“Proceed.” The King was pleased.
“The next Preparations are those of Endurance and Leadership.” The Most Revered High Magus sounded resigned. “In cases where there is no record of a candidate having been tested in either of these, we have trials that they must undergo. In the case of this candidate, however, his service in Your Majesty’s army is well-known. Captain Argot and many of the men who served with Prince Dagnarus were summoned to testify. There is no doubting the candidate’s ability to withstand extreme hardship, no doubting the candidate’s ability to lead and inspire confidence—and indeed, I might almost go so far as to say adoration—in those who serve under him. We could devise no test that would be as difficult as those that he has already undergone. In view of this, with the consent of the Council of Dominion Lords, these two trials were abandoned.
“In the Preparation of Chivalry, the candidate demonstrated remarkable skill in riding—”
“He should. I taught him,” came a gruff voice.
“Is that Dunner?” asked Dagnarus, smiling.
Silwyth, peeking through the hole, nodded. “Yes, Your Majesty.”
“—and in swordsmanship,” the Most Revered High Magus concluded. “I doubt if there are any to match him. I know that I have never seen his like. Which brings us to the last trial, the Preparation of Understanding. In this trial, the candidate is taken into an empty room, whose walls are painted white. The candidate is left there for twenty-four hours without food or water, given a chance to commune with himself and the gods. When the time is up, the candidate is asked to describe his spiritual journey.”
“Twenty-four hours!” Dagnarus snorted. “I swear the bastards left me in that damned room for twenty-four weeks! I was never so completely and utterly bored in my entire life! And you have no idea how thirsty you get when you know you cannot drink. I suppose I have gone for twenty-four hours during battles without water and not noticed the lack. In there, I was parched from almost the very first moment they shut that blasted door! If I had not slept through at least twelve of their fool hours, I should have gone mad.”
“Upon emerging,” the Most Revered High Magus was continuing, “the candidate was asked what he saw upon his journey. He replied, ‘Nothing.’ ”
“What did they expect me to see?” Dagnarus demanded. “The room was empty, for gods’ sakes!”
Silwyth concealed his smile from the prince by again applying his eye to the hole.
“You understand our problem, Your Majesty,” said the Revered High Magus, in rather hopeless tones.
“No, I do not,” the King returned bluntly. “Prince Dagnarus undertook the trials and, if he did not pass them as others who have preceded him have passed them, he passed them according to his own nature. He was true to himself and it may be in the eyes of the gods that this is the best any of us can hope to achieve in our lives. But,” he added, “I leave the Council to make its decision.”
“Your father is leaving,” Silwyth reported.
Dagnarus rose to his feet, stretched. “And so must I. There is very little doubt now, I suppose, about which way the Council will vote. I have business to attend to. Remain here and let me know what hour they choose for the Transfiguration.”
“Yes, Your Highness.” Silwyth returned to his place at the spy hole but turned away a moment to halt the prince as he was leaving. “Pardon, Your Highness, but I forgot to tell you that I received an answer this day from the Shield regarding your proposal.”
“Yes? And?”
“The Shield will be pleased to offer you his full backing and support. Not only that, but he has an army of five thousand men standing by, ready to cross the border as soon as you give the word.”
“Excellent!” Dagnarus rubbed his hands.
“The Shield did express concern about the border patrols, Your Highness.”
“It is a vast border, Silwyth,” said Dagnarus. “There are areas that go for months without anyone keeping watch on them, particularly if the patrols are sent to train in another part of the kingdom. I will provide the Shield with a location on the border where it will be safe for an elven army to slip across.”
“Very good, Your Highness.”
“You should start practicing to call me ‘Your Majesty,’ ” said Dagnarus, with a wink.
“Touch wood, Your Highness!” Silwyth rebuked him. “Quickly! It is wrong to tempt fate.”
“Bah!” said Dagnarus, laughing softly. “You sound like an ork!”
But after the prince had departed, Silwyth, looking grave, rubbed his fingers on the seat of the wooden stool.
