A Hole in the Air Release!

Finally, finally, book three is out on Monday!!!
It's been a long time coming and an incredible journey. This trilogy is very special to me and it was so much fun to finally write some of the scenes in this book; scenes I've dreamed of and had planned since the very beginning! You can read an excerpt below (WARNING may contain spoilers if you haven't read books one and two):

Prologue: Wife

The Duke spat out his tea. Hastily wiping off his newspaper with his napkin, he stared at the page again. It still boldly proclaimed in huge script:

AIRSHIP CRASHES IN BALTIC SEA! IS RUSSIA PLOTTING WAR?

The Duke shook his head and peered at the smudged story below.

Our correspondent has confirmed with Swedish officials that something like an airship washed up on the island of Gotland. Reports of a flying machine seen overhead have been trickling in from Norway, and while there is no way to prove that the remains found on the Gotland coast were ever capable of flight, it seems possible that something of this nature could have been developing behind Russia’s rideau de fer. Russian officials have declined to claim the machine or make any affirmations about the identities of the bodies found aboard the vessel. Sweden has identified one corpse as Czar Ivano, but though the Russians did remove the body to Moscow, they would not confirm that it was the Czar.

Further mystifying the situation, someone set fire to the airship’s remains. Many engineers were eager to examine them, hoping to prise the secret of flight from the Russians’ fingers. A group of Belarian scientists arrived on Gotland soon after the discovery was made. Our correspondent was unable to contact them. Did they ascertain the secret? Did they burn the remains to keep it from the rest of Europe?

Will Russia continue to remain silent, or will they reveal their intentions? And their inventions? Were they in the act of betraying Greater Europe, planning a war that assured them victory? And will the Belarian Alliance soon be equipped with the power to conquer as well?

“Well,” coughed the Duke, “how sensational.” He looked up at the empty breakfast table and sighed, remembering he was alone. He glanced at the cuckoo clock set high on the green and gold striped wall. Ten thirty-eight. Was the Duchess not up yet? Or had she eaten already? He rarely saw her at breakfast; that was quite normal, but today he’d hoped to bump into her sometime before dinner.

He lay down his sodden newspaper and regarded his toast. Perhaps he could find her at her desk in her tower, writing missives or reading letters or making out cheques. She was probably busy and didn’t want to talk to him right now, anyway.

“Your Lordship,” the butler mumbled from the doorway.

“Yes, Haemming?”

“Her Ladyship desired you to know that she has gone out to Norden this morning,” Haemming said, looking fastidiously at the carpet.

“Norden?” the Duke asked, his shoulders slumping. “Why?”

“She did not say,” Haemming said.

No surprise. The Duke nodded and Haemming slipped from the room. The Duke looked out the window into the rain and mist of the garden. He wished he had some secret meeting in Norden or Berlin. Or at least some company. He might have been more eager to go out and hunt or shoot fowl in the rain if he’d had someone to do it with. He looked back at the cold toast on his plate. Perhaps he should go to Paris. That would show his wife: vanish off to some distant city leaving only a note and no details regarding length of absence or business. And why Norden? Usually she was off to Berlin or Paris, sometimes Moscow or London, but lately she’d seemingly become fascinated with Norden, that odd little barren spot in the middle of nowhere on the coast of the North Sea. What kind of business could she have there? It could hardly be a meeting with the heads of Greater Europe. It could hardly be any sort of business trip. It could only be some clandestine meeting of a darker nature.

“Wife,” he said. It could have been a term of endearment. It could have been an insult. It could have been an entreaty. It could have been a threat. Had anyone been listening at the keyhole, his voice would have held them all in one anguished parcel.

“No use thinking about it,” he grumbled to himself. What else was there to think about? “I hate Hannover,” he said. “Nothing going. Nothing coming. Nothing. Nothing.” He slammed his fist into the table. “And I can’t throw a party because she’s not home.”

The Duke rose and glared at the cuckoo clock. Ten forty-three. Time creeped by. He would pass it with a carriage ride through town and a stop at the Größenwahnsinn for a glass of port and possibly a game of cards. Or two.

Chapter One: His Wickedness Alive

The sunset flashed green.

The Sea erupted.

