Crown of Vengeance

INTERLUDE FOUR

INVASION AND INFAMY

Mist rose over the surface of the blood in the obsidian bowl. With the Obsidian Mirror shattered beyond re-creation, Virulan had to find new ways of seeing beyond The World Without Sun. This one combined business and pleasure.

He gazed at the images of blood and slaughter forming within the mist and smiled, baring gleaming fangs. The Elflings were so proud of their armies, of the skill of their warriors. Virulan knew the truth. Skill was meaningless when confronted with power.

The dainty banquet of death was a pretty sight nonetheless.

“They are so confident,” he murmured aloud. “Century upon century, they have bred like the vermin they are, refining their arts of war, believing themselves the greatest power in their world. They slaughter brother, sister, their own children. They make war upon those creatures whose lands they have claimed. And they look to a time when they will be victorious over all. But that time will never come.”

And best of all, a faint echo of true Darkness had found a home within their hearts. He had watched, gleefully, as fear and ambition caused them to cast aside the rules of chivalry by which they had lived for so long, watched as expediency tempted them to commit greater and greater atrocities. Only the Elfling Mages had stood aside from that rush to infamy.

Until now.

Now, at last, one of the Elfling Mages had followed his brethren down their twisted path. Anger and cheated ambition had gnawed at his soul since childhood, and slowly—oh, so slowly—it had led him to … compromise. From the moment Virulan had found the Elfling, drawn by the sweet scent of moral rot, he had watched avidly as Ivrulion of Caerthalien made bargain after bargain with himself.

At first, the Elfling Mage had acted to further the ambitions of his House, holding himself above the promises he had made to his teachers. He had done what he thought best, never realizing that from the moment he placed his will above that of his masters, all was lost.

Always, Ivrulion chose the logical, the expedient, the efficient over oaths and honor. Virulan was charmed. No Brightworlder could ever hope to equal the majesty of the least of the Endarkened. They were too cowardly, too weak. But the spark of Darkness Virulan saw in Ivrulion grew in unexpected ways. Sometimes the Elfling lied to himself about his motives. Sometimes he saw them clearly and rejected anything that might curb his desire.

Ambition was the link between the Endarkened and the Brightworlders, the one thing that could cause Virulan to name those evanescent bags of meat his distant kin. Ambition led them to war. Ambition led them to treachery. Ambition led them to betrayal.

Ambition led them into the Dark.

Virulan could not know where this would ultimately lead. He could know Ivrulion’s intentions, it was true—they were so clear that only his blind, foolish, Brightworld kin could remain in ignorance—but he could not see What Would Be. Still, he could watch as, sennight by sennight and moonturn by moonturn, Ivrulion expanded the catalogue of things his ambition found acceptable.

He could watch as Ivrulion led his people to war.

It was delicately done, the work of a lifetime of idle remarks and casual observances. His colleagues and his masters drank his poison as if it were sweet milk, certain of his loyalty and his honor. Certain of the presence of all the things he had abandoned so long ago. Soon every death among the Hundred Houses could be laid at his doorstep.

Soon the end would come.

Soon it would be time for the Light to dim, and then gutter out entirely.

The images faded away.

Send me a sign, Elfling, Virulan breathed over the cooling blood. Send me a sign that the day has come for the Endarkened to ride to war.

To war, and to triumph.