Journey into the Void

by Margaret Weis

  Who he was, where he had come from, how he came by this monstrous army, and why was he attacking Vinnengael—these were questions the battle magi sought to answer. He was human, and appeared to be about thirty-five years of age, with auburn hair and intense green eyes. He was clean-shaven, with an ingratiating smile and a hail-fellow-well-met aspect. He spoke fluent and idiomatic Elderspeak, which seemed to indicate that he was Vinnengaelean, but there was something rather old-fashioned about his speech. He called a “halberd” a “haubert,” a term that, as one man put it, “had gray hair and a beard on it when my grandfather was a lad.” The battle magi could not penetrate Dagnarus’s defenses, for he would either counter their verbal thrusts or use his wit to turn them aside.

  The battle magi kept Dagnarus blindfolded as they led him through the corridors of the palace to the Hall of Past Glories. He bore this indignity with good humor, grinning beneath his mask and complaining that he could see none of the beautiful women for which he had heard the city was famous. Upon detecting an odor of perfume as he walked past one of the startled ladies of the court, he paused to bow to the unseen woman in a courtly manner.

  He was taken into the Hall of Past Glories, where his blindfold was removed. He blinked at the light a few moments until he could see, then, smiling, looked at the crowd gathered around him. He was met with hostile stares, curled lips, growlings, and mutterings. Their obvious enmity did not appear to bother him one whit. He remained calm, relaxed, and confident.

  The Regent stood on the dais, her hands clasped, her head thrown back, magnificently offended. If by this attitude, the Regent hoped to intimidate Dagnarus or inflict upon him a sense of his wrongdoing, she failed utterly. Paying absolutely no attention to her, he stared intently at one of the murals depicting Old Vinnengael. He turned to Tasgall, who stood, armed and ready for trouble, at his side.

  “Is that supposed to be the Royal Palace, Magus?” Dagnarus asked.

  Tasgall answered warily, not trusting even this seemingly innocuous question. “Why do you want to know, sir?”

  “Because if that’s the case, you’ve got it all wrong,” Dagnarus returned, laughing.

  Before anyone could stop him, he strode across the room, scattering the barons and the courtiers and the heads of the Orders, who scrambled to get out of his way. The battle magi leapt after him, weapons drawn and spells ready. He paid them no heed, but continued on his way and came to stand in front of the mural, not far from the chair in which Rigiswald happened to be sitting, ostensibly reading a book.

  The Regent glowered after Dagnarus and glared at Tasgall, who shrugged his shoulders to indicate that he had no idea what was going on, nor, so long as this man was not posing a threat, was there anything he could do about it.

  Dagnarus studied the mural. “The artist has the waterfalls right. But he’s mangled the palace.” He placed a finger on the painting. “This wing extended out this way. The entrance was over here, not where he has put it. He’s added an extra tower and, because of that, this balcony, where my father used to walk, faces too far to the west. Before I leave, I’ll draw you a picture, to make certain you get it right.”

  Hearing nothing behind him—the silence was such that everyone in the room might have been struck down dead—Dagnarus turned around to face them. A smile played on his lips.

  “Well, well,” he remarked. “Perhaps now is not the time for fond remembrances.”

  He glanced back at the painting, and Rigiswald noted a shadow darken the handsome features. “Still, I would like for it to be right.”

  The shadow was soon gone, replaced by charming bonhomie. Rigiswald was one of the few to have noticed the look or heard the murmured words that chilled him to the marrow.

  The Regent stiffened and exchanged grim glances with Tasgall and the Inquisitor. They were both thinking the same thoughts as Rigiswald except, unlike him, they didn’t believe Dagnarus. They didn’t believe he was the person he claimed to be.

  You will come to, said Rigiswald silently. He will see to that. The gods help us!

  The Regent drew in breath to launch into her speech, her bosom swelling like the sails of a ship in a high wind.

  Dagnarus forestalled her.

  “Where is my young cousin, Havis?” he asked, glancing around.

  The Regent said coldly, “I do not know of whom you speak, sir. I was not aware that you claim relation to any in this room. Or that any would claim relationship with you.”

