Even as Peregrine and Sir Wick leapt and fell, the foaming waters of the cove boiled more ferociously and rose up to meet them. The hissing and grumbling of the waters rose to such a pitch that though the onlookers shouted in fear they were deaf to their own cries, and the misty spray became a thick fog that swallowed the jumpers long before they reached the water’s surface. Thus was Lady Glacia robbed of her chance to enjoy the suffering of the condemned, for she could neither hear their screams nor watch their struggles. She was left to wonder if they had somehow escaped, or if they had indeed been swallowed by the cove. Such is the way of things when certainty is denied us that, though reason must demand a certain outcome, having no one bear witness to it saps the strength from confidence and gives it to doubt.

And indeed Glacia had cause to doubt, for though she had been unable to tease it out she had suspected a trick. What’s more, she knew her husband well enough to guess that he had joined with the tricksters. In the end her look told him clearly enough that she was aware of his complicity, but she said nothing of it. The trick, whatever it was, was only the chance at life and freedom; the prisoners might still die in the strange, swirling waters. “Besides,” she reasoned; “perhaps they may yet return my ring to me. That would be worth their lives, I think.” So she left the terrace disappointed over being robbed of the spectacle, but hopeful for the return of a lost treasure.

Sir Wick and Peregrine, on the other hand, did not have the luxury of waxing philosophical. Even Sir Wick’s bravery was challenged by the sudden increase in the cove’s uproar, and the mist that closed over them was thick enough to make him choke. The cove had become so frothed and foamy that it was difficult to tell when they passed from mist to water, but it was only a matter of seconds before they felt the wrestling currents snatch them. Light and Air and Water battled against themselves as much as they warred with each other, and pounded against the rocks that bounded the cove until it was a wonder that the rocks had not been reduced to rubble. Peregrine and Sir Wick clung tightly to each other lest their hands or wrists be broken, or even their arms pulled from their sockets, for the protection afforded them by the combined love of Deeping, Shifting, and Shining was no shield against the brute might of the turbulent water. The stuff of Light would not blind Peregrine or burn away his flesh, the stuff of Water would not drown them, and neither would the stuff of Air suffocate them; but still they could be battered and broken even if they weren’t drowned.

So they were spun about and battered, tossed this way and that, sucked down into deep places and thrown high above the bubbling cove. The weird water tingled pleasantly against their skin one second and fizzed painfully the next. It went from burning cold to soothing warmth, or slipped from searing hot to comfortably cooling. It gleamed gently or glared painfully, roared or hushed, raged or sighed. It was smooth as glass or rough as sand, and it was soft as smoke or hard as ice. For hours this went on, and it was a miracle they were never smashed against the sharp rocks. The dome of Air turned from the clear light of morning to the broad, even glow of a thick afternoon, and at last filled with a rippling aurora flecked with will o’ wisp stars that glowed against a mantle of blue-black velvet. Lights appeared in the tower, and eventually they winked out as masters and servants went to sleep.

Sir Wick clung desperately to Peregrine long after the thief had been shaken into limp insensibility. The Shining knight could have surrendered the thief to the churning cove, but even despite Absyll’s pronouncement that they would succeed or die together, he would not have abandoned his fellow. He had given his word, not only of honor but of friendship, and he would not break it unless death forced his hand. That moment was approaching, however, for they had been long hours of being tossed and beaten, with neither food to eat nor water to drink, and barely a moment’s reprieve when they were surrounded by a calm before they were snatched once again by the terrible strength and anger of the cove. Sir Wick’s steady strength was fading, and soon he would lose his grip on Peregrine. Then the furious water would certainly tear them apart.

In the very second before Sir Wick was overcome, a broad current of Air stretched up from the deepest depths of the cove and wrapped itself around the doomed pair, while a mighty current of Water reached up and twisted itself around the Air. At the same moment came a steady stream of Light that threaded itself through and around Air and Water; and so joined, the massive coil dragged them down, down, down into the very deepest parts of the cove. Lesser tides and currents tugged and tore at the coil, pushed and pried, slashed at it and slammed against it, but they were nothing against it’s combined strength, and thief and knight were brought to calm waters that flowed gently around great boulders. As high as Tempist stretched above the cove, so was the sea bed a hundred times deeper, and it was just there that the twined currents brought them. They were laid amidst the seaweed that grew from a bed of water-smoothed pebbles, where they lay dazed for many hours, oblivious to themselves and their surroundings.

Sir Wick was the first to come to his senses, and when he finally put his head in order his first thought was for the well-being of his friend. His second thought was over their whereabouts, and when he was satisfied that Peregrine was whole he looked about himself and stared in wonder at what he saw.

They were in the center of a wide circle of great boulders. The smallest of these was the size of a comfortable cottage, while the largest would have been a modest tower. The boulders marked out a clearing filled with short, leafy seaweed that swayed in a soft current; but beyond the circle of boulders was a thick forest of kelp as tall as trees. The forest also swayed in the current, but in a slower, more stately manner. Thin streams of Air bubbled up through the pebbles of the seafloor in long lines that stretched up into the swirling storm far above. Likewise, thin shafts of Light seeped through the pebbles, some of white, some of gold, and some of pink, or else of luminous green or blue. Most of the Light rose up with the bubbles to join the storm, but some sank and pooled to form a thin, glowing mist that settled into banks in the kelp forest beyond the circle. Sir Wick guessed that thin jets of Water seeped through the pebbles, too, though he couldn’t see them. Strange fish darted here and there, nibbling on the seaweed or chasing each other after the manner of fish everywhere, but none of them looked threatening or even curious, and the largest was only the size of his palm. A place of such calm was a strange thing to find beneath the tumult and turmoil of the cove, but Sir Wick accepted it gratefully and gave himself over to his exhaustion. He lay back again and closed his eyes, and slept.

He woke much later to find Peregrine sitting calmly beside him. The little pauper smiled warmly at him when their eyes met.

“Good morning,” said the thief. “I told you we would escape the tower alive.”

Sir Wick laughed and sat up. “Good afternoon, for it’s as likely that as morning, and may well be midnight for all we know; but yes, you’ve been as good as your word, and we’ve escaped the tower. I wonder, though, if we’ve gone from one cell to another, for I can’t imagine how we’ll slip back through that,” and he gestured at the storm far above.

Peregrine shrugged, and said, “Well, at least we can stretch our legs properly while we explore this cell, and who knows what we’ll find.” Then he rubbed his stomach ruefully, and said, “I do wonder who’ll bring us our meals down here, though; Eddhy was always prompt with breakfast and supper.”

Sir Wick laughed again, and pulled his friend up as he rose. “I fear we’ll have to feed ourselves in this cage, but have faith: we might be hungry, but we’re healthy and whole. We promised to find the lady’s ring, and perhaps we’ll find some food, too, and even a way out; just because I can’t imagine one doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist.”

