but was taken, dragged to his palace against my will, even while I was betrothed to Orin. Beautiful Orin ...” She sounded almost sad. “But I learned his ways, Vrulug’s ways, and I embraced them. I accepted the ways of Oslog willingly, I wasn’t raised to them. You were never given a choice, Raugst. I chose this life, and I sacrificed my own beloved and my own people to keep it. And so, in a way, my devotion is the greater.”
She stepped back, and the wind whispered over the terrace. The eastern horizon grew red with blood. He wondered if it made her thirst, or if the few prisoners in his dungeon had slaked it for the nonce. He touched his fingers to his ribs and looked at them. No blood.
“You needn’t have done that,” he said, lumbering toward her. “I didn’t need a reminder.”
“Yes, you did.” She returned her attention to the panorama of Thiersgald. “It is a pretty city.”
“Yes.”
“It will be prettier still when we have taken it, when monuments to the Great One stand in the courtyards and the bodies of His enemies rot at their bases. Ancient Ulastrog will rise once more.”
“That does sound glorious. But only if my plan is achieved and we bring the Crescent down entire, and the Age of Grandeur begins. Otherwise our efforts would have been mere table dressing.”
“Ul Ravast will accomplish all of this.”
“You place too much faith in that prophecy.”
“The Master’s prophecy,” she said, a hard note in her voice. She paused. “Still, it is an interesting thing, this plan of yours. To install yourself as King of Felgrad. How will you accomplish it?”
“I have my way.”
“Is this Moon-witch whore part of it?”
“No,” he said.
“Then why was she in your room? What is she to you?”
“Nothing. Only my private jest, to corrupt a daughter of the Moon.”
“You will stop seeing her.”
“I will not.”
She narrowed her eyes. “You will obey me.”
“We shall see.”
Amusement touched her lips. Raugst became aware of two figures emerging from the shadows of the room to either side of her. Suddenly cold, he stared. They were the tall, charred corpse-things Vrulug used for his personal guard. Raugst wasn’t sure if the shadows clung to them, or if they clung to the shadows, but either way they seemed part of them. The creatures gave off a chill, and their eye sockets plunged through black holes into the Abyss.
“My lord has given the Twain to me, to use as I see fit,” Saria said. “Cross me and you will regret it.”
The creatures stepped forward, and the sweat on Raugst’s forehead turned to ice. They were cold.
“So,” Saria said, “you will stop seeing the whore?”
Raugst nodded.
The Twain melted back into the shadows. He had no doubt Saria could recall them at will, however, noting her stroke a black jewel set in a golden ring on her finger.
“They’ll keep an eye on you,” she told him.
He sighed, trying to affect weary patience. “You needn’t doubt me, Lady. I don’t know why Lord Vrulug sent you with me.”
“Don’t you?”
“No.”
She nodded slowly. “We shall see. You have one month.”
“What do you mean?”
“It will take my lord one month to rebuild the bridge over the Pit of Eresine. Then he can bring his full might across the gorge and conquer Felgrad through main force. He will not need the likes of you. But ... if you can become king of Felgrad before then ... if you can make Felgrad a tool of the One ... he will spare it.”
“One month to usurp the king ...” He shook his head. “It’s not enough time.”
“Then Felgrad will fall.” She did not seem to care.
He moved to the doorway, his ribs still aching. “We’ll discuss it later,” he said.
“Where are you going?”
He forced a laugh. “I have a city to save, remember.”
* * *
Giorn paused as he reached a crest and turned back to take in the sight of Thiersgald, his home, laid out upon the plain, just now receiving the first faint rosy light of dawn. Its domes and rooftops gleamed, and the rivers that cut through it sparkled molten red. The sight touched him, as always, and he tried to ignore the Borchstog army that befouled it. Thankfully, with the coming of the sun, the creatures were retreating inside their tents. Only a few hardy sentries would keep watch while the others slept. Even the screams of the Borchstogs’ victims had faded.
“Would that I had my army,” Giorn mused. “Now would be the perfect time to strike.”
At his side, Duke Dalic Yfrin nodded. “Don’t think of what could be, lad. Think of what will be.”
