The Divided Knight - Epilogue

Summer had come at last to Telvany. Normally, this was Garrold's favorite part of the year, full of festivals, tournaments, and many other reasons besides for him not to spend the majority of his time holed up inside the walls of Valewind. This year was different, however. No longer was Garrold just a duke – he had named himself Magister of a reborn Torvaran Empire, meaning he was now in open rebellion to a kingdom his family had served faithfully for more than three hundred years, a kingdom that, if everything worked the way he hoped, would soon become part of the lands under his rule. Garrold still didn't know what to think about all of that – or what to think about the revelation that he was a mage, and a powerful one, at that – and the crown Wilem had presented him with earlier, today, wasn't helping.

The crown, which, right now, sat on the mantle above the hearth in Garrold's study, was made entirely of a crystal that Wilem claimed was unbreakable. The Order of Catharzen had had the crown in its possession since the fall of the Old Empire, protecting and preserving it in the hopes that, one day, it might again be worn. It was called the Shining Circlet and, according to Wilem, would provide Garrold with a focus for his powers when worn. Garrold knew he needed that focus – without training, and without the use of spells as a buffer, the wild magic he commanded would, one day, consume him unless he had some kind of secondary focus – but putting the crown on also meant that everything he'd started would become more or less permanent. Garrold wasn't sure he was ready for that to happen, yet. He wasn't sure he would ever be ready. Father didn't start out wanting to be Duke, Garrold reminded himself. He made a good one, though. Who's to say I won't make a good Magister?

“It's intimidating, isn't it?”

With a start, Garrold turned away from the hearth. A tall man, dressed from head to toe in black, with a longsword strapped to his back and radiating an almost overwhelming sense of magic, stood where no one had been just a moment before. At once, Garrold knew who the man was – hadn't he been sensing his presence in the world for days, after all? – but he still found himself wanting to deny his existence. The Nightslayer was just a legend. Legends weren't supposed to just walk out of the stories they were in and start talking.

“I don't think we've met,” Garrold said.

The Nightslayer smiled. “We have, now.” He grew more serious. “Thaddeus Alvarem at your service, Your Grace.”

Garrold raised his eyebrows. “At my service?”

“Yes, Your Grace. The Nightslayers have only ever served, and I pledge my service to yours. I will help you in any way I can.”

“I'm grateful,” Garrold said, and while still a bit unsettled to be speaking to a creature of legend, sincerely meant it. Having the aid of the Nightslayer might even mean Garrold didn't have to do anything, at all. That would make things too easy, though. I'm sure there are things he can't, or won't be able, to do for me. “Can you fight my war for me?”

Thaddeus smiled and bowed his head. “Unfortunately, Your Grace, I can't.” He looked back up. “I can, however, help you win it.”

“How?”

“While you fight King Lyrian and the Order of the Crimson Serpent, I will fight their masters. Fighting them – keeping their attention on me – will make your war that much easier. It will also keep you from losing it before it's even begun.”

“Who are their masters?”

“I think you know, Your Grace. I think you can sense them the same way that I do.”

“The Demon Lords?”

“Yes.”

“Gods Above,” Garrold breathed. He looked at the Nightslayer. “Can you fight them?”

“I am a Nightslayer. I must.”

“But you'll be alone.”

“Just because I am alone, now, doesn't mean I always will be.”

“Who will help you?”

“People I trust,” the Nightslayer said, eyes fixed on Garrold. “People I love, even. And, perhaps, even some people I have yet to meet.” He gestured at the mantle. “Put the crown on, Your Grace. I think you will find that, intimidating as it is, it suits you.”

And with that, the Nightslayer vanished.

Garrold turned back to the hearth, eyeing the crystal crown on the mantle. Reaching out with his magic, he lifted it off the mantle and guided it into his hands. It was warm to the touch – pleasantly so – and, as Garrold watched, started to glow with a faint, violet light. He placed it on his head, and, when he did, it felt like it had been made for him, like it had always been meant for his head, and his head alone. All at once, Garrold's worries about the path before him vanished. He was Magister. Now, all that was left was to take back that which was his. To remake that which was destroyed. For you, Resey. For you, my love.