Mareth breathed out a deep, exasperated sigh, filled with all the care and frustration of his duties as the young Prince's teacher. "How many times must I tell you, my very young friend? Theo you cannot be too careful in choosing your words. Every word, in its most exact meaning must be considered. The denotation is not enough. The connotations too must be given sway in your mind as you select words that will sunder and shape the world. Poetry is not purely a smattering of pretty words, nor is it so crass and complex as to require a perfect science. It is balance, delicate as an envased rose in its beauty and fragility. One cannot be too careful, can never be too careful, in choosing one's words."

  #

  King Theon strode through his dream-memory as if reliving it from without, his older eyes fixed on a younger self in a lesson with the Timedodger.

  #

  "Yet you pester on, Seer, on and on. How much heed do you give to your words?" young Theo said.

  "A teacher cannot be so meticulous in his words as he would wish to be, young Prince. It is the cost of the profession that one must prate in multitudes in the vain hope that foolish young men and women, yes even foolish princes who are soon to be kings, might catch a word or turn of phrase that breaks through the thick mist of their own ignorance and shines a pinhole of enlightened light into their otherwise void little minds." As he said this, Mareth drew up his staff and gave a gentle stab into the Prince's forehead, agitating the boy, and then continued, "If I spoke to you in a princely fashion you would learn nothing but to esteem yourself higher than you ought."

  "I am sorry, Mareth. It seems you do have some wisdom in you." The sly grin on the young man's face betrayed his pretension to cunning.

  "Oh?" said the ancient man, his eyebrow raised in tell-tale expression of perfect skepticism.

  "Yes, yes. You do prate on terribly."

  Mareth huffed, "I won't dignify your rudeness with its typical course. Come back to our practice. Sculpt the stone."

  A long sigh was young Theon IV's only response, next in the line of Song Lords, Kings of Shir. On the long table rested a series of materials. On the eastern end was a bowl of water, then some softened clay mixed with mud, then a lump of talc. Next there sat a stone of granite followed by a bar of gold, a bar of iron, and an ingot of steel. Then came obsidian crystal followed by emerald, sapphire, ruby, and, finally, diamond. The boy stared down at the table, gazing at the crystals on the far end while Mareth let his expression wander as was his way. With renewed hopefulness, the king-to-be looked at the stone in front of him. He placed his hands on it as if it were fragile, closed his eyes, and exhaled.

  Yield this weak stone to my soul empowered

  Enlivened by the blood of kings and gods.

  Yield and be remade, be reborn anew

  As a great knight armoured as the Kingsguard

  Beneath his hands the stone shifted and flexed, shuttering as if life were in it. The young Prince opened his eyes to watch the expected transformation, but, as he did so, he saw the mass begin to melt away into a viscous lump.

  Mareth simply shook his head. "What mistakes did you make this time?"

  The young Prince couldn't help the frustration from rising red to his face and setting a fatal fury in his eyes. "The words. What was wrong with the words? Surely that is all... just words. This is hopeless." The young man tried to leave but felt his limbs seized.

  "Not just yet, Theo." Mareth's voice was stern. "Before you can leave you must know what you have accomplished and what you have yet to accomplish. Since you are in such a foul mood, I suppose I will lay down my prating and speak plainly. Your words were almost perfect, save one - reborn. You are working with stone that has never felt the breath of life. It cannot experience a rebirth before it first experiences a birth. Furthermore, you did not maintain the image. What are the three elements of the Spellverse?"

  The boy spoke the words as if they had no meaning. "The verse, the image, and the soul."

  "Good, and what are the elements of the second: the image?"

  Biting his lip, the boy turned his head, his body still heavy under the spell of Mareth's professorial will. "The image is held in the mind. It is a picture of what the mishorer wants the world to be. It is the intention and invention that the words of the verse are meant to describe. A firmer image can overcome careless words in the verse, but the greatest power comes when the two are in harmony."

  "Marvelous, Theo. You have been paying attention. Here I thought we'd been going on in vain. Your temper and rudeness do you no credit. You have the gift of one out of every one-hundred thousand in this world, and in more abundance than any other currently living, save your father. You cannot afford to squander it."