Disguised in the robes of one of the magi, heavily cloaked, his face concealed by his hood, Dagnarus returned to the Temple, but not to his cell. He would have to be there when the Dominion Lords came to tell him that his dearest wish had been granted. But that would not be for some time yet. The debate would last at least another several hours. Helmos was like his half brother in one respect—he would not give up without a fight.
Traveling by circuitous routes, Dagnarus made his way to the forgotten tombs and from there to the altar chamber dedicated to the Void. This would be his last visit. It was time to send the Vrykyl out into the world upon his master’s business.
Dagnarus was extremely pleased with the Vrykyl. The prince had given Shakur several tests, and the Vrykyl had passed them all, had obeyed all the prince’s orders without question. The Vrykyl’s strength was impressive—triple that of an ordinary mortal. He was not a particularly pleasant companion—Dagnarus found it disconcerting to look into the Vrykyl’s lifeless eyes. But Dagnarus had all the pleasant companionship he could ever want. What he needed now was a loyal and fearsome warrior.
Unlocking the door, the prince entered the chamber. He glanced toward the stone slab upon which the Vrykyl was accustomed to lie and saw—with shock—that Shakur was gone.
“Your Highness,” came a voice.
Dagnarus caught a glimpse—sidelong—of a man standing behind him. The prince turned, his hand on the hilt of his knife, the blade already sliding out of the sheath.
“Your Highness,” said the man. “Don’t you recognize me? It is I. Shakur.”
Dagnarus stared. He returned the knife to its place at his belt.
“I would not have recognized you,” said the prince. “You are certainly not the Shakur I found in the death cell.”
The man was tall—taller than Shakur had been—his body better proportioned. The face was similar, though it lacked the terrible scar and was somewhat better-looking. His smile was almost engaging. The eyes were still dead, held no warmth, no laughter, no sorrow. To look into those eyes was to look into the Void. But, at first glance, most people would not notice. The man was well dressed, in fine clothes. Or what appeared to be fine clothes.
“It’s all illusion,” said the Vrykyl. “I can be whatever I want to be. Perhaps you would like me in this form.”
The Vrykyl’s image began to shimmer and waver and then reformed, coalesced into a new being. The prostitute with whom the real Shakur had spent his last remaining hours of life stood grinning wantonly in front of Dagnarus.
In an instant, the prostitute disappeared. The Vrykyl resumed his black-armored form.
“Excellent,” said Dagnarus, well pleased. “This suits my needs admirably.”
“And my own,” the Vrykyl said, with a growl. He drew from his belt the Blood-knife, a knife he had made from his own bone. “I will need to feed soon. I can take the form of any person I have ever known, so long as I can bring their image to mind. Thus, assuming a pleasing shape, I will be able to fool my victims and take them unaware.”
The Vrykyl cast a significant glance at the door. “As I said, Your Highness, I will need to feed soon. I feel my strength waning.”
“And feed you shall,” said Dagnarus. He tossed the Vrykyl the key. “I have a task for you to perform. Leave here when it is dark. Do not slay anyone in the city of Vinnengael. We have an active and astute sheriff, and I do not wa
nt him asking questions. When you are beyond the city’s borders, you may do what you like.”
The Vrykyl bowed, to show he understood and would obey.
“Where do I go, Your Highness?”
“You will travel to the realm of Dunkarga. Can you ride a horse?” Dagnarus asked, suddenly struck by this detail, which he had not previously considered.
“Not without casting a spell over one,” the Vrykyl responded. “Dumb animals are aware of my true nature and will not approach me. My magic will allow me to spellbind an animal, force it to serve me.”
“Then you will ride to the city of Karfa Kan. A minister of the King’s awaits you there.”
King Olgaf had died, furious at the thought that Tamaros would outlive him. His son, the Queen’s brother, had ascended to the throne. King Reynard was not the scheming, meddling ruler his father had been. Reynard was coldly calculating. Reynard did not covet Vinnengael’s wealth. He coveted Vinnengael.
