Traveller's Tales

“Tell me about yourself.”

The man sitting before me narrows his eyes, never taking his gaze from me.   “A single summation could never suffice.”

“The important moments.”

“My birth, for instance?   21 Dalori, 1528.  My father was a peasant in a farming village not far from Karasek.   So I remained until the day I saved the Lady Alaine from a wild beast in a ravine in 1541.   Lord Alaine squired me on the spot and knighted me soon after, landing me between Karasek and Anlador.   A small keep, watching over a small but beautiful land, near a similarly small but beautiful village, Mureia.  Lord Alaine all but adopted me, and treated me almost like a son — something his own son resented terribly, though he was assuaged when I left, for he knew his inheritance, if not his father’s love, would be his and not mine.”

“How were you treated by other nobility?”

He smiles, though his eyes tighten minutely.   “I was an oddity, a peasant-knight.   The people of Mureia loved me, though they held me somewhat in awe.   Their prior master had been unkind, but I made every effort to help them, lending my food in famine, my sweat to their forge, my back to their mill.”

“What happened then?”

For the first time, the man closes his eyes; his hand raises, his fingers seeking his temples. “I try not to remember.”

I wait.

“Anara,” he breathes at last.   “Her name was Anara.   Princess Anara, of the Court of Anlador.”

“A Princess?”

He opens his eyes, smiles and chuckles.   “Yes, though I did not realize it when we first met.   My squire and I were riding one eve close to sunset.   Partly a patrol, partly an exercise for him, but mostly a chance for me to be alone with my thoughts.   When we came upon her, she was riding without an escort.   I chided her, for the land then was not entirely safe; the Gochin had been restless in the hills, and the beasts always grew restless at dusk.   We escorted her to the nearest town, and we exchanged names and pleasantries as we rode, though she was especially good at evading the questions that might have identified her stature.   Not until the fourth time I escorted her home did I learn her parentage.   By then, of course, it was too late.

“Too late?”

“Of course.   We had fallen in love.”

“What of her other suitors?”

He straightens, takes a long breath before continuing.   “I had not known there were others.   Most acceded to the marriage with grace and fond wishes.   One did not.”

“Who?”

“In 1545, the year I met Anara, my liege, the old Lord Alaine, died, and his wife followed only months after.   Kaiel, the new Lord Alaine, was the son I had displaced, and he had learned to hate me.”

“He was one of her suitors, then?”

“Yes.   When he learned that Anara had agreed to marry me, he attempted to intercede in court.   Anara’s father, the Baron of Anlador, had been an old friend of the late Lord Alaine, however, and he eventually bullied Kaiel into submission.”

“So, you were married?”

He chuckled. “Yes, despite the odds.   Baron Turiel of Anlador knew I was only a Knight, and a poor one at that — but he had met me many times before when I attended the old Lord Alaine.   He knew intimately what I had done to earn my title, and he held me in high esteem.   He had no need for material gain; he simply wanted his daughter to be happy.”

“So you were married.”

“In the fall of 1547.   The glorious leaffall that season showed as but pale reflections of her auburn hair; the boundless azure skies cloudy in comparison to her sparkling eyes.   The world itself conspired in our joy, and our happiness knew no bounds.”

“And your villagers?   What did they think of all this?”

He smiles, genuinely this time.   “They must have loved me dearly.   A parade, a feast, their very best musicians and jugglers.   It was far into the night before we consummated our marriage, and that was as it should be.”

“You were happy, then?”

He leans back, closing his eyes again.   “More so than any have a right to be.   More so than I ever will be, ’til the world ends.”

“You are the Champion of Dalor.   You are committed to bringing about that very end — a far cry from a happily married knight, living amongst a people who loved him.   What brought you here?”

He shrugs, but his eyes narrow again and take on an unsettling sheen.   His voice unexpectedly raw, he says, “He killed her.”

“Who?”

“Kaiel.   He must have perceived a slight, suffered some unseen last insult.   I do not know.   Nominally, he was still my liege, and when the Gochin came out of Gan Mountain to strike against Karasek, I was called away.   I asked for and received leave on my anniversary.   My fourth anniversary.”

“Fall, again, yes?   1551?”

He nods again, no longer looking at me, but through me.   “I returned to my lands that afternoon.   My keep was broken, my squire and servants freshly slaughtered.   Anara had been tied down in our chamber and raped brutally.   I could not save her.   She had lost.   Too much blood.”

“She died in your arms.”

He grits his teeth and nods, slightly.

“1542 was fifteen hundred years ago.   Still you feel this pain?”

His gaze snaps into focus immediately, locking into my own with deadly precision.   “Lose what I have lost and try to forget,” he says, raw emotion breaking his voice.   “Try.   Try for years, for decades, for centuries, try every day, every hour, and fail.   Then tell me how much your pain has dulled.”

I say nothing.

