Kyse Firdsen was anxious. Naturally, he was always anxious, but today he was extra anxious. Today the Master was meeting with three kings. He wasn’t sure why the Master wanted him of all people, to attend the meeting. He wasn’t a member of the Apothecary. He wasn’t even a scholar. But what the Master wanted, the Master got. Kyse waited in the large, unnaturally smooth corridor outside the Master’s quarters, fidgeting with his hands and trying to look everywhere at once, without meeting anyone’s eyes. The corridor wasn’t busy. Occasionally men and women in the crimson robes of the Apothecary would pass him. Mostly they ignored a large man in leather armor, but a few cast him suspicious looks. One woman even seemed envious. The Master didn’t entertain visitors in his personal quarters. I’m not a visitor, he thought at her. I’m just a guard. The Master’s door opened and Kyse bowed deeply at the waist.
“Easy, Kyse,” The Master said. He had a pleasant voice, almost melodic, and he spoke in an even manner. “You’ll fall over if you bow any further.”
“Yes, Master,” Kyse said, wincing at the audible tremble in his own voice. He fell in step beside the Master. Kyse was head and shoulders taller, and more than half-again as broad as the other man. The Master seemed to drown in his own voluminous robes. They hid his hands and feet; the deep hood shadowed his face. Kyse didn’t mind that. His job was to accompany and protect the Master, not stare at him.
They made their way from the Master’s quarters, near the top of the Apothecary Tower, to the ground level, winding down several sets of stairs where robed men and women stopped and bowed as the Master passed them. Kyse wasn’t certain how they knew who it was, as the Master’s robes didn’t look any different than a hundred others. He didn’t have any extra embroidery, no sigil of rank or name. His robes weren’t even finer than most. Some of the higher ranked wore robes of silk, while the Master himself wore only fine wool. Yet they all knew him, simply by sight. The Master would nod to each as they bowed but kept moving. He had an appointment to keep.
Kyse led the way out of the Apothecary Tower, through a huge set of doors that was typically opened to all. They were closed now against the unnatural cold that was sweeping down from the north. The massive plaza just outside was actually covered in a thin dusting of snow. Snow! In Srecar, of all places, just after the onset of autumn. The plaza was a flat, paved square, dotted with statues, benches and fountains. It was often crowded with studious people, visitors to the city, and petitioners hoping to see a member of the Apothecary for cures to their ailments. Today it was all but empty. Kyse breathed in the sharp, cold air and looked out over the city. Srecar was the largest in the Three Kingdoms. It was built into a mountainside, on an island, in the center of Lake Heldrach, surrounded by five smaller landmasses, each with its own village. Huge, stone bridges soared over the open lake from each village into the city itself. The height was dizzying, as the Apothecary Tower occupied one of the highest tiers in the city. Below, in progressively larger steppes, the city sprawled out over the island.
The Master took the lead, walking with measured pace toward the palace. It was up one more level, at the highest point in the city. The mountain’s summit rose another hundred or more feet above, but Summit Keep’s tallest towers rivaled it. Mighty Stol, Mountain Lord, keep us safe from harm, Kyse prayed. Uthinar, keep the wind from blowing us away. He paused. Goddess Kina, keep the snow from burying the world. The Master chuckled beside him.
“Praying again, Kyse?” He asked in that sweet voice.
“Yes, Master,” Kyse said. “How did you know?”
“Your lips were moving,” the Master replied. “Did you mean them to be private prayers? I did not intend to intrude.”
“No, Master,” Kyse said. “I, well, didn’t realize I was moving my mouth.” The Master nodded sagely but said nothing. He merely led the way up the sidewalk toward the keep. Kyse shivered. His bare arms were broken out in goosebumps from the cold and his breath came in vaporous gulps of frigid air. Should have worn a coat, he thought. Foolish to think he would have such foresight. He’d only found out an hour or so past that he was accompanying the Master at all. The work of walking up one level would have to keep him from freezing for now. The sidewalk was carved out of the street like stairs, one set on either side of a wide, steep lane that led down from the summit into the rest of the city. Very little traffic passed this way, as only those with specific invitations were ever allowed into Summit Keep.
