Tower of Doom

Epilogue

Purple twilight drifted down from the sky to settle gently over the Vistana camp. Countless lanterns flared to life, their golden light driving back the gathering gloom. Smoke rose from a dozen cookfires, thick with the rich scents of venison, pepper, and sage. Wild music drifted through the motley collection of painted wagons, as did bright laughter, the clinking of cups, and the rhythmic clapping of hands. Fires and lanterns were by no means the only warmth in the gypsy caravan. — In most of the realm of Darkon, the Vistani were regarded with mistrust and suspicion. They were rumored to be shiftless wanderers, dabblers in dark magic, thieves and swindlers all. Here, on the open moor, there were none to look askance at them. Here the gypsies were their own masters. The Vistani were an ancient people-perhaps as ancient as the land itself, some few and wise dared to whisper-and all the land was their home. So it had always been, and so, they believed, it would always be.

Near the edge of the camp, three gypsy women stood in the flickering shadows cast by a stone- ringed fire. The three women were very different in aspect, one being fresh and young, another at the midpoint of life, and the last a wizened crone. Each seemed to wear a mantle of wisdom about her shoulders, and each wore an ancient jeweled ring on a finger. Their names were Karin, Riandra, and Varith, and they were the sages of this gypsy clan. They spoke together in soft tones, apart from the others.

"Was the augury fully unveiled?" asked Riandra.

Young Karin nodded firmly. "It was. The cards spoke clearly, as did the crystals. The bell has cracked. Its curse has shattered. Darkness has lost this battle."

Varith's sigh was like the low voice of a winter wind. "You speak hastily, Karin. The bell is no more. Yet many other relics of Darkness remain to devour the Light." Her small eyes glittered sharply as she leaned upon her crooked staff. "The battle is far from over."

"Will it ever truly be oyer?" Riandra murmured wistfully.

Silence was the only answer as the three women gazed solemnly at one another.

Suddenly the wild music that drifted on the purple air halted. Shouts of surprise and joy rang out. As one, the three Vistana sages rushed to the center of the camp.

"Steffan is back!" someone called out excitedly.

As one, the folk of the clan dropped what they were doing and rushed to gather about a man who limped into the circle of the wagons. He was handsome, with coal-dark eyes and a long mustache. His colorful gypsy attire-billowing pants, embroidered shirt, and crimson sash-was torn and stained with mud, and a splint fashioned of willow saplings was lashed tightly to his left leg. Quickly a chair was brought for him, and a silver cup of spiced wine placed in his hand. With an exhausted sigh, he sank down into the chair.

"It is good to be with the clan once more." His grin was tired but happy.

"Steffan, the Light shines upon us!" Karin said, her pretty face beaming as the three sages approached. "We feared that we had lost you."

Riandra nodded gravely. "What happened, Steffan?"

A dozen voices echoed the question. Ancient Varith silenced them with a sharp look.

"Shame! Can you not see the man has been through a dark ordeal? Let him be!"

Steffan held up a hand. "It is all right, Wise One. They are curious, that's all. Besides, I have good news." He reached into a pocket and drew out a small object. It was a darkly mottled stone.

"The Soulstone," Karin breathed. "You found it, Steffan!"

He nodded, then held the stone toward Varith. "Will you take it, Wise One? I find that I do not like to carry it on my person."

"Nor should you, for it is a thing of utter evil." Varith took the stone. Carefully, she wrapped it in a cloth of blue silk and spirited it away into a pocket of her skirt. "You have done well, Steffan. Now one less relic of darkness is loose in the land. I will keep it safe and hidden." She glanced at the other two sages. "Until we find a way to destroy it."

"What happened to your leg, Steffan?" Riandra asked then.

The gypsy man shook his head sheepishly. "I was so happy when I found the stone in the wreckage of the tower that I grew careless. As I was climbing back up the cliff face, I slipped and fell. My leg was broken. I thought… I thought that I would die." He shuddered at the memory. "But I didn't."

Karin knelt to examine the splint on his leg. "A skilled hand did this," she murmured. "Who helped you, Steffan?"

His eyes glittered. Finally he whispered the words. "It was the angel…

Gasps went around the circle. In these last weeks, all had heard the legend of the Angel of the Moor. Again and again, folk who had become lost or injured on the desolate heath told the identical tale. Just as hope had faded, a mysterious woman had appeared out of the swirling mists to help them. Without speaking a word, the angel had healed their wounds and guided them to safety before vanishing silently into the fog. Some people said she was hideously disfigured. Othets said she was radiantly beautiful, as pale and ethereal as a ghost. All spoke of her eyes-haunting, mesmerizing eyes like violet flames.

Steffan went on. "Just when I was ready to let the crows take me, there she stood. She splinted my leg and gave me herbs to ease my pain. For three days she brought me food and water. Not once did she speak a word. Finally I was strong enough to try to walk again. As soon as she saw I could make it on my own, she vanished. I never even had the chance to thank her." He was silent for a moment. When he spoke again his voice was soft and low. "As long as I live, I will never forget her eyes." He shook his head in wonder. "An angel's eyes…"

Karin, Riandra, and Varith exchanged knowing, — sorrowful looks, but they said nothing.

Music and light drifted anew on the darkling air, filling the night with celebration.

She stood on the edge of a sheer precipice, glowing in the gauzy moonlight like a statue hewn of white marble. The wind whipped soft tatters of silk about her body like tendrils of lavender mist, and her golden hair streamed back from a face as round arid pale as the rising moon, injury had twisted one of her shoulders into a hideous hump, yet this imperfection only seemed to accentuate the ethereal beauty of her face. The woman gripped something that hung about her throat. Metal glinted in the moonlight. It was a golden locket. The woman stared madly into the night, as if her glowing violet eyes glimpsed something there that no other could see-something vast, and ancient, and eternally ravenous.

At last she turned and vanished into the gloom, leaving the darkness to its own designs.