“I made a pyre for her,” he continues, his voice low but steadier.   “I watched her burn.   I watched everything destroyed in those embers, my soul flying away with hers in the smoke, away to the stars.   I set my blade against my chest and made ready.”

“What stopped you?”

“My Lord Dalor came to me,” he said, resolve clearing the passion from his voice.   “He knew my pain, for it is the pain of all Creation.   ‘The world is broken,’ he told me, ‘and you know the truth of it.’   Despite what I had been taught, I listened to him, to the Great Lord of Annihilation.   He told me that he would give me two things, if I would but serve him.”

“They were?”

“My revenge on the man who did this, and the chance to finish breaking the world, to destroy and remake it, so that no one would ever again need to feel what I have.”

“You accepted.”

“I led the Gochin forces the next day, and spearheaded the flanking charge that destroyed Kaiel’s defenses at Karasek.   The Gochin had superior numbers and sound tactics; they had only needed a strong strategic leader to organize them.   Kaiel was mine by sunset.”

“You killed him?”

“Slowly.   He died perhaps… two years later?   He was alive long enough to bear witness to my conquest of his homeland, my subjugation of his people.   To watch me unite the land under my rule.   He serves me still, you know; some of my finest cutlery was carved from the bones of his legs and pelvis.   Primarily while he was still alive.”

“So much hatred.   Why?”

He smiled, sadly, shaking his head.  “The hatred is gone, long gone; only sadness and pity remain.  The world is broken.   Dalor is right.   The sooner it can be split asunder and remade, the sooner we can at last know a world without grief, or betrayal, or evil.”

“Without evil?”

He nods, tilting his head in acknowledgement.   “The irony of your perception does not elude me.   Yes, I seek to destroy this world; I, and my master, together.   We do this so that one day there need be no more pain, or loss, or hurt.   Evil must be created, you know: it does not simply come into being on its own.   In a world where joy, not loss, were the defining experience, evil could never take root.”

“And the end justifies the means?”

“In a world already broken? What difference can it make, anymore?”

“Even if you are responsible for creating the very pain you say you’re trying to abolish?”

He smiles one last time, a small, sad, honest smile.   “In a thousand, thousand years, when fifty thousand generations have lived in harmony, in a world without violence, or grief, or hatred, ask this question of me.   Perhaps you and I will better understand the answer then.”

(For a more historical view on this character, view his entry in the Codex Vocrotha.)

“You know why you’re here.”

“I do, scribbler,” the golden dragonling says in his soft, boyish voice, exposing rows of dagger-sharp needle-teeth in a deadly grin.  “Do you?”

“I need to understand you,” I say, leaning back in my chair.  “The Zephriel in general, and you in particular –”

“Mysterious,” he replies, bobbing in mid-air in an odd display of acknowledgment.  “Our customs, our thoughts, our allegiances and beliefs – they are not your own.”

“Some would call your kind amoral.”

“It could be that some are not far wrong,” he replies, his voice lilting somewhere between a chuckle and a question.  “The fey mind is a curious mind, and we have very few boundaries.”

“Why is that?”

“More than any of the creations of the Nine, we understand the nature of the world.”

“And that is?”

“Change,” he answers, tasting the air as he does with a flicked tongue.  “Creation is fluid.  Bodies, minds, nations, worlds, galaxies – all these are constantly in flux, all may grow or die, endure or expire with the slightest provocation.  Everything we are reflects this: our kingdoms, our thoughts, and our physical forms.  ‘Say not you know the Zephriel,’ it is said, ‘for they will always prove you wrong.’”

“Minds can disappear?”

“Oh yes,” he chuckles softly.  “Do you know what you find when they do?”

“Tell me.”

“Other minds,” he says, his intense stare leveled at me.  “And you know this, but we are, as you often say, not here for you.”

I stare back at him in silence, and he smiles, clapping his tiny hands together once in amusement.  “Our morals are those of nature, not of man.  Lightning strikes the tallest tree, punishing it for its success – a success that nature enabled it to attain in the first place.  Does this mean that nature is amoral?  Or does it mean that nature’s morality has a far greater scope than that of the tree it nurtured only to slay?”

“Your morality, then, is for a greater good?”

He laughs, a boy’s clear laugh, interspersed with hints of a hiccuping cricket.  “Not if you are a tree!”

“So is it best simply not to attract your attention?

“Do you think you can dodge the lightning, then?” he asks, his voice abruptly low and intense, his gaze tightly focused on me.  “You are welcome to try.”

“But you aren’t just the lightning,” I counter.  “Not if I’m understanding you right.  You’re the rain and the sun, too – the earth that feeds the tree and the rock it coils its roots around for support.”

“Yes!” Casnodyn whispers, his eyes wide.  “You begin to understand.  We are not good or ill; we are good and ill.  Karma has no bias, it simply is – and so are we.”

“But if you nurture only to destroy, what have you gained?  What drives you to interact with men – why do you even care what happens to them?”

