The Prince of Graves Read online

Chapter 9: The Prince of Graves

  The sound of rushing water once again stirred Frey to awakening. Slowly he opened his eyes, but instead of the somber gloom of the world before death he saw great stone walls towering all around him, separated by a brilliant clear blue expanse above. A brown falcon dove out of the sky and disappeared into cracks on the sheer ravine wall some distance away.

  Frey lay motionless, watching the rocky wall and the nearly hidden escarpment where the falcon had tucked away its nest. Gradually he noted the honey brilliance of the sun spreading from the top of the ravine down. As his gaze swept across the crags, he spotted the unnatural gash along the top where once the Watch Keep stood guard. With a painful breath, he struggled into a sitting position and looked around.

  He lay on a bed of coarse sand, not ten paces from the edge of the Lhorost. He looked upriver, on his right, and his heart sank when he saw the remains of the tower of the Watch Keep strewn across the far shore and into the great river. Then he noticed the shapes, the men who lay dashed on the rocks and trapped under the water, shattered and lifeless. The conflict had sent many over the edge, and too many of the corpses wore the armor of Valeot.

  A movement from his left startled him out of his gloom. A thick figure, nearly naked, squatted by the river. Canerion sat quietly, looking into the gurgling waters of the Lhorost as it fled swiftly by. Normally this stretch of river was quite smooth, but the remnants of the Keep rising out of the waters created grim and unnatural rapids. At length the prophet spoke, though he kept his eyes on the river.

  "The magi have been the keepers of knowledge for a millennium," he said, his typically deep voice thin and raspy. "They were never the keepers of wisdom. That should have been my charge, and I failed." He turned to look at Frey. "Forgive me. I failed you."

  Frey looked deeply into the elder's face. The powerful man he had always known looked shriveled and diminished. Haunting his face was something greater than sadness, greater than fear. He made as though to speak but hot pain spiked through his side, stealing his breath. Canerion looked upon him with pity in his eyes.

  "We all failed you," he continued. Frey wheezed.

  "You were wrong, revered one. You can be forgiven." Canerion laughed lightly, tears welling in his eyes.

  "Aye, I was wrong, but not for the better, my lord." He stood and turned to look down river toward Ceremane. The great stone quays that guarded the entrance to the city could be seen where the river widened nearly a mile downstream. Just beyond was the Heavens Walk, the northernmost of the three city bridges that spanned the Lhorost. Freckles of lights highlighted dark outlines of polished marble dragons writhing along the length of the bridge.

  "The end time arrives, my lord, and all of us now stand before coming darkness." Canerion strode over to stand before his prince. Swiftly he knelt.

  "Thy kingdom lies in ruins, thy army is decimated. The people who survived these years of war now face starvation and despair. Surely," he said, gesturing down river toward the ancient city, "the pride of the Remnant Kingdoms is a tomb!" Frey's eyes burned, the pain from his wounds mixing with a sickening rage that shook him.

  "What are you saying, prophet?" he asked, his voice breaking.

  "My lord is the Prince of Graves. And when King Atherion passes, all will bow to you. The kingdoms of men will fade, and the evil from the west will consume us."

  Frey felt his mind ablaze. It seemed the circlet he wore while battling the Xethicor was again searing his head. A flood of anger overwhelmed him, and had he the strength he would have reached out to strike the prophet.

  "Liar!" he rasped. "You've led the king astray, you've led me astray, and now you seek to ensnare me in some witchery. I promised you once, Canerion, that if I lived I would see you dead. By the gods, I repeat that vow now!" The prophet nodded, sadness in his eyes.

  "The prince I knew was always brash, always quick to anger. He was never murderous. My lord, you have changed, but not of your own will. You, me, this kingdom...we are all led down these paths as surely as the river runs its course." Canerion then lifted a staff that lay at his feet. He donned a cloak, and then knelt again before Frey, who struggled to stand.

  "I do not know what parts you and I have to play before the coming doom. Perhaps my role is over, and you will see to it I am burned. But for the moment I ruefully depart your presence, and pray we meet once more as friends before the end."

  Frey staggered as he finally stood upon both feet. Hands balled into fists, he ground his teeth through the agony that coursed through his frame.

  "Prophet!" he gasped, as Canerion nodded his head in reverence before turning to walk away. "I will find you, Canerion! Your lies will die with you!"

  He stood there unable to move. The sun emerged overhead, filling the entire ravine with its brilliance. As the prince watched the prophet vanish into an unseen trail, he turned to look upon the broken remains of the Watch Keep standing in the river. It occurred to him that the gray stone tower looked the part of a great tombstone as it rose at the head of Ceremane the Great. He shook his head, and with despair and wrath settling in his heart, started walking back to what remained of his kingdom.