While the Hound had defeated the Darkness, it hadn’t destroyed it completely, and every year its tenebrous power stretched over the land, attempting to enrobe the world in its cloak of cold and never-ending night. Its power reached its zenith on the last day of winter, when the day was shortest and night held its grip longest—the Darkest Midnight—before yielding to the Firehound’s triumph and the heralding of spring.
The crowds screamed their delight as the magicians told the story with dramatic flourishes of arcing fire in the shape of a colossal dog that lit the evening in a sunburst of sparks. The palace, its subordinate buildings, and the revelers stood under an invisible ward, protecting all from the danger of immolation.
When all the torches, lamps and candles were snuffed and the palace plunged into temporary darkness, the spectators went silent, the expectant hush a living, breathing thing as real as the Darkest Midnight itself. The silence stretched for a span of moments before the sky exploded in a blaze of light, with the monstrous Firehound at the center of numerous starbursts that mimicked the sun and celebrated the triumph of life over eternal night.
In the garden, Jahna watched it all and wept.
~7~
Eight years later
The Maiden undaunted, Year 3848
Jahna read thenote a palace servant just delivered and leapt from her stool with a triumphant cry. Amaris, her friend and fellow chronicler jumped, splattering ink across the parchment she had been writing on for the past hour.
“For gods’ sake, Jahna, look what you made me do!”
Jahna winced. “I’m so sorry. I’ll make it up to you. Finish up that page with notes on the side, and I’ll make a clean copy for you tonight.” She waved the missive under Amaris’s nose. “Remember when I told you Dame Stalt said the margrave of High Salure would be here for Sodrin’s wedding and was willing to sit with a chronicler to recount thegallawar?” Amaris nodded. “Well, he arrived about an hour ago and wants to meet.”
Jahna did a quick, celebratory jig before grabbing a satchel into which she dropped her supplies.
“I can’t believe he’s here,” she exclaimed. “It feels like I’ve been waiting for this meeting forever!”
Amaris laughed. “I think you’re more excited about it than you are about your brother’s wedding. Then again, this is the Beladine Stallion we’re talking about. His reputation precedes him. I hear he has looks, charm, and…stamina.”
The two women laughed and Amaris wished her good luck before extracting a promise from Jahna that she’d share all the details when she returned.
Jahna raced through the palace corridors and up two flights of stairs to the floor that housed King Rodan’s most important guests. As the king’s niece, Sodrin’s future bride occupied one of the suites here, and Jahna had trekked this hallway more times than she cared to number in the past fortnight. Dame Stalt’s patience with the constant disruption of Jahna’s work as a chronicler to appease the nervous bride had worn thin, and more than once she had voiced her eagerness for the wedding to come and go so they could all get back to work. Jahna couldn’t agree with her more.
This trip at least was at the behest of the dame and not Jahna’s soon-to-be sister-in-law. She paused at one of the doors near the end of the hall and knocked. There was a short wait before the door swung open, revealing the biggest man she’d ever seen.
Serovek Pangion of High Salure stared at her with eyes the color of deep, deep water—so dark a blue they appeared almost black. The rumors of his attractiveness were accurate. The shoulder-length black hair and neatly trimmed beard emphasized a handsome face guaranteed to garner more than a few admiring gazes. His height and impressive musculature only enhanced his presence. No one would miss seeing this man in a crowd.
He eyed her and the satchel she held for a moment, a flicker of dread in his gaze. “Tell me you’re one of the king’s chroniclers and not another lady wanting to welcome me personally to the capital.”
Jahna grinned. He hadn’t flinched when he saw her or looked away when he spoke, as if he couldn’t bear the sight of her birthmark. She liked him already. “I am a lady here to welcome you to Timsiora, my lord, but I’m also a king’s chronicler. Dame Stalt sent me. I’m Jahna Uhlfrida.”
He motioned her inside, leaving the door partially open. Jahna appreciated the unspoken assurance. The rumors continued to prove themselves valid in one respect. The margrave was charming, but in ways beyond his renowned ability to seduce.
She followed the motion of his hand to a small table and two chairs placed before a lit hearth and set her satchel down. She didn’t sit until he joined her, two cups in his hands. He passed one to her. “Hot tea,” he said. “To warm your bones.”
They sat together, and Jahna emptied her satchel of its contents as Lord Pangion watched. “Uhlfrida you said. Any relation to the one marrying the king’s niece during Delyalda?”
“My brother,” she replied. “Be prepared to witness a lot of comings and goings in this corridor for the next few days.” She didn’t exaggerate. The stones paving the hall’s floor should have worn smooth at this point with the constant stream of traffic trekking to and from Manarys Duron’s chambers. Servants, seamstresses, friends, and the endless number of family members that made up the Duron clan and assured Jahna that if family blood held true, Sodrin would be a father many times over in the future.
She laid out her writing utensils and parchment. Lord Pangion’s room was warm so she removed the gloves she usually wore to keep her chilly fingers from stiffening and dipped her first quill in the ink. “Any time you’re ready, my lord,” she said.
The margrave eyed her over the rim of his cup, amusement glittering in his gaze. He toasted her. “I admire your readiness, Lady Uhlfrida. By all means, let’s begin.”
Serovek was a natural storyteller, and Jahna soon found it difficult not to pause in her writing and just listen to the man detail the events of thegallainfestation that had destroyed the capital of the kingdom of Bast-Haradis and wiped out the entire royal family except for the heir’s youngest child and her uncle who acted as regent.
Everyone knew of thegalla, those malevolent entities born of the blackest, most powerful Elder magic. Banished and imprisoned in a realm outside of this one by their long-vanished creators, they had somehow managed to break free and cross over into this world to ravage it. Ravenous and immune to weapons of steel and fire, they had devoured much of the Kai population in Bast-Haradis’s fallen capital and begun spreading to the neighboring kingdoms of Gaur and Belawat.
Beladine seers had prophesied the world’s ending in an apocalypse of unimagined horror. King Rodan had burned two of the seers at the stake for their unrelenting fear-mongering, but only the news of thegalla’sdefeat had finally quelled the panic that gripped all of Belawat.
This man and four others had literally saved the world, and Jahna’s cynicism made her wonder how long it would be before Rodan decided that Serovek Pangion was far too powerful and popular to remain alive. The wily king brooked no threat, perceived or real, to his rule, and world saviors were threats to ambitious monarchs.
Serovek took a break in telling his story to refill their cups. “My tongue is starting to stick to the roof of my mouth,” he complained. “I think I’ve talked more this past hour than I have in the past year.”