“Does lightning care about what happens to trees?  No?  Then why does it strike them?”

“You’re being a little overly simplistic.”

“Perhaps,” he replies, allowing a half smirk.  “There are repercussions for our deeds amongst your kind, as there are repercussions in nature for storms.  If a storm grows too strong and destroys a forest, the earth bakes in the sun and rejects the rain; it grows barren, and soon a desert spreads where a forest once stood.  So too does imbalance influence the Courts, and our borders within the Chrysialbau – our homeland.”

“And when the Courts fall out of balance?”

“An equal and opposite reaction will take place,” Casnodyn says, shrugging.  “Should the Golden Court gain too much advantage, the Ebon Court will move to balance them.  The opposite is equally true.”

“And what if that balance is pressed to the breaking point?”

Casnodyn frowns.  “Violent upheaval is not desired by either Court.”

“That wasn’t what I asked.”

“An equal and opposite reaction will take place,” Casnodyn repeats, his gaze narrowed.  “War between the Courts is not unknown, though it has been many ages since Eira and Huthyg raised arms against one another.  Those are times before even my birth.”

“I’m confused, then.  The Courts don’t want violent upheaval, but your deeds among men can change the status quo within your homeland – even violently so.  Wouldn’t it be better for your people to simply seal yourselves away from men entirely?”

“Better?” the dragonling asks, a light chuckle in his throat.  “Better for whom?  The storm, or the trees?”

“Either.”

“Can you ask the wind to stop blowing?” he asks, fluttering close to my face.  “Can you ask the sun to stop shining?  And if you could, how long could those forces be contained before they broke free from their constraints and scoured the earth with their unchained wrath?”

“You’re not fools.  You have minds.  You can make choices.”

“And therein lies the rub,” he says, still hovering near.  “Were we truly nothing but a force of nature, it is possible our power could be measured, contained, mastered, even directed – and even by you.  But, as you say, we have minds.  We have our own individual desires, our own interests.  And only we decide how that power is applied.”

“And how is that a rub?”

“You never did answer my question.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Why does lightning strike trees?” the fey beast asks, his scaled face blank, unreadable.

“Because they grow too tall?”

“Because it can,” he answers, a sly grin baring his teeth once again.  “Because it can.”

“May I buy you a drink?”

She lifts her sodden hood from her shoulders and flashes a surprised smile; her features are dark and angular but not harsh, and her smile softens them enough to call them beautiful.   “You’re very kind.  Something warm would be nice.  I’ll put my own cloak by the fire, thank you,” she says, forestalling my offer and moving off to do so.

By the time she returns to the rough wooden table, I’ve procured a pair of mugs filled with hot mulled wine.  She’s shed her wet cloak; her long black hair is tied back into a rough pony tail and though she’s clearly tired from the road and the rain, she still nods appreciatively as she sits.

“To warm fires,” I say, lifting my mug, and she does the same, watching me as she takes a tentative drink.

“Not what I expected,” she says, glancing up at me and nodding, “but a very good choice.”

“What did you expect?”

She purses her lips querulously.  “What a peculiar question,” she says.

“I’m a peculiar fellow.”

She smiles, hesitantly.  “Perhaps.”

“So what did you expect?”

“Less conversation, for one.  Less good liquor for another” she says, her smile unintentionally bewitching.  “Inns such as these rarely have much of a selection of either.”

“You sound as though you have some experience in such matters.”

“I have traveled,” she says, toying with her mug  “And you?”

“Here and there.”

She chuckles lightly.  “You’re most evasive.”

“Some details are more important than others.”

“They are indeed,” she says, nodding her agreement.  “And those are the ones least often shared.”

I laugh at that.  “Such cynicism in one so young!”

“One can be young at eighty-five and old at thirteen,” she says, leaning back to make herself more comfortable.  “Years alone are not a very good measure of a man.”

“What is, I wonder?”

“The things we have done,” she says resolutely.  “Only those.”

“And what of the things we’ve left undone?”

“Only when we’re in our cups,” she says, a sudden, mischievous twinkle in her eyes.  “And only then.”

“Then may I pour you another?” I ask, noting her nearly empty mug.

“By all means,” she replies, and I do.

We relax for a time in a comfortable silence, and I pour another mug for both of us before she speaks again.

“What brings you to these parts?” she asks, glancing sidelong at me.  “This is not the kind of place I would expect to find a man such as yourself.”

“How do you mean?”

“Clearly you are no peasant farmer or laborer, and based on the smoothness of your hands I doubt you hunt or make war.  This leaves you as an academic of some sort, a man of the city and not the wilderness.  These are rough lands for such a man.”

“And clearly you are no peasant’s wife or scullery, and based on your right hand I doubt you hunt or make war, though you have kept your left well hidden.  This leaves you as an academic of some sort, a woman of the city and not the wilderness.  And the land here – as you rightly say – is not easy.”

