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 …