Prologue

A Spell is Cast, A Child is Born

Part I

On the crest of a small hill, a woman stood alone, gazing off into the distance. She was dressed for battle, her once bright armor now grimed with mud and gore. A broadsword hung at her left hip. The woman and the blade were old comrades, having seen many a battle in their time together, but never had they witnessed such a slaughter as this. The unmoving results littered the plain below; grotesque shapes lay twisted in the churned earth, the corpses of creatures too horrible and unnatural to be of this world. 

The woman’s hair, unfettered by helmet or ties, streamed out from her head like black banners snapping in the wind. A pall of weariness hung about her, stooping her shoulders slightly under its gray weight. Her pale, still face contrasted sharply with her green eyes, which burned with a fierce intensity, mirroring her thoughts.

How has it come to this? How?

We must succeed, or Goddess help us all.

A soft ahemfrom behind broke her melancholy reverie. The sounds of an army settling in for the night now brushed against her awareness, like a great beast at her back. She turned.

“Highness,” the man said, ducking his head in a quick salute. He was slightly out of breath and clearly agitated.

“What is it, soldier?” she replied. She took a step forward to see the messenger more clearly in the rapidly diminishing light.

“Lady Junko has returned. The Kirians await you at your tent.”

She ran.

Her heart slammed against her breastbone as if it would tear itself free and fly from her chest. Terror bayed at her heels.

What if Junko has failed?

Well, then, we are all dead.

Men and women threw themselves from her path, upending plates of food and spilling mugs of hot tea, but yelps of outrage were quickly stifled when they realized who had torn through their midst. She saw none of it. Her vision tunneled down to a single point as all thoughts crystallized into one.

The ring.

She skidded to a halt in front of a tent that was larger, though no less plain, than its neighbors, and set apart by an open space. Two soldiers stood guard on either side of the doorway. They saluted briskly as she paused for a moment to catch her breath and gather her composure. She closed her eyes and offered a silent prayer to the Goddess.

A soft buzz of voices fell silent as she entered.

A group of people stood in a loose huddle around a camp stool, upon which sat a young woman. The woman rose to her feet, and the entire group bowed their heads in obeisance.  A white-haired man stepped forward, his age and great air of authority clearly marking him as their leader.

“Princess Syukoe, Lady Junko has returned, successful. We have the ring.”

Syukoe breathed out a long sigh and closed her eyes. She felt as if she would fly apart at any moment, her entire body drawn up tight as a bowstring.  She didn’t realize she was swaying on her feet until she felt the steadying hand of Master Iku under her elbow. She put a trembling hand to her forehead. When did I last eat?she wondered.

“I must sit for a moment,” she murmured.

Master Iku steered her to the just vacated camp stool. She sat, and someone immediately handed her an ornate silver goblet. The clean, sweet smell of her favorite wine tickled her nostrils. She took a long pull and wiped her lips with the back of her hand in a very un-princess like manner, frowning at the grime she saw caked there. She was a soldier as well as a princess, and right now, she felt bone-weary, filthy, and she reeked of the battlefield. She desired nothing more than a hot bath and deep, dreamless sleep, but she knew she would have neither this night.

“Master Iku,” Syukoe began.

“Highness, we have very little time. Your father…”

“Knows, Master. He already knows. Of that you can be sure.”

Despite his advanced age, the Master of the Kirian Society stood straight and tall. The ruby Eye of Lajdala upon his breast, symbol of his high office, gleamed softly in the mellow light of the oil lamps. His long white hair hung in a single, neat plait down his back. Stern-faced and somber in his black robes, nevertheless, he inspired feelings of comfort and safety in Syukoe. She trusted him completely.

“My fellows and I must begin the spell immediately if we hope to succeed. There is no time to prepare you. I fear that your strength is depleted after this day’s terrible work.”

“I am strong enough. I have to be,” Syukoe replied. “The ring. Let me have it.” Master Iku placed it into her upturned palm.  It felt cold, so cold, and yet it burned her skin, searing the flesh without leaving any mark. She could barely stand to hold it, but she could not release it either.

