everything was falling down around me. They seemed to tingle while I stood by Vara’s niche and touched his capstone.
The second legend told how Vara had been a renegade in and then a refugee from Fairy. His name was an obsolete version of the word “Fairy” in the language of that realm. Vara had come south through Xayber with a small band of loyal followers, fighting all the way. He had finally stopped all the forces of the Elfking at the southern end of the Isthmus of Xayber. With peace finally won, Vara had founded the Kingdom of Varay, or perhaps the entire buffer zone between Fairy and the mortal realm, to protect regular people from the magical depredations of the elves. His reign had been (in legend, at least) a Golden Age of peace and prosperity.
I had started to wonder if, somehow, the two separate legends might be parts of the same whole, if perhaps Vara was the stud who tumbled the Great Earth Mother, back before the beginning of time … or whenever. And there was only one person who might know the answer—Parthet.
I lose track of time when I’m down in the crypt. It may have been an hour, or only ten minutes, before I got to Great-Grandfather Pregel. I put my hand on his capstone. The edges of the newly carved letters and numbers were rougher than on the older stones. I stood there and couldn’t think of anything to say to Pregel. Except, after a time, “Goodbye.”
Before I left the crypt, I stopped and looked at the blank section of wall across the room from Vara. That was where they would put me someday, if there was anyone left to put me there when the time came.
“You’re going to be lonely in there,” I said. “No next-door neighbors to rub elbows with.” The thought twisted my gut—not the thought of being lonely on that side of the wall, just the idea of someday being there behind a marble headstone with my name, titles, and dates. I had been too close to earning a place in the wall over by Dad.
I left the crypt and forced a rapid pace up the stairs toward the living precincts of the castle. I went all the way up to the royal apartments above the great hall in the keep. To the king’s bedroom.
There were no lights on in the bedroom. I left the door open until I found one of the oil lamps and lit it. Then I closed the door and looked around. As I had instructed, nothing had been touched yet. I wasn’t looking forward to moving into a dead man’s bedroom, or to sleeping in the bed where he had died, but I knew how tradition-bound Varay was. This was the king’s bedroom. This was where the king was supposed to sleep.
The bedroom was vast—something like thirty by fifty feet. Looking in from the hallway door down the long dimension, there were windows on the wall to the right and in the wall at the far end of the room. To the right the view was down into the courtyard. The far end looked down over the curtain wall, down the sheer northern face of Basil Rock, several hundred feet to the River Tarn that curled past the base. The royal bed was more than twice the size of a “king-size” bed. It was centered along the left wall. Three doors opened off of that wall into other rooms of the royal suite, privy, bath and dressing room, and study.
Before his health failed, Pregel had been an active monarch. There had been a big desk up on the dais in the throne room, and it was often cluttered. At some point, between the time when Pregel publicly announced that I was his heir and his death, that desk had been moved up to the study, replacing a smaller desk that had been there before. The study had been his working office, most of the time I knew him. We had shared a few leisurely chats in that office. The only person who ever dared disturb the king in his office was Baron Kardeen, and the chamberlain knew when—and when not—to disturb Pregel.
It was an old-fashioned office. What else could it be in Varay? The big desk was an antique that was probably worth many thousands of
The second legend told how Vara had been a renegade in and then a refugee from Fairy. His name was an obsolete version of the word “Fairy” in the language of that realm. Vara had come south through Xayber with a small band of loyal followers, fighting all the way. He had finally stopped all the forces of the Elfking at the southern end of the Isthmus of Xayber. With peace finally won, Vara had founded the Kingdom of Varay, or perhaps the entire buffer zone between Fairy and the mortal realm, to protect regular people from the magical depredations of the elves. His reign had been (in legend, at least) a Golden Age of peace and prosperity.
I had started to wonder if, somehow, the two separate legends might be parts of the same whole, if perhaps Vara was the stud who tumbled the Great Earth Mother, back before the beginning of time … or whenever. And there was only one person who might know the answer—Parthet.
I lose track of time when I’m down in the crypt. It may have been an hour, or only ten minutes, before I got to Great-Grandfather Pregel. I put my hand on his capstone. The edges of the newly carved letters and numbers were rougher than on the older stones. I stood there and couldn’t think of anything to say to Pregel. Except, after a time, “Goodbye.”
Before I left the crypt, I stopped and looked at the blank section of wall across the room from Vara. That was where they would put me someday, if there was anyone left to put me there when the time came.
“You’re going to be lonely in there,” I said. “No next-door neighbors to rub elbows with.” The thought twisted my gut—not the thought of being lonely on that side of the wall, just the idea of someday being there behind a marble headstone with my name, titles, and dates. I had been too close to earning a place in the wall over by Dad.
I left the crypt and forced a rapid pace up the stairs toward the living precincts of the castle. I went all the way up to the royal apartments above the great hall in the keep. To the king’s bedroom.
There were no lights on in the bedroom. I left the door open until I found one of the oil lamps and lit it. Then I closed the door and looked around. As I had instructed, nothing had been touched yet. I wasn’t looking forward to moving into a dead man’s bedroom, or to sleeping in the bed where he had died, but I knew how tradition-bound Varay was. This was the king’s bedroom. This was where the king was supposed to sleep.
The bedroom was vast—something like thirty by fifty feet. Looking in from the hallway door down the long dimension, there were windows on the wall to the right and in the wall at the far end of the room. To the right the view was down into the courtyard. The far end looked down over the curtain wall, down the sheer northern face of Basil Rock, several hundred feet to the River Tarn that curled past the base. The royal bed was more than twice the size of a “king-size” bed. It was centered along the left wall. Three doors opened off of that wall into other rooms of the royal suite, privy, bath and dressing room, and study.
Before his health failed, Pregel had been an active monarch. There had been a big desk up on the dais in the throne room, and it was often cluttered. At some point, between the time when Pregel publicly announced that I was his heir and his death, that desk had been moved up to the study, replacing a smaller desk that had been there before. The study had been his working office, most of the time I knew him. We had shared a few leisurely chats in that office. The only person who ever dared disturb the king in his office was Baron Kardeen, and the chamberlain knew when—and when not—to disturb Pregel.
It was an old-fashioned office. What else could it be in Varay? The big desk was an antique that was probably worth many thousands of
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