Kyse was huffing from the exertion when they reached the top of the stairs, but the Master didn’t even seem winded. He just continued along at the same pace, arm folded, exuding an air of mystery. Kyse hurried to stay at his side, broadsword thumping against one thigh. Two guards in the tri-colored livery of the Three Kingdoms allowed them to pass the towering front doors that led into the keep. Inside, warmth flowed back into Kyse’s body, tingling in his extremities. The halls were large and quiet, carpeted in the rich scarlet and gold of Srecar. The high ceilings were painted with murals, depictions of ages past and battles won. Stained glass windows let in streams of multi-colored light from above. The doors were adorned with stylized griffons, the sigil of Srecar and its ruling House Alethrandir. The Master walked straight toward the throne room. Kyse could hear him being announced as they grew close. How did they know to announce him? We haven’t seen anyone except the guards at the door. The Master was full of mystery. Even outside the tower.
At the end of a hall, two dark-stained doors opened and let Kyse and the Master into the throne room. It was a spacious chamber, lit by chandeliers and torches on the walls. The keep’s carpet was replaced here by polished marble in the scarlet, emerald, and sapphire of the Three Kingdoms. The tiles were patterned so no color repeated more than the others. They blended together until the very end of the room, where each color had its own section as a sort of buffer. Three identical thrones occupied the far wall, surrounded by their individual colors. The Master reached the center of the room and went to one knee. Kyse followed, bending the knee slightly behind the Master and bowing his head. This room was identical to the throne rooms in Naltar and Endulin, or so he’d heard. Ordinarily, only the King of Srecar would be here. Today, all three monarchs were in attendance. Two queens flanked the king in the center. Queen Linas Pareth of Naltar and Queen Brinyen Elith of Endulin. The King, Tenarin Alethrandir, stood and bowed to the Master.
“Remove that hood,” Queen Pareth said. She was a handsome woman in her middle years. All three monarchs were within a year or two of each other. They had the same proud bone structure, high-cheeks and blunted chin. The three ruling families were distant cousins, according to tradition. They still intermarried to keep the peace between them and to keep their bloodlines intact. Queen Pareth wore a gown of dark green, not quite the emerald of her realm, but close enough for propriety. It was in the Shandaran fashion, tight across the bust and the hips, but flowing elsewhere. Her graying black hair was tied up in a neat bun, fastened by golden clips. “Let us see your face, my dear.”
The Master removed his hood. Beneath was the fresh face of a boy, sixteen at the oldest. He was fair-skinned, with dark red hair and delicate features. His hands, exposed now from the depths of his sleeves, were thin and long-fingered. He wore three golden rings on each hand, a ruby, emerald, or sapphire was fixed in each of them. He smiled at the monarchs as he rose to his feet, bright blue eyes flashing. Kyse stiffened despite himself. He knew what the Master looked like, but it never failed to unnerve him.
“E’eldr Tethraad,” King Alethrandir said. The Master’s true name. “You know why we have summoned you?”
“Of course,” the Master said. “Word of the snow in the north preceded its appearance here, but I deduced that you would call for me when I saw my ladies’ carriages arrive.”
“And what can you tell us?” The king asked. He was a well-built man, though smaller than Kyse in height and muscle. His black hair, streaked through with silver, was tied back in a single, neat braid and his beard was forked into two, thinner braids that fell to his chest. The king turned his attention to Kyse. “Is this a bodyguard?”
The Master shook his head, grinning. “Never in your presence, my lord,” he said. “Kyse Firdsen is, perhaps the most superstitious man I have ever met. His expertise will be of much use to us here today.” Kyse gaped, heedless of how foolish he must look. The Master gestured to him and stepped backward.
“Master?” Kyse managed, weakly.
