Prologue
Fragment from the unfinished
History of a Tyrant by Ambrose Daluna
The oldest records and recollections agree that it all began with the discovery of vurgsten. The records aren’t cohesive across the many kingdoms, or even particularly coherent within the same document, as the immediate results of that discovery quickly shattered lives and governments so few people spent their time writing things down.
So exactly how the devastating power of vurgsten was discovered and who first applied it have been obscured, perhaps deliberately so. Most likely whoever identified the power locked inside the rock mined from the depths of the volcanic island of Vurgmun died for the privilege. They could’ve perished in any number of ways—from the ash-laden air of Vurgmun, to toxic fumes emitted by the rock vurgsten itself, to an accidental explosion of the volatile stuff, or at the hands of those who took that knowledge for themselves and used it to defeat magic, forever changing the balance of power.
Vurgsten wasn’t new or unknown to the many kingdoms. Theatrical productions used it to create lightning or mimic magical spells and enchantments. Street magicians used it to counterfeit actual magic. Mischievous children used hoarded bits to startle unpleasant relatives, in the time-honored fashion of all children. All more or less harmless.
The history-changing impact of vurgsten came from a volatile combination: the creative application of an unusually pure vein of the ore from a chasm on Vurgmun opened by volcanic activity and the ruthless intelligence of one man, Anure Robho.
Robho had been a landowner in Aekis, though not born to it. With no elemental blood, no true attachment to the land, he somehow acquired it anyway—and was later granted a minor title for unspecified reasons. It gave him legal rights without the true understanding, the mystical connection and bone-deep commitment to stewardship of the land that blood ties bring.
Of course, other landowners, noble or not, have acquired their properties in similar ways, but those people sacrificed their life energies to the land they held, raised their families on it, and created the needed ties according to ritual and the ancient laws of magic.
Anure Robho ran with a set of new thinkers who scoffed at the old ways and called all magic fake superstition. Records in Aekis that survived Robho’s abrupt departure for greater fortunes reveal him as greedy in his decisions and petty in their execution. His lands, captive to his uncaring stewardship, failed to flourish. Setting the pattern for his rule, he ruthlessly extracted their wealth, leaving nothing behind. When and how Robho ascended to the actual throne of the kingdom of Aekis is less clear. All we know is that the records from neighboring Oriel showed the former king gone and Anure Robho crowned in his place.
Soon after becoming king of his rapidly declining kingdom, Robho claimed that Ejarat and Sawehl were false gods who’d failed to protect their people, that the court wizards were frauds pretending to have magic that consisted of trickery and sleight of hand, and that the people had revolted against the corrupt king and queen of Aekis and placed him on the throne.
From Robho’s later conquests, we can extrapolate his methods. He used well-placed vurgsten charges to assassinate magic workers and break guardian spells. Castle and city walls fell to the destructive explosions no one had before experienced or could predict. Taken by surprise—and perhaps lulled into complacency by their soft lives—court wizards failed to muster the appropriate defensive spells. The people, betrayed and enraged, turned their fury on anyone with magic, executing them for conspiring to trick the people. Priests and priestesses were exiled for fulminating superstitions. And the royal and noble families disappeared.
Many went to unmarked graves. Others went to Vurgmun to mine more of Robho’s unstoppable weapon.
One by one, the kingdoms fell to the great and grinding wheel of Robho’s hunger. Those who cooperated were rewarded with power—under Robho’s control—while those who resisted were treated with utmost cruelty before they disappeared.
By the time he took the title of His Imperial Majesty Anure, Emperor of All the Lands, only fair Calanthe remained as a free kingdom. Calanthe, island of flowers and pretty pleasures—and possessed of the most ancient heart of magic—offered no overt resistance to Anure’s arrival. Old King Gul met Anure’s ships with garlands, not arrows, and welcomed the upstart to savor the many delights of Calanthe.
Though the oppressed and often enslaved folk of the many scattered and forgotten kingdoms decried Calanthe’s self-serving cowardice, King Gul managed to send Anure away again believing he’d won—with only a promise of marriage to his daughter and sole heir—and the false emperor built his citadel at Yekpehr.
The defeated kingdoms subsided into servitude, Anure temporarily satisfied to enjoy his power. Until the balance shifted again.
Set here by my hand, Ambrose Daluna
16th Year of the Reign of Emperor Anure
Year 2037 of Sawehl’s union to Ejarat
1
“Arise, Your Highness. The realm awaits the sun of Your presence.”
The ritual words cut through the thick smoke of the nightmare, bringing me awake with a start. A bad omen that I hadn’t come out of the dreams on my own—and a sign that gave the images the power to linger in my mind, stains refusing to be scrubbed clean.
The wolf fought its chains, howling in hoarse rage, shedding fire and ash.
The sea churned, bloodred and crimson dark, bones tossed in the waves, white as foam.
The tower fell into a pile of golden rubble, then to fine sand, the grains sliding against one another with soul-grinding whispered screams.
I loathe dreaming, where I have even less control than in the waking world. Calanthe Herself sings sweetly to me of the seas, the plants, and the creatures that walk Her soil. But outside our fragile island, the abandoned lands beyond cry like frightened children in the night. I can’t help them. It’s all I can do to protect Calanthe, and most days I despair of being able to do even that.
Still, with no one else to hear them, they call to me in chaotic images, the nightmares dashing me from one dark scenario to the next. No matter how the dreams plague me, I usually wake when the light of the rising sun reddens my eyelids. I keep my eyes closed, pretending to anyone who checks on me that I’m still asleep. Pulling the pieces of my composure together, I listen to the morning song of Calanthe. The birds sitting high in the canopy to catch the first warming rays of the sun show me the sky. The fish swimming in the sea speak of clean water and plentiful food. Even the trees, the flowers, the small insects in the soil all hum to me of their lives.
All reassure me of the balance, that Calanthe, at least, is peaceful and vital.
Only I and the land I’m tied to exist in that time after sleep and before true waking, in what I call the dreamthink, an almost enchanted bubble where I belong entirely to Calanthe. The emperor does not own me. The crying lands he’s orphaned are silent. My ladies have not yet woken me to wrenching reality and the trials of the day ahead.
Dreams always seem to me a terrible price to pay for the succor of sleep. Neither my naturalists nor my physicians seem to be able to explain the purpose of such dreams. And of course, Anure killed all the wizards, so I have none to tell me if magic can answer those nighttime screams. So without answers, and like the exorbitant tithes I’m forced to send to the emperor, I do pay the price, and nightly. The dreamthink is my reward, my time with Calanthe. A gift arising from waking Ejarat of the earth welcoming the return of Her husband, Sawehl of the sun. In the dreamthink, in Calanthe’s sweet communion, I can believe the old gods are with us still, that they haven’t abandoned us. That I have reason to hope.