  "Can I go now? Blademaster Zimossa is meant to train me more on the sword today."

  "Not yet. You must expound upon the soul. Look at that puddle and tell me what you have accomplished today."

  "Nothing, Mareth, I accomplished nothing. I couldn't sculpt the stone. I couldn't even give it the slightest semblance of what I wanted it to be. You keep telling me my power will be great, but my soul isn't even unyielding enough to shape stone much less metal or gems or adamantine like my forefathers. I am either a disgrace to this power or you lie when you tell me I have it. Please let me go to the sword. There I can learn." The boy's face had fallen, his frustration and anger crumbling into pride-wounded grief.

  Mareth stepped forward, and with a wave of his hand the boy felt the weight slip from him. Just before he could dart away Mareth laid a bony hand on his shoulder, more lovingly than Theo thought the old man capable of. "Describe the element of the soul, Theon." The old man put his arm around the boy and pointed at the amorphous mass on the table.

  "The soul provides the force. A soul can only affect that which it is more unyielding than, what it is firmer than. To affect diamond one's soul must be more unyielding than diamond. To affect a stone one's soul must be..." a dawn of recognition rose in his eyes.

  "There it is, Theo. Go on." Mareth said.

  "The soul! It melted the stone. The soul!" The boy said pointing and looking back at Mareth with unabashed joy, "My soul!” The boy stood tall and beamed as he finished. “Is stronger than stone."

  "Indeed it is, young Prince. Do not be discouraged. You've greater things in you than you realize, as do most. Now, off to Zimossa with you. Be back here tomorrow at noon to continue your training."

  As the boy sauntered away with the pep of newborn confidence, Mareth shook his head, pride smiling through perpetual sadness.

  #

  The King awoke, the dream still vivid, his memories of youth sharp as broken glass cutting against Mareth's more recent explanations. Another lecture, another lesson. When will they be done?

  Theon IV lay abed, the joy of his childhood a counterpoint to his encounter with the supernatural vision of devouring darkness in the throne room. Fever had taken his otherwise powerful frame and reduced his normal vigor to naught. Neither food nor drink enticed him in the least. He lay for nearly two days in that stupor while obsessing over the vision he had seen and the warning task he was given. He had only once before felt so helpless as he did standing in the presence of darkness personified and wondered if it were Death himself who had given so clear a prophetic glimpse.

  He did not deign to speak. There was something hateful about breaking the silence that had attended him like a lover over the past two days. He wanted calm to grow, not vanish at the crack of words spoken. Beseech her in silence. Mareth's words drilled into the King's mind, and he began to heed them even as the toil of sickness wracked his body. The words of the poem matter. He learned that as a boy. So, these words must be important. Elusive to men. What was it of age and manliness that drove away wisdom and her power? By child may be sought. The innocent graces of a child so pure and without the bitter poison of pretension or self-doubt must hold some secrets to wisdom, but the King had long lost his child-like wonder. Perhaps he never had it, the memories of his own training revealed long-hidden scars. Now, he had a vast empire to rule and could not do so with the naivety of a boy. He must be cunning, sometimes cruel, often merciful, but never na?ve. Ev'ry suffering brings you closer to her. Children do not suffer over much, so where is the balance then that illuminates the path to Wisdom? Balance, Balance, Balance, Balance. The word began to drum his brain, a strange, methodic union of thought, but he still did not comprehend. All he knew was that as the silence lengthened, his thoughts grew more lucid. He longed to never leave its embrace.

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  BANG! BANG! came a cacophonous knock at his chamber door made ever louder by the two days he had spent in seclusion of quiet thought. "Sire, there is a messenger here to see you. He claims to have news of vital importance for 'the King's eyes only.'" The castle steward, Itaru, made his plea with a far greater volume than the King thought necessary, as if he were screaming across the full courtyard of the keep not simply speaking through a few measly fingers' widths of mahogany. The King sat for some seconds, letting the silence spread afresh, trying to ignore the man at his door.

  The Steward hollered again, "Sire! The man is stained with blood and looks to be battle-worn!"