Vroanen was freed.

A huge wave struck Parsifal, drowning him in sorrow and remorse and shellfish. Parsifal struggled in the water, kicking out for something, anything to hold onto. There was nothing, and he was sinking towards the sparkling lights of Aquatamunicipalir in the depths of the Sea.

The Compass tumbled from his fingers into darkness, pulsing with eldritch light, gleaming back at Parsifal from the green eyes of Oaktree, the purple eyes of Vassilissa, the brown eyes of Balder, the grey eyes of Dioktes, the wild eyes of Fou, the black eyes of a mermaid.

Parsifal jerked awake.

The early morning sun beat down on his face and chest. The hard, wet boards of the wrecked Scylla’s deck dug into his back. The smell of rot rose from Balder’s wounds. Parsifal rolled onto his side and looked at his friend. Balder’s chest rose and fell, but his eyes were motionless beneath their fevered lids. Parsifal looked around for Dioktes, his hand reaching into his pocket and clutching The Compass. Dioktes, the grey-bearded captain who’d betrayed them, stood near the prow. The ship sat low in the water after the tidal wave from the collapse of Vroanen’s underwater prison. Parsifal thought it seemed even lower than it had last night and wondered if the entire ship might slowly sink away beneath them, leaving them thrashing in the endless expanse of water…

Parsifal closed his eyes and tried to beat back the panic rising in his chest. The image of the crazy woman, Fou, lingered there behind his eyelids and he had to open them again to escape her wide gaze and last gurgle. His eyes stung. Fou. He glanced at Dioktes. He’d tried to kill Parsifal and slain Fou instead. Why hadn’t Dioktes tried to kill him again? Why shouldn’t Parsifal go push him off the prow right this instant?

Parsifal sat up with a groan and put his head in his hands. He didn’t want to remember anything, but it wouldn’t go away. Fou…He had to stop thinking about the past. He had to find a way to save Balder. Balder was all now. Not even The Compass, not even preventing Vroanen and Vassilissa from conquering the Weather Casters, not even revenge must get in the way of saving Balder. Dioktes could still be useful.

“Dioktes,” Parsifal called from the cradle of his palms. “Is the ship sinking?”

“Stupid,” muttered Dioktes, nearly inaudibly, “the mast’s broken. Where do you see trees to replace it?”

“We could prop it up with bits of railing and deck and bind it with rope,” Parsifal suggested, looking up. He glanced about at the wreckage. The mast was floating alongside them, still connected by the odd rope and scrap of sail. He looked back at Dioktes. The old man was still staring out to Sea. His beard, patchy from Fou’s mad attack, fluttered in a light breeze.

Parsifal took a deep breath of the vibrant air. It was a hopeful seeming breeze, laden with sweet, fresh, nameless aromas. “What are you looking at?” he asked Dioktes. “Is Vroanen out there somewhere?”

Dioktes didn’t answer. Parsifal staggered to his feet and clambered to the stern where he jumped up on the rail and balanced precariously, scanning the horizon. He didn’t see anything but glittering water.

“Will he drown out there?” Parsifal asked hopefully.

“Immortal,” Dioktes replied. “Kept at the bottom of the Sea for a thousand years. Not dead yet.”

“Yes, but that was a supernatural prison, wasn’t it? He can’t actually breathe water, can he? He’ll have to keep swimming. He’ll die of exhaustion.”

“Maybe,” said Dioktes.

Parsifal scowled and returned to Balder. He unwrapped the putrid bandages from Balder’s arm and wrinkled his nose. Parsifal couldn’t even see where the original cut had been made by the Tan Noz’s claw, it was just a nauseating mass of puffy, contorted flesh colored red and green.

Parsifal washed it with cold salt water. There was no dry fuel and the stove was underwater, below decks, so he couldn’t boil any. Balder twitched a bit, but otherwise remained still. Parsifal didn’t have anything clean to wrap the wound in, so he left it. Perhaps the fresh air would help? It could hardly get any more infected than it already was. Parsifal squeezed Balder’s good hand.

“Stay with me, please,” he whispered. “Just a bit longer until…” until what? There was nowhere they could go, nothing they could do to help Balder. Parsifal closed his eyes and squeezed Balder’s hand harder. There had to be something.

