A whispered sentence never finished, interrupted as it was by raised voices from the edge of the barrow.The prince stalked away from his mother and the leaf-cloaked druid.
‘… as your ancestors did,’ the druid was saying.‘The Old Stones are the kingdom’s foundation, Your Highness.You must—’
The prince wheeled to face the druid.‘I must do nothing,’ he roared, his fists trembling at his sides.‘My father prayed and prayed.Knelt and howled in the night for deliverance.Did your “old stones” hear him?Did they, Mother?’
The queen met her son’s gaze as a cliff meets a crashing wave.‘Owyn, you must do this.It will heal the kingdom.’
‘The last king to attune in the old way with the Old Stones was your great-great-grandfather, Aegelwyn,’ the druid said.‘The haunting may—’
‘I’ll not while away a fortnight kneeling in some decrepit temple while rebellion stirs and terror grips the land,’ the prince declared.‘We will finish this rite, and when my father is properly buried and honoured, I will return to Parwys.That is my decision.’
This talk of ‘attunement’ and healing the kingdom drew Torin’s attention.Whatever foul, primitive magic they discussed, it seemed the queen, at least, believed it key to ending the haunting.Yet the prince refused it—which meant it must cost him some price he was unwilling to pay.
Tension held between the prince and the queen—who, as Torin understood the heathens’ ways, ruled in her late husband’s stead until the prince was crowned.Clearly, she sympathised with the druids, given that she was of their order.But would she command her son, humiliating him in front of these lords and nobles he would soon rule?
The fractures in Parwys ran deep if they had driven apart mother and son, who ought be united in grief.Here, then, was a crack he might worm his way into.
‘As you wish, Owyn,’ the queen said at last.
A stone engraved with the king’s name was placed to mark his barrow, then the gathered courtiers remounted and began the long, sombre ride back to the city.The sorceress Fola lingered a moment, gazing over the wall at the green stone tower, again sketching and writing in her little book.Her odd bird, perched on her shoulder, seemed to catch Torin staring, and squawked.Fola followed the line of his gaze, and Torin turned away, nudging his horse to follow the procession.
The cracks in the kingdom were not only an opportunity for Torin.If the sorceress Fola was what she seemed, she might exploit those same weaknesses to steal whatever ancient power lay within that tower.Another relic of the First Folk added to the City’s vile archive, to be wielded in the next inevitable war between City and Church.
‘Orn,’ Torin said, ‘I want you to keep an eye on that woman.No confrontation.’
‘Then she is a Citizen?’Fear and interest mingled in his voice.
Torin nodded.‘Let us proceed under that assumption.Whatever purpose would draw a Citizen here, we must thwart it.’
Anwe chuckled deep in her throat.An unsettling sound, to Torin.A sound he had long associated with screams and spraying blood.
‘You, in contrast, will stay withme,’ he told Anwe firmly.‘We watch and wait, for now.Do you understand?’
Anwe rolled back her heavy shoulders and smiled.‘For now, Anakriarch.Understood.’
The Raven’s Song
YC 1189
I have received a number of letters, and have even beenconfronted in the public square, with complaints that this text does not sufficiently explore the phenomenon of the undead.To these unhinged commentators I reply: did you not understand the title of the book you selected from the Library’s shelves?
As found in theArchival Dictionary, which is available to any and all who may require the clarification it so freely offers:Sapient, noun, possessing wisdom or self-awareness.Thus the undead are not, according to any tortured interpretation,sapient.They cannot learn.They cannot change.They are no more self-aware than stones.They single-mindedly pursue whatever catharsis will satiate them, and then disappear—into some afterlife, perhaps; otherwise entirely, which is a question far beyond the remit of this text.They are impressions left behind by souls in their moment of greatest agony, yes, but that does not make them sapient any more than a charcoal rubbing of a leaf is, in fact, a leaf.
In the event of confusion, please peruse this Library’s nearly infinite selection for further edification instead of wasting my time.
Leaflet tucked inside the front cover ofThe Taxonomy of Sapienceby Archivist Eltan Oora,YC1102
Dusk brought a stream of folk from the city of Parwys, whose gates would stand open until late into the night during these weeks of revelry.A gesture, however futile, in defiance of darkness and the threat of the haunting.
No more than a glamour, Llewyn mused while the troupe prepared to take the stage.A projection of strength during the delicate days between one king’s death and the crowning of the next.
‘Back in the day, the festival was to welcome the new king to the city,’ Damon said while Roni fussed about his hair and make-up, tinting his face red, sharpening his cheekbones, creating lines that drew the eye up to the ram’s horns that curled around his ears.‘The gates stood open as long as he remained at the Old Stones in Bryngodre, and the people gathered on the road to greet his return.I should put that in a play.D’you think?’
‘Well, Afanan?’Harwick said with a wry smile.The burly, blond strongman lounged in a tattered old camp chair, the make-up to transform him into Vangar of Cilbran still drying on his face.Spil stood behind him, muttering in annoyance and mending a rent in the fake chain mail he wore—really little more than a loose woollen knit.‘You’re the only other one here with a head for telling tales,’ Harwick went on.
‘I’ll tell you a tale if you don’t stop fidgeting,’ Spil snapped.
Harwick laughed and tilted his head to plant a sudden kiss on Spil’s russet cheek, smudging the painted wrinkles he wore to become Warryn of Afondir.Spil glowered and threatened Harwick with his sewing needle.Harwick, stifling his laughter, put up his hands in surrender and made a show of settling into his seat.