  The King rose from the silks and linens of his bed and strode to the door stark naked, flipped the lock and swung the door open hitting his steward right in the side of his face and body and knocking him squarely on his bony rump. Blood began to flow from the steward's nostril as he tried to compose himself. The King towered over Itaru, a weasel of a man with a hunchback and far too many warts for anyone to ever call him comely. Initially, in his impatience the King did not realize the blow he had struck. Roughly, but not without compassion, the nude King took the Steward by the shoulders and hoisted him up to his feet, looked him dead in the eyes, and said in a whisper, almost playfully, "Where is this messenger?"

  The Steward stared in shock at his naked liege lord. The King's skin was of a deep copper tone, as were all the Kings of Shir before him, and his eyes were a striking platinum colour. His head was covered in bristles of dark red hair, cut short, almost to a shave. On his jaw was a beard of crimson, a bit wild, and of medium length. The King's height was just above the average man, but his build was as hard-hewn stone like the statues of great heroes which lined the courtyards. Years in peace had left his skin without mark or blemish or scar, but he refused to allow himself to become complacent in his physical prowess even with the rigors of lordship.

  The Steward was so dumbstruck by his King's inappropriate lack of garb that he failed to answer the question and gawked while the King awaited a response. After too long a time, the King hastened into his chamber, threw on a long silver robe with a lion embroidered across the back, swung a wide belt about his waist, donned his sword and stepped by the still-enamored steward towards the throne room, expecting that any messenger would surely be there. He strode through the broad corridors of his castle as the setting sun cascaded through small windows on his right. He made a quick left turn and descended the spiral staircase that led away from Shir's Overlook where his chamber, library, and personal armoury were located, and towards the Great Hall.

  Upon entering the throne room, the King saw a plain young man standing calmly with his hands folded. The only thing that made him seem intriguing was the visible evidence that he had taken part in a battle. His hair was matted and knotted, his boots stained the deep, dark burgundy of dried blood. His hauberk and tunic were torn and life-stained. Only his sword and scabbard showed no signs of wear, betrayed no discolouration or marks that might show them to have been employed in combat. The saya was ivory, and the hilt was wrapped with fine white silk that made a diamond pattern over thin, jet-black leather. The guard was a six-pointed star enclosed in a circle and appeared to be made of pure ivory to match the scabbard. Where the hilt and sheathe met was a thin ring of obsidian. The sword's beauty held the King's gaze in morbid fascination as he noted every detail. The blade in his own scabbard sang and writhed with excitement as the King approached the Swordsman. The King often thought it strange that he could feel emotions from his adamant sword, but at times like this it gave him insight that he would not otherwise have. His own blade, Peacebringer, knew this sword, and emanated the excitement of the reunion of long-lost friends.

  The Swordsman did not move as the King entered the hall. Only his eyes followed as the distance between them closed slowly. His sword quivered and hummed in its sheath, an expected occurrence that bore the brotherhood of all swords forged of Adamantine. He eyed the King with a searching and perceptive eye, hoping that this message, whatever it was, would fall upon ears that would hear and a mind open to take the proper actions. When the King entered ten paces, the Swordsman kneeled.

  So this is the King of Shir. The Swordsman pondered as he rose, bidden by the King to do so.

  The Swordsman's voice was measured as he presented a small parchment sealed with wax bearing an ornate eight-pointed star. "Sire, I have traveled far and fast to reach you with a message from the head of my order."

  The King tore off the seal and began to read to himself, mumbling as he went.

  From The Knight-Commander of The Order of Adamant to His Grace, Mishorer-Rex, Theon of the Ruby Soul, Fourth of His Name, Emperor of the Realms,

  May you live long under the refuge of the Author of Life and bear true faith to His Holy Name. Elohei Shir be praised and exalted!

  Long ago, under the command of King Telopali the First, our order was formed as the most elite of fighting forces to engage in quests in protection of the King and Kingdom that no other could bear. Chaos, in all of its myriad forms, we battled from near the dawn of this age and have done so even when our names and deeds have been stricken from the histories. You may have let the memory of our order fade, Sire, but our oaths still pledge us to you and your throne, and this letter serves as reminder of that pledge that we may once more aid you in any way you see fit.