Balder’s lips were dry, but the rain barrel had been smashed in the violence of the collapsing waterspout. Parsifal took a portion of shredded sail and draped it over the rail so that it shaded Balder from the fierce sun.

Parsifal pulled The Compass out of his pocket and opened the lid. For the first time since he’d found It on the bathroom floor of his uncle’s country house, Its soft pulse did not comfort him. What could It possibly show him that would save Balder? He flipped up the magnifier and peered through It anyway.

The lapping and rustle of waves vanished and the only sound was his own heartbeat, ticking like a clock in an empty room. His vision swarmed with a breathless, rushing whirl of colors. Slowly, the visions solidified into flickering images, thoughts, emotions, and indescribable things. He saw himself and Balder, having their lighthearted snowball fight in Romania. Parsifal’s heart ached at the image. Blissfully, it was quickly replaced by a strange red-plumed bird with blazing eyes, then a train. He saw a storm-tossed airship and a whirl of masked dancers.

Suddenly The Compass slowed and Parsifal was looking down upon a mass of broken boards and masts. The Port? No…The Weather Casters’ ship, surrounded by towers of wreckage. There were tiny figures swarming everywhere, and fire and smoke and cries of agony and flashes of green light. The air rippled above the ship’s stern with a shivery peal. With a roar, the air was rent open and blackness swallowed Parsifal’s view. A two-headed snake slithered out of the dark and wound itself around a silver and purple shield with a seven-pointed star in its center. Seven silver knives flashed in the sunlight. A small black bookcase with glass doors nestled in the shadows of towering bookshelves beneath a glass ceiling. The lights of the mermaid city twinkled in the deeps and their strange music sparkled through his mind. He saw Fou — his mother — holding him as a baby.

Parsifal snapped The Compass shut and rubbed away the tears with his wrist. He’d thought he was drained of all his rage and grief. He was so exhausted after sailing around the Sea, finding his long-lost mother, losing her, trying to kill Dioktes and freeing Vroanen in the process. He should be broken, empty. He was, but even that was a sensation — and it hurt. Every time he breathed, it stabbed at his chest. Fou…Balder…lost at Sea…he was crying again and sobs shook his shoulders, which were reddening in the sun, despite their thorough burning weeks before. This time he didn’t care if Dioktes heard or saw him cry.

But Dioktes wasn’t watching Parsifal.

Parsifal looked up and saw the old man standing rigid in the prow, pointing with a shaking finger. Parsifal squinted through his tears and the glaring sun. The water splayed bright stars on the waves and Parsifal could see nothing in the water.

“What?” he asked.

“It is His Wickedness,” Dioktes rasped.

Parsifal stood, his heart beating unevenly, loudly. His head pounded as he stood and wiped snot from his nose. He peered again at the shining water. This time he saw an arm break the water and stroke, pushing a pale human shape through the Sea.

“Quick!” Parsifal gasped. “Grab a board, keep him off the boat!”

Dioktes did not move.

Parsifal scrambled about their wreck, looking for something. He picked up a broken bit of the yardarm and pushed Dioktes away from the prow.

Vroanen was swimming closer. His head broke the surface and stared at them, black hair streaming over his face. The head ducked back beneath the water and the body shot forward, swimming below the surface. Parsifal and Dioktes had helped this wicked being escape his ancient prison and now Parsifal had to do something to rectify his mistake.

Parsifal’s heart sped up, his lungs heaving to keep up and he gripped the shattered wood, driving splinters into his hands. Vroanen’s white limbs flashed in the Sea like blades, one hand clenched in a fist. Parsifal raised the rail overhead. Waves of blood roared against his brain. Vraonen surged closer. Parsifal’s hands shook.

Vroanen’s fist lit up, blinding green, and Parsifal dropped the piece of yard. It would do no good here. He fumbled with his pocket. Vroanen’s white hand lashed out and caught at the Scylla’s prow. Parsifal scrabbled inside his pocket, trying to pull out The Compass.

The Wicked One’s head burst from the water with a gasp.

Parsifal yanked out The Compass and flipped the lid open.