Peregrine smiled wanly, and said, “Oh, I’ve faith enough to carry me for awhile; it’s one of the few possessions a pauper can keep, and it’s a light enough burden. And I’m familiar enough with hunger, too; but it was a nice change getting two meals every day, without having to buy them, steal them, or earn them. To think of all the years I’d wandered alone and hungry, when I could have had a life of leisure in Tempist’s dungeons! Why, it’s enough to make a man consider taking up a life of crime.”

So they chattered for a bit, but before long chose a direction at random, for they saw neither trail nor sign, and thought one direction was as good as another. The clearing had been filled with a strange kind of light, for though it was far below the water there were ribbons of Light here and there, and likewise the boulders, the pebbles, and even the seaweed were made of Light, Water, and Air. The kelp forest, however, was a murky place despite the luminous mist and the occasional strand of Light-grown kelp. The kelp did not grow from a bed of pebbles but from the muck and silt, and as they walked they kicked up a black cloud of the stuff that spread and rose about them without ever seeming to grow thinner. Soon it was as dark as night, and they wondered if perhaps they should have waited in the clearing.

There was no hope of finding their way back, however, so they pushed doggedly on. They tried to swim, but found it impossible; whatever magic protected them and let them breathe forced them to walk rather than swim. To them, the seafloor was the earth and the fish were birds, and few are the men who can fly whenever the mood takes them. So they walked and brushed muck from their eyes and spit silt from their mouths, and tried to watch for the gleam of silver or gold, or the flash of ruby or emerald.

Presently Peregrine pulled Sir Wick to a stop and motioned him to silence, for he thought he had heard something. They stood listening as minutes passed, and just as Peregrine shrugged the thought away the gentle current brought the soft noise back to their ears. It was the barest snatch of a song, they thought, a weary, poignant noise, heartrending but beautiful. Not knowing what else to do they followed the sound, and as they drew nearer they walked faster and faster until they were running as fast as they could; the song pulled at them in a way they couldn’t explain, filling them with a need to help whoever was in such distress. They could not doubt that it was magic, but they couldn’t make themselves worry over it.

At last they came to a rough stone as tall as a house. All about the stone were uneven holes large enough for Sir Wick and Peregrine to stick their heads in, though they didn’t dare do so for they could see eyes glittering in the deep recesses. Instead they climbed the stone, and at its very top they found a green-skinned maiden bound in chains of Earth and Fire. This maiden was the loveliest thing Peregrine had ever seen, with green-black hair and dark eyes, and it tore his heart to see how weary she was. Sir Wick, too, was moved to pity, but they saw at once that they could not remove her, for the chains were fastened to the stone with a great spike of iron pulled from the very heart of the Place of Earth.

She did not pause her singing but smiled upon them, and motioned them to sit beside her, and when they sat she motioned them nearer and nearer again until they each sat with a hand upon her knee and her hands upon their shoulders. Then she held them firmly and nodded into the forest, and when they looked they saw that the stone they sat upon stretched to the very top of the kelp forest, and here and there they could see the tops of other stones scattered about. All these stones were barren, though Peregrine and Sir Wick thought they could see that each stone bore chains like those that bound the maiden. They had only just enough time to wonder over it when something like night fell, though it was only bare moment after they had sat, and the forest became something altogether more ominous and frightening. The maiden’s hands gripped their shoulders more tightly and she trembled, and her voice faltered before she was able to regain her composure. She closed her eyes but sang on, trembling all the while.

At first all was dark, but strange lights rose up from the forest. They were small lights, mere dots, but they writhed and undulated in a most disturbing way. They were clustered together in groups, and swarmed over each other like gnats in a swarm. Peregrine’s skin crawled as he watched them, and with a growing sense of horror he realized that each group was gathered over the stones he had spied before night fell. He looked at Sir Wick and saw that the knight had understood at the same moment, and together they leaned over as far as they dared to look at the stone below them.

There, writhing in the darkness, were hundreds of lights like those they could see away over the forest – blue-white dots the size of their fists, and green-yellow stripes as long as their arms. Slowly the lights slithered from the stone and over the stone, and the nearby forest filled with them. They rose and rose and rose, until at last Peregrine and Sir Wick could see that the lights were markings on the flanks of great eels with black skin and round, fishy eyes. Each eel was three times as long as Sir Wick was tall, and twice the girth. They had flat heads and wide mouths, and each eel had a hundred teeth if it had one. Each tooth was thin as a knitting needle but sharp as a pin, and as long as Peregrine’s fingers. Far above the storm filled the cove with a weird light, but around the three prisoners the eels filled the calm waters so it seemed that a million stars floated around them. However, unlike any stars Peregrine or Sir Wick had ever seen in any Place, these stars had teeth, and as the star-eels swarmed around them they understood that only the maiden’s singing kept them at bay.

But she had sung for many hours, and her song was growing fainter and weaker, and the star-eels grew nearer and nearer as her song slowly faded …

So far as Absyll Skwall and Glacia were concerned, the fate of the Shining knight was yet to be decided; but the Glooming thief’s day of reckoning had come. The guards were sent to fetch him before the lord of Tempist that the manner of his execution might be determined, and this was quickly done. Thus, Peregrine the pauper, once of the Rhyming Halls in the city of Eventide that stood upon the banks of the Whispering Stream, found himself in chains before an angry wizard in the tower of Tempist, with the dome of air settled clear and bright above and the deadly cove grumbling like an angry beast below; and when he was brought before his judges he smiled and bowed, and bade them a cheerful morning and a fine day.

Absyll was taken aback and his wife narrowed her cold eyes, for of all the prisoners they had judged, this wandering pauper was the first to give them blessings as he was brought before them. Their hearts had long been hardened to pleas for mercy and armored against threats and curses; but they were ever watchful for tricks, and this cheerful fellow from Glooming must obviously be playing a trick. But it is the nature of wizards to accept the trickster’s challenge, for that is a game of wisdom; and what wizard can resist proving themselves wiser and cleverer than another? So Absyll Skwall took a strange liking to this dark little man who would seek his freedom through cleverness rather than by throwing himself at the mercy of his jailers. He silenced his wife’s calls to have the assassin burned at once, and fixed Peregrine with a fearsome gaze.

“I wonder at you, my little man,” he said, “for you have spent a week in chains surrounded by cold stone and iron, yet you come to hear your judgment with good cheer. And instead of the ragged, desperate fellow I would expect, you look like a man well-rested, well-fed, washed, and waiting only to give his thanks and his goodbyes before taking his leave. What are you playing, I wonder? What trick do you think will save your life? You will die here, and today – surely you know that?”

Peregrine smiled and shrugged, and said in a clear voice full of easy confidence, “I have been told wise men accept that death comes to everyone, so I suppose I must embrace wisdom and accept death. Sadly, through long acquaintance with myself I have found that I am a fool, so I shall busy myself with living and deny death until I’m dead.”

Glacia sat unmoving as a marble statue, stabbing at Peregrine with her needle-sharp eyes. “If it is the business of the living to live and the dead to be dead,” she said icily, “then we shall busy you with dying.”

