David Farland - Worldbinder

“Prince Urstone is still alive, after all these years?”

“Barely, from what I understand.”

“And is he even human?” Alun asked. “Surely by now they’ve put him in a crystal cage and fit him with a wyrm.”

“He’s resisted the cage, and the wyrm,” Daylan said. “He is still human.” Alun doubted that anyone could resist the cage for so long. It was said that the pains one endured there made a person long for death, long for release. Better to let a wyrm infest your soul, lose your humanity, than to resist. “Through a messenger, I have put questions to him,” Daylan explained, “moral questions that no person infected by a wrym could have answered correctly. The crystal cage destroys most men, but others it only purifies, filling them with compassion and the wisdom that can only come from having endured great pain and perfect despair.”

Alun peered up, hope in his eyes. If Daylan was right, then the prince was the kind of hero that men only hear of in legends.

Daylan Hammer grasped Alun by the wrist. “Old King Urstone is failing. He won’t last much longer than that dog of yours.

“In three days, a thousand of the strongest warriors in Caer Luciare will ride north to attack the wyrmlings, to take back the fortress at Cantular. In seventeen years, no attack so bold has been attempted, for word of such an attack might well drive Emperor Zul-torac mad with bloodlust, and the life of Prince Urstone would be forfeit.

“And so I am trying to negotiate an exchange of hostages-before the attack takes place.”

“But, once we give up their princess,” Alun asked, “won’t the wyrmlings attack Caer Luciare in force?”

“Of course they will,” Daylan said.

Alun didn’t understand. The immortal was giving up their hostage, the only thing that had protected the Caer for more than a decade. If Alun understood him aright, with the hostage lost, the wyrmlings would attack, and by the end of this week, everyone that he knew could be dead.

“This is madness!” Alun shouted. “You’ve gone daft! King Urstone would never agree to such a plan. What do we gain? You are just hurrying our end!”

“The end is coming, whether we like it or not,” the immortal said. “Warlord Madoc has convinced the others to make this assault in an effort to secure the borders. Madoc is a fool who dreams of rebuilding the kingdom. Others are tired of hiding, of watching our numbers dwindle away day by day, and so they hope to die fighting, as warriors will.

“But once Madoc takes Cantular, the prince’s life is forfeit, and Emperor Zul-torac will retaliate. The wyrmling code demands vengeance. They have a saying, ‘Every insult must be paid for in blood.’ Zul-torac’s honor will demand that he hit us hard, even if he must cut his way through his own daughter to do so.”

Alun still didn’t understand. There was no justification for giving up their hostage. Daylan Hammer was making a token gesture, trying to save two lives for what…a week?

“I don’t see any value in trying to save the prince,” Alun said. “If we are all to die, why not just hit them, and let the prince be damned?”

“That’s how Madoc would have it, isn’t it?” Daylan said. Alun realized that he was right. “It sounds courageous, daring. Many lords applaud his courage. But think: what if mankind is not wiped out? What if a few hundred or even thousands of you were able to run off into the wilderness, or hide in the caves beneath Caer Luciare? What then? If the prince dies and Madoc manages to win the battle, who will the kingdom fall to when the High King dies?”

“Warlord Madoc,” Alun said, for the High King had no other heir.

“Madoc himself might not be a bad High King,” Daylan Hammer said. “But what of his sons? To put them on a throne would be a disaster. If Madoc or his sons were to learn of my plan, you know that they would oppose it. They could easily sabotage it. No one would blame them if they put the wyrmling princess to the sword.

“I’m not hoping just to save just our prince, Alun, I’m hoping to save our kingdom, our people.”

A chill wind suddenly swept over the rocks, down from the mountain.

There were too many ifs in Daylan’s argument.

“Let’s say you’re right,” Alun said. “Let’s say that the lords take Cantular, and the wyrmlings in a fit of rage come and wipe us all out, as seems most likely. Then…what will all of this have accomplished? The sum of all your acts is what, to save one wyrmling princess?” The thought was absurd. “Is there something you’re not telling me?”

Daylan smiled, and suddenly he looked old and weary and bent. “There is indeed,” he admitted. “I believe that it is time to free the princess. I believe that we should stop using her as a shield, even if there is no hope for our people.”

“How so?” Alun asked, a sudden fear rising in him. Would Daylan Hammer throw away their hostage for nothing?

“No one should be put to such indignity. No life should be so abused. You’ve stolen her freedom, terrorized her, and victimized her. She was but a child when she was captured. Does your weakness as a nation, your cowardice, justify such behavior?”

“They did it to us first,” Alun pointed out.

“They took a warrior captive. Your people took a child. It’s not the same. But even if the acts were equal, does that mean that because the wyrmlings are cruel and craven, you would fall to their estate? Don’t you realize that that is precisely what they want? The maggots that infect their souls cannot possess your body so long as you remain pure enough, innocent enough. As a people, you cannot let yourselves sink to their level. There is great power in doing what is right, and letting the consequences be damned. It is the safest course, even when the peril appears great, for it is better to lose your life than to throw away your soul.

“Alun, I’m not trying to just free a pair of hostages. I’m hoping to lift this pall of shame that covers Caer Luciare. I’m hoping, in some small way, to redeem this people.”

The drawbridge fell open, and all that Fallion saw within the courtyard was the tree, seemingly tall now, nearly thirty feet. Every branch, every twig, seemed to be a wonder, the product of some superhuman artistry.

The villagers, bloody and bedraggled, were crowded around it, shouting in joy, cheering for Fallion, for freedom, their voices seeming to come from a great distance, like a wind rushing above a vast forest.

“Milord,” one old woman shouted, “remember me?” Fallion smiled. He did indeed. She had been a scullery maid in the castle; she had taught him how to cook a pudding.

“And me, milord?” a man cried. It was the cobbler who had given Fallion his pet ferrin as a child.

And as the bridge lowered, all of the weight of his journey washed out of Fallion, and he felt renewed-not just rested in mind, but refreshed in spirit.

It was more than the homecoming. It was the tree that influenced him.

Now was the time to do things. Now was the time to become a better person, to seek perfection.

The urge came to him so clearly it was almost a command.

But as the bridge dropped farther, Fallion began to realize that something was horribly wrong. There was darkness among the branches, a lingering shadow, and the tree had almost no leaves, and those were only on the top-most branches, though it was high summer.

And as he saw the bole of the tree, scarred and blackened by flames, he began to understand why.

The bridge dropped, and he saw it now. The tree was surrounded by a circular wall of stone. And within that wall of stones, worms of green flame sputtered and burned, while white-hot sparks shot out from time to time amid a rune of fire. It was the Seal of the Inferno.