The End
“Kneel,” said the vampire, flexing its wings. “Kneel and worship Her Radiance, Queen Zûr, Sovereign of the Night Road, Consort to the Living God Zet, and Empress of Mrava.”
Our captors had brought us to the steps of a looted mansion. Its garden had been stripped for kindling, and the house’s windows were dark and hollow. The first brush strokes of dawn painted the clouds, and in the stillness I could almost pretend that the smoke rising from the city was that of morning hearths and not burning corpses.
I still couldn’t believe that Majadan had fallen. The crossroad of the world, the jewel of Kechea, the bulwark against the horrors of the Madlands – reduced to a charnel house in a single night.
I consoled myself that some of the people we’d fled with had escaped. My friends and I, on the other hand, were dead and probably worse. It wasn’t out of mercy that the invaders hadn’t killed us. Together, my fellow captives and I knelt as spoils for the Wight Queen.
“Who have we here?” asked the undead sorceress. Her skin was as pale as ice, her voice the echo of some long-dead songbird. Her gown had the sheen of metal, and her eyeless silver mask reflected the bonfire behind us.
“Mercenaries, Your Radiance,” said the vampire. At any other time, I’d have laughed. For some of my companions that may have been true, but I was just a lowly musician.
“Our orders were not to take prisoners,” said Zûr. Her voice held a trace of disappointment. She evaluated each of my companions in turn, until at last she came to me.
“I don’t know what to make of this one,” she said. My heart squeezed as she stepped into my mind, pushing my memories around like furniture. Pinpricks of moisture beaded on my scalp, and for the second time that night I felt the urge to wet myself. Then, out of nowhere, I felt the urge to kill.
“By the Old One,” Zûr gasped. “A killer! A newborn killer, his first blood not an hour ago. Sweet devils, what a gift. Lord Zet’s orders be damned, I’m keeping this one.”
I felt something shrivel inside me. It’s not that I didn’t want to live, but I hated the thought of being spared for what I’d done. I hadn’t killed in self-defense, as so many had that night. I’d committed an act of hot-blooded murder. It was better that I die with my friends.
“Oh, you’re not going to die, little one,” she said, plucking the thoughts from my brain. “Not for a very long time.”
“All right, but please–”
She slapped me into silence.
“You will not speak unless I tell you. Can you read and write? Answer.”
“Yes, Your Highness.”
She struck me again. “The correct form of address is ‘Your Radiance’ or ‘Your Glory.’ Do you understand? Answer.”
“Yes, Your Radiance.”
“Good.” She considered me for a moment. “You were a minstrel. You fancy yourself a storyteller, even. Excellent. This is what I want.
“Tell me of this night – what you’ve seen, what you’ve heard. I want every slice of pain, every cry for help, every shred of loss. I want to know what it felt like when you learned what kind of man you really are. I could rip it from your mind, but I want it from your heart. I want it written down as a testament for all time.”
She traced her fingernail across my face. Her laughter was music in a graveyard.
“Tell me all you remember, little man, and I promise to make you immortal.”