Peregrine smiled happily, and said, “As it pleases you, my lady. What manner of dying shall I busy myself with?”

Lady Glacia was not a wizard but a sorceress, and she did not feel any natural inclination to play games of cunning with her prisoner. Neither did she hold him in admiration for trying to save his own life no matter the method; she could see plainly enough that he was playing a trick, but didn’t care to outwit him, only kill him. So being asked the question, she stated bluntly, “I think there are many ways I could busy you with dying: locking you in a bright cell with neither food nor water, or setting you in a cauldron of boiling light. We might slowly freeze you at the stake, or drown you little by little in your own tears – I should be happy to collect them. I think perhaps we should melt your bones, or turn your flesh to air and let you blow away. There are a great many occupations for a dying man.”

Though Peregrine’s heart shivered with every possibility Glacia shared, he held himself steady; and when she paused he nodded thoughtfully, and said, “Indeed, I think there may be more ways to spend my time dying than I had ever considered; but you must choose only one, unless you know the secret of restoring me to life so I may die again?”

“You may count yourself fortunate that I haven’t the secret of Life, or you would indeed die many hundreds of times.”

Peregrine cast his eyes about the hall, and said, “My lady, I have long been in the habit of counting myself fortunate. How many paupers from any Place could claim to have enjoyed the hospitality of a great wizard and his great wife? I am surrounded by finery, I have eaten your food, and slept safely upon your soft straw while your guards watched over me. It seems to me that I owe you more than simple thanks if I am to be more than an ungracious guest.

“And my fortune holds true, for I believe I see a way I might be of service to you. I have heard your guards speak of a favorite ring or yours, lost in the bubbling cove below the tower. As I must be put to death, I think I might as well see if I can search out your ring for you. If I die, well – you were hoping to see me dead anyway, and I might live long enough to return a precious treasure to you. I think in that way I might show my gratitude for your generosity.”

Lady Glacia at once suspected that this must be how her prisoner hoped to escape, but she couldn’t see how he could survive the cove. Besides, she wanted her ring back very much, and if there was a chance he might find it …

She hesitated only because she knew that she would have to reward this man she wished to kill if he succeeded. Her husband saw the trick right away, however, and thought he guessed how Peregrine meant to earn not only his freedom but riches, too, and perhaps even put his would be executioner in his debt.

Absyll could have put an end to Peregrine then and there by having him cast into the cove at once, but he was enjoying the game and knew his wife wished for her ring. So he silently gave the little man a point and played along.

“I have never heard of such a thing,” he said. “A beggar from Glooming hoping to do a lady from Shining a good turn? Bah! Why do you ask for this, and why should we grant it? We are not in the habit of allowing our prisoners to choose the manner of their execution, but if you tell me why you would ask for the cove I shall grant it.”

Peregrine knew at once he had been seen through, but was neither surprised nor dismayed. He had not expected to truly outwit Absyll Skwall, only to entice him. So he answered, “Well, my lord, if you wish the truth of it I shall tell you. It is not you I hope to trick, but my cellmate. I was forced to share a cell with a knight from Shining, and as I know how a Shining knight would hate to be outdone by a beggar from Glooming, I thought to retrieve your wife’s ring for her. At the least I shall shame him into demanding the chance for himself, so even if I die I know that he shall soon follow in the manner of my choosing. It is a little thing, but beggars must content themselves with little things.”

Lady Glacia did not see the trick, for she did not know of Sir Wick’s love for a lady of Shifting, nor of that lady’s love for him; but Absyll did know, and he guessed how Peregrine learned of it. For a moment his legendary rage threatened to sweep him away, but he quickly realized what his old servant’s betrayal must have cost him, and that it must be Eddhy’s love for his master that would protect pauper and knight from the cove. His rage became gratitude and love for his friend, and he resolved to help his prisoners in every way he could.

This would mean tricking his beloved wife, but he was happy to do so – they often played little tricks on each other, and a trick that resulted in the return of her ring would be quickly forgiven. So he threw himself into the game with great eagerness.

He screwed up his face in mock anger and satisfaction, and laughed cruelly to deceive his wife. “Ha! Well, I said I’d give you the death you wished, and so I shall; but you will not shame one of my wife’s fellows by such a trick. Bring me the Shining knight!”

Glacia could feel the trick but she couldn’t grab it, and her husband would not give her even a moment to puzzle it out. Sir Wick stood before Peregrine almost in the blink of an eye, but the two prisoners refused even to glance at the other. This was by prior agreement to avoid giving away their friendship, but there was nothing odd in the folk of Shining ignoring the folk of Glooming, so it was hardly suspicious.

Absyll rose from his chair, and spoke before his wife could address Sir Wick, for he suspected the knight was too honest for much trickery. “Let us go to the terrace overlooking the cove. Two heroes are eager to be of service, and we must not make them wait.”

The judges, prisoners, and the whole of the court moved to a wide terrace carved from living water marbled with veins of light. The dome of air still rose high and clear over the tower, but a far-traveling wind blew the scents of fiery spices mixed with the perfumes of earthy flowers and damp shadows across the condemned and their witnesses. The cove was a roiling, boiling stew of light and air and water, and it hissed and bubbled and threw a fine mist high enough to slick the smooth terrace. Peregrine looked over the railing and into the churning depths and began to doubt the wisdom of his plan; but what choice was there? At least here there was hope; giving the choice into Glacia’s hands was certain death, and likely a cruel death at that.

Absyll pushed forward, seemingly full of eagerness to see these two men leap to their deaths. He stood on platform above the terrace with Glacia beside him, and bellowed to be heard above the noise of the cove.

“Eddhy! Bind them, and make it a sure binding. They will die together, or succeed together.”

Now Glacia knew her husband had seen the trick and had not only approved but become a conspirator. She narrowed her eyes at him, but he conspicuously refused to give her even the barest of glances, instead watching his oldest servant bind the prisoners tightly by one hand: the left hand of the Shining knight’s to right hand of the Glooming thief. Eddhy was quick and competent, and only he and the heroes saw that he slipped a token of his love for his master between their palms. They would carry the love of Shifting and Shining with them in the form of the ring of Sir Wick’s lady’s braided hair, and the love of Deeping in the form of a little badge carved from a gleaming shell. This was a token of honor and loyalty given by Absyll Skwall to Eddhy long before, and the best promise Eddhy could give them.

Eddhy moved away, and at a wave of Absyll’s hand the thick railing melted like mist into the scented breeze. “At your pleasure,” boomed the wizard, and Peregrine and Sir Wick took a half-step to the edge. They stood gazing into the glowing, churning, steaming cauldron, and it seemed a very long way down. Peregrine swallowed nervously.

Sir Wick, however, was as hopeful as ever, and lifted his face to Absyll. “We thank you for your mercy, Lord Skwall.” Then he looked at Glacia, and said, “In your service, my lady.”

He bent his knees to the jump, and Peregrine followed suit, muttering, “By the by, I can’t swim.”

