A LEGACY OF LIGHT

RUNE

   

RUNE

They entered the wide, shadowy hall of Valien's crumbling palace.

Limestone pillars rose in palisades, supporting a vaulted ceiling. Dust, grooves, and holes covered the tiled floor and brick walls. Two lines of braziers crackled, forming a corridor of light. At the end of this corridor, a man sat in a chair, his head lowered and his face shadowed. A sword lay upon his lap; the man stared at it, not looking up.

A silent, dark majesty filled the hall, Rune thought. The kings of Osanna had once ruled from this place, presiding over courts of light and life. This man ahead, Rune thought, seemed a different sort of king--a king of death and darkness. He had no golden throne, only an old wooden chair. He wore no armor, only the garb of a forester. And yet Rune thought: He exudes his own regality, as strong as those true kings who had once sat here.

Rune looked at Kaelyn. She stood at his side, still and silent, but a light seemed to fill her eyes--a light of comfort and hope, hearth light shining at the windows for a weary traveler returning home.

She looked at Rune and a smile touched her lips. She held his hand and guided him forward. They walked across the hall, moving down the palisade of braziers and columns, and approached the shadowy man.

"Valien," Kaelyn said softly. "I've returned."

The man did not look up. He was polishing his sword, Rune saw, moving an oiled rag back and forth along the blade. Rune had a feeling that blade had been polished to perfection hours ago. His own father, when troubled, would polish the Old Wheel's bar over and over for hours, lost in thought. This man was polishing his blade with the same weariness.

Rune could still not see Valien's face, but what he saw of the man spoke of haunting memory, of pain, of a weight too great to bear. Valien's hair was long and untamed, hanging loose about his face; it must have once been a great black mane, but now white streaked it. The man's shoulders, though wide and strong, slumped as if bearing an invisible yoke. Valien's clothes had once been fine, Rune thought; they were made of thick wool and tanned leather. Yet years of age had worn them; the fabrics were now faded into mere memories of lost glory.

Seeing this man, Rune did not know how to feel. Many in Cadport, including his father, would whisper that Valien was a hero, the only man brave enough to stand up to the Cadigus family. Others said that Valien was a ruthless killer, that he had slain many soldiers from Cadport, including Tilla's brother. Standing here today, Rune did not know whether to feel awe, hatred, or fear.

"Lord Valien Eleison," he said softly. "The lost knight of Requiem."

Valien's hands stilled upon the blade. His body tensed. He still did not look up. After what seemed an eternity of silence, Valien snorted.

"Lord Valien Eleison?" he spoke in shadow, and Rune started, for that voice was rough and worn like beaten leather. "I haven't been a lord in many years, boy. And the House Eleison has fallen; I am its last survivor. You may call me Valien now; titles are nothing but a memory of light in darkness."

Rune wasn't sure how to respond to that. The Regime called this man a demon; others call him a hero. Standing here, Rune saw neither. He saw only a tired, broken man, the ghost of somebody who might once have been great.

"Valien," he said. "Just Valien then. And I'm just Rune."

For the first time, Valien looked up... and Rune nearly lost his breath.

He had seen hard faces before. Frey Cadigus, in paintings and statues, bore a face that Rune thought could wilt flowers. Tilla's face, when she was angry, was hard as granite. But this man...