“Observation for observation,” she notes, her eyes narrowed slightly.  “Now, answer for answer?”

I incline my head.  “I am indeed an academic, though I am no stranger to the wilderlands.  I am writing a book, and have come here for research; this inn is a convenient location from which to conduct my studies.  The innkeeper is honest, the room is adequate, and his sons take excellent care of my horse.”

“And the quality of the wine plays no part in your decision?” she asks impishly.

“Have you tasted the small beers of the north?”

“I have.”

“Then you already know the answer to your question.”

She laughs, clapping her hands together in good humor, and favors me with a broad smile.  “I do indeed.  Now tell me your name.  Company is fair on a night like this, and now that I’ve determined you have a mind and a wit, I’d like to impose on yours a little longer, if you’re willing.”

“Arn,” I reply simply.

“Well then, Arn, I am Elori,” she says, extending her hand.  I take it and meet her gaze; her grip is soft but strong, and her hand lingers in mine perhaps slightly longer than appropriate.

“A Hengian name,” I note as she reluctantly takes her hand back.

“But Maltharian born,” she replies, shrugging slightly.  “Sadly, I have never been.”

“Out of choice?”

“Not exactly,” she says, her eyes glancing up and away for a moment.

“”Was he worth it?”

She gasps in exaggerated offense, though her eyes meet mine with an odd intensity.  “Would you mock me in affairs of the heart?”

“Clearly, I am not the only one at this table skilled at evasion.”

“Some details are more important than others,” she says, a rueful smile twisting her lips.

“Prove your own cynicism wrong, then.  Say them aloud.”

She stares at me for a long moment, her brown eyes narrowed as she tries to gauge my intent.  “You are right.  You are a peculiar fellow.”

“I did warn you.”

“You did,” she allows, and she leans back in her chair.  “Yes.  He was worth it.”

“Was?”

“The world conspired against us.  In the end… it was not to be.”

“How did that make you feel?”

She chuckled, a sad, soft sound.  “When we were denied, we were young and in love.  Oh, we railed against fate and cursed the Gods, but then life demanded we go our separate ways.  It was many years later when we met again, and by then… it was almost a relief, really.”

“A relief?”

“Have you ever had a childhood memory ruined?” she asked.  “A tree you remember being a thousand feet tall, but when you returned to it as an adult you found it was only twenty?  A friend, perhaps, who you shared every secret with, only to reunite as adults and find you have nothing in common?  It was five years from the time we were separated to the time we were reunited, and we were children no longer.  We had grown apart, and we had the sense to see it before we tried to rekindle what we once had.”

“He was relieved as well, then?”

She frowns.  “We came to our decision mutually.”

“I do not doubt it,” I said, refilling her glass.  “But I did not ask that.”

“No,” she says, taking up the mug and taking a long drink.  “You did not.”

“Was it sense that drove your decision, or was it fear?”

“Fear?” she repeats with a harsh laugh.  “Fear of what?”

“Fear of losing him again, perhaps.”

“You make no sense.  With that decision, our old love was no more.  Why would I make a decision that would assure such a loss if I feared it?”

“An excellent question,” I reply, taking a drink.

“Then I pose it to you,” she says, her eyes narrow and her voice sharp.  “Why might one make a decision that would assure an outcome they feared?”

“Because it would remove all doubt.”

“It would, wouldn’t it?” she murmurs, leaning forward to look more closely at me.  “It seems we may have something in common after all.”

“Cowardice?”

“Pragmatism,” she returns certainly, an eyebrow raised.

“Are they necessarily so dissimilar?  Faced with impossible odds, is it bravery to strive against them or to throw yourself on your sword – thus removing all doubt as to the outcome?”

“If the end result is the same, what does it matter?”

“So there are no dreams for you?” I ask, softening my tone.  “Do you have no fears, because you have no hopes?”

“Hopes are for innocents,” she says quietly, a forlorn, faraway look on her face.  “For the rest of us, there is only now.”

“I hope this won’t take too long,” he says, grimacing as he arranges himself on the sofa. “I have an important appointment.”

“With who?”

“With whom,” he corrects, frowning. “An impertinent question that I shall graciously ignore. Now please, get on with it.”

“No, really. With whom are you meant to meet?”

“That’s none of your damned business. Why did I even come for this farce, this is utter –”

“Stay,” I say, quietly but forcefully, and he does, his eyebrow raising halfway to his scalp. “You only have a few questions to answer.”

“I cannot imagine what you might ask that my attache could not answer.”

“How about the name of the person you’re going to meet with for starters.”

He shifts in his chair almost imperceptibly. “Persistence is only a virtue in nobility. In you it is a deviled nuisance.”

“Be that as it may.”

He shrugs. “Shalia, my mare.”

“Your mare?”