Sir Wick smiled, and said, “Then we must be meant to sink.”

Then they leapt, wondering what they would find below the surface of that deadly cove, and how they would find a ring in such a place.

Sir Wick had gone to Tempist by his own choice, but Peregrine had arrived for the simple reason that the wandering road had brought him there. He recognized the tower and the forest and the roiling cove at once, of course, and had very nearly turned away; he felt he had wisdom enough already, and knew better than to risk searching in the lion’s den for more. True, Absyll Skwall might receive him as a guest, but if Absyll’s bright wife were to find him first … no, better to turn round and find a safer house than risk his life for a meal and soft a bed.

He had just turned his back on the tower when the shifting dome of air sizzled stark white and burning red, and a peal of thunder shook the very hill he stood upon and nearly threw him to the ground. The trees began to sway like grass in the wind, and every second was filled with the sharp smack of ten thousand drops of water and light pelting down like little hammers upon the earth. In the blink of an eye Peregrine was soaked through, and the dry road had become a muddy stream that threatened to wash him right into that deadly cove that boiled below the tower. So he turned back to Tempist, hoping to find Absyll in a good mood before Galcia found him at all.

The very servant that would warn Sir Wick away had cheerfully promised to bring Peregrine to his master, who had been in a very fine humor that day. Lord Absyll was entertaining guests in the feasting hall, and the servant promised he would be happy to receive another visitor. Peregrine’s happy heart was laid low, however, for they met Lady Glacia just outside the feasting hall. The hero saw with dread that though the icy lady’s bright face grew dark, she had been altogether too happy to see him.

“What is this?” she had asked the servant, not caring for an answer. “Have you caught a thief?”

The servant bowed humbly and shook his head. “Nay, my lady; this is a poor traveler, a beggar seeking shelter from the rain.”

The lady’s features flirted with a regal sneer, and icy daggers filled her eyes. “Nay,” she had said, gently mocking the servant; “not a thief but a poor beggar is he – a simple wanderer caught in the storm.” Then she discarded the gentle tone, and said, “I think not, and if you were not such a fool neither would you. You are a good servant and a fine fellow, Eddhy, and a loyal friend to your lord and to me; but you are entirely too kind, and too quick to give villains the benefit of the doubt. I fear it shall bring you to grief, one day.

“This is one of Glooming’s rats, and at best he is a thief. More likely he is an assassin, sent to slay either my husband or me or both; perhaps even the whole of our household. He should be slain out of hand, but I will not interrupt our entertaining for an execution – our guests have come seeking peace and leisure, and they are too gentle to find entertainment in blood and death. Take him to the dungeons and put him in chains. I will deal with him properly when our guests have departed.”

Then she turned and went into the feasting hall, and the laughter and gaiety had sounded like mockery in Peregrine’s ears, and the happy music felt like a dirge to his heart.

The servant was the picture of remorse, but he was powerless to do anything but as his lady bade. Peregrine, who knew his punishment would fall upon the servant if he disobeyed, accepted both the cold cell and the heavy chains without complaint, and was so kind-hearted and compliant that even the guards who bound him felt only pity and sorrow for his plight. They would not dare disobey Lady Glacia’s commands, but they had only been told to bind him in chains in the dungeon, and never a word was said about comfort or food. So the servant was quick to bring not only a warm blanket and soft pillow, but also a good meal and a jug of hearty wine. The guards did nothing to prevent this, and even brought fresh straw bedding, and twice as much as was customary, at that. A candle was brought for him, and a bowl and pitcher of water to wash in.

That first night the servant assured Peregrine that the lady would not see to him until the guests had departed, and that would not be for a week; and until then, he would be as comfortable in the dungeon as he would be anywhere, excepting for his lack of freedom. Peregrine was grateful and courteous, and spoke so kindly to his jailers and the servant that not a single one of them had a harsh word for him. So the days passed, and the guards took it in turns to keep him company for a few moments here and there. The servant brought him good food twice every day, and when he found that Peregrine had once served a scholar he began bringing him books to help pass the time.

This is not to say that Peregrine had resigned himself to his fate; to the contrary, he had every intention of escaping, and if he could tweak Lady Glacia’s nose he would. She had been right about one thing, after all: he was a thief, and though he wouldn’t steal from a host he felt no misgivings over shaming an unjust jailor or cruel executioner. So he was happy enough to eat her food and read her books, and he paid close attention to all that his guards and the servant said, though they were careful not to say anything especially useful. He could hardly blame them for that, for he knew they would surely be punished if he escaped, and the punishment would be all the worse if they had helped him through their negligence.

So he had watched and listened, and whenever he was alone he would slip out of the chains and explore the length and breadth of his cell, being careful to be properly bound again whenever a guard or the servant came. Day followed day, and eventually the days had collected themselves into a week, and he had become perfectly familiar with his cell. Not even the tower’s architects or those who had built it could claim better knowledge of that cell, but Peregrine, architect, and builders were all in agreement: there was no way for him to slip away, for a prison it was called and a prison it well and truly was. The servant assured him that Lord Absyll had enchanted every stone, every bar, and even the mortar itself, so that neither magic nor cunning would gain him his freedom. He saw that if he were to escape it would have to be once he was taken from the cell, and then he would be under the very eyes of the Lady Glacia herself.

But how could he slip away from such a cruel, bright-eyed woman? Former servant of a scholar though he was, he was no wizard; and both Absyll and Glacia were famous for their wisdom and for the deep mysteries they kept. How was a pauper to outwit a sorceress?

Finally the servant brought his last breakfast, for the guests had gone and the next morning would bring the execution. He looked so very sad that Peregrine found himself trying to lift the poor man’s spirits; but nothing he said would lift the grief from the man’s face, and finally the man shared the cause of his misery.

“Though it is foolish to say, I cannot help but feel that some part of me shall die with you, for I have tried to convince Lord Absyll to grant you clemency and failed. I have brought many prisoners here, and with every execution I feel my heart grow fainter. Soon I shall dry up altogether, and not even returning to my home in Deeping shall revive me.”

Peregrine summoned up a smile, though he didn’t feel much joy, and said, “Then I recommend you quit your lord’s service and return to Deeping’s living waters before your heart grows too faint. It is enough that you try despite the failures, for it means you haven’t given up, and continue the good fight. But there is a time to go home, and perhaps that time is now. Let others fight for awhile. It isn’t your crime, and you needn’t pay for it with your life.”

But the servant shook his head, and answered, “It would be my crime if I simply left, for then there would be nothing to smooth Absyll’s moods. He and I are both born of Deeping, but he is a storm while I am a tiny eddy. Even so, I will pit my strength against his temper, not just to save you but to save him, as well.”

Peregrine was at a loss, for it seemed this servant had fought many battles to the death and lost every one of them, and still he fought on. Eventually he would win or finally lose himself entirely. As Peregrine considered this, he saw a resolution grow firm in the servant’s eyes, as though a fearful choice had been put before him and a painful decision made.

