AUTHOR'S NOTES: This is not a final draft. The story is still very much a work in progress, though it will be a very long time before I revise it -- not at least until I finish it. As such, please make any comment you feel will be useful and contribute to my making this work the very best it can be. When at last I come to make the final revisions, I will take all of your comments to heart. Thank you for reading.

This story will use many different languages throughout. I will strive to give translations for the non-English terms, which will appear at the bottom of each chapter. Note also that I speak English as a first language, and am learning Japanese, but anything else is beyond the realm of my expertise. If you have any knowledge in a language I use, and I have made a mistake, please correct me without delay.

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HERALD OF THE DUSK
BOOK ONE:
BLOOD OF THE KING

Prologue: Dawn

Dawn broke in the west, the horizon lighting up in a flare of red and gold, the ocean sparkling with motes of brilliant light. Far in the east, however, the sky still held its midnight shade, a receding curtain through which the stars still glittered in their constellations. There could be discerned Lyr the Song-Bringer; Estr and Zephe, the Twins; even Kai of the North Wind, though his great bow was obscured at this hour.

A sea breeze stirred, blowing in towards the mainland, across the verdant hills, through pastures and crops. It carried the tang of salt all the way to the white city, Tarthae, its shining walls blinding in the glory of the morning. It gusted around the domes and spires, across the streets and pavilions, towards the great palace arising in its centre, unfolding like the petals of a flower. Up the great steps it rose, through the grand colonnades and arches, higher and higher, to the very pinnacle of the palace: the loftiest height in the city, and for many miles around it. From here, everything was revealed. From here, the kings of the Ilien had ruled for a thousand years. From here, no plot or falsehood could go undiscerned. No truth could escape the king.

Into the throne-room, the breeze blew. Its interior was grand, and yet simple; the lines were all plainly curved, without carving or embellishment. The ceiling was vaulted, rising in a tremendous arch above the throne dais. The throne was a beautifully curved, aesthetic thing, white and inlaid with platinum and diamonds. But the room’s grandest adornment was the mural that covered the throne-wall, subtly crafted to direct supplicants’ eyes towards the king. The mural depicted the struggles of Ilantar Telthurin, founder of this elven nation, who was now apotheothenai and watched over them all from the heavens.

Falzaer sat upon the front of the dais, head in hands. He dared not approach the throne itself; already it judged him as usurper, and he felt a dread weight upon him even as close as this. It was suffocating … maddening. Why did it deny him? He was a Telthurin, of pure blood. This was his throne now, surely? For there was no other king but him, no other who could assume that mantle with any sense of justice. Then why? Why?

He raised his face, and his hands were stained in blood. “Why, brother?”

Latharas’ body, even bloody and broken, was magnificent in its repose. There was such a sense of peace in his countenance: the closed eyes, the slight smile. He lay so calmly that he might have been sleeping, save for the mortal wounds that his life’s blood still flowed out from. His fine, long platinum hair was splayed out on the marble floor behind his head; his fair, radiant skin was cut and bruised; his pearl-coloured morning robe torn and soiled; and his eyes, the perfect, clear pale blue of ice, were dull and glassy behind their lids. No, Latharas would not move anymore, not ever again. A dead man cannot be king.

Fighting the crushing weight that sought to bear him down, Falzaer struggled to his feet, and wearily descended the steps of the dais. That enchantment was an ancient one; it was the weight of life, the weight of responsibility, and he was not fit to withstand it. As he drew away from the throne, its power over him loosened until at last he could stand upright, to gaze in scorn upon his brother’s corpse. The man truly had been insane. He had long divined his fate in the stars, knew Falzaer would come for him, and yet did nothing. He had thought so lightly of his own death, that he had faced it laughing. What foolishness.

“You think yourself so grand.”

Falzaer could still hear his arrogant words; still feel the bite of his mockery.

“But you are no king, little brother.”

But Falzaer had brought many soldiers, and Latharas was escorted by few. The first to fall had been the priests, performing the pre-dawn ritual of the king’s ascent, dead with arrows in their throats. And then the king’s guards, brightly mailed, had leapt to his defence, their swords a blur of steel, and their eyes burning with righteous indignation. They fought magnificently, but in the end they would all die. There was no victory against the hand of fate.