He nods simply. “Affairs of state have kept me from the stables. I keep Rufin and Faro close by, so they do not lack for my attention, but Shalia is not so conveniently placed.”

“You have time for such trivial interests?”

“Trivial?” he asks, his eyebrow again arcing upwards. “Perhaps, unaccustomed as you are to any kind of meaningful duty, you might find responsibility of this sort trivial. I assure you –”

“How often do you absent yourself from matters of state to tend to your duties as their master?”

He frowns, his expressive brows pulling together. “I am never absent when my presence is required,” he says, slowly.

“But you do occasionally choose animals over people.”

He shrugs. “It is not a matter of choosing one over the other. Men often require time and perspective to understand a situation properly, and I am one such. I wish never to pass judgment on an issue until after I have considered it as fully and as objectively as possible. Surely I have that obligation to my supplicants.”

“And your pets give you that perspective.”

“They are not pets,” he says, his voice taut. “Their intelligence lies along different paths from our own, but divergence is not an indicator of inequality or unworthiness. A pet is subservient.”

“Your animals, then, are not pets.”

“Certainly not,” he says, arranging his robes.

“What, then? Partners?”

He considers this, then nods. “Yes.”

“Have you awarded them this status as compensation for your failures at human companionship?”

He stares, his face hardening into something between a sneer and a scowl. “Is everything in your world so one-dimensional? This or that, here or there? Human companionship is philosophically inconvenient for a leader of men. Men shed thought like Shalia sheds her coat, muddying waters that are otherwise clear with careless intellectual tramping. Sometimes this is useful, and sometimes it is a distraction. In any event, it is I who must lead, I who must maintain focus. Emotional attachments to humans lends subjective and thus inappropriate weight to another’s beliefs. With animals, I can establish strong ties without the necessity of compromising my worldview.”

“So you are afraid to question your worldview?”

He laughs then, a quick bark followed by a head-shaking chuckle. “There is no need to question my worldview. I have proven my worth as a leader of men. My people live well; art flourishes, music thrives, trade makes merchants rich and fills the coffers of my cities so I can continue the cycle. Say instead that I fear to lose the objectivity I have striven to attain and you will be closer the mark.”

“What if you’ve simply been lucky so far? What if you should fail?”

“You see what I mean?” he says, shifting in his chair. “Intellectual detritus. Philosophical masturbation of the least useful variety. Angst-ridden introspection for the sole purpose of generating more angst. You demonstrate ably why I wish to remain at arm’s length from most men, if this is all they can contribute to my worldview.”

“You have not answered the question.”

“No, I have not,” he says, leaning back in his chair. “I do not see the point in doing so.”

“Indulge me.”

“The question is irrelevant. I have not failed.”

“The betrayal of your king is not a failure?”

He hesitates. “Not inasmuch as I do not believe the King is fit to rule,” he says, his voice slightly softer.

“You would do a better job?”

“I already have,” he said, unfolding his arms. “I am a leader of men, you must understand this. I must act based on what is best for them.”

“And you believe allying yourself with the God of Annihilation is best for your people?”

“Historically speaking? The so-called ‘Nightmare Imperium’ lasted for over a millennium; it was a time of peace and stability for the vast majority. These Tenebriel Kings have only ruled a short while in comparison, and they have given us wars and destruction on a scale never before realized. Based on this alone I believe the answer is clear.”

“Even should Dalor call upon his servants to finally and utterly destroy everything?”

“Is that a question I can possibly hope to answer?” he says viciously. “No. The Nine are beyond me, beyond anyone. I cannot care for my people based on the possibility of an apocalypse that may never come. Why did Dalor not destroy this world when he had it in his grasp? I do not know, nor does anyone, and thus I cannot plan for or around such an event. I can only do what I know is best, right now.”

“And should you choose poorly? Should your Warlord send the world into flames?”

“Then I have done my best,” he says, more softliy. “Valdur has never deigned to enlighten me, nor has his brother Ardus spoken to me of truths or lies. Only the Champions can say otherwise, and aside from the Warlord they do not lead.”

“Do you blame the Gods?”

He looks away. “No,” he says, his conviction gone. “Yes? I do not know. We owe them for our existence, but then we owe them for this unending war as well; do I thank them or curse them? Both, I think, for they are beyond my control. Or perhaps neither, so as not to draw their attentions.”

“Then why did you kill Raldan?”

“Do not say it,” he says, wincing. “Do not say it. I did not want him slain; it was Kur D’Shan’s so-called conspirators that fouled those waters. I argued for sparing him.”

“And Kyrill?”

“Unfortunate,” he said, shaking his head. “She was a good woman. Dedicated. I sent my men to find her; Kur D’Shan sent his to kill her. He got there first.”

“Why did you ally yourself with him, then?”