“Deliver this missive the moment you arrive—day or night. If the King’s messenger sleeps, awaken him.” Dagnarus held out a scroll. The handwriting was Gareth’s, but the seal was the prince’s own. “You will wait for his reply and return to me at once when you have received it. This horse you ensorcel, I assume it will be fast?”
“Fast as night’s shadows moving over the land, Your Highness. If it dies, I will find another. I could make the journey in a single night.”
“I give you then one night—”
“You forget, Your Highness,” the Vrykyl interrupted. “I must feed first.”
“Do that then. But do not linger over your meal. I’ll give you this night to journey there, an hour conferring with the King’s minister, and the next day to journey back. I expect you, therefore, tomorrow at sunset. Do not enter Vinnengael, but wait for me outside the city gates. That will be the day of my Transfiguration. When you see me next, I will be a Dominion Lord.”
“Congratulations, Your Highness,” said the Vrykyl, tucking the missive into the belt from which hung the Blood-knife.
“The decision is not final yet, but there is little doubt. Remember, wait until dark before leaving. Take the form of one of the magi and you will have no difficulty passing through the Temple’s environs. Here is a map showing you the way out of this chamber. Remember, do not kill while you are inside the city.”
“As you command, Your Highness,” said the Vrykyl. “I look forward to being free of this place. I find the time passes slowly, especially when one has no need of sleep.”
“Since you have eons of time at your disposal, I suggest you grow used to it,” Dagnarus said.
Eons, Dagnarus reflected, as he walked the corridors, returning stealthily to his cell. I have Shakur’s life essence now and I will gain others later, for I must have more of these Vrykyl. If I create forty Vrykyl, I shall have forty more lives, which will provide me how many more years? Close to forty hundred, if I have inherited my father’s longevity. And if I keep creating Vrykyl, I will keep gaining lives. So, to all intents and purposes, I am ageless, and I still retain the advantage of being able to enjoy a good night’s sleep!
Such reflections, though gratifying, were also fatiguing, particularly the mathematics, so on returning to his cell, Dagnarus lay down upon the bed and fell into a deep and peaceful slumber. He was aroused by a gentle tapping.
Dagnarus had been waiting for this signal. Even in his sleep, he was conscious of waiting for it and was awake instantly. Jumping from his bed, he entered the cupboard in haste and excitement.
“Yes?” he said softly.
“The vote has been cast, Your Highness,” said Gareth. “You are to be a Dominion Lord.”
The Will of the Gods
As a child, Gareth had marched in the parade to honor the Transfiguration of Helmos. The memory of that day stood out among his other memories as a sparkling jewel on a necklace of wooden beads. He had been entranced and excited by the crowds, the colors, the joyous tumult. This day the crowds here to honor the Transfiguration oppressed him, the bright colors flaring in the sunlight jarred him, the tumult made his head ache.
Gareth was given a place of honor among Dagnarus’s household, walking beside Silwyth and just ahead of the King. Unfortunately, this put him directly behind Helmos and his retinue. Helmos had paused on his way to take his place in line to speak a few kind words to Gareth, words that were lost in a sudden roar from the crowd when Dagnarus’s standard was carried out of the castle. Gareth knew the words were kind, however, because of the expression on Helmos’s face. Worn-out from a worried, sleepless night, burdened by the guilt of his culpability in hoodwinking the King and Council, Gareth could have thrown himself in the dust of the street at Helmos’s feet and wept.
As it was, he only bowed and mumbled something incoherent in return as he felt the hot blood rush to his face. Helmos had given him a quick, concerned glance, but the King’s chamberlain, who was ordering the line, hovered at the crown prince’s elbow, politely urging Helmos to take his place so that the procession could begin.
Gareth gave a deep sigh and then jumped as long fingers pressed painfully into his forearm.
“This is a joyous occasion, Master Gareth,” said Silwyth, keeping his voice low, though there was not much danger that they could be heard over the shouts and singing of the populace. “Look the part.”
“How can you say that? Dagnarus goes to his death this day,” Gareth returned in agony. “And the fault will be mine.”