A hand flew up from the water, green light shining out between his fingers, droplets of glinting Sea water streaming down beneath it. Parsifal raised The Compass.

Vroanen heaved himself up, sliding onto the prow like a lithe white mollusk, clad only in a loincloth of silvery white. He lashed out at Parsifal with his Compass. Both Compasses flashed. Parsifal was thrown back by the power of Vroanen’s Compass and crashed into the deck. Vroanen dashed across the deck while Parsifal was still trying to blink the afterimage from his eyes. Vroanen struck down at Parsifal’s head w’s’ith his glaring Compass. Parsifal brought up his own Compass and the two met in a clash of green lightning, their thunder rolling away across the calm Sea.

Just in time, Parsifal rolled out of the way as Vroanen struck again. Vroanen’s Compass smashed into the deck with a flare of light that set the boards on fire. Parsifal scrambled to his feet, striking out blindly with his own Compass.

Vroanen spun towards him, arm outstretched. Pulses of light surged from his hand, pushing Parsifal back, blinding him, scattering his vision, his balance —

Drunkenly, Parsifal charged forward, swinging The Compass at the Wicked One. Vroanen raised his glowing fist. Parsifal caught the flashing blow with his Compass. Thunder and lightning. Crack. Boom. Like the ice in Siberia when Vassilissa had opened the portal.

The Wicked One was close, towering over him in the afterimages of the green flashes. Parsifal jumped closer still, into the chilly air that surrounded Vroanen and smacked him in the head with The Compass. Its light shimmered back from Vroanen’s dark, vengeful eyes. A strange electric saltiness filled Parsifal’s nostrils, a dankness that rolled from Vroanen’s clammy, pearlescent skin.

Vroanen grabbed Parsifal by the throat in his free hand and squeezed. Parsifal choked. Vroanen lifted him off the deck. Parsifal kicked at him desperately, but nothing would break the immortal’s unnatural hold. Black stars clouded his eyes. Green light burned them away as Vroanen’s Compass flashed down at his head. Parsifal’s Compass flashed back, protecting him from the light. Vroanen snarled and hurled Parsifal against the deck.

Parsifal smacked down and skidded through the flames, large splinters digging into his skin. He howled and struggled to his knees. Burning tar stung his nostrils as he lifted his head to see Vroanen’s figure through the flames, tall and half-naked, striding towards him, glowing Compass in hand.

Parsifal staggered to his feet and backed away. Vroanen stepped through the flames without flinching and thrust his Compass forward. Parsifal parried with his, and the flashes shattered into thousands of green stars. Parsifal stepped back again – and tripped on an outstretched foot.

Parsifal fell flat on his back and Dioktes leaped out of the way. Parsifal tried to lift his Compass but Vroanen was already upon him.

A green blaze filled his head. His hand fell limp at his side, The Compass rolling from his fingers with a loud thump. The green faded slowly and Parsifal could see the sky…so beautiful and blue, striped by gossamer clouds like a parade of ghostly figures drifting across the empyrean. He couldn’t feel his body. Something tingled somewhere at his core, but otherwise he could just as easily have been floating among the clouds as lying on the deck of a wrecked boat. He could be sailing to Heaven.

The silhouette of Vroanen blacked out the sun, a faintly luminescent Compass in each hand. The Wicked One crouched over him and Parsifal saw his blue lips moving. Slowly, the sound rippled into Parsifal’s head, lapping gently at the shores of his mind until he could understand the words.

“Who are you?”

Parsifal couldn’t move his lips to reply. Nor did he know how to answer that question. Who was he?

It didn’t matter anymore; he’d lost. Vroanen examined The Compass that had once been Parsifal’s, peering through the magnifier, shaking It. Its light had slowly faded and It did not relight. Vroanen narrowed his glistening eyes at Parsifal.

“What’s wrong with It?” Vroanen asked. Parsifal still couldn’t move his lips. He couldn’t even move his eyes to follow Vroanen as he stood and stepped back.

“Your Wickedness.” Parsifal heard Dioktes’ voice.

“Who are you?” hissed Vroanen.

“Vassilissa sent me; she has set you free,” Dioktes said.

“You lie!” Vroanen snarled. Parsifal heard Dioktes yelp.

