Traveller's Tales

No, not me — the owner of the fey mood would be Casnodyn ap Eira, a major character in The Grey Knight, and the target of yet another long-overdue character interview.  Casnodyn is a native of the Chrysialbau — in other words, he’s a fey beast in a very literal sense, and to get him right I needed to really dig into the mindset of these alien creatures.  So Cas gets a little free with his thinking, and the result is… well, very Fey, I think.

Go ahead and have a look for yourself; I’d love to know if he has the same effect on you that he does on me.

I’ve invested a lot of bitching into the painful process of ripping out a first person present tense  narrative and re-tuning it for third person past tense.  The tense is psychologically tough; the character has been a first-person thinker for quite a number of years now, so that’s what’s causing so much of  the ‘go back and re-read it, and correct all the tense mistakes’ process.  Maddening, as I generally consider my grammar to be moderately polished, and mistakes like those look seriously grade-school.

I think I’m done bitching about switching into third person though.  In fact, since I’ve already given away the game in the post subject, I’ll say I think it’s not only necessary, but it’s fixing a lot of what I didn’t realize was broken.

Yeah, stuff was broken.

Among many other things, I’m an actor.  Unlike my writing, which is on the brink of professional art, I’ve been paid many times in the past for my acting, and I’m told I’m pretty good at it.  Because of that skill set, I do a lot of dialogue in my head before I commit it to paper — give myself a little private performance, lay the characters and the scene out, figure out what dialogue sounds awkward, that sort of thing.

For the first-person narrative, I’d do the same thing to get the character’s thoughts nailed down before I wrote them.  Unfortunately, I now realize I was acting more than I was writing, and that’s where the bulk of the disconnect — which is resulting in the POV shift — took place.

It’s taken the last few reviews of the manuscript to realize it, but the first person POV was actually robbing that character of depth, because I was failing to weave external expressions and unconscious mannerisms into his internal ruminations.  I hadn’t realized it because, when I ‘did the part’ in my head, he was plenty deep, plenty conflicted, his physical confidence and mental competence short-circuited by severe disorientation, physical conflict and psychological horror.

But many of the acting cues I ’saw’ while I was doing my own internal performance failed to make it to the paper, because he was thinking to himself and I didn’t know how to fit the action into his internal dialogue.  The fidgeting, the nervous glances, the smiles a bit too wide — very, very few of these kinds of things made it to text, and so he came off as a much shallower jerk than he really is.

And really, turning people off from one of your primary POV characters isn’t such a smart thing.  Donaldson may have been able to do it, but I’m not Donaldson, and I did not want this character to be anywhere near as disliked as Covenant.

And so, I’ve made progress.  Much yet to do, but the work continues.

Good things happening in my writing world.

Old: In a well-worn notebook I’d hidden in one of the Myriad Boxes I Have Not Unpacked From My Move, Way Back In February*, I discovered a seriously huge number of notes regarding worldbuilding and forward series thinking.  The best part of this isn’t the recovered notes, which alone will be lovely to re-assimilate (and will contribute copiously to the Codex Vocrotha in the weeks to come), but in fact a long-lost character interview with none other than my very favorite arch-nemesis, the Warlord, Paldor Daln.  Expect to see him as exposed and self-referential as you’ll ever see him, in a post very soon.

New: a scene rewrite, for The Grey Knight.  Yeah, I know, I’m supposed to be done with this one, and normally I won’t “optimize” a scene, but this just gives me so much more bang for the page space that it has to be done.

Also new: movement in the agent category.  Nothing definite at the moment but forward momentum is always positive; when I have actual news I’ll report it.

*I’m not actually averse to unpacking, it’s the Finding A Place For The Things Which You Have Just Unpacked process that’s tricksy.

Actually, I found a lot of ‘it’ because I’ve been poring over all my story files to get my lazy ass in gear, but the ‘it’ I mean here is the character interview I did for Grand Duke Talish Kalegor (which I mentioned before in an earlier post). While he doesn’t actually get any on-screen time in the first book, his influence is strong, if subtle, throughout The Grey Knight, and he becomes a far more central character in The Grey Lord. I thought it would be important to understand him better, and as I’ve discussed before, if someone’s that important, he gets a turn in the hot seat.