“The fault will be the prince’s own. You did your best to warn him away,” Silwyth said, adding quietly, “We are all in the hands of the gods, are we not?”
Gareth looked sharply at the elf to see if he was being funny or sarcastic, but Silwyth’s face was smooth and opaque as a dish of milk.
“You know very well that two of us are not,” Gareth retorted softly, irritated at what he considered the elf’s smug and uncaring complacency. “Those who embrace the Void must necessarily deny the existence of the gods.”
“And yet the stars shine in the eternal darkness of the night,” Silwyth said.
Bowing to Gareth, the prince’s chamberlain moved to take his place in line.
Gareth should have gone as well, but Silwyth’s words struck him with penetrating force. He went cold to his fingertips. The words were meant to be comforting, perhaps, meaning that the gods would watch over Dagnarus whether he was worthy of their concern or not. Gareth understood that there must be a flip side to this pretty coin, however, and that the opposite was not so fair to look upon. It filled him with dread.
The chamberlain bullied and jostled people into line. The Queen’s chair was carried into place. Her Majesty called out irritably, with loud shrillness to her ladies-in-waiting, who were gathered around her and who could do nothing right. Gareth’s mother was among them, looking frayed, but pleased and excited. His father, who was suffering from gout, would not be in the parade. The King’s chair was brought in next, the very last in the procession. His Majesty had been forced to give up riding horseback, though not until his ninetieth year and then only because his much-beloved horse had died of old age, a sign, the King said, that his own riding days were at an end.
Seeing that all was in readiness, the chamberlain gave the signal. The procession lurched forward. The day was fine, too fine. The sun beat down unmercifully upon those standing in line, waiting their turn. Clad in their heavy, ornate clothing, over which they wore ceremonial robes, the members of the court panted and gasped and plied feather fans. Several of the waggish younger lords among Dagnarus’s retinue had placed large chunks of ice, taken from the cold-storage cellars, under their hats. Though the melting ice trickled down their faces, they were looked upon with envy by the rest of the sweltering crowd.
His own part of the household bunched together like herd animals. Gareth thought they would never start to move, that they would be standing in the broiling sun for all eternity. But when he did finally set out upon the journey from the castle to the Temple,
he thought the pace much too fast, wished desperately that he could slow time, if not halt it all together.
Silwyth elbowed him. “You drag along as if you were marching in a funeral procession. Smile. Wave!”
Gareth did as he was told. Raising his head at that moment, he found himself staring into the face of his tutor, standing along the sidelines. Evaristo looked stern and disapproving. Seeing that Gareth noticed him, the tutor very pointedly shook his head, expressive of his concern. Gareth hastily averted his gaze, attempted to distract himself by paying attention to the rest of the crowd, and it was then he noticed the orken.
A memory of Helmos’s procession came to mind with sudden clarity. Captain Argot asking his soldiers why the orken were not in attendance. He heard the conversation of ten years ago as well as if the men were standing beside him on this day.
“They’re not plotting something, do you think?” Argot asked.
“No, Captain!” answered one of his lieutenants. “Their shamans said that the omens were bad.”
“What was it—a flock of geese flying north from south, instead of south to north?”
“Something like that, Captain. Did you see the sunrise this morning, sir?”
“…remarkably beautiful, the gods shedding their blessing on the occasion.”
“Well, the orken thought it remarkably frightening…”
Gareth remembered the sunrise—he had never seen another to equal it, the sky itself had turned to fire. And he remembered that the omens had been right. Helmos had survived the Transfiguration but he had been named Lord of Sorrows and certainly his life after that had seemed to fulfill that dire prophecy. Gareth tried to think back on this morning’s sunrise, but could not recall it. Nothing out of the ordinary apparently.
His heartbeat quickened. He gazed at the huge crowds of orken standing head and shoulders above everyone else, their human neighbors going out of their way to avoid contact with them, holding handkerchiefs over their noses to ward off the stench of fish. Gareth could have run over and hugged them.
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