LIGHTNOVELONLINE Opening
The people
And the King
Are the Kingdom.
The winds of early spring keen over the shores of the Celta Sferyn, the Dragon Sea of the north, troubling the red sands at Rodrantir, the jet-black grains among the black boulders of Mór Feria, and the white sands at white-walled Andrastir, ancient queen of cities. The dead are restless in their cairns; armor upon the bones of warriors centuries gone trembles and rattles: new peoples walk these lands and do not know the names of the dead.
A millennium past, a mighty race rose out of the rich hills of Peria, makers of a vast empire. They called themselves the Sferiari, the People of the Dragon, possessing great art, great science, and great magic. Rumor of their power spread far beyond the bounds of empire, and that alone helped hold them secure. But legends of their wealth, too, spread far; and tales that their magic was a thing of blood: that any child of a Sferan mother might be born to wield the power of the High Kings. That tale was not wholly false; as to the truth, as a later High Priest of the Lord of Death was moved to grumble when questioned about his devotion to so grim a patron: “Men fear discipline far more than they fear death.”
When the Sferan empire broke, barbaric folk, drawn by the glitter of glory and gold, swept in over the scattered pieces. Some protected fragments—Rodrantir behind her unassailable walls, Daria across the wild sea, rockbound Mór Feria—kept much of their imperial character for centuries, while the hordes overwhelmed the rest, even the Sferan heartland, green Peria, though that was her own fault.
Talherne High-king, troubled by rebellious barons, called the chieftain of the wild Geillari to his aid in controlling what little remained in his Sferan hands. Berulf came with his stern sons; and Talherne earned the name “Last-king.”
The remnants of the twelve great Houses of the Sferiari were forced back, but slowly, every foot of ground the invader gained nourished with the blood of both sides. And still the younger race pressed in and raised their beaded and feathered tokens, rude imitations of silken imperial banners, over the rubble of ruined imperial cities.
∞∞∞∞∞
Smoke rolled across the view in her Mirror, pierced by spear-flash and the shrieks of men. She breathed upon it, a blossom of flame: another vista, another prospect in her land, but the same scene, the same cries. Another breath; yet another battle. Pausing, she glowered one-eyed at it, her thoughts coiling in serpentine deliberation.
It was not the warfare that troubled her: men brawled and bit like any other beast. Neither did she care for the mewling of affronted ghosts. But the lack of a proper king offended her. These new folk entered into her power in ignorance, and their unschooled kinglets squandered her ancient gift. She had a debt to pay; and if from time to time she grumbled over her own long-ago choice, she did not excuse herself. Uralia’s children were not served by this untidy feuding.
Once again she breathed upon her mirror. This time it showed a darkened man-hall, of imperial fashion, polished and elegant. Presently it also showed a rumpled brown robe bearing a stout, sleepy figure. Marennin bent her one eye upon it darkly.
You become like them.
I am like them, the figure retorted over a chuckle.
Marennin ignored this. I want.
Of course. You are the very incarnation of Desire. Perceiving that he had amused her, he bowed. What, then?