He nodded to himself, then looked to see that no guards were present. When he was certain they were alone, he fixed Peregrine with a grim but eager look, and said, “I shall do all I can to save you and perhaps my master with you, though I must betray him to do so. Listen carefully to what I say, for three lives hang upon your cunning and courage: yours, mine, and that of a prisoner who has yet to be caught.”

Then the servant told Peregrine that on occasion Absyll would look into a strange bowl and see many different things. Sometimes he would see great things and sometimes little things, and sometimes he would see the future. Only that morning Absyll had looked into the bowl, and when he looked away he told the servant that a knight from Shining would come in the afternoon. The knight was to be sent away at once, for Absyll would be in a wrathful mood and it would cost the knight his life if he were to enter the tower. If he would only return to the tower another day, Absyll could help him return in victory to the lady of Shifting whom he loved.

Just as importantly, the servant told Peregrine that some time ago Lady Glacia had dropped a ring into the cove, and that this ring had been very dear to her. She had entreated her husband to fetch it back for her but he said he could not, for to survive the cove would require a shield made from the bonds of love between the stuff of Air, the stuff of Water, and the stuff of Light. Though Absyll was born of Deeping and loved Glacia, who was born of Shining, and though she loved him in return, still they needed the power of Shifting’s love, and neither of them could produce that vital element.

“But the knight who shall come this afternoon can,” said the servant. “He is born of Light and loves a lady born of Air, and she loves him. There we have two of the three, and I can provide the third, for I am born of Water and love my lord as dearly as I love anything. I will lend you that power, and so you shall be protected from the cove if you can convince the knight to join you. But I see that you are born of Darkness, and the people of Glooming bear only hatred for the folk of Shining. If the knight will agree, will you put aside your hatred? It is your only hope, for if you can convince Glacia to grant you the chance to retrieve her ring I’m sure she will agree. She will happily watch you leap to your deaths, and if you succeed in retrieving the ring she will surely heap favors upon you both. Thus our lives and the knight’s quest might all be saved.”

Peregrine smiled sadly, and said, “I bear the folk of Shining not a single ounce of hatred; but can the knight bring himself to put aside the hatred his people hold for mine?”

The servant shrugged, and said, “If he loves his lady he will find it in himself to love you, too. If not, then we are all three of us lost.”

And so it was, when some hours later Sir Wick was brought into Peregrine’s cell, that the pauper watched quietly until he was hopeful that this knight of Shining might be strong enough to turn his back on the enmity their people bore one another. That hope came, and quickly; but still he did not reveal himself until Sir Wick promised his friendship to a voice that spoke from a shadow.

Even so he held his breath as he revealed himself, and when he saw only surprise in Sir Wick’s eyes – surprise, and not a single ounce of hatred – he smiled warmly, and said, “There is only one way to escape the dungeons of Tempist alive, and it is our good luck that I know the secret of it. If you wish,” he said with a wink, “I shall tell you how.”

Sir Wick’s quest for the Winsome Scale began with a choice: to wander aimlessly, seeking that which no one had ever found; or to journey to the house of one who might share wisdom. He chose to seek wisdom, for even if he who gave it could not direct him to the Scale itself, still wisdom was always a useful thing to have. So it was that he hurried to the house of Absyll Skwall.

Absyll Skwall was a wizard, and his house was called Tempist. This house was really a tower, and it stood on a strange and wild hill that marked the frontier between three Places – Shining, Shifting, and Deeping, which was the commonest name for the Place of Water. This hill was made of light shot through with veins of water and air, and Shining glowed behind the tower like a bright sunrise, or at times like a silver moon, and sometimes like a rippling midnight aurora. Above and about the tower was a great dome of air, blowing currents of light and water this way and that like clouds, or perhaps letting tiny motes of light and water drift lazily like unfixed stars or faerie lamps. Before the tower was a wide sea of water, whose depths glittered with pockets of light and roiled with bubbles of air. Sometimes this sea was was mirror smooth, and sometimes it rose into rolling waves filled with light and the rushing of wind. To either side of the hill rose a great forest, with trees of light, air, and water, all glittering or shifting or dripping one next to the other.

But if it seemed that Tempist was a place where water mixed with light, light mixed with air, and air mixed with water, this was only an illusion, for this was the Time of Separation, and though the stuff of the Places might mingle, still they could not mix. Each Place had its own deserts and shadows and seasons, but they were all made of the very stuff of the Place itself. Shining had its shadows, though they were made of light, and Deeping had its deserts, though they were vast and watery. Even so, if the light of Shining, the air of Shifting, and the water of Deeping never mixed, still they swirled around each other, rising in great towers of spinning light and air and water, or else they rushed in powerful torrents, or fell like a misty rain to run in rivulets back into the weird cove that lay spread out below the hill where stood Tempist. This cove was not a safe, sheltered place, but a deadly, swirling vortex where the stuff of light, air, and water frothed and roared in a lovely, frightening display. No boat would dare its surface, and no one who fell in had ever climbed out again.

No one knew why Absyll had chosen to build his house in such a place, but those who gave it any thought guessed that it was a place of great power, where secrets of Shining, Shifting, and Deeping might be revealed to those who knew how to watch. To what purpose Absyll would watch for such secrets was anyone’s guess, and the guesses were many. Was he wise and gentle, seeking a way to bring peace to the different Places? Or was he crafty and dangerous, seeking only the power of the Places for his own advantage? Or was it something else altogether? His manner gave little indication, for one moment he was gentle and calm, but he could become wrathful and dangerous with little warning. Even so, his wisdom was deep, and if he could be wrathful, he was still generous.

While Absyll was the master of Tempist, he was not really its keeper; that duty and power fell to his wife, Lady Glacia, who was born of Shining. Unlike Sir Wick, who was a gentle glow, Lady Glacia was a killing glare, like a midday sun on a sheet of polished ice, and her heart was just as cold. She was lovely to look upon, but the blood of those who looked too long might freeze. Likewise, though her hands were lovely and delicate, their touch could numb even the flesh of a Burning Duke. Deadly though she was, she was a gracious hostess, and she would often intervene on the side of mercy when her husband’s mood turned stormy. She was not herself given to violent tantrums, but her demeanor was one of icy calm so cold that it could be just as fatal as Absyll’s fury. So perhaps her mercy was not born so much of compassion as it was of propriety – killing a guest would be the very definition of rudeness, after all. But if a visitor was not received as a guest but as a prisoner, well … the rules of hospitality did not apply to prisoners.

So it is clear that Sir Wick’s choice was not the easy one, for he could not depend upon a warm reception from either Absyll or his wife. He could hope, but not depend, for Lady Glacia had proven herself no kinder to her fellows from Shining than she did to travelers from any other Place. Only those from Glooming could count upon her cruelty, but if they were greeted as guests by Absyll before she found them, they could expect mercy from her even if Absyll’s mood became deadly.

