"What sort of foul dealings are these?" Tiuren growled.

King Kohath had been one of the staunchest opponents of unbridled sorcery in these days when magic flowed like water. Beanth herself owed her life to the king. A decade prior, he had driven off a powerful group of Netherese wizards seeking to conquer tiny Vantir, and Beanth's village would have been the first to fall.

Such a threat must have come from a wizard, Tiuren reasoned, but that did little to narrow down the list of suspects. Everyone knew that Kohath's love for his wife knew no bounds. He would do anything for her. Tiuren cursed the fiend who would use such a laudable quality against a man.

"Surely these are lies, or a mischievous trick." Tiuren raved. "The king should just ignore this strange missive until he finds the culprit." He turned back toward the palace doors, but Beanth's quiet words brought him again to a halt.

"Would that he could, good Tiuren." Beanth's voice was as soft as the bard's was hard. She dropped her gaze. "The queen has already fallen ill. Yesterday, terrible lesions appeared on her body. The court physicians, unable to help, say that she's steadily getting worse." Her eyes closed tightly. "They say shell die within the next few days."

Together, the bard and the warrior-king had seen cities crumble and mountains rise up from lowland plains. Noble men had been brought low before them, and babes had spoken to them with strange words of wisdom.

Each night, the tavern walls of Vantir resounded with tales of their exploits.

Level-headed Tiuren, sometimes called the Rhymer of Reason, was the perfect companion of Kohath, a warrior of boundless passions. They were brain and brawn in perfect harmony. The pair had explored the surrounding lands together, keeping the realm safe from evil at every turn. Yet after all these years, Tiuren had never seen his friend in such anguish.

"Is there nothing Darius or the other wizards can do?" the bard asked plaintively as he crossed the room to Kohath. The king stood, distraught, beside a velvet chair.

"Do?" Kohath asked. His calm, regal features flared into instant anger. "They talk! They study her as she lies in her sickbed, and they ponder thoughtfully." He mockingly nodded and rubbed his graying beard. He gave Tiuren a scowl. "They do nothing."

Tiuren knew better than to say more. Like Kohath, he understood little of the ways of sorcery, and even less about curses. Tiuren distractedly drummed his fingers upon the pommel of his sheathed sword. Then, unfastening the clasp of his traveling cloak, he tossed the garment on the chair next to the king. More than even his own chambers in the palace, the young bard was accustomed to this plain, lamplit antechamber. He and Kohath had discussed so many things here-made so many plans to protect and nurture the realm.

Tiuren had not yet gone to the royal chambers to see Queen Diccona, but he had heard the whispers in the court-dreadful descriptions of her dry flesh slowly peeling from her bones. Hearing of it was bad enough, but seeing it…

Kohath interrupted his musings. His face appeared calm again, fallen and tired. "So, my friend. You've always given me such clear, rational counsel whenever I had need. Never have I needed you more. What would you advise me to do?"

"Well-and forgive me if I speak out of turn-but don't you have advisors for your advising?"

Kohath almost smiled. "They've advised and advised and said nothing." The massive warrior began to pace, as Tiuren could have predicted. Always the man of action, the king was more comfortable moving than standing still. "No one in this kingdom can do or say anything that helps me." Kohath looked suddenly very small in Tiuren's eyes. He trudged to the room's only window and stared absently out at the night. "Do not tell me that you, too, are barren of support for your king in his worst hour."

"When have I ever been without words?" The words were spoken glibly, but it was futile to try to lighten the king's spirit, even for a moment.

Kohath turned to face him. Tiuren saw his constant companion of many years differently than ever before.

Gray encroached on his bushy black beard and temples, and wrinkles now outnumbered battle scars.

Sighing, Tiuren said finally, "I know you too well, Kohath. My words sound as the bleating of a sheep upon your ears at this moment. You know I have no sudden insight into your problem. You will do what you knew you would do from the moment your fair wife fell under this spell."

"It means the throne." The king spoke quietly, his head low. "The kingdom. My entire line-all gone."

"Yes." Tiuren crossed the room to join his friend at the window.

"You know that I love her that much, don't you?"

"Yes."

"You know me well, then."

There was little more to say. Passions were the lifeblood of this man. His love, his hate, his loyalty- these things knew no limits. They were not bound by circumstance, logic, ego, or even the value Kohath would put on his own life. The king loved the land of Vantir like none before him-but he loved his wife more.

"We don't know for sure the curse will be lifted after you consent to the demands." Tiuren leaned against the wall.

"I'm willing to take that chance." Kohath attempted a smile, but it turned into a grimace. "It is the only one I have."

Kohath gave his friend one more look, as if seeking inspiration. Then he dropped his gaze, turned, and left the chamber through the curtained door.

Tiuren would have given anything at that moment to inspire Kohath, to suddenly cheat fate as they had so many times in the past. But no. All he could think to say was, "Remember, my friend, the sun still shines, somewhere____________________

"

He doubted the king heard him. Just as well.

Tiuren sighed. The next time he would see his friend, he would no longer be king.

The next morning was long in coming. After leaving Kohath, Tiuren had stood outside the royal chambers where the queen lay dying. He could have mustered up the courage to see her in her horrid state, but he knew his sorrow at Kohath's sacrifice would be plain on his face. Abdication could never be the right thing for the king. To lose a nation for one soul? Especially this soul. Tiuren had never understood what Kohath saw in Dic-cona.

Finally, the sound of a chambermaid coming down the corridor had chased him off. Deciding it would be best for all concerned to leave her alone, Tiuren had gone to his chambers and made motions to greet the sleep that never came.

Dressing slowly, his mind in a gray haze like the morning sky outside his window, Tiuren steeled himself for what lay ahead. He refused breakfast when the servant brought it, instead brushing past him and heading down the stairs to the great hall.

When Tiuren arrived, he found Count Darius waiting at the bottom of the stair, before the open doors of the hall. The thin, angular wizard had arrayed himself in great fineries of velvet and lace. His face was stony, but something in his eyes betrayed his excitement at the events about to unfold. Tiuren wondered if Darius's anticipation was simply natural-indeed, how often does a man learn he is about to become king?-or if it meant something more. A wizard was behind the terrible curse. Could Darius-no, a milksop such as Darius could never master such a bold plan.

The two entered the great hall together. They exchanged no words or acknowledgments. Tiuren felt no need to ingratiate himself before the sudden heir apparent, and Darius seemed preoccupied with concerns beyond pleasantries with a mere bard. Tiuren was tolerated at court only due to his friendship with Kohath.