crushed but her—minor inconveniences you might say. What killed us was despair. We despaired in the face of those Abominations and gave up our immortality willingly on that hideous fiery night. We had no means of escape and did not wish to suffer the endless blackness of a living tomb. But she, my daughter, in that miraculous niche of canted stone, she alone refused to go. She held onto her Gringling skin and in so doing condemned herself to the bottom of the Loor as Soth sank beneath the waves.
She went mad, of course, cursed with immortality that the rest of us had cast off, while she waited in the dark.
On the night it rained fire, I did not expect her to stay; so I left on the sweet toxins of a final draft of shuwt tincture and found my way permanently into another form—one lacking the perfection of my Gringling corpse. But one day I will go back. I will find my little girl. I will pull her from the darkness and return to the shining lands of Ahvelle.
For all its wild fantasy, Caliph found the account compelling. He blinked and rubbed crust from his eyes. Light was coming through the room’s single window and his duties as ruler of the duchy swung back on him like a punching bag.
Nuj Ig’nos and the other diplomats were scheduled to leave today. Sena would be returning—late. And he had a ceremony to attend in conjunction with the holiday.
What time is it? He checked. That can’t be right.
He pushed himself out of the chair and walked briskly to the door. Sorting through his disheveled hair, he poked his head into the hall and asked the sentry stationed in the corridor for the time.
“A quarter of seven, your majesty.” Already nearly noon!
7 Ambiguous capitalization. Does he know what these are?—Sena.
8 A species of luminous moth extinct c. 11062 (O.T.R.).
CHAPTER
6
Caliph massaged his fingertips deep into his brow and grunted.
“Should I tell the seneschal you’re awake?” asked the man.
“No,” said Caliph. “No, no.” He struck out down the hall, headed for his bedroom.
The day swelled around him, burgeoning with details and unexpected events. It was bathe, dress, lunch, bid his so-called guests good-bye and burn wooden masks in a leafy bonfire by half past ten. After that, the Blue General briefed him before he took loring tea with the burgomasters at twelve. Twenty minutes later he met the papers and answered questions regarding diplomacy with the south. He left out the parts about Pandragor wanting immediate unconditional access to twenty different sites and mostly stuck to his lines, “We’ve both agreed to more talks and I think Ambassador Ig’nos shares my optimism … we’re looking forward to a positive dialogue in Sandren.”
By fourteen o’clock, just before dinner, Caliph had managed to clear his schedule and wriggle out of obligations at a maskless party in upper Murkbell where two-hundred well-heeled guests planned to close out the Funereal of the Leaves in style.
For Caliph, the cycle of days being High King, month-in month-out, resonated as a kind of unrelenting frequency. An insufferable pattern of noise and sound that he felt abrading him, disintegrating him slowly, both physically and mentally. To rule a country, he had established that you needed one thing more than any other: to want it.
But what Caliph wanted was tranquility. He wanted to polish his own shoes, get black marks on his fingers. He wanted Sena to come home, stop her endless research and take breakfast with him as the sun rose out of the west. He wanted time—with her. He wanted a family, fruit trees and idle chatter around the kitchen table.
Sena had offered that once. Did she still want it? A year ago they had been so close. Right after the war had ended, their goals had been braided into one line, reeling them forward.
But that had changed. She had stopped leaving the library. At one point the servants claimed that she had remained on her stool for an entire week while Caliph
She went mad, of course, cursed with immortality that the rest of us had cast off, while she waited in the dark.
On the night it rained fire, I did not expect her to stay; so I left on the sweet toxins of a final draft of shuwt tincture and found my way permanently into another form—one lacking the perfection of my Gringling corpse. But one day I will go back. I will find my little girl. I will pull her from the darkness and return to the shining lands of Ahvelle.
For all its wild fantasy, Caliph found the account compelling. He blinked and rubbed crust from his eyes. Light was coming through the room’s single window and his duties as ruler of the duchy swung back on him like a punching bag.
Nuj Ig’nos and the other diplomats were scheduled to leave today. Sena would be returning—late. And he had a ceremony to attend in conjunction with the holiday.
What time is it? He checked. That can’t be right.
He pushed himself out of the chair and walked briskly to the door. Sorting through his disheveled hair, he poked his head into the hall and asked the sentry stationed in the corridor for the time.
“A quarter of seven, your majesty.” Already nearly noon!
7 Ambiguous capitalization. Does he know what these are?—Sena.
8 A species of luminous moth extinct c. 11062 (O.T.R.).
CHAPTER
6
Caliph massaged his fingertips deep into his brow and grunted.
“Should I tell the seneschal you’re awake?” asked the man.
“No,” said Caliph. “No, no.” He struck out down the hall, headed for his bedroom.
The day swelled around him, burgeoning with details and unexpected events. It was bathe, dress, lunch, bid his so-called guests good-bye and burn wooden masks in a leafy bonfire by half past ten. After that, the Blue General briefed him before he took loring tea with the burgomasters at twelve. Twenty minutes later he met the papers and answered questions regarding diplomacy with the south. He left out the parts about Pandragor wanting immediate unconditional access to twenty different sites and mostly stuck to his lines, “We’ve both agreed to more talks and I think Ambassador Ig’nos shares my optimism … we’re looking forward to a positive dialogue in Sandren.”
By fourteen o’clock, just before dinner, Caliph had managed to clear his schedule and wriggle out of obligations at a maskless party in upper Murkbell where two-hundred well-heeled guests planned to close out the Funereal of the Leaves in style.
For Caliph, the cycle of days being High King, month-in month-out, resonated as a kind of unrelenting frequency. An insufferable pattern of noise and sound that he felt abrading him, disintegrating him slowly, both physically and mentally. To rule a country, he had established that you needed one thing more than any other: to want it.
But what Caliph wanted was tranquility. He wanted to polish his own shoes, get black marks on his fingers. He wanted Sena to come home, stop her endless research and take breakfast with him as the sun rose out of the west. He wanted time—with her. He wanted a family, fruit trees and idle chatter around the kitchen table.
Sena had offered that once. Did she still want it? A year ago they had been so close. Right after the war had ended, their goals had been braided into one line, reeling them forward.
But that had changed. She had stopped leaving the library. At one point the servants claimed that she had remained on her stool for an entire week while Caliph
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