Sir Wick felt the risk was worth the reward, and so to Tempist he went. His journey was not arduous, though it was not quick, and eventually he climbed the road that wound round the hill of light and stood before the wide door of Tempist, where hung a horn. He put the horn to his lips, and blew as mightily as he thought was polite. Presently there came to the wide door a servant, who peered at him and asked him his name and his business.

Sir Wick smiled kindly at the man, and said, “I am Sir Wick of Swift, and I am questing for the Winsome Scale.”

The servant shook his head sadly, and said, “I am sorry, sir knight, that your quest has led you to Tempist, for the Winsome Scale is not here; neither can my lord or lady tell you its whereabouts, for not even they know that secret. And if they do, it must be that they wish to keep it for themselves, and so they will not give it to you. No, good knight, you have wasted your time in coming here, and risked your life into the bargain; my lord is in a black mood this day, and will surely clap you in irons in the dungeon if he should learn of your presence here. Then my lady will freeze your flesh to ice with glance, and whisper such things to you that shall set your blood afire until your flesh melts and runs like water from your bones. I have enough to do already without gaining another skull to polish and dust.

“Please, noble sir, turn back to the road and leave Tempist before my lord Absyll finds you.”

But Sir Wick would not leave, and neither would he even agree to spend that night in the woods and return in the morning in the hopes of finding Absyll in a better mood. His heart told him the way to the Winsome Scale lay through Tempist, and none of the servant’s pleas could sway him. Gently he insisted that the servant bring him to Absyll, for perhaps a visitor might change his mood.

The servant shook his head but did as he was told, and led Sir Wick through the halls of Absyll’s house. Finally they stopped before a magnificent door. “I shall inform my lord of your visit, good sir,” said the servant, before knocking and entering. A few seconds passed, and though the servant had closed the door, still Sir Wick heard a furious bellowing from the chamber. The door was as thick as the span of the knight’s hand, but it seemed as if he stood in an open archway so clearly could he hear Absyll’s rage.

The door flew open with such suddenness that Sir Wick feared it would be torn from its hinges, and there stood Absyll himself, green hair and beard whipping about in his anger, glaring at his visitor. He trembled in fury, and nearly threw himself upon Sir Wick, who moved only to bow before standing still and quiet.

“What’s this? What’s this? The Winsome Scale? You disturb me with a fool’s errand, even after my man told you I knew nothing of its whereabouts? The cheek! The gall! I’ve no time to waste on idiots and fools who chase after the unattainable! Not today, and not tomorrow. Not now! You should have listened to my servant and slept in the woods, for tomorrow I should certainly have received you as a friend and given you what aid I could! But now I shall give you only chains and cold stone, and let my wife give you the cold comfort of her company. Ha! We’ll see how well you like that, foolish, impertinent knight! Away with him! Away!”

Sir Wick was taken with such speed to the dungeons that the tower seemed to melt into mist around him. One second he stood in a fine hall with thick carpets and beautiful tapestries, and the next he stood barefoot in a dark cell, bound in chains. His arms and armor had been taken, and he was left only with the token of his gentle lady’s favor: a thin braid of her hair tied into a band he wore on a finger of his right hand. He looked at that finger and the favor it carried, and raised it too his lips. The gentle scent of flowers filled his nose, and its touch was like silk on his kiss. He closed his eyes to the sight of his dark, dingy hole, and saw only the face of his lady. His heart filled with such love and courage that he couldn’t help but smile, even in the midst of cold stone etched with misery. Soon he laughed with joy, and opened his eyes to look upon his predicament with happier eyes, for even great problems seem less when viewed with a light heart.

It was not so small a cell as he had first believed, but the shadows fell in such a way as to deceive a quick glance. The walls were bare stone, but many chains hung from heavy iron rings set in the stone. He was himself bound to one of those rings, with just enough chain to allow him to lie down if he wished. The floor was likewise bare stone, but here and there sat clumps of moldy straw, and with a little effort he was able to stretch and gather enough to himself to make a more comfortable bed, which he promptly sat upon. He raised his ring to his lips again, and laughed at the chains and the stone, and at the heavy iron-bound door that sealed him in. He laughed, and shook his head at his plight.

“What manner of man are you,” asked a soft voice from an especially thick shadow, “that you can find humor in such a place as this? Are you mad, or do you know some secret that no other prisoner here knows? Do you know a way to escape this place?”

Sir Wick regarded the shadow with a smile, and said, “No, my friend, I am not mad, and the only secrets I know are the ones I have brought with me. I have never thought to use them here, but I can use them here as well as anywhere.”

“And what secrets are those?” asked the voice. “Do you know the words to unlock your chains? Can you convince the walls to open and let you pass? Or do you know something to frighten the guards with, so they will spirit you away before Glacia comes for you?”

Sir Wick shook his head, and answered, “No, I know none of those things, though I would dearly like to. I know only that I have sworn myself to a lady, and that I love that lady and that she loves me in return. I know that I shall escape this prison and that I shall finish my quest, though I do not know how I know. It is enough to know, and to trust that I know.”

“You called me your friend,” said the voice, “and I will gladly take that title if I may return the same to you. We are lost here together, you and I, and a friend can be a great treasure in a place such as this, more valuable than food and drink, perhaps. May I call you my friend, sir?”

Sir Wick smiled and nodded, and answered, “It would please me to have a friend here, where I seem to have none. Yes, you may tell everyone in every Place that Sir Wick of Swift is your friend.”

The voice in the shadow was silent for a moment, and when it spoke again it was with a hint of cautious hope and, thought Sir Wick, trust. “And likewise you may tell your fellows that Peregrine is your friend, if you wish, though you might be wise to keep such a friend as I a secret.”

Then the voice left the thick shadow, and Sir Wick saw that it belonged to a small fellow, a penniless wanderer born of Glooming. He also saw that this little fellow was not bound in chains, but that he walked freely about the cell. Peregrine smiled warily, and said, “You say that you do not know how you shall escape this prison, only that you shall, and that you shall return to the lady you love. Well, I shall tell you something I know, my friend.

“It is just as well that you do not know the words to unlock your chains or let you pass through walls, for Absyll has enchanted them all to prevent just such a trick. Neither can you frighten the guards, for they are both too frightened of and devoted to their master to betray him.”

Peregrine’s wary smile became warm. “There is only one way to escape the dungeons of Tempist alive, and it is our good luck that I know the secret of it. If you wish,” he said with a wink, “I shall tell you how.”

The war between Shining and Glooming was not limited to the frontier between those kingdoms, and neither was it fought only by their soldiers. The war saw battlefields in all the Places, and involved soldiers, both mercenary and otherwise, from every Place. Mercenaries would fight for either side if the pay was right, and shifting alliances would place the soldiers of one Place on the side of Light for one battle and in the service of Dark for the next. It was a weird, troubled web of intrigue and politicking, and the Hidden Queen and the Sun-Bright King were forced to play it against the rulers of all the other Places, though they desired more than anything to play only against each other.