“Kyse, you must be wondering why I brought you along,” the Master said. “Did you think it odd that I asked a guardsman to accompany me?” Kyse worked his throat to reply but the Master continued speaking. “Of course you did. You find everything odd. You see, I know about your silent praying and your lucky charms, the rituals you conduct yourself every morning and evening. I know how you’ve read almost everything in the section of my library, the one you’re supposed to be guarding.”
“Gods above,” Kyse said. “Master, I am—”
“An expert,” the Master said. “Please, tell the Triumvirate what significance this winter could have for us.”
Winter? Kyse couldn’t think of any significance to early winter. Nothing specifically from the library. He flushed as the three rulers turned their attention to him. The Master watched with those too-young eyes. Why didn’t you bring one of the librarians? Because they collected the books. No one read them. Books of prophecies and foretellings, omens and signs. Things that even members of the Apothecary found laughable despite the wonders they witnessed every day. Then it struck him.
“The Twilight Prophecy,” Kyse said. “Not an early winter, but one that lasts too long.”
The Master grinned. “Exactly,” he said. “Continue.”
“The Twilight Prophecy claims that a winter will come, heralding the end of the world,” Kyse said. “It will last for three seasons without a summer to separate them. Men will grow desperate as they starve, and wars will break out all over the world. The dead will rise and march to war against the living. The gods will descend from on high to battle and the world will drown, freeze, or burn.”
“E’eldr,” King Alethrandir said, obviously stifling a laugh. “Is this some manner of joke? Prophecies are nothing more than parlor tricks and nonsense.”
“This particular prophecy predates me,” E’eldr said. That made all three monarchs pale immediately. The resemblance between them was uncanny when they looked afraid. “I first heard it as a child in my village, spoken by an elder shaman who wandered in from the south. Now, it is certainly vague and lacking in much detail. That, I find, is the hallmark of all prophecies. However, this one is different from most in one aspect.”
“Which is?”
“I think it is true,” E’eldr said. The monarchs exchanged a look, but the Master continued to speak before they could interrupt him. “I don’t think it was any truer than a thousand other prophecies made before or since. Rather, I think some force is using it as a template.”
“Why?” Kyse asked. Then he bowed his head, realizing what he’d done. Speaking in the presence of three monarchs without being addressed? What was he thinking?
“I have no idea,” E’eldr said. “I have some theories. I have been plagued with dark dreams the last few weeks. Something carried over from when I was young. I remember writing this prophecy down, because it predates written records. It speaks of the Old Darkness, of a time before this world. My dreams hint at something sinister arising in Shandar.”
Kyse watched the Master. He was a lich, that much was known of him. E’eldr the Undying. A man over five centuries old, from a time before kingdoms and cities, when men wandered the world in nomadic tribes or settled themselves in small villages. He’d lived through countless wars and seen the rise of civilization. He’d seen the decline and end of magic in the world. Indeed, its last vestige seemed to be the lich himself.
“You have always scoffed at prophecy,” King Alethrandir said. “Yet your dreams have often held portents of the future. The duality has amused and offended throughout the ages, but our recent history can show us that while written prophecies are only fodder for superstitious minds, the things you dream can be verified. What is your suggestion?”
“Let me go to Shandar,” E’eldr said. “I will bring Kyse along as a guard and to refresh my memory. If I can find some evidence of my dreams, I will bring it back to you. In the meantime, perhaps it would be wise to keep our borders alert. The Empire has not sought to conquer us in many years, but if something dark does walk that land, I would have us prepared to face it.”
The king and queens nodded in unison. “Very well,” Queen Elith said. “You may conduct your expedition. Bring us word of Shandar and we will decide our course of action.”
“My lord,” E’eldr said, “My ladies. You should consider sending word to the other kingdoms in the north. Kennor and Balkar have benefitted from your position, shielded from Shandaran advance. Even Auroth will listen to your words. Tell them to be prepared. We may need their strength.”
“If your trip uncovers evidence of something…supernatural in Shandar,” Queen Pareth said, “then I will send my best riders out immediately. I won’t have the entire continent thinking us fools who jump at shadows.”