This is my father’s ring.

There is blood on it.

Syukoe looked first to Master Iku, then to Lady Junko. “How did you get this from my father?” she questioned, her voice sharp.

Junko came forward and knelt before Syukoe. She was very young, but her eyes were already hard and sad. “I cut off his finger, Highness,” she replied, matter-of-factly. “I drugged his wine. I’m the only one he trusts these days…or trusted. When he fell asleep, I tried pulling it off, but it wouldn’t come, so…” She fell silent.

Syukoe closed her eyes and struggled to keep from retching. The bitter taste of bile stung her mouth, and her skin prickled as if a thousand spiders had worked their way under her armor, trapping themselves beneath her clothing. Junko, because of her position as the king’s favorite concubine, was the only one who could get close enough to him to steal the ring, and even so, she could not have succeeded without the help of the Kirians. Junko did what she had to do, but, Goddess, did she have to cut off his finger?

A dark anger settled over Syukoe, dense and cold. Junko must have seen it in her face, for she backed away quickly, putting
Master Iku between herself and the princess. Syukoe stood up abruptly, overturning the stool. She glared down at the cowering concubine. Shiura Onjara, practitioner of the vilest form of magic, brutal and despotic though he had become, was still her father. He had once been a loving and
attentive parent, adored by his only daughter, until the lust for power twisted him into the beast that she now stood against. Still…

He is my father, the hurt child within her cried. This girl cut off my father’s finger!

Get a hold of yourself, Syukoe! She did what had to be done, by whatever means necessary. She assumed a terrible risk, and she succeeded. Now you have the White Griffin Ring in your possession, the only thing that may keep you alive and free your people.

If the spell could be completed in time.

“He is coming,” Master Iku breathed.

The eldest Kirian stood with his head cocked slightly to one side, like an old hound that has caught the scent of danger. The others stood very still, bodies taut, eyes unfocused, as if they, too, could feel the approach of the king, like a great, onrushing storm. Syukoe cried out in pain as the ring, enclosed within her fist, burned with such sudden intensity that she had to drop it to the floor, where it lay shining with a white light like a star fallen from the heavens.

Quick as a striking serpent, Master Iku snatched up the ring. Its cold fire did not seem to affect the old sorcerer.

“Highness! We must act now, or all is lost. For the elven people, you must be strong through what is to come. They will need a queen when this is finished.”

For a brief moment, Syukoe hesitated. What choice had she, really? She must either go along with the Kirians or face another day in which she watched while brave men and women fought and died, torn apart by an army of loathsome and unnatural creatures called up from the depths of the Void by her father’s vile magic. No, she hadn’t any choice at all.

She nodded once, decisively. “Let’s to it, then, and be done.”

“Hold onto my sleeve, Princess,” the Master instructed. “If you’ve never teleported before, it can be very disorienting, and you may be quite dizzy when we arrive.”

“Where are we going?” Syukoe asked.

“To the only place where he will not hold the advantage,” replied the Master. “The stronghold of the Kirians.”

The Black Tower. Syukoe swallowed hard and tried to stop shaking. Her mouth tasted of ashes. She took hold of Master Iku’s elbow, as instructed. Beneath the heavy black fabric, the muscles of his arm felt hard, more like those of a warrior’s than a magician’s. Still holding fast to the ring in his left hand, he raised his right hand and traced a glyph in the air before him. He spoke a single word, and the glyph became visible, a softly glowing silver tangle of lines, meaningless to Syukoe’s untrained eye. The other Kirians obviously knew their part, for they all gathered close, surrounding Master Iku, Syukoe, and now Junko, who had wormed her way into the center of the group and stood with her back pressed against the princess’s.

The mages began to chant softly, rapidly. The air within the tent started to crackle and pop with energy. Syukoe felt the bare skin of her face and hands begin to prickle unpleasantly as if she were being stung by nettles. Just as the prickling intensified into true pain, Master Iku spoke three words loudly, in rapid succession, closed his fist and pulled downwards.

The room folded in on itself.