  I received in a vision a message of a great darkness to come, of the fall of the nation by fire and darkness and a task to seek out onewho could aid us. I am led to believe, Sire, that you have received the same vision.

  Sire, the swordsman who delivered you this message is but one of my knights, a man of unsurpassed prowess with a blade and a keen intellect for advising on any and all matters of importance. Take this swordsman for now, as pledge of our commitment to combatting this evil. I ask that you test him, and, if wisdom dictates, that you place him on your council and take him into your trust.

  With Fealty, Respect, and Love,

  The Knight-Commander, Order of Adamant

  The King’s voice was laced with skepticism. "Swordsman, do you know the message that you carried to me?"

  "No, Sire, I was bidden to carry it here in great haste as if my very life and the sake of the realm depended upon my swift arrival, nothing more."

  "Are you not trusted with such knowledge, Swordsman? I find any man suspect who will not give me his name upon our first meeting."

  "Sire, my order was placed in disrepute nearly 500 years ago, when one of your ancestors was allowed to be assassinated under our watch by..."

  The King interrupted, "Yes, yes, I know the history swordsman, of the Order of Adamant who failed to defend the King they swore to die for. I know the true history as well." The King paused momentarily as if caught in a dreadful memory, and then continued, "It does not explain why you have not given me your name, Sir, if you are even a 'sir' at all." The King made a marked emphasis.

  "My liege," the swordsman bowed lower as his tone shifted to one of utmost respect, "when I became a Knight of Adamant I cast aside my name and was only known as "Knight" or "Swordsman" until such time as the King himself would grant me a new name. You see, Sire, I have not given you my name, because it is yours to give. My name, my very life, belongs to you."

  The King stood in silent reverence for a moment for this young man. "To give up a name is not a simple thing." He mused aloud, "Nor to give one.” A long pause interposed between the two before the King responded. “This letter bids me take you into my confidence and place you on my council. Do you believe yourself worthy of such an honor?"

  "Worthy? No, Sire, but skilled enough to be so, I am sure I am.”

  "You are quite young to hold so firm a claim to wisdom aren't you, boy?" poetry echoed in the King's mind "certainly no man is wise without his share of winters."

  The Swordsman recognized the beginning of a test. "Truly said, My King, but some winters bite more deeply than others."

  "Indeed, young sir, for now I freely grant you the title of 'sir' after such a reply. Yet time, I hold, is the greatest of teachers."

  "Sire, if I may, time in what condition spent? A man, of ancient years, who lived in naught but peaceful, untrying days could not hope to gain much wisdom in his pleasure." Memories swarmed the King as the young man went on. "Days and years spent in wretched toil, suffering, hardship, and anguish are the greatest progenitors of wisdom. Is it not so?"

  The King was struck by the boy's adherence to Mareth's poem and continued. "Yet, strife comes unto all men, in many forms no doubt, so only time creates the difference."

  "Truly, Sire, strife burdens all. Yet the measure of that burden, if greater, may speed the growth of wisdom just as training with a heavier blade will speed the growth of strength. Though not always skill."

  The King pondered all that had been said, the letter, and the young man's strange, unnerving calm that permeated all that he seemed to be. Without wanting to, he trusted the boy, and as he continued to muse a great grin spread across his face. "Well spoken, sir. I would be delighted if you would add your voice to my council. As to your name, that is a more difficult burden. Would you wait a while longer? For now, you remain the Swordsman, and you possess the gift of Shir too if I am not mistaken?" The King knew he had judged the young man's talents rightly at the Swordsman's clenching of a worried fist. A mishorer indeed. Intriguing.

  The King let the silence swell before continuing, "But we will address all that later. First, where is the hospitality of my hall? I will call for some servants to set a bath for you and make up a chamber. In the meantime, I will not keep you from my table, I am sure you are stricken with hunger, and while we dine you can regale me with tales of the battles you have fought to come to me."

  The Swordsman kneeled again, grateful but filled with an eerie unrest that he could not place. He gazed down in contemplation and whispered to the marble floor, "As you wish, Sire."