E’eldr bowed. “Of course, Your Majesty. With your leave, I will secure supplies and we will depart with haste.”
King Alethrandir waved his hand and the Master pulled up his hood. He turned and Kyse followed him out of the throne room and back out into the city. A light snow was falling, and the air was colder now than when they’d come. Kyse found himself staring at the Master’s back, wondering how he’d gotten caught up in this…whatever was happening.
“Master,” Kyse said.
“E’eldr,” the Master replied. “We are traveling companions as of now. It is appropriate that you address me by name.”
“Of course,” Kyse said. “But, well, why me?”
The lich stopped and turned to regard Kyse. “I have lived for many years,” he said. “In that time, I have mastered many things. Fighting is not one of them. You, on the other hand, are a gifted fighter and, quite frankly, the largest man I have ever seen that wasn’t part ogre. What’s more, you pour obsessively over books that others find hilarious and backward. Remember this, Kyse, those prophecies all came from somewhere. The truth in them may not be obvious, or even a significant portion of the prophecy, but there is always some truth. Now come. You’ll need much heavier clothes where we’re going, or you’ll freeze to death.”
Always some truth. Kyse watched E’eldr walk away, wondering. The Twilight Prophecy imagined all manner of terrible things but gave no real reason why those things would happen. Why would winter suddenly last three seasons? Why would long-dead men rise and wage war on the living? How was any of that even possible? He’d always enjoyed that particular prophecy for its details, but now he found himself with nothing but questions. Not the least of which was how, exactly, they would get into Shandar and just what they were looking for when they did.
Those prophecies all come from somewhere. Kyse started after the Master. This prophecy did come from somewhere, alright. It came from E’eldr himself.
*
Far to the northwest of Srecar, the enormous city of Shandath-Kanar was covered in snow. The capitol of the Shandar Empire, Shandath-Kanar was the largest city in the world. It dwarfed capitols in every other kingdom, growing out over the hilly countryside for miles in any direction. Hundreds of thousands called it home. The city was a colossal circle, with the Imperial Plaza at its center. Eight major lanes split from the plaza, each of them straight and wide as a river. They flowed outward to the very edge of the city, with smaller roads between them like spokes on a wheel. The city conquered two rivers and innumerable hills, flowing over or through them as it grew with every passing year.
The Imperial Plaza was a massive square, perfectly formed in the center of the circular city. Towers of glass and steel rose up, eclipsing the smaller buildings that surrounded the Plaza. Built in the old style, the Inner Quarter buildings were squat and rounded. They lived in the shadow of the marvels in the Imperial Plaza. Buildings grew taller and grander the further from the center one traveled, but none rivaled the Glass Towers or the Crystal Palace. At the very center of everything, the Crystal Palace resembled a massive diamond, with its outer walls cut like facets to let in the same amount of light no matter where the sun sat in the sky. It was surrounded by gardens and fountains with paths carved from obsidian and painstakingly laid out, so an observer high above could see two enormous, black lions grasping the Palace in their jaws.
Derith Gelinark, steward to the Emperor, found it wasteful. Such wealth poured into a single family’s home and some offices of state. That his own office was among them mattered not to the steward. He was just as comfortable in a cramped closet as he was seated at the luxurious desk in his sprawling office. Like all Shandarans, Derith was tall and broad in the shoulders. He had fair skin, not many shades darker than the snow outside, and light hair with dark brown eyes. His robes, golden, ostentatious things of silk, swished around his ankles as he hurried through the Crystal Palace’s myriad corridors toward his audience with the Emperor. He was early, of course. He was always early for these meetings, but if the Emperor finished whatever appointment he was conducting before Derith arrived, it wouldn’t matter. Schedules meant nothing to the Emperor. The only time that mattered to him was his own. Derith considered pulling the robes up and running, but that would be unseemly at best. The Emperor’s Steward simply did not run. He certainly didn’t lift the very expensive, extravagant robes of his station to do so.