Anyway, for now the important news is that all my Dying Sun files are now properly re-locked and re-loaded on my current work computer, and that you’ll get a chance to meet him yourself tomorrow.

The vacation did it. I haven’t posted about vacation, and I will, soon, but I went on one, it was basically what I wanted — better in some ways, worse in others, but overall just what I needed — and it reconnected me to my inner world better than I expected it might, even though the amount of writing that happened during the vacation itself was fairly minimal.

I’ve always been obsessed with Erik’s part of the storyline. Not because I’m obsessed with Erik himself, but because this part of the story was really the reason for being of The Grey Knight in the first place: the Birth of a Dark Lord. Knight set up Erik to take the role, but he’s only just realized that the shoes fit by the end of Knight, and he doesn’t really even understand why he’d want to put them on. Obviously, there’s a choice he needs to make during The Grey Lord, a series of decisions that must either align him or alienate him from this new identity.

That moment, that crucial epiphany, has been the subject of my latest efforts. What he does with what he learns — or even what he discovers — I’m not going to give away. But I will say I’m pleased with the results. More than anything, I wanted it to be believable, to be a reasonable, rational series of events that would lead anyone — everyman, even — to that critical juncture.

I think I’ve done that, and I think I’ve thrown in a twist or two that will surprise, horrify or delight, or possibly all at once, which would make me deliriously happy.

More chapters to come. I really feel this one starting to come together. No promises… but I think the dam on Lord is about to burst.

“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.)

If there’s one thing I’ve learned from the novel-writing gig, it’s patience. Things move at their own pace; the world is dynamic and by and large does not revolve around me, much as I’d like it to. As a result, I’ve learned that the stuff that’s really, really important to me will, from time to time, collect some dust, and that there’s often nothing I can do about it.

That sounds defeatist, but it’s not. In fact, it’s freeing; acknowledging and accepting that certain things are beyond your control allows you to take the energy you’d otherwise waste railing against immovable objects and spend it on things you can actually affect. And sure, some things demand impressive amounts of effort in order to advance them forward. But it’s important to learn the difference between ‘difficult’ and ‘out of my hands.’ If it’s #1, fight! But if it’s #2, at some point you’re just going to have to let it go anyway… so let it go and use that extra energy productively.

The sequel, in this case, has been the target of my extra energy. Keeping tradition with Knight, Lord tracks a small core group of characters through the story but regularly pops into the stories of many of the secondary characters. Since a lot of my secondary characters from Knight are… well… no longer available, there’s a bunch of new faces, and one of them in particular has been a tricky one to get to know. If you’ve read the first book, you’ll recognize this tricky new character as Grand Duke Talish Kalegor — you haven’t actually seen him yet, but you’ve felt his presence since the first time you got into Kur D’Shan’s head.

Most of my friends know that when I find a new character I go through an interview process with them — I set up a fairly standard historic bio so I know what they look like, what their voice sounds like and where they came from, and then I write a scene where I’m interviewing them, asking difficult questions of them. Usually I do this until they surprise me — and yes, that’s crazy talk, see the ‘I really am psychotic’ post below — but this guy’s different. He just doesn’t crack. He’s completely self-assured, utterly confident, completely responsible, and thoroughly unflappable. When I hit him with a question that should evoke an emotional response, he stops to gather his composure before answering. When I smack him with a difficult critique he acknowledges the flaw. In short, he’s even better at this than I am, and I wrote the longest interview I ever have searching for a surprise that never came.

And once I realized that this, his ability to beat me at my own game, was the surprise I was looking for, he came together for me, and his first chapter is nearly done. I’m pleased to report that I like him quite a bit, which is good because he’s obviously in an adversarial role and I hate having antagonists that are too easy to hate. Originally I was thinking of someone like William Atherton for this role, but now that I’ve figured him out it’s definitely more of an Ian Holm sort of thing.

Back to the sequel, and as for news about Knight… be patient.

“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.”