“It only needed that,” said Ernave sourly.

Surprisingly the wizard laughed. “When the Shadow one is dead, I’ll wash my hands of you, you hard-headed bastard. But from this moment until that we are brothers, and I’ll stand with you. It’ll take more than that axe of yours to kill the Shadowed.”

Ernave said, “Come then, brother,” and cut a path through the battle to the Shadowed.

The Nameless King fought alone. His own creatures granted him a wide berth—as if there could only be so much evil in one place and the Shadowed’s presence made all other dark things unnecessary.

Ernave approached from the side and swung, but the king’s shield intercepted the blow. Ernave’s axe sank through the thin metal outer layer into the wood underneath and stuck.

Ernave jerked his axe hard and forced the Shadowed two wild steps to the side before he slipped his arm out of the shield’s straps.

Ernave slammed the shield into the ground, splitting it as he would have a log so that his axe was free. It was a swift and practiced move, but he just barely managed to bring his weapon up to parry the king’s strike.

The Shadowed fought as well as the old mage, his advisor, had warned Ernave. Time and again the sword slid along Ernave’s axe, turning the blows so that the heavier steel of the axe didn’t damage the sword blade.

The king’s mouth moved with magic-making the whole time he fought. For the most part Red Ernave forestalled the spell with heavy blows that forced the king to lose his rhythm and concentrate on swordwork. Doubtless there were more spells that Kerine deflected, but, every so often, a spell touched Ernave with white-hot heat that drained his spent body even more.

The king was fresh, and Ernave had been tired unto death before the battle began. Even so, Ernave planted his feet, and, with a swift pattern of his axe, he forced the king to leap away.

The axe felt heavy in his hands, and every time it jerked as the king turned aside another blow the shock shot up Ernave’s forearms and through his shoulders and neck in a flash of pain.

Ernave stumbled over nothing and, as he fell, his axe caught the king a glancing blow in the knee and laid it bare to the bone. Ernave didn’t hesitate, but kept rolling until he staggered to his feet and turned back to face the king.

The Shadowed shrieked and the semblance of the young man the king had been fell away, leaving behind something that was little more than sinew clinging to bone. There was no time for horror. Ernave surged to his feet and struck at the king’s sword again.

The blow hit fairly at last, shattering the elegant blade. Ernave set himself for a killing blow, but the Shadowed dropped his sword and lashed out with his hand. Claws that belonged on no human fingers sunk deep into Ernave’s side.

Ernave cried out, but the pain did not slow his strike and the axe cleaved sweetly through the Shadowed’s neck.

Bleeding and breathing heavily, Red Ernave stared in astonished shock at the body of the old, old man who lay on the ground.

Who’d have thought the Shadowed could really be killed?

“How did you do that? How did you withstand his magic? I couldn’t block it all. You are no mage.” Kerine’s nagging voice broke through the buzzing exhaustion that made everything seem oddly distant.

“The old mage,” said Ernave, his breathlessness growing worse until he breathed in shallow pants. “He gave the last of his life to hold off the dark magic long enough for me to kill the Shadowed. I thought he was a fool to believe it would work… but it didn’t matter as we were all dead anyway.”

As he finished speaking he fell to his knees.

Buried deep in Red Ernave’s heart, Tier, knowing how this story ended, realized his danger and struggled to surface, but there was nothing to cling to as Ernave began to submit to the death bequeathed him by the Shadowed.

A thin whisper rang in his ears.

“And so the great warrior died in the wake of the Shadowed and left…”

“Left the battlefield.” Tier grasped the words. “Left his army to mourn.” But he couldn’t remember the next—

Kerine tried uselessly to save Ernave with what little remained of his power.

“They burned the thing that had once been a king,” continued Tier’s visitor softly when Tier stopped speaking.

Tier fumbled a little but the familiar words began to flow again, separating him from his story. “And… and scattered his ashes in stream and field so that there would be no grave nor memorial to the king who had no name.”

The pain in Tier’s side faded and he was once more safe in the dark of his prison.

“They buried Red Ernave in the battlefield, hoping that his presence would somehow hold the host of darkness at bay. They trailed into the empty city where the Shadowed had ruled and pulled down the king’s palace until not one brick stood upon the other. Then the remnants of the Glorious Army of Man waited, for they had no place to go. The last of the cities and villages were years since ground to dust under the weight of the Shadowed. Only when the food ran short did the army drift away in twos and threes.”

Tier found himself shaking in the dark as the story faded away. Next time he experimented with magic, he decided firmly, it would be with a story whose hero survived.

“What have you done, Bard?” said the voice from above him. “Magic for music, both becoming more real. What have you done?” And, severing the bond that still held him to Tier, the listener departed without a sound.

Avar, Sept of Leheigh, looked just as a Sept ought, thought Phoran, playing with his breakfast without enthusiasm.

Avar was lean, tall, and heroic. His face was chiseled, his chin firm and his mouth smiling sympathetically. He’d come, unannounced, into the royal bedchambers as if he had the right to be there.

“Not hungry this morning, my emperor?” he said, looking at the mess Phoran had made of his plate. “When I heard that you were breaking your fast in your room I thought that might be the case. My new man has a potion against drink-sickness. He’s a half-blood Traveler, or so he claims. He’s certainly a wizard with potions and medicines.”

“No, thank you,” Phoran looked down at his plate. Avar was home.

Relief and joy were severely tempered by his suspicion that Toarsen’s words last night were truth. Last night he’d been certain, but in Avar’s charismatic presence Phoran’s need for Avar’s approval vied with the words of a couple of half-drunken lords and scored a narrow triumph. Narrow enough that Phoran didn’t ask Avar to join him—although there were extra plates and plenty of food.

Phoran forked up a bit of fruit and ate it without enthusiasm. “I don’t need potions—I’m not sick from drinking.” It sounded too much like a pouting child, so Phoran continued speaking. “So you’re back from your sept already?” Did he sound casual enough? “I’d thought you intended to be gone longer than this?”

Avar looked disgruntled, Phoran thought, feeling a bare touch of triumph. Perhaps Avar had expected a warmer greeting—or even the scold Phoran’d intended to hand out to the Sept before overhearing that conversation last night. Cool composure wasn’t a mood the young emperor often indulged himself in.

“Where is Leheigh, anyway? In the South?” The indifference in Phoran’s voice was less of an effort. There. See how little I concern myself with your affairs?

He’d looked up the ancient deed in the library and followed the path on several of the maps in the map room. He could have discussed the crops in the Sept’s new inheritance with knowledge gained from poring over tax records of the past few centuries. But now he would not admit to knowing anything. Avar’s brother wouldn’t have dared to show such disgust for the Emperor if he had no encouragement from Avar himself.