Slowly, Giorn regarded the duke. “Are you sure you’re up to this, Uncle? It’s no shame to back out. I can escort you to your home and go my own way from there.”
The older man seemed to sink within himself, thinking. At last he shook himself, sort of smiled, and said, “No, I will see this through with you, my boy.” He glared at the Borchstog army, coughed up some spittle and spat in their direction. “Death to the Enemy!”
Grinning, Giorn spat likewise. “Death indeed.”
He saw a stirring. Dalic turned to look, too. It was a great, glittering mass of soldiery sweeping out from the North Gate. The Borchstogs were camped near the South ...
“What’s this?” Giorn asked.
The host of men circled around the great wall of Thiersgald, coming upon the Borchstogs unexpectedly. The Borchstogs had obviously thought an attack would come from the South Gate, not the North. As well, the sun disoriented them. The men were rushing down upon them when they were weak and tired and hiding in their tents.
Raugst was attacking, Giorn realized. The demon was attacking his own side. Giorn and Dalic stared in amazement as the mass of men formed a wedge and drove deep into Vrulug’s camp, scattering and slaying the invaders. They set fire to the tents, inciting panic, and prevented the Borchstogs from reaching their horses and murmeksa, then scattered the mounts and glarums, causing more chaos. The Borchstogs fought back, but they had fallen into disarray. Giorn watched as dust rose to obscure the action, and minutes gave way to hours, and mounds of bodies littered the ground. Giorn and Dalic watched it all, transfixed. At last a horn called out, great and low, and Vrulug’s host ... fell back. The Borchstogs fled Thiersgald, with Raugst’s men chasing them over the hills.
“I don’t believe it,” Dalic whispered.
“This is it,” Giorn said. “This is part of what Raugst planned.”
“What do you mean? He saved the city!”
“No. He’s up to something, just as Fria said. Remember, she said he had a way to cause even more damage to the Crescent. That’s what he went to confer with Vrulug about. Vrulug has the Moonstone, remember. He could have destroyed Raugst and his men—if he wanted to. For some reason he didn’t. This battle was all a show.”
“But why?”
“I don’t know. But now Raugst controls the city, and he will be thought a hero even more than before.” The idea infuriated Giorn. “Come. Thiersgald is Raugst’s. We can’t return, not until I’m well and we have some men to support us. Perhaps then we can stage a coup.”
“Let us hurry. There will be scattered Borchstogs about, and they won’t be feeling friendly.”
Giorn continued west and north, hobbling over the low hills, and Dalic walked with him. It only got hillier in the direction they went, and with every step fire coursed up Giorn’s leg. If only he could survive long enough to reach a hamlet, where a healer or priestess might be able to aid him ...
With the rising sun at their backs, the two men picked their way through the low hills to freedom. With every painful step, Giorn plotted Raugst’s downfall.
* * *
There was a great festival in Thiersgald that night, though the city guard kept watch. At any moment Vrulug could return. But while the soldiers stood on the blood-stained wall and stared out into the darkness, the rest of the city celebrated. Thiersgald blazed with light. In every courtyard, there was a bonfire, and over every one cooked a stag or a hog or a dozen chickens. Each courtyard thronged with people—old men and boys, women of all ages. Many were refugees. In every hand was a glass or a mug.
They all toasted Raugst. Again and again, as he wandered the city atop his black horse, the people of Thiersgald and the refugees that filled its streets and alleys lifted their glasses to him and bellowed out their love and gratitude.
Feeling sick, he smiled back. He would climb off his horse and circulate among the gathering, jesting at Vrulug’s expense and telling lies about the day’s combat. The people loved it. Loved him. Never would Harin Wesrain have gone amongst the people so. The old baron had been aloof, cerebral, comfortable atop his dais. He would never do this. But Raugst would, and they adored him for it.
The sight of their laughing, cheerful faces made him wilt inside. This is no true victory, he kept thinking. Only a short reprieve. One month, and Vrulug will destroy you.
Unless—
Raugst drank mug after mug of ale. His feet turned to jelly, and his head swam. Memories of the battle surfaced, and he saw Borchstogs fleeing before him, and it felt good. It had been a long, wearying battle, though the outcome had never been in question, at least to Raugst and Vrulug. Vrulug only held out long enough to make it look good. Then, with no undue haste, he had wheeled his army about and slipped away into the nearest bog. But he would be back. Oh, yes, he would be back.