  “His Majesty the King,” said Dagnarus, smiling and choosing to ignore the insult. “Havis III. My little cousin. I say ‘cousin,’ although I’m sure that the relationship is probably much more complex—second cousins by marriage twice removed or some such nonsense. I have traveled a long distance to see him, and I would not be denied the pleasure.”

  “Pleasure!” The Regent gave forth one of her snorts. “You hold a dagger to our throats, and you speak of pleasure!”

  “You refer to my army. I was not certain of my welcome in this city,” Dagnarus replied, his smile engaging. “I deemed it best to come prepared.”

  “Prepared for what, sir? War?” Clovis’s voice shook with rage.

  “No, Regent,” said Dagnarus. His tone was earnest, serious. “I am here to establish my rightful claim to the throne of the Vinnengaelean Empire.”

  “Silence!” the Regent thundered, to quiet the assembly.

  The guards slammed the butts of their spears on the stone floor. The confused hubbub came to an abrupt end, but not through any action of the Regent. At that point, either by accident or design, the young king made his entrance. Accompanied by his guards and his chamberlain, he strode into the room. As he paused to acknowledge the bows of the assembly, his eyes went immediately to Dagnarus. Rigiswald watched closely, to see if any sort of sign passed between them. The child’s eyes were wide with a very natural curiosity. Dagnarus regarded the king with a kind of patronizing benevolence.

  The Regent clucked the king onto his throne, gave a look meant to remind him of his manners, then turned away in response to the Inquisitor, who had stepped to the dais and was speaking to her with obvious urgency. Rigiswald could have cast his eavesdropping spell, but he didn’t need to expend the energy. He could easily guess what the two were discussing. The Inquisitor had recognized the danger, and he was undoubtedly warning Clovis not to proceed further, urging her to stall for time, meet with this man in private. Perhaps he was telling her more “rumors” he’d heard.

  “You do not want to hear his explanation about his right to the throne,” the Inquisitor was undoubtedly saying to her emphatically. “Above all, you do not want to give him a public forum.”

  Tasgall hastened over to join them, to add the weight of his argument.

  The Regent was skeptical. Rigiswald could read her lips form the word, “Flummery!” The Inquisitor pressed his point, and Tasgall apparently sided with him, for he nodded whenever the Inquisitor opened his mouth. Outnumbered and outargued, the Regent was forced to back down. She had to figure out how to extract herself from this situation and remove Dagnarus from the room without affronting the barons. She might have saved herself the trouble, for by then it was too late.

  They had forgotten the king.

  Havis III leaned forward, and said loudly, “I heard you state, sir, that you have a rightful claim to the throne. I would be interested to hear the nature of your claim.”

  The Regent tried to hush him. “Your Majesty, this is not for you to worry about—”

  “I want to hear him,” said the king, with a look. “Please, sir, go ahead.”

  “Certainly, Your Majesty,” said Dagnarus, responding to the child with becoming gravity. “I am Prince Dagnarus, second son to Tamaros, late king of Vinnengael. My elder brother, Helmos, being dead, I am Tamaros’s only living heir and the true and rightful King.”

  During the ensuing tumult, the Regent shouted at the guards to remove His Majesty to a place of safety—an excuse to get rid of him, of course. The king was in n
o danger. The raised voices and fierce words were not aimed at him, although the Regent came in for her share of outrage. Some called for the imposter’s head, while others called for the Regent’s. Some shouted that Dagnarus be allowed to tell his tale, others that he be thrown into the Arven. The king, with the obstinate stubbornness of a child, refused to leave the hall, and the Regent, under the glaring eyes of the barons, could not very well order His Majesty carried out bodily.

  The guards took up position around the throne, stood with weapons drawn. Young Havis looked solemn and subdued, but certainly not afraid. His gaze was fixed on Dagnarus, which was perfectly natural. Dagnarus looked once at the child, as if to assure himself that Havis was safe, then, with calm nonchalance, turned his attention to the assembly and stood at ease, a very slight smile on his lips.