“Come, fallen subjects!” Latharas had jeered. “Face your king with bared steel! Follow me in step of the dance of death!”

And robed only in his morning gown, he drew out his fine, terrible blade, and became Death: the very incarnation of his forefather, the War Dancer, warrior peerless. Shining with the seeming of immortal-kind, as the risen ghost of Ilantar Himself, he had scattered the young and proud warriors, had cut them down to the last even as they drove steel blades through his side, or with horror etched into their faces begged their lord for mercy. So this bloody and ruinous spectre had faced Falzaer, though even then the life was leaving him.

Solemnly he had raised his voice, to quote some parable in clear tones: “And his kin shall despise him and cast him out, and he shall wander all the surface of the earth, and find no place in it. And surely he shall perish then, and Death will walk in his guise; and all he touches will be brought to ruin, and he will revel in it.”

Falzaer shuddered at the memory. That prophecy was an ancient and accursed one, though Latharas had merely mirrored and not fulfilled it.

And when Latharas had next spoken, there had been such a hollow emptiness in his eyes that Falzaer could have howled for sorrow. “Come, brother,” he muttered, leaning then on his blade as though it were a staff; his strength was fast depleting. “Will you still fulfil your ambition?”

At first, stunned by the bloodshed, Falzaer had stood and done nothing, his dry tongue failing to articulate even the simplest rebuke. Had the gruesome wraith standing before him, stained with the deaths of a score of soldiers, really been his brother? Latharas was always a good man and a fine king, but this was an atrocity.

Falzaer had long chafed under the fact that, as a second son, his only birthright was to serve—and had resolved ardently to supplant his brother and satisfy his own dreams of grandeur. But at that moment, he had felt his body quaking at the vision of horror visited upon him. Could he really strike this apparition down? As a mortal, could he triumph over one who had the gifts of a god?

But then gore had trailed down Latharas’ chin, and his breathing had become ragged gasps; his knees had given out and he had collapsed, sprawling on all fours, his keen blade fallen by his side. No, this was no deathless being, no scion of archons. Latharas was mortal as well, and at the end of his coil.

“Look at yourself,” Falzaer had gloated. “Already Haur comes to claim your last breath. Do you enjoy drowning in the blood you have spilled?”

“My son will avenge me,” Latharas had gasped, coughing, spattering red across the smooth stone floor beneath him.

Filled with a mad, triumphant glee, Falzaer had laughed; the coup d’état had been perfect and absolute. “Do you take me for a fool?” he had snarled, drawing his face close to Latharas’ and locking his gaze. “Your son is about to follow you. My soldiers are poised to slay him any moment.”

Latharas’ eyes had burned with sudden fury, and in an instant he had wrapped his hands about Falzaer’s throat, desperately choking the life out of his brother with his last dying strength. They struggled together, and for a moment it seemed like Latharas might have his vengeance; but then he had cried out, his eyes grew wide and staring, and his grip slackened.

Staggering to his feet, Falzaer had planted one boot squarely on his brother’s chest and kicked his now lifeless body to the ground, drawing his long blade out from where it had pierced through Latharas’ heart. And then, his task complete, he had cast aside the weapon and turned to ascend the dais.

Yet he was rejected; his brother’s last, parting defiance. How infuriating, that the man continued to resist him even past the threshold of death.

A presence at the entryway disturbed his reverie, and Falzaer glanced up to see Elidan, his lieutenant, resting against the brassbound double-doors that led into the throne room. The tall, slender man removed his golden helm with one mailed hand, swept back his pale hair and regarded his lord with cool blue eyes.

“Is it done?” Falzaer inquired gruffly, without raising his face.

“The prince-heir is not within the palace, my lord,” Elidan replied simply, without emotion. “We have gleaned that Latharas foreknew your coup, and sent his son away in the care of his maids.”

Fury gripped Falzaer, contorting his handsome face into a snarling grimace. “Is that all?”

“Yes, Lord Falzaer,” Elidan responded, bowing. “That is all. Unless you have further instructions?”