“I do not! Vassilissa sent me here with the Lone Sailor and The Compass to free you! The time has come to destroy the Weather Casters!”

Slime, thought Parsifal bitterly.

“Think I would not recognize you, Dioktes? You serve the Selure Tartania!” Vroanen roared. His voice was shiny and did not crack even when laden with so much rage.

“Your Wickedness,” begged Dioktes. “She has cast me aside, mortal that I am, no longer of use to her.”

“Quiet!” snapped Vroanen. There was a flash of green on the edge of Parsifal’s vision and a thump. No more sound from Dioktes. Just the shivery panting of Vroanen.

Parsifal’s eyes were starting to tingle and water but he still couldn’t move them. His vision swam in unshed tears. Vroanen leaned over him again.

“Was the mortal lying about you, too?” he asked. “Are you the Lone Sailor? You can’t be a mere mortal. Speak!”

Spit landed on Parsifal’s cheek. It was icy cold. His feet tingled now, as though they’d been asleep. He blinked and tears poured down his cheeks. The glare of the sun beat on his eyeballs and he managed to drag his eyelids shut.

Parsifal heard the creaking as Vroanen paced the burning deck. Slowly, he was starting to process all that had just happened. He’d been stunned by Vroanen’s Compass. Now Vroanen had both of The Compasses and Parsifal was helpless. Even once he got back his powers of locomotion, there would be nothing he could do. He licked his lips.

Suddenly Vroanen grabbed him by the hair and dragged him across the deck and slammed him against the stern, beside the shattered door that led below.

“Where did you get The Compass? Who are you?” Vroanen demanded in his silky voice. Parsifal imagined it would have made many singers jealous. He frowned. His brain was still addled from the flash.

“Long story,” he choked out.

Vroanen laughed. “We’re stranded, aren’t we?” he said, squeezing Parsifal’s neck in his icicle fingers. “We have all the time in the world. You may as well start with your name.”

“I’m Parsifal.”

Vroanen’s fingers relaxed a little.

“How nice,” Vroanen said, “a regular name. No title. You’re like me — a nobody. A nobody who wants to be somebody.”

“I guess so,” Parsifal said, looking down. They were silent a moment. Parsifal glanced at the limp forms of Balder and Dioktes lying on the deck.

“Go on,” Vroanen said quietly. “I haven’t heard another being’s voice in a thousand years. Speak to me.”

Parsifal didn’t know what to say. The waves lapped at their doomed vessel. The sun beat down silently. Vroanen’s fingers tightened again on Parsifal’s throat.

“Speak to me!” Vroanen hissed, a tear sprouting from one of his glossy dark eyes. “Please!”

“I – c – can’t!” Parsifal gasped. Vroanen’s fingers loosened.

“Tell me your story,” Vroanen said.

Parsifal paused, staring into the depths of Vroanen’s shimmering blue eyes. It seemed that brightness lurked somewhere in their darkness, sparkling like lights in the night. Where to begin?

“I found The Compass in my uncle’s water closet, one of his guests left it there by accident: Sir Oaktree,” Parsifal said.

“Water closet?” Vroanen said, looking confused.

“Yes, a — a sort of fancy waste disposal chamber back on Land.”

“So you are a mortal? How’d you come here?”

“My uncle’s expedition. He said he was exploring Siberia, but it was all Lady Vasille’s plot to get back to the Sea.”

“Lady who?”

“Vassilissa.”

Vroanen’s eyes widened. “Vassilissa…” he whispered. “They banished her to Land … she swore she’d rescue me. She sent you to do it?”

Parsifal looked down, his cheeks burning. “I guess so,” he said quietly. His head could move…and he didn’t have to look into those icy, dark eyes anymore.

“And Dioktes?”

“She made a deal with him, to trick me.”

Vroanen chuckled. “How like her. What about you? Are you in truth the Lone Sailor? Did she trick you into freeing me when you’re supposed to rule the Weather Casters?”

“I’m mortal,” Parsifal said hopefully, twitching his fingers experimentally. He did not look back up at His Wickedness.