“Can you not see the obvious?” he chuckles, half to himself. “The world is crumbling around us; war burns in the hearts of men and the Warlord has returned. Twice has the Warlord been opposed; once he simply disappeared and left the world in chaos, and once his defeat leveled the most beautiful, powerful city in the world — and still he did not die! He is not a man, he is a force of nature, inexorable, to be weathered, not defeated. The safety of my realm is paramount, do you understand this? I cannot lead my people through the Darks if they are slain at the outset. Kur D’Shan had the Warlord. My decision was made for me.”

“And what if you should die before all this comes to pass? Before you can assure the safety of your people?”

“Then I shall be dead,” he says, an edge in his voice. “An irrelevant question.”

“Surely you don’t expect Shalia will be able to lead in your place. Who can follow you?”

He smiles with careless, disarming ease. “Perhaps. She would do better than most.”

‘Tell me about yourself.’

The man before me laughs. ‘Beginning with what? I’ve lived longer than most civilizations.’

‘Fine, then, let’s start with that. How old exactly are you?’

‘By the filthy lizards’ calendar, which, by the way, is the most accurate of the lot, I am four thousand, four hundred and fifty-three years old. I was born St’kss the 40th. Many years, mind you, before those who made that calendar had gotten past snacking on each other after battles.’

‘Amazing. You don’t look a day over a hundred.’

He snickers. ‘How very kind of you.’

‘Why do you take such joy in killing?’

His face furrows, lips pulled back in a snarl. ‘Is this how you conduct allyour interviews? “Hi, how are you, how old are you, and how many babies did you eat for breakfast?”‘

‘Answer the question, please.’

‘”Enjoy” is too strong a word.’

‘Is “satisfy?”‘

‘No.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I’m a perverse bastard, that’s why.’

‘Go on.’

‘You’re the smart one. You figure it out.’

‘I’d rather you told me.’

He growls, grudgingly relenting. ‘I was born here, on Vocroth. The first generation of my kind to be born out of slavery to the V’Sta’ak. We had no direction, no defense. They abandoned us.’

I nod.

‘We only knew that our old masters expected us to do well, but we knew none of our goals past survival. We hadn’t been free for centuries, and our leadership wavered, saying much, doing nothing. And then the lizards came.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘We’d arrived on what would become Khozhn’ol, once the lizards stopped eating each other. They were clannish, paranoid and xenophobic. Once they’d finished fighting each other and joined under a single banner, they decided to cleanse the continent. That meant killing us.’

I nod. ‘You lost much.’

He snorts. ‘Putting it mildly.’

‘Family? Friends?’

He glares at me. ‘Bastard.’

I wait.

‘There were two thousand of us in my village when the lizards came, okay? A hundred of us lived through the first attack, and six of them managed to leave the continent before they were hunted down and slaughtered. Many villages were less fortunate.’

‘”Six of them?” You mean you stayed behind?’

He nods. ‘Someone had to exact the price.’

‘And you did. You slew their Empress.’

‘I brought her rancid head to the newly forming council on Dalkiar, to show my fellows. We had made the first step towards avenging our dead, though it brought us no closer to home.’

‘You could never go back.’

His eyes look past me. ‘No, not then. Not now. One day.’

‘That is your goal, then?’

‘Perhaps. We marshal our forces, plant our members amongst your kind, where they rise to places of power. When we rule you utterly without your knowledge, then we will exact our revenge.

‘No forgiveness? The Drakkhozhn have –’

‘None.’

‘Don’t you have any compunctions against enslaving the other races?’

‘Enslaving? I prefer “Directing.” In many cases, we are fairer, juster rulers than those who preceded us.’

‘Like what happened at Throntor, of course.’

Kur D’Shan shrugs. ‘It was imperative that Daln not take the city.’

‘You still haven’t explained why all this brings you satisfaction when you kill.’

He leans forward. ‘You can’t imagine what genocide feels like, so don’t even try. Even you’re not safe, you know; we know the Gates better than you do, what they do, and where they go. Take a good, long look at your leaders, your role models. Wonder how human they really are.’

‘Answer the question, please.’

He sneers at me. ‘Fine. Every death is a friend who died. A neighbor that never had a chance to lift a finger. Every death is someone who never left Khozhn’ol. Or maybe one of their descendants, who would never be born. Better still, every death is one of my kind who were humiliated, or tortured, or killed outright when they came to Dalkiar, begging for help. Each death is another year my people have been kept from their righteous vengeance.

‘You can’t understand genocide, so neither can you understand my hate. If you cannot understand my hate, then you cannot understand me. This interview is over.’

“Tell me about your home.”

He frowns. “Where I grew up, or now?”

“Either. Both.”

His lips twitch briefly into a half-smile. “I grew up in the north, on a small farm just outside Forgent. Life was hard but simple. You worked or you died.”

“What kind of work?”

He shrugs. “Farming in the short summer. Hunting, trapping and fishing year-round. Seems like we always had nearly enough, but not quite.”

“You watched a lot of people die.”