This tangled web stretched unnoticed behind the daily lives of the folk of the Places, both common and noble, and each lived and did their business as best they could despite the web and the war. Merchants still traded, both at home and abroad; sailors manned the ships that sailed from one Place to another; farmers worked the land; and knights served their lords or went questing. All these little lives seemed of no consequence in the grand sweep of the war, but even the smallest, meanest event might have a profound effect on the greatest moment. Indeed, more often than not this is the case, but such tiny happenings usually go unnoticed in the shadow of history.

It was one, or perhaps two, of these smallest events that would shape the very outcome of the Dimming War. The war was too great to stretch on in one unbroken line of battle after battle, but was rather a sea of hatred and violence and ignorance that ebbed and flowed between storms of bloodshed and nervous calms. It was during one of these truces, when the Places settled but never relaxed, that these small events occurred.

Exactly as the merchants would travel from the cities of one Place to the villages of another, so too did the knights errant wander from one Place to the next. Some of these knights sought adventure while others served some quest, and they often found themselves in strange lands. Sir Wick of Swift was one of these questing knights, proudly sworn to the quest. He was a Shining knight, and though his soul and his blood served the Sun-Bright King, his heart belonged to a lady of the Place of Wind, which was most often called Shifting. Hers was a little title attached to a tiny land, hardly more than a large farm, though it came with all the duties required of any noble. Still, her servants loved her, and though she would never ask it of them, those who worked her land would have gladly gone hungry for her sake. She was gentle and kind, a soft breeze just strong enough to carry a song and the scent of flowers, but she was steady even when her quicksilver monarch raged like a hurricane and shifted from Emperor to Queen to Archduke to Sultana as the mood struck.

This lady had taken Sir Wick’s heart and given him her own in turn, for he was not a fiercely bright knight, but rather a warm glow that lifted spirits as well as darkness. This is not to say that he was not a capable warrior, for he was skilled enough in arms; instead, it would be better to say that he shed just enough light to show the way without blinding those whose ways lay elsewhere, and that his fellows looked to him for steady faith and quiet courage rather than a cutting glare. So it was no surprise that when Sir Wick’s lady, who had just a little title to go with a tiny land, found herself in distress, he paused only long enough to kiss his love before setting off on a quest that had ended the lives of many knights who had shone far brighter than he.

Perhaps it had been cruelty or perhaps it was a silly whim meant to be quickly forgotten, but Her Most Gracious Terror, the Sultana of the Endless Song, had demanded that the gentle lady make the Sultana a gift of the Winsome Scale. This was an impossible request, for though everyone in every Place had heard of the Winsome Scale, not even the wisest sage could name its properties or venture a guess as to its whereabouts. It was a faerie tale, a thing that was impossible to attain and foolish to attempt. It would have been kinder to demand the gentle lady impose peace between Light and Dark, for at least the war was fought between people that could be met, who had ears to listen and hearts to touch.

Still, failure could have meant the end of his lady, so Sir Wick set off on his pointless quest certain of one thing: he would try, and if he failed, then even still he might win the day for his lady love, though he knew not how.

So it was that the only Shining hero who might see his enemies’ virtues began his little event, for though it seems a grand quest it was a quest of import only to a gentle lady of little title. Besides which, most would say a quest that cannot be won is a fool’s quest, and therefore of no consequence.

But there were two heroes to this tale, one of Light and one of Dark. Sir Wick’s counterpart was not a knight, nor even a favored servant of a petty lord. No, the hero of Glooming was a little thing, if clever, and was sworn to neither master nor mistress. This hero would have sneered at the name, not from a sense of disdain but for the thought that he did not deserve it. He was a wanderer, a thief, and a pauper, and had no hope of being a hero, for aren’t heroes grand? No, a sharp eye and a … kind … heart were not enough to be a hero. Nor even were a clever tongue and a quick mind enough, as he himself would be the first to say. But he would be wrong, this thief of the Hidden Place, for that is indeed all that is needed to be a hero, though he didn’t know it.

A pauper who would share his bread, even though he should grumble over it, is a hero, and even a thief can be admired if he isn’t greedy. Isn’t it true that some thieves might set us free by stealing a thing we clutch at even when that thing does us nothing but harm? Not that this thief set out to set anyone free, of course; he stole to keep body and soul together, but only just enough to do so, and never if the theft would do real harm. He might curse himself for it, but still he would go hungry if stealing meant someone else would suffer.

It must be said, however, that this thief was not a simple thief, for once upon a time he had been more – he had been a servant of a learned man, a sage of the Rhyming Halls in the city of Eventide. Fair Eventide straddled the Whispering Stream as it coursed through the Hushing Hills on its way to the sea, and was as justly famous for its poets and storytellers as it was for its scholars. While this hero was not a sage, still he had a poet’s tongue and, more important still, he had a poet’s eyes. Even men who can string words together in a pretty way are not necessarily poets, for a poet speaks what he sees even when he knows no one else could understand it. A poet’s eyes cannot be blinded, for they do not sit in his head but in his heart, and they do not see the world in the way most eyes do. But again, perhaps it is that a poet is someone who has the ears to listen to what his heart describes, and the tongue to speak it.

At any rate, this pauper-thief had that which makes a poet a poet, whether it be tongue, eyes, heart, or ears; and though he did not make his living through his poetry, still he lived by it. What else could drive a man from a comfortable bed and a heavy table to take up the life of a homeless wanderer but poetry? Oh, desperation might, true, and hatred, too; but this is a hero, and despite being born of Darkness he could not find it in himself to hate those born of Light. He did not trust them or expect aught but violence from them, but still he could not hate them, for had they not suffered as deeply at the hands of the Dark as the Dark had suffered through the efforts of Light? No, they did not deserve his hate, though he was wise enough to keep his mind to himself, for his fellows would surely have slain him as a traitor if he had shared it.

So this Dark hero was a thief and a pauper and a wanderer, but most important of all he was a poet, and he called himself Peregrine, for he felt himself a stranger in every Place. Perhaps most of all he felt himself a stranger in his own Place, and so he traveled as the wind blew, the road wound, and his heart demanded. And as he traveled he tried to do more good than harm, even when he stole, and he tried to speak truly more than falsely, even when he lied. He lived his little event every day, for isn’t the very life of a pauper the littlest of events? At least, isn’t that what we are led to believe?

The meeting of Sir Wick and Peregrine was just one more little event, but they were the little events in the lives of heroes, and they would shape not simply the Dimming War itself, but the very nature of every Place.

But that will have to wait for another post.

Okay, let’s try a story! Hope you like it.

The Dimming War

Here is a tale of an age long, long past, from a time before there were shadows, before there were suns and stars and moons, before there were days or nights, before there were sunrises or sunsets, at least as we know them today. This is a tale from the Time of Separation, when the kingdoms of Earth and Air, Fire and Water, were all held apart from one another, and when the kingdom of Darkness and the kingdom of Light came together only to make war.