“Mortal is transmutable, my friend,” Vroanen said. “Take Dioktes, for instance. He’s still dragging his miserable carcass around.” Vraonen’s face was uncomfortably close to Parsifal’s. Parsifal supposed he might converse in a similar fashion if he’d been trapped underwater for a thousand years. It certainly made it easier to punch His Wickedness in the jaw.

Parsifal struck.

Vroanen howled, reeling back. Parsifal tried to push himself to his feet. Vroanen recovered and lunged with a snarl. He punched Parsifal in the chest, knocking him back to the deck.

“Feels good,” Vroanen said, licking blood off his lip. “Haven’t felt anything but cold, wet, ice, water…Pain, fire, heat. I feel alive!” Vroanen threw back his head, mouth open wide. Parsifal expected a howl or insane laugh to come out. Instead a high-pitched wail of joy soared into the sky. It was that strange dolphin sound he’d heard Vroanen make as he swam out of the hole in the sea.

It sent chills through every nerve in Parsifal’s body. He shook and curled up on the deck, pressing his hands over his ears. The pealing sound echoed into silence.

“If I use this on you enough,” Vroanen said, waving The Compass in the air, “I can kill you. I know. I killed Themetho with It. I struck again and again and again. At last he lay still and never moved again. If you are the Lone Sailor, you will never supersede the Casters.”

Parsifal uncurled and looked up at Vroanen, looming above him, blotting out the sun. Green gleamed from his fist.

“I’m not,” Parsifal said quietly. “I could never do it. I’ve failed already. I’ve done so much wrong. I’ve lost too much. Kill me, then. It’ll be easier.”

“For both of us,” Vroanen agreed, raising The Compass. “Not that you could stop me.”

“Wait,” Parsifal said, looking at Balder. “Save him. He’s been poisoned by Tan Noz. Heal him.”

“I’m not granting last requests,” Vroanen said coldly. The Compass flared angrily in his hand.

“Please,” Parsifal begged, tears springing to his eyes. “He doesn’t deserve anything that’s happened to him. Give him a second chance.”

“Don’t speak to me of unjust punishments,” Vroanen snarled. He was about to swing The Compass down when the sound of roaring water made them both look to the East.

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Unonera's Invention

   Onys, now free from his prison, sifted through the abyss beyond Nomra’s domain in the core of Oramon. He drifted aimlessly for some time, brooding on his revenge. How long he remained like that, he knew not, for time in the dark is immeasurable. But he gained strength from the darkness and solace from its silence.

   A glimmer came through the shadows at last and Onys approached it, curious of its origin, but wary, lest it be an agent of Nomra sent to trap him again. He emerged in Unamalteron, under the sea, where the darkness of the unformed internal earth met with the bottom of sea’s chasms.

   He crawled out of the shadow and up to the peak of Unamalteron, where he found the blind and mute Unonera, etching symbols in slabs of shale brought to her by the spiny Denites. Onys sat beside her and watched her etch the symbols day after day, tracing them with her fingers and rewriting her slates. Her arcane actions intrigued him and he thought her strange and beautiful. The Denites were wary of Onys, but since he did not seem to want to harm their mistress, they left him alone. The Denites also passed the slates of shale among each other, seemingly trying to learn the glyphs that Unonera had made. Sometimes she would help them, drawing pictures to illustrate verbs and making gestures until the Denites learned a symbols’ meaning.

   Unonera sensed the presence of Onys and sought him with her hands, exploring his disfigured face. But she did not draw away.

   “I am Onys,” Onys said. “I was awakened in the dark by Nomra. But she feared me and locked me away. I escaped and wandered the dark, until I found this opening into the twilight seas. This place is magnificent and shadowy, where one might be hidden and reality might morph. Who are you, eyeless queen of this shadow realm?”

   But Unonera could not speak, only scribble on her slates and show him writings that he did not understand. So Onys stayed and absorbed her form of communication until he had mastered it. Then he took a shard of rock and made a slate for Unonera, passing it to her. She felt the symbols with her fingertips and smiled.

   I know your speech. Tell me who you are.

   And Unonera would have wept, but she had no eyes, so she wrote for Onys on a piece of stone:

I am Unonera. Denu made me by accident, dreaming of his lost wife. But I was formed awry, like you, without eyes, but with a sight that looks into the future. Denu despised me and my prophecy and cut off my tongue. Now I write prophecies alone in this shadowy place, inventing ways that I might speak, but I can barely teach it to others. Now that you, who can speak, know my speech, perhaps you can teach it to others?