He looks away, takes a breath, nods without meeting my eyes, a small, sad smile on his lips. “Yes.”

“Which death was the most painful?”

He almost frowns, a flicker of anger, quickly mastered. “My father,” he says softly, finally looking back at me. “Father was the hardest.”

“How did he die?”

“There was a famine in the summer,” Korrian says, his voice unnaturally steady. “He’d given up too much to mom, to me. Hadn’t kept enough for himself. The cold killed him.”

“Did you have any brothers? Sisters?”

He nods once, sharply. “By then they were all gone.”

“Why was he the hardest for you?”

“Because he knew,” Korrian says, his face betraying the pain he prefers not to acknowledge. “He knew he was responsible for us. He just wanted to make sure we were provided for. Knowing he had to leave us killed him as sure as the cold did.”

“Your mother died soon after.”

He nods slowly, his eyes bright. “I buried her that spring, but she died when father did. It just took her that long to realize it.”

“Then what did you do?”

“I wanted to die. I… I didn’t have the courage. I went to Forgent. The smith took pity on me, made me his apprentice.”

“That’s where you found Dalor?”

“No,” he frowns. “That’s where Dalor found me.”

“The Gochin attacked Forgent.”

“Yes,” he said, shaking his head. “So many people died. So many lost their children, their wives, everything they had. I realized then that I wasn’t alone. I realized why all those stories about Dalor show him weeping while he kills. I found that I agreed with him.”

“Even if it were to mean that all your men would die?”

His eyes narrow, his look fierce, protective. “My men all come to me for the same reason. They hurt, they see the world for what it is. They know it’s wrong. They are the very best of men. They’re not fighting for themselves; they’re fighting for a future they’ll never see, for people they’ll never know. If I ultimately lead them to their deaths, how does that make me any different than any military commander? On the other hand, if we can trade our simple lives for a healed world, doesn’t that seem a fair trade?”

“You care a great deal for them.”

“They die for me. Of course I do.”

“What if you should let them down?”

His face angles fiercely. “I have never let them down.”

“You’re mortal, aren’t you?”

The sharpness fades, dulls into a faraway concern, the shadow of a reasonable doubt. “I can’t let them down. They need me. They trust me. There’s not a commander in all the world who’s as good as I am, sir, and that’s no boast. If I can’t keep them alive…”

“What if you can’t?”

He understands the question this time, shakes his head and smiles tightly. “I will. I understand what you’re saying. But I will.”

“Hello. What’s your name?”

“Elidor Daln. What’s yours?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Yes it does.”

“Call me Arn.”

“That’s not your name. Is it.”

“It’s as good as any other, and I’ll answer to it.”

The boy hesitates, then nods, slowly, once. “All right. Arn.”

“How old are you, Elidor?”

“Nine,” he says, completely without the characteristic pride that usually accompanies such boyhood achievements. “How old are you, Arn?”

“This isn’t about me.”

“Maybe you don’t think so, but I do.”

“I’ll make you a deal. I’ll ask the questions this time. You can ask them next time.”

He looks at me, his wide eyes open, his dark brows folding slightly together. “Promise you’ll come back.”

“I promise. And I’m thirty-two.”

He smiles, a brief glimmer that almost touches his eyes. “All right.”

“Who are your parents?”

“My father is the Warlord,” he says, guilelessly.

“What does that mean?”

“Everyone trusts him. They say he’s a great hero.”

“What about your mother?”

His eyelids droop, just a fraction of an inch, and he draws back into himself, looking away. “I don’t know.”

“Why not?”

“She went away.”

“When did she go away?”

“After I was born,” he says, glancing behind him.

“Why?”

“Because she loved me,” he says, his face contorting into something vaguely between confusion and loss. “That’s what father says. I always think of her in the fall. She smells like the fall.”

“How do you know?”

“I have her hair. A lock,” he says, again looking behind him. “Father says it smells like her. It smells like the fall.”

“Is she still alive?”

He solemnly shakes his head. “Father said that I would never see her again.”

“Did he ever say that she died?”

“What would be the difference?”

“Do you miss her?”

“Yes,” he says, and for the first time his face shows a hint of concern. “I don’t know why. How can you miss something you never had, Arn?”

“You can’t, Elidor.”

“But I never had my mother,” he says, gazing seriously at me.

“Then why do you think of her in the fall?”

“Oh,” he says, opening back up, his intense gaze focused, piercing past my eyes. “I understand now.”

“A visitor?”

I nod briefly, smiling at the pretty auburn-haired woman. “For a time.”

“I am unaccustomed to visitors,” she says, venturing a small smile. “Some tea, perhaps?”

“If you would join me.”

“Of course,” she says, standing briskly and moving to the cupboard. Filling a thick, stonewrought kettle from a ladle, she addresses me. “Tell me, what conversation is so compelling that my husband might allow you to see me?”