Raugst pushed it from his mind, or tried to. He found himself dancing with one girl and then another, despite the fact that he could barely stand upright, but he never got close to any of them. There was someone else ...
Often he looked toward the Temple of Illiana and saw a light blazing in the uppermost, central spire, which seemed to bask in the starlight. Niara was in the Inner Sanctum again. Praying for guidance? Telling Illiana that the plan had worked? Weeping and wishing she had never been born? Whatever it was, Raugst discovered that he had a powerful urge to visit her. Only she knew who he truly was. It was only to her that he could confide.
But it was more than that, and he knew that, too. And, in the inner workings of his own mind, he accepted it, admitted it. She was lesser now, she was human, but the feelings he’d had for her remained. It had not been her grace he had been attracted to, after all. He could not get her beautiful face and fiery green eyes out of his mind.
His feelings could hold no place in his life. Not publicly. The people would rise up against him. And not in private, either. She had spurned him, after all.
Still, he could not banish the thoughts, and the drink and the dancing was only making it worse. Her face swam, doubled, quadrupled, in his vision, her delicate white features framed by curling black hair, green eyes wet, cheeks stained with tears—
He tore himself loose of the girl he was dancing with, climbed astride his horse and made for the temple. His horse’s hooves clattered on the road, and he winced at every step. His ribs still stung from Saria’s embrace, and that worried him. Just how mortal was he now? He hadn’t tried to shift shapes since his change and feared the worst. Also, it seemed he could no longer shrug off wounds.
He laughed bitterly. Niara had given up her immortality to make them both mortal.
As he drew close to the temple, he slowed. The hot breeze had turned cold, and it whispered sinister things as he climbed down from his mount. He ignored it, stepped forward, expecting a priestess to emerge and take his horse.
Instead, something else emerged—from the shadows.
“Hells!” Raugst reeled backward, a hand flying to the pommel of his sword.
A tall dark shape glided out, and slowly the starlight and moonlight revealed its blackened husk of a face. Its withered limbs lifted toward him, moving with power they should not have possessed. Indeed, as it stepped forward, it was not slow or awkward—as it should have been, lacking the requisite muscles and tendons—but fully mobile and capable, almost fluid.
“You,” Raugst said.
“We.”
The other slipped from the shadows, its empty eye sockets looking inward to the endless depths of its own foul soul, or perhaps to the Void which birthed it.
Raugst swore again. Saria had not been bluffing. The Twain, if that’s what they were called, kept a close watch on him.
“What do you here?” he demanded.
The first one stepped forward again, and Raugst could feel the burning cold emanating from it. He feared to touch it lest his hands turn to ice.
“You may not visit the Moon-witch whore,” it hissed. Its voice was the soul of the Void, cold and cruel.
Raugst drew his sword. “We’ll just have to solve this the old-fashioned way.”
He sliced at the first one’s skull.
He did not even feel the blow. The thing did not move. Raugst’s sword struck its skull, shattered and sprayed him with its shards.
Screaming, he flung his hands before his eyes and stumbled backward. When it was over, he marveled at his bloody hands and arms and glared at the demon.
“You’ll regret this, whatever you are,” he said.
“We ... are servants ... of the One.”
“You’re also corpses, and that’s half my work accomplished. Now out of my way!” Ignoring his wounds, all of which seemed minor, he strode forward, ready to strike the foul things down if need be with his bare fists.
They stepped toward him, opening their mouths wide, and as if summoned from the Void itself a cold wind gusted from their depths and knocked him backward, actually picking him up off his feet and hurling him to the road beside his horse, which reared and trotted off a ways.
Feeling pebbles dig into his back and blood trickle down his arms, shivering from the cold, Raugst climbed to his feet and studied the Twain.
The normal breeze blew, and in the distance people cheered his name.
The creatures stepped back into the shadows as if they had never been. Raugst stared into the darkness, trying to find them and failing. They could be anywhere. They possessed strange powers, even stranger than those he had wielded for so long.
Swearing, picking shards of what he now saw to be ice out of his arms and chest—they had turned his sword to ice—he strode over to his horse and swung himself astride. The night grew dark about him.
