King Victor Garon wandered the castle, deftly keeping his balance when the earth heaved. “Diaena! My love, where are you?” The edge of his pale gray cloak trailed through blood as he stepped across the body of a woman, her golden-haired beauty marred by the horror of her last moments, her still-open eyes frozen in disbelief. “Where are you, my wife? Where is everyone hiding?”

His eyes caught his own reflection in a mirror hanging askew from bubbled marble. His clothes had been regal once, in gray and scarlet and gold; now the finely-woven cloth, brought by merchants from across the sea, was torn and dirty, thick with the same dust that covered his hair and skin. For a moment he fingered the symbol on his cloak, a circle half white and half red, the colors separated by a sword. It meant something, that symbol. But the embroidered circle could not hold his attention long. He gazed at his own image with as much wonder. A tall man just into his middle years, handsome once, but now with hair already more white than brown and a face lined by strain and worry, dark eyes that had seen too much. Victor Garon began to chuckle, then threw back his head; his laughter echoed down the lifeless halls.

“Diaena, my love! Come to me, my wife. You must see this.”

Behind him the air rippled, shimmered, solidified into a man who looked around, his mouth twisting briefly with distaste. Not so tall as Victor, he was clothed all in black, save for the snow-white lace at his throat and the silverwork on the turned-down tops of his thigh-high boots. He stepped carefully, handling his cloak fastidiously to avoid brushing the dead. The floor trembled with aftershocks, but his attention was fixed on the man staring into the mirror and laughing.

“Look at what you have done,” he said, clucking his tongue.

The laughter cut off as if it had never been, and Victor Garon turned, seeming unsurprised. “Ah, a guest. Have you the Voice, stranger? It will soon be time for the Singing, and here all are welcome to take part. Diaena, my love, we have a guest. Diaena, where are you?”

The black-clad man’s eyes widened, darted to the body of the golden-haired woman, then back to Victor. “Are you mad? Do you not realize what you have done?”

Victor waved his hand dismissively...

“What do you remember? Remember, you Light-blinded idiot! I will not let it end with you swaddled in unawareness! Remember!”

For a moment Victor stared at his raised hand, fascinated by the patterns of grime. Then he wiped his hand on his even dirtier coat and turned his attention back to the other man. “Who are you? What do you want?”

The black-clad man drew himself up arrogantly. “I am the darkness of this world..."

“Ba`athael.” It was a whisper from Victor. Memory stirred, but he turned his head, shying away from it.

“So you do remember some things. Yes, Ba`athael. So have men named me, What will you do with your name? After this day, men will call you Kinslayer. What will you do with that?”

Victor Garon frowned down the ruined hall. “Diaena should be here to offer a guest welcome,” he murmured absently, then raised his voice. “Diaena, where are you?” The floor shook; the golden-haired woman’s body shifted as if in answer to his call. His eyes did not see her.

Ba`athael grimaced. “Look at you,” he said scornfully. “Once you stood among the servants. Once you wore the Ring of Laedin, and sat in the High Seat of Szeretem. Now look at you! A pitiful, shattered wretch.”

“I cannot imagine what is keeping Diaena. She will give me the rough side of her tongue if she thinks I have been hiding a guest from her. I hope you enjoy conversation, for she surely does. Be forewarned. Diaena will ask you so many questions you may end up telling her everything you know.”

Tossing back his black cloak, Ba`athael flexed his hands. “A pity for you,” he mused. His sudden smile was cruel. He extended his hands, and the light dimmed as if a shadow had been laid across the sun. "You will remember Victor Garon..."

Pain blazed in Victor, and he screamed, a scream that came from his depths, a scream he could not stop. Fire seared his marrow; acid rushed along his veins. He toppled backwards, crashing to the marble floor; his head struck the stone and rebounded. His heart pounded, trying to beat its way out of his chest, and every pulse gushed new flame through him. Helplessly he convulsed, thrashing, his skull a sphere of purest agony on the point of bursting. His hoarse screams reverberated through the palace.

Slowly, ever so slowly, the pain receded. The outflowing seemed to take a thousand years and left him twitching weakly, sucking breath through a raw throat. Another thousand years seemed to pass before he could manage to heave himself over, muscles like jellyfish, and shakily push himself up on hands and knees. His eyes fell on the golden-haired woman, and the scream that was ripped out of him dwarfed every sound he had made before. Tottering, almost falling, he scrabbled brokenly across the floor to her. It took every bit of his strength to pull her up into his arms. His hands shook as he smoothed her hair back from her staring face.

“Diaena! Light help me, Diaena!” His body curved around hers protectively, his sobs the full-throated cries of a man who had nothing left to live for. “Diaena, no! No!”

“You can have her back, Kinslayer. I can make her live again, if you will serve me.”

Carefully Victor laid Diaena down, fingers gently brushing her hair. Tears blurred his vision as he stood, but his voice was iced iron: “Ba`athael,for Diaena’s death I will destroy you. Prepare to—”

“Remember, you fool! Remember your futile attack on Szeretem! Remember the counterstroke! Remember! What hand slew Diaena Sunhair, Kinslayer? Not mine. Not mine. What hand struck down every life that bore a drop of your blood, everyone who loved you, everyone you loved? Not mine, Kinslayer. Not mine. Remember, and know the price of opposing the gods!”

Sudden sweat made tracks down Victor Garon’s face through the dust and dirt. He remembered, a cloudy memory like a dream of a dream, but he knew it true.

His howl beat at the walls, the howl of a man who had discovered his soul damned by his own hand, and he clawed at his face as if to tear away the sight of what he had done. Everywhere he looked his eyes found the dead. Torn they were, or broken or burned, or half-consumed by stone. Everywhere lay lifeless faces he knew, faces he loved. Old servants and friends of his childhood, faithful companions through the long years of battle. And his children. His own sons and daughters, sprawled like broken dolls, play stilled forever. All slain by his hand. His children’s faces accused him, blank eyes asking why, and his tears were no answer. Ba`athael’s laughter flogged him, drowned out his howls.

"Serve me Victor, and you will no longer feel pain, and you can have what is yours again..." Ba`athael spoke, his eyes gleaming in the flames of the crumbling castle.

He didn't wish to feel pain anymore. He nodded slowly.

"Excellent..." Ba`athael laughed darkly.