“We can get to that in time. I’d like to know how you’re doing.”

An infintesimal pause in her movement as she considers the question. “Quite well, I should think, considering the circumstances.”

“And what of the circumstances?”

She places the kettle atop the mantle and seats herself, arranging her skirts, before answering. “I want for very little. I am well kept, well fed. I have books to read, yarn with which to knit, journals in which to write –”

“And no freedom.”

“Who of us are free?” she asks, a small, certain smile brushing her lips upwards.

“I am free enough that I may pass through that door behind me. You may not.”

“And yet you are not free to do as you will once you have passed it, are you? You must abide by others’ laws, do their bidding in order to survive in their world. Your movement is free, but your will is not.”

“You go to great lengths to justify your imprisonment.”

She looks away, thoughtful. “Once, perhaps, you may have been right. It took some time to adjust to this existence. I found books to be my salvation.”

“Philosophy?”

“Philosophy, religion, wild tales, artistic sketches, bawdy romances, treatises on logic. There are so many ways to see the world, and even more ways to express those visions.”

“And they kept you sane?”

“They gave me the option to find pleasure in what I have been given. He has given quite a lot, really.”

“Does he visit you?”

She stands, turns to collect the kettle from the hearth. “No.”

“You told him you did not want to see him again.”

“I did,” she says calmly, placing finely crafted stoneware mugs on the low table. “Given the circumstances I believe it was an appropriate response at the time.”

“And now?”

She pours the tea, carefully, methodically, replacing the kettle on the hearth before replying. “We fought the Night together, you know. Side by side, we drove back the agents of Vran, of Toras and Dalor. We were matched like no others. When he… when I was brought back, here, now… well, when I discovered he was in the service of the very ones we had struggled so hard against, it was more than I could bear.”

“You have not answered the question.”

She smiles suddenly, sipping at her tea. “Yes. No? Whatever would I do with him if he did come to visit?” she asks contemplatively. “Before I… died… we lived in the same world, ate the same foods, believed in the same things. When I returned, I hadn’t changed at all, but for him…”

“Three thousand years had passed.”

“Can you even imagine it?” she asks, awe plain in her expression. “How can… how can anyone hope to have anything in common with that? I judged him poorly when I sent him away, I fear. I have since learned — I have realized — that my husband died the same day I did. Paldor… he means well, and in his own indecipherable way I know he loves me. But he is not my husband.”

“And what of his devotion to you after all these years?”

She chuckles and takes another sip. “It’s not me he’s devoted to. It’s my loss he’s enshrined, the moment his world was broken. That was when he found his great truth. If it were me he was devoted to, we’d have run off together and been done with this entire affair, don’t you think?”

“You don’t sound resentful of his priorities.”

“Resentful? The man has lived through three thousand years! We were married for three.” She sips, smiling to herself. “I’m pleasantly surprised he even remembers my name, to be frank.”

“And what of your son?”

Her smile wavers, ever so slightly. “That circumstance, I do regret.”

“Having had him?”

“Not in that sense. I have not been able to see him, to touch him or hear his voice since the day he was born. When I was revived, Paldor was… well, we were rash. I did not yet realize how utterly the world had changed. When I did, I… I said some foolish things.”

“You threatened to stop your own pregnancy.”

She nods, sadly. “I wouldn’t have. Or maybe I would have. I’m not sure, really.”

“So you became a prisoner.”

“A restrained and sedated prisoner, I might add. Carefully watched and guarded at all times — not a moment’s privacy! Half a year of utter madness, and nothing I said could change his mind.”

“And what if he had relented?”

She shrugs. “I don’t know. It’s easy to threaten such a thing, early on, but later — well, it didn’t matter in any event. He never relented. My child was born and taken from me. And here I stayed. He felt I might be a risk to the child, but he couldn’t bear to see me harmed. This was his solution.”

“Do you miss him? Your son?”

She hesitates. “I wanted to lash out at you just now for asking that. Of course I miss him. But… but I know now, after these many years, he is no longer just my son. I don’t know what they’ve told him, but he either believes he has no mother, or another woman has filled the role for him. What pain would he feel in discovering me? I would wish him happiness, and I do not know that finding me would make him happy. I miss him, but I am… not content, exactly. He lives and is well. It is enough.”

“Do you miss the outdoors?”

She smiles, sipping again and placing the empty cup on the table. “This is my world,” she says, gesturing to the expansive suite. “This is my empire, and I am its mistress. Beyond that door, that which you call freedom is a world I can only barely comprehend.”

“The sun has not changed, even in three thousand years.”

“No,” she says, for the first time with a hint of sadness, “but everything it shines on has. Those things I miss the most are gone, forever, and shall not return. Perhaps, in time, this new world may interest me more than it frightens me. Until then, however,” she says suddenly with a disarming smile, “would you like some more tea?”

(For a more historical view on this character, view her entry in the Codex Vocrotha.)