He reached the Blue Garden, where his appointment was scheduled, and took a deep breath to steady himself. Ten years as steward and a one-on-one meeting with the Emperor still made him nervous. Bracing for the cold, Derith pushed open the glass door and stepped outside. The Blue Garden was a garden in name only. In reality, it was closer to an art gallery. It wound along the obsidian paths that, from above, would be the lion’s teeth. This gave it the look of a huge, forked tongue. The blue in the name came from the structures and sculptures, each done in precious stones or marble, and each of them some shade or hue of blue. In had cost a fortune to build, Derith was sure, but it was older than he and the cost of it was long forgotten. The Emperor was close by, peering up at a statue of a naked woman carrying a huge basket on her back. She was bent at the waist, though her breasts didn’t indicate she was leaning, and her face wore a grimace. Likely at the weight of the basket. Or the ridiculous cost of carving something so frivolous from blue marble.
“You are late, Steward,” the Emperor said as Derith approached. His voice was deep and resounded in the garden. He was larger than Derith by a few inches, but their hair and complexion indicated kinship. Indeed, Emperor Or-Tigran gar Sensi ven Morigath was Derith’s second cousin. The familial relationship hardly mattered to either of them. The Emperor turned to regard him with eyes the color of pitch and Derith fell to his knees, prostrated himself in the snow before the Emperor. “Stand up, man. You’ll freeze to death down there.”
Derith stood, brushing the snow from his robes. The Emperor turned back to regarding his statue. He wore fine robes of wool, deep crimson and embroidered with gold. They wrapped his body from neck to ankle, with exaggerated shoulders and wide sleeves large enough to hide a broadsword. The fashion looked odd to Derith, but it was catching on in the city.
“My apologies, Lord Emperor.”
“Nonsense,” the Emperor replied. “You’re always late. I think it’s charming. It gives me time to myself between appointments. What do you think of this piece?”
Derith spared the naked woman a glance and shrugged. “It’s not very good. Her limbs are out of proportion, the breasts show no sign of gravity despite her posture. I think the artist honestly just wanted to sculpt a naked woman and came up with this as an excuse to call it art.”
“An astute observation,” the Emperor said. “It was, of course, my father’s favorite piece.” Derith winced. Insulting an emperor, even a dead one, was a terrific way to lose a limb. Or a life. Emperor Or-Tigran shrugged off the slight against his family. “Do you know why I called you here today?”
“No, Lord Emperor.”
“I want to know why this snow has come,” he said. “I have tasked everyone I can think of with finding a reason or a solution. Reports from the south claim it is falling even in provinces that have never seen snow. They actually didn’t even know the word for it, isn’t that incredible?”
“Yes, Lord Emperor,” Derith said. “How would you like me to proceed?”
“The historians are looking into the past,” the Emperor said. “The priests are asking the gods. Farmers consult their old tales. Scholars consult the pattern of clouds or some such nonsense. I would like you to use your own skills to figure out what is happening and why.”
“My Lord,” Derith said, “my skills are purely administrative.”
“Then administrate me an answer,” the Emperor said. There was no heat in his voice. No sign of annoyance. He honestly expected Derith to…administrate an answer? What does that even mean? “If you find me something of value, I will see to it that you are very handsomely rewarded. You’ll be wealthy enough to retire, buy a plantation somewhere, and never set foot in the city again.”
Derith started at that. Of course he knows I hate it here. Derith bowed again, laying in the snow. This time the emperor didn’t admonish him to stand. He simply walked away through the snow, Derith stayed until the soft crunch of the emperor’s footsteps receded. The snow was melting, soaking through his robes. He stayed in his position until the cold seeped into him and the shivers ran involuntarily up his back. Then he stood and hurried inside.
How am I going to find something? He thought.
I will teach you.
Derith froze. He glanced around but the hall was empty. He was alone. But that voice, that voice was not his own. What is happening?
