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.