“No,” he said slowly, still not looking up or moving from where he stood, and barely suppressing his growing rage. “You may leave. Close the doors.”

He waited, patiently, until he heard the dull resounding that signified the doors were shut. Carefully, he stooped to grasp the sword he had earlier discarded, and swung it for a moment, from side to side, lazily in his hand, until it came to rest on Latharas’ cold chest.

His brother had known everything, all along. Known, and yet done nothing to save his own life. Known, and still defied him in the most insulting manner.

“You still defy me, brother,” Falzaer hissed, losing gradually his composure, even his will to resist the torrid, tumultuous hate and fury possessing him. He began to trace the tip of the blade about across Latharas’ chest. “How many times?” he muttered, now piercing the bloodless skin with swift, razor-strokes. “How long will you continue?”

Stabbing viciously through the lifeless flesh, he raised his voice. “How long will you continue to defy me, brother?” he cried out, raising the blade higher, stabbing again and again, faster and more furious. “How many times must I kill you?” he roared to the empty hall. “How many times must you die before your memory vanishes? Latharas! Answer me!”

He sank to his knees, panting, resting heavily upon the blade now thrust through his brother’s sternum. The corpse’s eyes had opened, and it seemed to gaze at him reproachfully, scornfully. Mockingly.

In a fit of spite, Falzaer swept a dirk out from his belt and stabbed out Latharas’ staring, judging eyes. “You sicken me,” he panted. “Just die! Die and vanish from this world!”

“Dear me,” spoke a condescending voice from behind him. “Are you feeling unwell, King Falzaer?” The emphasis placed on the title made it sound worthless and petty.

Rising, Falzaer turned to face the other man. He was dressed in black finery, embroidered heavily in silver thread, in fantastical scenes—so heavily embroidered, that it seemed more silver than black. In one black-gloved hand, he held a short length of ebony rod, of iron or some other metal, capped in silver, with an astoundingly large emerald to crown one end. His soft, curled hair and neatly trimmed goatee were raven, and his features unmistakeably human. He gazed down at Falzaer with unfeeling green eyes, from where he sat astride the throne of the Ilien.

“A quaint little seat,” the man remarked as if to no one in particular, “though I suppose it serves your kind well enough.”

Falzaer twitched in irritation. “Irubles,” he uttered in a tone that bespake his anger, “what are you doing here?”

“Here?” the immortal replied. “I am sitting. But if you mean to inquire, why have I deigned to visit you in person, the reason is twofold.”

He paused, and Falzaer began to think he would not elaborate without being prompted. “That being?” he finally asked in exasperation, and clenched his fists when he noticed Irubles’ patronizing smile of recognition.

“Firstly, to congratulate you,” he said as though it were the most obvious conclusion, that even a child would not mistake. “And secondly, to remind you of our arrangement.” Here his gaze hardened, and Falzaer was forced to suppress a spasm of fear. “You were supposed to eradicate that man’s line. Why did you allow his son to go free?” He paused again, scrutinising Falzaer carefully. “Well, no matter,” he went on after a long, painful moment. “You have a good many years to remedy it.”

“You still have not told me why,” Falzaer muttered irritably.

“Do I need a reason?” Irubles responded. “But even if you do not consider my motives, surely you understand that it will cause you problems if the legitimate heir remains alive?”

That was true. Still, despite the aid Irubles had rendered him, Falzaer knew the man was untrustworthy; there was something not quite right about his attitude. “You needn’t lecture me on that,” he replied offhand. “But I am still interested in your reasons. I am sure you’re not acting out of any concern for myself.”

Irubles leaned forward. “You wish to know?” he murmured with apparent interest.

“I do,” Falzaer acquiesced softly, finding himself unable to look away from the immortal’s gaze.

“What a shame,” he condescended, his mouth twisting into a cruel, sardonic smirk. “But I wouldn’t dwell on it overmuch. You wouldn’t want to lose your sanity now, would you?”

And with that, he was gone.

Falzaer looked down at the blood on his hands. “I’m sorry, brother,” he whispered.

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Apotheothenai: Greek. A mortal who has ascended into the ranks of the deities.