* * *
Niara knelt before the white altar of Illiana and prayed for hope and guidance. Nothing greeted her on the other end. Illiana was gone, beyond her reach. Niara was truly mortal now, bereft of the Grace of the Omkar. She told herself that at least her sacrifice had not been in vain, that it had saved Thiersgald, but in her heart she knew it was only a temporary fix. Vrulug would return, and she did not like to think on what would happen when he did.
As she rose, her knees and lower legs prickled. They’d gone asleep she had knelt for so long. The sensation made her smile, but it was a sad smile. Her legs had never gone to sleep when she had knelt before.
Resisting a sigh, she crossed to the terrace, feeling the wind on her cheeks, relishing the feel of it in her hair. The sounds of revelry drifted up to her, and she gazed fondly down on the bonfires of the celebrants. They deserved their festivities. Part of her was tempted to go down and join them. But no. She was in no mood, and what if they sensed the change in her? She did not think they would stop loving her if they knew the truth, but they would want certain questions answered, answers which she could not give lest she betray Raugst.
She saw a dark rider at the gates, wheeling his horse about, then clattering away. Could it be ... ?
She was imagining things. And did she really want to see him again?
Giorn, I’m so sorry.
Where was he now? Was he even still alive? And why did she hope that that dark rider had been Raugst?
She had to laugh at herself. These were silly questions, a girl’s questions. She had more important things to worry about. Vrulug would return, bringing the End Times with him, and Niara did not know how she or Raugst could stop him, especially with Saria watching their every step.
Once more she looked to the altar. Now she did sigh. Rubbing her knees, she made her way back to the white marble slab and sank before it.
Illiana, she prayed. Illiana, Lady of the Moon, hear me in my hour of need ...
As wind howled about the tower, she prayed on.
And then something strange happened.
A voice answered, sounding in her head, but it was not Illiana. Still, it was soft, and feminine, and powerful.
Niara, I hear your plea, said the voice.
Niara gasped, then concentrated. Illiana? she sent, for a moment confused.
No, I am Vilana, Queen of Larenthi, also beset by the dark powers.
Of course Niara knew of the legendary Elvish Queen, she who had lived in the holy city of the Omkar in the long, long ago and was one of the original Elves to leave that place in an effort to settle what was then largely a wild and untamed land—and still was, in some ways. But Niara had never met her, let alone communed with her.
Recovering, she sent the thought, I’m grieved to learn that you’re suffering as we are. The whole Crescent must be under shadow.
I fear it is so, Vilana agreed.
Niara steeled herself. This wasn’t what she had expected, but she would adapt, and perhaps it would serve just as well.
How my I serve you? Niara sent.
Well, I hope, came the response, and there was a hint of gentle amusement in the words. Niara could sense it, even with the absence of sound or sight. She could feel it in her mind, and at the lightness some of her own grief and despair left her, and she sat up straighter.
I am yours to command, she said, and waited.
I understand that you have some connection to the Moonstone, sent Illiana. It is why I have chosen to reach out to you.
Yes, I suppose I do, Niara replied, mind-to-mind. It was my beloved Giorn Wesrain who attempted to wrest the Moonstone from the Enemy’s grasp, and it is my … ally … Raugst who might be able to find out more about it now.
‘Raugst’ does not sound like the name of an ally.
To that, Niara did not respond. Again, she waited.
Here is what I need, Vilana sent. I need the Moonstone found, and destroyed. Only by doing this can the Doom be lifted from one whom I am trying to protect. One on whom the fate of many may depend. The world trembles where he walks, and cracks, but only because of a curse cast on him, fueled by the corrupted Moonstone. It must be destroyed.
Niara swallowed. The Last Gift … the hope for Man … destroyed …
I know. It is a grievous thing. Yet if there be hope for any Men, or Elves, or Dwarves, it his must be done. I know it will not be easy, child, but I sense that of all the players in this game you are the one whom I can rely on to accomplish this errand.
I know not what I can do, my Queen.
I have faith in you, child. But there is one thing more.
Niara couldn’t imagine one more charge being laid on her, but she dared to ask, What is that, my lady?
And Vilana told her.