was false, Rudolfo honored the lie of it until he saw the forest on his right. Then he slowed the stallion and turned for the trees, eventually slipping from the saddle and leading the horse on foot back in the direction of what was true.
He took the less familiar paths, and thought about his life. He thought about the days before Windwir fell and the days after. He thought of nights spent in the supply wagon because he preferred it to a bed. He thought of days spent in the saddle instead of his study. Beds shared with more women than he could count and the one woman he knew he must have.
My life has changed, he told himself, and he realized that it would not have if he had not wished it so. He had chosen to rebuild the library, to keep something good in the world of its philosophies, art, drama, history, poetry and song. He had also chosen to align himself with Jin Li Tam, a beautiful and formidable woman that today he could respect, and one day he would love. Between them, they would bring forward a life who would also, if Rudolfo had his way, be formidable and beautiful. And he would inherit the light and be a shepherd of it as his father was.
Rudolfo thought of these things, and he thought of the old man making his way towards the coast, tears wetting his white beard. He thought of his friend Isaak limping about on his mangled leg and wearing his Androfrancine robes. He thought of the boy, Neb, who had stood when Petronus bid someone kill for the light. He thought of Vlad Li Tam at his bonfire, burning the record of his family’s work.
The Desolation of Windwir has reached us all, he thought.
It no longer mattered why. It mattered that it never happen again. And Rudolfo saw clearly his part in that, and he saw how a lamentation could become a hymn.
The less familiar paths fell away, spilling him onto the road. He crossed it, still leading his horse, and stayed to the forest, though he could see the lights of his sleeping city now. He continued on, approaching the library hill from the southern side.
He would stable his horse. He would let himself into the manor. He would approach Jin Li Tam in her
bedchamber, and he would whisper quietly with her into the morning about a forward dream th?€rward drat they could share between them. In the morning he would give the order to dismantle Tormentor’s Row, and let go of that backward dream so that his son, Jakob, and his metal friend, Isaak, could build something better. But first, he had to see the small part that he had started for them.
Ahead, he heard soft voices, a low humming, and a whispering sound he could not quite place. Leaving the horse, he stepped forward, silent as one of his own Gypsy Scouts, to pull aside the foliage that blocked his view.
The bookmakers’ tent lay open before him, its silk walls rolled up to let in the night. The soft voices were those few of the remnant who had stayed behind to help, moving from table to table, laying out
parchment and fresh quills. The metal men worked at those tables, their gears and bellows humming and their jeweled eyes throwing back the lamplight.
Rudolfo stayed for an hour, sitting in grass that grew damp with dew, soothed by the sound he couldn’t place before.
It was the sound of their pens whispering across the pages.
It is a bird, and it has been dead for a month but does not know it. Its snapped neck leaves the head hanging limp as its wings pound the sky.
It flies over a hillside beneath a blue green moon and perches for a moment on a fresh-hewn cornerstone. It flies over a field of ash beside a river, and it opens its beak to taste the memory of war and bones upon
the wind.
It flies over an ocean, an armada of ships gathering at its edge, steam from their engines fogging the bird’s dead eyes.
It flies homeward, this dead messenger, at the Watcher’s bidding.
The bird enters a small window. It lands upon a scarlet sleeve, and when it opens its beak, a metallic whisper leaks out.
“Thus shall the sins of P’Andro Whym be visited upon his children,” the kin-raven tells its master.
Writing can be a solitary act but there is certainly a community aspect to it as well.
I would like to thank the following people for their part in bringing Lamentation together:
First, my amazing wife and partner, Jen West Scholes, and my great friend Jay Lake, who finally accomplished the seemingly impossible task of getting me to write a novel. Right there beside them, I’d be remiss if I didn’t thank John Pitts for his constant support and friendship, and Jerry Jelusich for the same. These four kept me cranking the words out at a breakneck pace, driven by their enthusiasm, and then loaned their keen eyes to the revision process.
Robert Fairbanks introduced me to sword and sorcery as well as Dungeons and Dragons. Your map of the Named Lands, sir, brings back great memories. Thank you for that, and for nearly thirty years of brotherhood.
My father, Standley Scholes, who told me if I wanted it bad enough I’d crawl across broken glass to get it. You were right, Dad, and it wasn’t so bad after all.
I’d also like to thank Shawna McCarthy and Doug Cohen at Realms of Fantasy-I’m glad you two loved Rudolfo and the gang enough to publish “Of Metal Men and Scarlet Thread and Dancing with the Sunrise” and introduce the short story that stretched into the Psalms of Isaak. (Shawna, that note to go write a novel with these characters was a great boost!) And I’m grateful to all of you out there who read the story and loved it enough to write to me and say so. That’s great encouragement.
Allen Douglas: Your artwork for the Realms story was so powerful that it showed me how much more there was to what I’d started there and was the diving board into inspiration. It’s on my wall now, to remind me.
And then there’s my agent, Jennifer Jackson, Thirty-second Daughter of Vlad Li Tam: I’m glad you loved the book, and I’m pleased to be in such great company at the Donald Maass Literary Agency.
To Beth Meacham, Tom Doherty, Jozelle Dyer, and the fine crew at Tor: Thank you for your enthusiasm and support for this project. It is contagious and often fuels my fire. I am grateful for your hard work on this book-and on the ones to follow. I look forward to our work ahead.
There are dozens of other people who helped along the way. Thank you all.
And last but not least, thank you, Dear Reader, for giving your time to this book. I hope youR?€I hope y17;ll return to the Named Lands with me soon.
Ken Scholes
Saint Helens, Oregon
March 2008