Now, each of these kingdoms had a proper name, of course, and each of them kept a collection of poetic names, too; the kingdom of Fire, for example, was properly known as the Place of Burning, but it might be called the Endless Hearth to no one’s confusion. Likewise, the kingdom of Darkness was properly called The Hidden Place, but sometimes it was called Glooming. The kingdom of Light, on the other hand, was formally named the Place of Radiant Glory, but most people simply called it Shining and left it at that.

It should come as no surprise that each of these kingdoms had a king or a queen, though they referred to themselves as king, queen, emperor, archduchess, sultan, khan, and so on, each according to their own tastes. The Hidden Place had a queen, and she did indeed call herself Queen. Likewise, the ruler of Shining preferred the simple majesty of King, but neither King nor Queen could tolerate the existence of the other, and so waged ceaseless war upon each other.

The Shining King and the Hidden Queen did not simply detest each other, however; they hated each others lands and people, too, and their people shared their monarchs’ hatred. Thus, the war was fought with remarkable viciousness and enthusiasm, and neither monarch ever had to persuade their people to fight. Each kingdom believed that it was locked in a war of survival, for how could Light tolerate the Darkness, and how could Darkness survive in the presence of Light? For one to continue, the other must end, or so both sides believed.

So the war raged on and on, with no end in sight. The peoples of both lands lived in a weird mingling of confidence and fear, surety of their own strength and confusion over their failure to conquer their enemy. Vast armies would sweep out of Shining and pierce the thick darkness of Glooming only to be swallowed up and snuffed out, while endless swarms of the Hidden Queen’s soldiers would pour into the brilliance of Shining only to be overwhelmed and burned away. Never could one side strike deeply into the domain of the other, though they spent countless lives in the attempt.

It should be pointed out that The Place of Radiant Glory was not the hero of this story, and neither was The Hidden Place the villain. Men such as we are creatures more used to light than dark, with eyes more accustomed to day than night, and so we tell ourselves the fairy tale that light means goodness while dark means evil; but such is not the case. Nowhere is it written in the Great Book that governs the manner and means of all things that Light must be kind and Darkness cruel, or that Light must reveal and Darkness deceive. Indeed, nowhere is it written that Light must not be cruel (and it often is) or deceive (which it often does), or that Darkness can be neither kind nor truthful (and it is as honest as ever Light is, and at least as kind). We men depend upon such lies to make us feel that we understand, for understanding makes us feel safe.

Strangely, the Hidden Queen was not really as hidden as the peoples of the other kingdoms would believe, for she was readily accessible to all her subjects, who revered her as both queen and goddess. How could they not?; for she was and is the embodiment of all that Darkness is, both cruel and kind, truthful and dishonest, beautiful and ugly. Her subjects were many and varied, and included those fair of face and cruel of heart, cruel of face and fair of heart, black angels and blacker devils, wicked things and virtuous creatures. The most vicious wretch was as dear to her heart as the most compassionate maiden, so long as each was born of Darkness.

Many would think it stranger still that the Hidden Place was not an empty space of blackness, but rather a land of fantastic and wonderful sights to see, if the seer had eyes of Darkness. How could it be otherwise, for to these dark folk the Darkness was as clear as the air of a mountain top, unless it wasn’t, for there were thick and murky places there, too. Even so, the people of Glooming knew their land better through their ears and noses than through their eyes. There were gardens full of night blooming flowers where the air was heavy with perfume, and deep forests of black trees where the air was still and quiet except when a leaf fell with the rustle of silk. Wide plains were covered with long grass that sighed in the wind, and stinking, treacherous bogs pulled at travelers’ feet with sucking, squelching noises at every step. Caves there were aplenty, filled with strange echoes, and there were bare mountain tops, too. Shriveled things cackled and pranced around plumes of smoke in dead groves, and quaint villages stood along picturesque roads that wound through fertile farmland. Deep seas and babbling streams there were, and rocky wastes, too, and deserts filled with hissing sand; and all of it, sea and mountain, desert and bog, farm and forest, were made of Darkness, for nothing else could exist in the Place of Darkness but darkness.

And if Glooming was a place of wonder, so too was Shining. It would be easy to think that all was bright as crystal there, but there were places that glittered like jewels in candlelight, too, and places that were bright as the glowing embers of a dying fire. Even in those gentler places there was neither shadow nor darkness, however, for everything and everyone in Shining, and Shining itself, was made of Light. Bright, blinding light of a thousand hues and colors, golden light that rang like grand bells, and light that sparkled more than it shone, and tinkled like fragile chimes of spun glass. Damsels in rainbow gowns danced and flirted with knights clad in blaze-bright mail, while minstrels strummed lutes strung with thin-stretched rays of light. There were forests in Shining, too, filled with trees whose trunks looked like nothing so much as broad sunbeams, and were crowned with clouds of silver or gold or colored motes for leaves. Blinding deserts there were, and seas of liquid light. Cruel-eyed villains stole through searing alleys strewn with cast-off rays and broken gleams, and sturdy farmers covered in a sheen of sweat toiled in their wide fields of glowing barley.

Over all this land ruled the Sun-Bright King, and he was fair as a sunrise, unless his brow was wrinkled in fury. Then his gaze was as harsh as a spotlight, and no more forgiving. He wore a crown studded with a thousand bright jewels, and a robe woven of the finest sunbeam silk, stitched with threads of dawn at the hem that brightened to the glare of noon about his shoulders. His scepter was a shaft of blinding light, and his palace a maze of radiant crystal, blazing gardens, resplendent galleries, and halls filled with shifting torrents of moonbeams. The Sun-Bright King was wise and generous but quick to judge, and his judgements were often harsh and cruel. And whenever he cast his blinding gaze to the frontier where his kingdom met Glooming, his rage was terrible to behold. Then the whole of Shining would shake with his fury, for it galled him that his sight could not pierce the wall of Darkness, that he could not look upon the black-leaved forests that grew there, or upon the mysterious face of his enemy, the Hidden Queen.

But if his fury shook Shining and set the edges of Glooming to trembling, no less was the wrath of the Hidden Queen. The light of Shining was a torture to her, such that she could not look to the frontier without covering her eyes against the glare, which set tears streaming down her face for the pain. Then she would hiss and spit, and pull her dark hair and rend her dark gown, and her armies would sound trumpets and beat drums, and march against the glittering hordes of her enemy.

Many great heroes of Shining died, and so did many of its cruelest villains. Likewise, many honorable knights of Glooming fell beside multitudes of its most depraved fiends. Those heroes of Shining would have turned their bright blades upon the villains of their own land if not for the common enemy, and so too would the heroes of Glooming have fought valiantly against the treacheries of Glooming’s fiends. In truth, the hearts of heroes on both sides held more in common with each other than with their evil fellows, but they could not or would not see. They blinded themselves to their enemies’ virtues, and so committed ever more grievous acts in the name of patriotism and loyalty to cause and king.

Only two were there who had the fortune to see, the wisdom to acknowledge, and the bravery to act.

But the story of those two heroes must wait for another time …