“Why then,” King Urstone asked, “don’t I remember anything?”
The wizard glanced away, as if unsure what to say. “Because you did not exist on that world. You had no shadow self there. You died in that world before the worlds were sealed as one.”
“I see,” King Urstone said. He somehow felt sad, cheated, as if he had lost something.
“Not everyone had a shadow self. There were great wars and turmoil upon that world, as there are here. People were being slain by the thousands, by the hundreds of thousands. So some of our lives…did not overlap.”
King Urstone turned away, went to the balcony and opened the door. Rich flowers and shrubs grew in pots outside, and their scent perfumed the night. Somewhere among the shrubs, a nightingale responded to the light with a heart-breaking song.
He tried to consider the repercussions of this new intelligence.
“Will the wyrmlings know?” he wondered aloud, “about the powers inherent in the corpuscite, I mean?”
“Even if they don’t, we must prepare for the worst,” Sisel said. “Others have begun to remember. I went to the hill to get this corpuscite, and as I approached, I found men digging in the night. They ran away.”
“Who?” King Urstone demanded.
“I saw no faces, but they will be back. If I were you, I would send some of my own men there, now, and have them begin to dig in earnest.”
“Of course,” the king said. He looked to Shaun, “Sir Hugheart, will you see to it?”
“As you wish, milord,” Shaun said. He did not ask for further direction, nor did he hesitate to carry out the order. Shaun merely spun on his heels and strode from the room, as a trained soldier would.
I am but half a man, King Urstone thought. Men like Shaun, they are complete in a way that I never can be. They will have twice the knowledge, twice the wisdom of men their age.
Such men would be of great benefit to the world, the king mused.
When Shaun was gone, the Wizard Sisel peered hard into the king’s eyes, and whispered, “There is another matter, Your Highness. This wondrous king that I served, this great hero of the shadow world-is your son, Areth Sul Urstone. Upon the shadow world where he was born, he was known as Gaborn Val Orden. I know this as certainly as I know my own name. He had great powers, greater than you can imagine. We must see to his rescue immediately. If Zul-torac gets even a hint of what he can become, his life…will be worth nothing.”
King Urstone began to tremble. Everything seemed to be happening so fast. The men were set to march on Cantular within the hour, and King Urstone dared not call a halt. The Dyll-Tandor was flooding, creating a barrier around his lands, and he needed to take the bridge at Cantular, seal his borders. But so much else needed to be done, too.
“Tell me this,” King Urstone asked. “On this other world, this shadow world, did I die well?”
Sisel smiled warmly. “You died in a great battle, in defense of your family and your people. None ever died better.”
“Well then,” King Urstone said after a thought, “let’s see that it doesn’t happen again.” He smiled weakly. “I have learned that a plan is already underway to free my son. That is why Daylan Hammer was meeting with the wyrmling. He was trying to arrange an exchange of hostages, my son for the wyrmling princess. And I can see to it that the plan moves forward. If all goes well, by dawn tomorrow, Areth will be free.”
“Do you trust the wyrmlings to keep such a bargain?” Sisel asked after some thought.
“No. But do I have any other choice? What army will I batter down the gates of Rugassa with? How else will I free my son?”
But the king began to think-I could batter their gates with an army of runelords.
The wizard frowned in consternation. “I don’t like this plan. I don’t trust the wyrmlings. And there are some in our ranks I trust even less. Warlord Madoc has campaigned long and hard to lead an attack. For years he has waited. You and I both know what he seeks.”
“I’m afraid,” King Urstone said, “that I can see no good reason to deny him, and every reason to move his plan forward. This great change that has been wrought upon the earth will alarm the wyrmlings, and they are most dangerous when so alarmed. If the wyrmlings are coming, we need to take the bridge at Cantular-as much as we need to save my son.”
The wizard shook his head. “Your son is worth more than a bridge, believe me.”
“Would you still counsel me then to halt the attack?”
Sisel shook his head sadly. “No. I fear, milord, that the enemy is wiser than we would hope. They may already know about the lore of the forcibles, and who they now hold captive. And if they know, there will be no trade for your son, and no saving him. Go forward with your plan, and let us hope for the best.”
DARK WATERS
I find that the best way to endure ugliness and pain is to remember beauty. Always in my memory, it is the face of a woman that gives me strength. Her name was Yaleen.
Daylight came to the privy, the softest blush of light shining through the holes up above. With the dawn came an unwholesome rain as hundreds of soldiers relieved themselves of the waste from last night’s feast.
Daylan Hammer stood stoically, head bowed, mouth tightly shut, and endured.
He had been standing so long that once in the night, all of the blood had rushed to his feet, and he had staggered and fallen in the mire.
So he had learned, and now he raised his feet every now and then, stamping them in the filth, so that he made sure to keep blood pumping to his head.
It will end soon, he thought. The warriors will be leaving at dawn.
And after an hour, they seemed to be gone. No more foul rains hurtled down, no crude jests or harsh laughter assailed him.
He waded to the far end, then reached up and began trying to climb out of the privy.
There was little to hold onto. The walls were wet and slimy. Mold and unhealthy funguses grew upon them, making them slick. There was no brickwork or mortar here, with crevices that he might slip his fingers into, just solid rock worn smooth over the ages.
Still, he had to try.
He pressed his fingernails into a sheet of mold, hoping that it might give him some purchase.
He was wet, soggy, and that added extra pounds.
He pulled himself up slowly, and let the urine drip off of him a little, hoping to reduce his weight. But the sheet of mold broke free, and he slid back.
I would weigh less if I were naked, he decided.
He did not want to suffer that indignity. He didn’t want to risk having someone see him squirming as he struggled up out of the privy.
On the other hand, I doubt whether I ever want to wear these clothes again, he told himself.
With grim determination, he shucked off his pants, ripped off his tunic, and began the climb.
It took him nearly an hour to get ten feet up the wall. But from there, the slope suddenly got steeper. By then, his fingernails and toenails bled, and he was straining every muscle.
He dared not rest. He was too wet and slimy. Each time he laid against the wall, he merely slid back into the cesspool.
If I were dry, he thought, perhaps I could get more friction, perhaps I could make it.
And so he clung in one spot, sweat streaming down his forehead and from his armpits and chest, hoping to get dry enough so that he might find some purchase.
All of his endowments of strength and grace could not suffice to get him one foot farther up the wall. Only superhuman effort had gotten him this far at all.
Suddenly, he heard a soft thud, and a coil of rope came twisting down out of the darkness.