Your world is coming to an end. The response was immediate and certain. The voice was deep. Deeper than the emperor’s voice. It spoke, and its tone was power. Immense, unfathomable power. Derith shuddered.
Who are you? He thought.
Unimportant, came the reply. The answers you seek, I can give you. Time is short.
Then tell me, he thought, suddenly desperate. It would get him out of his duty, out of this cursed city with its ostentation and waste. He could find somewhere warm, in the south, where his kinship to the emperor wouldn’t matter so much. Where he could be anyone.
Blood will save the world, and only blood. We have much work to do.
That sounded ominous. No more ominous than snow in the southern reaches, where snow had never fallen, months before it should even be snowing in the north. Derith straightened and headed for his office. Frivolous though it was, he would have privacy there to talk to himself rather than standing in the hall like a lunatic. The realization that a lunatic hearing voices and a sane man hearing voices would be indistinguishable from one another was not lost on him.
Where do we start?
Shandath-Kanar. You will save the world from here.
That’s convenient, he thought.
It will not be. Time is short. We may already be too late.
The urgency that crept into the voice made Derith tremble. Without thinking of who might see or what they might think, Derith gathered his robes, hiked them up, and ran.
*
Kyse wandered the Apothecary Tower alone. The Master sent him to prepare for the journey, while he stayed in his rooms. The trip back was even colder than before, with a frigid wind that howled at him, bringing an icy chill off the lake. He shivered, cursing himself for a fool. A cloak was a good idea anytime, whether he planned to be outside or not. He trudged down the steps, then across the plaza toward the looming Tower. It was a massive, squared spire with smaller towers branching off, carved and angular though it seemed to grow organically from the ground. It was built, like all of Srecar, with the old magic. Raised from the very stone of the earth, so that it needed no brick or mortar. Stone gargoyles perched on every corner, their bestial visages keeping silent watch over all. The Tower cast a long shadow over the city, reaching almost to the docks far below.
He wandered the rich halls, letting the warmth of the place gradually ease the chill from his bones. Standlamps were gold and silver and bronze, casting their light on pottery and art, tapestries and friezes from a hundred generations. He found himself drawn to the Great Library, a central chamber on the ground floor that with a cavernous ceiling, and a hollow center. Rows upon rows of shelves crowded the room, and balconies rounded it above, one for every floor of the Apothecary, hugging close to the wall but each lined with more rows of shelves. On the higher levels, there were isolated nooks for reading. The room climbed several stories, although not all the way to the top of the mighty Tower. It had the smell of old paper and worn leather, a comforting scent that brought a smile to his face. There was an easy quiet in the Library, the whisper of shuffling pages and the merry, muted crackle of hearths that mixed with the occasional murmur of its occupants, quietly reading aloud or speaking to one another in hushed tones. He descended three carpeted steps to the bowl that held tables and chair for reading, then up another three steps on the other side. He could have gone around, but he didn’t have a destination in mind, just the walking.
All the same, he soon wound up at the back of the ground floor, beyond a series of lacquered, hand-written signs that declared the area off limits. This was the Master’s personal collection. A smaller room in the large chamber, crammed with books and scrolls and loose sheets of aging parchment, yellowed with time and only preserved because they were beyond the reach of most. Much of what was stored here could be found, painstakingly copied by members of the Apothecary, out in the Library proper. Most, but not all.
A guard was on duty, an ebony skinned Polithi by the name of Ary. He sat in a wooden chair, leaning precariously backward, with his booted feet on the room’s only table. He nodded as Kyse entered but kept his place. The other men who guarded this room were used to him coming in to read when he wasn’t on duty. It wasn’t forbidden, strictly speaking, because he already had clearance to guard this room. Early on some of them had given him grief about it, which had turned to gentle gibes at his superstitious interest, and finally become a resigned disinterest in what their quirky colleague was doing. Ary resumed trying to balance on his chair’s two back legs, arms folded over a considerable chest.