  The disruption in the hall gave Rigiswald a chance to observe closely the Lord of the Void. Rigiswald tried very hard to see some outward signs of the Void at work, some physical indication that this man’s life had been extended by means of the foul magic that never gives freely but demands a price.

  Dagnarus’s skin was fair and unblemished, his hands callused and scarred, as would be the hands of any warrior, for the calluses were made by the pommel of a sword and the scars were battle scars, not the scars of lesions and pustules. His body was firm, well muscled. He stood straight and tall. He was comely in appearance. Certainly he did not look two hundred years old.

  Rigiswald’s view of Dagnarus was from the side, and he was thinking that he would like very much to get a close look into his eyes when Dagnarus turned his head to look at Rigiswald.

  “Would you take my likeness, old gentleman?” Dagnarus asked with a teasing grin, raising his voice to be heard over the uproar.

  “I would,” said Rigiswald, “and add it to the painting.”

  He gave a nod toward another part of the mural that depicted Helmos following his Transfiguration. King Tamaros stood together with Helmos, who wore the shining armor of a Dominion Lord. The faces of both were exalted, happy—artistic license, for history recorded that Helmos was made Lord of Sorrows, the only time such a woeful title had been bestowed by the gods on a Dominion Lord. Dagnarus, the second son, was nowhere to be seen.

  Dagnarus flicked a glance in the direction of the mural. He gazed long at the two figures, father and son, forever bound in a moment of shared pride and exultation that forever excluded the younger son, the wild son, the son who had not measured up. Dagnarus looked back, and Rigiswald had his chance. He looked into the eyes.

  He expected to see the nothingness of the Void. Instead he saw the shadow of pain that two hundred years could not ease and the fire of a blazing ambition that two hundred years could not quench. Rigiswald saw in those eyes humanity, and he was sorry, deeply sorry. To see the hollow emptiness of death would have been awful, but far preferable to seeing emotion, intelligence, longing—the fullness and warmth of life.

  “You believe me, then, old gentleman?” Dagnarus asked, with a playful air that was feigned, according to the eyes.

  “I believe you,” said Rigiswald, adding bluntly, “to my sorrow.”

  Dagnarus did not take offense. He appeared to find the conversation an interesting one and seemed ready to continue, but by then order had been restored in the hall. The Regent was speaking, and Dagnarus turned to give her his full attention.

  “Your claim is ridiculous,” stated the Regent. “I should not even dignify it with attempts to refute it, but I will state some of them for the record: The real Dagnarus would be over two hundred years old, the real Dagnarus was most certainly killed in the destruction of the city brought about by himself, the real Dagnarus—”

  “Pardon me, Most Revered High Magus,” Dagnarus interrupted. “If I could offer proof of my claim—irrefutable proof—would that be sufficient?”

  Rigiswald looked from Dagnarus to young Havis, and suddenly he knew their plot, knew it as surely as if they had revealed it to him. He knew it, and he could do nothing to stop it, for no one would believe him.

  The Regent opened her mouth.

  Don’t do it, Clovis, Rigiswald mentally warned her. Don’t play his game. Ask him for his terms, then refuse him and throw him out on his ear. Better we all die and this city be leveled than that you hand us over to the Void.

  “Let us see your proof, sir,” the Regent said, with cold dignity.

  Rigiswald sighed deeply and sat back in his chair, arms folded and his head bowed.

  “I call upon the monk from Dragon Mountain,” said Dagnarus.

  The Regent looked startled, but, after a moment’s discomfiture, she drew herself up. “I don’t see—”

  “Please, Regent,” said Dagnarus gently. “You asked for proof.”

  The monk, whom everyone had forgotten, rose to his feet and tottered forward to stand between his gigantic, silent bodyguards. He made a bobbing bow to the assembly, then regarded Dagnarus with an interested, scholarly air.

  “Reverend sir,” said Dagnarus in tones of immeasurable respect, “I am aware—as are we all—that the monks of Dragon Mountain do not make history, they observe history.”

  The monk bobbed his hairless, tattoo-covered head to indicate that such was true.

  “I ask you, Reverend Monk, to bear witness to an historical fact. Am I in truth what I claim to be? Am I Dagnarus, second son of King Tamaros, born to him and his lawful wife, Queen Emillia, daughter of Olaf, King of Dunkarga, in the year 501?”

  The monk clasped his hands together, made another bobbing bow. “You are that Dagnarus,” he said.

  He spoke without emotion, his words clipped and precise. Everyone was stunned by what he’d said, shocked and amazed, but not a single person in that room doubted him.

  “Then there is evil at work here!” proclaimed the Regent, in a strangled voice. “The evil of the Void.”

  Too late, Clovis, said Rigiswald to himself, leaning back in his chair and staring up at the ceiling. You opened the barn door, and now the horse is careening merrily down the hill.

  “As to that, Regent,” said the monk with yet another bob of his head, “I can make no comment, for I have no information pertaining to that subject.”

  “All know he was made Lord of the Void,” the Regent continued, casting the monk a furious glance, which did not discommode the monk in the least. “Let this Dagnarus deny that, if he will. Let him deny that if he is Dagnarus, son of Tamaros, his life has been extended by evil means!”

  “I do deny it,” stated Dagnarus calmly. “I will tell my story, since you ask it. If His Majesty will hear it.” He made humble obeisance to the young king.

  “We will gladly hear your story, sir,” said Havis, his childish voice sounding clear and bell-like in the shocked silence.

  “Your Majesty, I most strongly protest—” the Regent began.

  “Please relate it to us,” Havis went on, refusing even to look at the Regent, much less heed her sputterings. “I ask you all, gentlemen and ladies, to give Prince Dagnarus your full attention.”

  That was unnecessary. No one was looking anywhere else. The roof could have sailed off the hall, thought Rigiswald, and no one would have noticed.

  “It is true that I was made Lord of the Void,” said Dagnarus forthrightly. “The fault was mine. I sought to cheat the gods, and I was punished for it. For years, the Void twisted my heart and shadowed my thinking, led me to question the wisdom of the gods who had made my elder brother king. I could not bear to see him ascend the throne of my beloved Vinnengael. I was her true king—by courage, by valor, by wit, by everything except the accident of my birth. I sought to remove my brother by force. I attacked the city of my birth and, in my wild rage, brought about its destruction.”

  Dagnarus sent a flashing glance around the assembly. “I did not kill my brother, as history reports. Helmos was slain by Gareth, a Void sorcerer who sought to purchase my loyalty by killing the king. I did not wish Helmos’s death. I grieved over him and promised the gods that i
f I were spared, I would make reparation for my fault and be a true king of Vinnengael. I slew Gareth, but I was too late. The forces of Void magic that he had let loose could not be controlled. They clashed with the magic of the gods and tore out the heart of Vinnengael.

  “I should have died in the ruins of Old Vinnengael, died beside the body of my brother. I wanted to die there beside him, for—at that moment—I saw the enormity of my crimes. I did not die, however. The gods were not yet finished with me. They reached down their hands and plucked me from that city and cast me into the wilderness. Broken in body and shattered in spirit, I came to know that the gods had not abandoned me, that they believed that I could yet be saved, for I held in my hands the Sovereign Stone.

  “The gods had granted me the power to save the blessed Stone from the destruction of Vinnengael. I held it in my hands—wet with my murdered brother’s blood—and I wept. I begged the gods’ forgiveness. I promised I would redeem myself. Then and there I renounced the Void. The gods required tests of my loyalty, however. They took the Sovereign Stone from me and gave it into the hands of a monster that nearly killed me. When I recovered, I found myself in another world, a world of terrible creatures of the Void. A race of savages, the taan were little better than animals when I found them. They would have slain me, but I managed—with the help of the gods—to overcome their suspicions and their hatred. I gained their respect and came to be a leader among them.

  “Time lost all meaning for me while I was in the land of the taan. I worked hard to civilize them and train them with one thought in mind—to return to my own world and do what I could to make amends. In order to achieve that, I prayed to the gods that they would extend my life. The gods granted me my wish, and thus you see me here before you today, the same age as I was when I was exiled from all that I loved.