Kyse wandered the shelves for a time, brushing his fingertips over the cracked and worn spines of ancient books. He told himself he was still just walking, but he pulled out a thin bundle of yellowed pages anyway. They were bound by strips of leather, worked through holes in the pages. The leather was newer than the paper, which crackled with even the slightest touch. Ary snorted behind him but was otherwise silent. Kyse sat at the table and stared down at the title page. It was another late addition, written in the Master’s own neat hand. The Twilight Prophecy. Author Unknown. Circa 175 Imperium. Imperium was the Shandaran calendar, though it was essentially the same as any other. They’d begun it in preparation for their first expansion effort into Srecar, a failed campaign that led to several centuries of animosity between the Empire and the Three Kingdoms. 175 Imperium meant this Prophecy, at least this version of it, had been recorded some five hundred years earlier.
Kyse opened the book, carefully turning the fragile pages until he reached the actual Prophecy itself. Most of the book was an introduction, once more by the Master, and his collection of musings and scholarly research regarding the Prophecy. Like most things that pre-dated the lich, this was an oral tradition he’d managed to record long after its original creation. Kyse felt he could almost recite the entire thing but staring at the words on the page helped it feel more…real. There was an authenticity in books that simple recollection could never match.
There will come an Age, a time of wind and wolves, when the world descends into winter. The cold will come from a clear sky, freezing the land and the hearts of men. It will stretch long, beyond the time when the spring thaw should come. It will cover all the land in ice. Places that have never known winter with shrivel, will wither, and there will be great weeping and the gnashing of teeth.
Here, the Master made a notation that several variations were mentioned, depending on where one heard the tale, about how long the winter would last. Some said three seasons, some said three years. One, and even Kyse found it far-fetched, claimed the winter would last for three generations. All agreed that winter would come, and it would stay far longer than it should.
Men will starve and become like feral beasts, the Prophecy continued. They will see their women and children starving and they will seethe with such rage. Wars will spread across the land, brother will slay brother for his food and warmth. Blood will turn the snows and the rivers red. Death will settle over mankind like a cloak, but the dead will not remain dead.
Gods will come to man, to ease his suffering, and man will turn on them. Only the greatest of warriors, the strongest of faith, will remain true. The rest will curse the gods and seek the succor of the Underworld, where Isha reigns supreme.
Kyse stopped. Isha wasn’t right. The name was different, he could swear. It was written clearly on the page and yet, it wasn’t the name of the goddess he recalled. But that was impossible, wasn’t it? Perhaps he’d misread before, or misremembered. He couldn’t even recall the name he expected to find, now that he tried to pull it from his head. It must be a mistake.
The Lady of the Underworld will march across the land, and her army of the dead and faithless will follow. Banners and flags not seen in generations will flutter again in the frozen world, and darkness will come at their wake. The gods will ride out from their homes in Heaven. The brave souls of long-dead warriors will come down from the Citadel Halls. Ha’tar will lead them in glorious battle.
The Old Darkness will return to seek its final vengeance on Man and god alike. The Lord of Thunder will fight the Serpent. The Mountain will fight the Wolf. Fire will rage across the land. The Sea will rise to drown its enemies and will cover all in frigid water. The sky will break open and the Pillar will topple. All will be submerged in frost and darkness.
At last, the sun will emerge from a veil of clouds. The sea will recede. The world will be made anew. If any there be who survived, they will live forever in green and light.
Ary was staring at him when Kyse looked up and he knew he’d been reading aloud again. Quietly, but audibly. He blushed and stammered an apology, but Ary just chuckled and shook his head. Likely Kyse would be the subject of another story among the guards at supper. Maybe it was a good thing he was leaving after all. He sighed, placing the book back in its place. He left the Great Library behind and went to fetch his cloak. The Master wanted to be prepared and on the road early. He’d best see to it now. Yet all the while the change in names tickled at the back of his mind. It was impossible that someone could have changed it. But it felt wrong. Then again, winter appearing at the very start of autumn felt wrong too. It’s my imagination running wild, he told himself. The same thing people had told him his entire life. But they’d been wrong before.