   “But I dare not go up into the light,” said Onys. “The light is unkind to me.”

   Unonera wrote: Then help me teach the Denites, that they may spread my language. There is a city far from here, but it is sparkling with lights and the people there are beautiful and will not look upon strange creatures like us.

   Onys stayed with Unonera and helped her teach the Denites to read and write.

   My voice and my prophecies shall not go unheard, Unonera wrote.

   Onys took darkness from the chasm of Unamalteron and formed slates of onyx and a sharp stylus for Unonera. When she had written in the soft black stone, the Denites would take it up to the surface of the sea, where the sun would harden the shadow stones. The Denites built crude stone monoliths and set the onyx tablets in them and there slowly grew a forest of stone prophecies beside Unamalteron.

   But Unonera was not satisfied. I must take my words to others, she said. She asked Onys to go with her to the palace of Denona, where Triona and her daughters lived with the Trinites. Onys at last agreed to accompany her, for she warned that the people of Denona had once warred with her and the Denites. First, Onys made himself a reflective mask of onyx and a dark robe that absorbed light, then together, he and Unonera made their way to the shining palace of Triona, where there was always celebration.

   The halls of Denona were in even more riotous celebration than usual. Many months before, when Onys had slipped out of Unamalteron, Denu had crashed into the sea after stealing Mihr. He had come to his old lover, Triona, wounded by the bats of Nomra. Triona had long believed him dead, and was overjoyed. She and her daughters took care of him while he healed and now he was at last fully recovered.

   The daughters of Triona and Denu, the Syré, filled the palace with heavenly songs. Denu showed them how to make the flutes and stringed shells that his children had made in the world above and the Syré played on them, too. And the dancing did not cease. The lights sparkled all around and gleamed off the scales of the Syré and Triona and off the smooth shells of the Trinites. The Trinites’ eyes of fire flickered as they joined the dancing, scuttling back and forth and twirling in circles. A great banquet had also been prepared: delicious shoots of underwater plants, flavorful shellfish, and sweet jellies made from medusas and sea-honey.

   It had been long since any warfare had been waged on Denona by the Denites, and so Unonera and Onys walked right through the gates and into the festival. Slowly, the celebrants stopped their dancing and stared as they realized there were two newcomers standing in their midst.

   Denu recognized Unonera and drew back with a cry. Onys stepped forward.

   “Unonera has a gift for you all,” he said. “She brings you her words.”

   “We do not want her black prophecies here,” Denu snarled, so soon forgetting that she had saved him from the wrath of Neron.

   “She has more to offer than the valuable glimpses of the future,” Onys said. “She brings you history, posterity, eternal delights. She brings you writing.”

   “What is writing?” asked Triona.

   “It is how you speak to your descendants; it is your voice and words, etched in stone forever; for the voiceless, it is a way to speak,” Onys said and Unonera unveiled a slab of onyx that she carried, with all her glyphs carefully written thereupon.

   “What are those markings?” asked one of the Syré.

   “They are symbols,” said Onys. “Each has a meaning and with them, you can say anything that you desire, silently, for eternity.”

   “Why have you come here? Who are you?” demanded Denu.

   “I am Onys,” said Onys. “I have come here to help Unonera teach her language to you. She wishes to gift this new art to all peoples, that they may write as she does, and read.”

   “She only wants that her dark words should echo in every head and render all defenseless to despair!” Denu said, then he turned to Triona. “Send her away. She brought the Denites against you before. What motive drives her now?”

   Unonera shook her head and Onys stepped forward, but Triona gestured to the Trinites and they herded Onys and Unonera from the palace and closed the gate. The onyx slab of alphabet slipped from Unonera’s limp fingers and she leaned on Onys as they made their way back to the gloom of Unamalteron.

   But one of the Syré, named Essua, followed them, for she was intrigued by these silent and beautiful words. Although she was afraid of the Denites, she stayed with Unonera and Onys and learned Unonera’s alphabet. And when she had mastered it, she returned to Denona to teach her sisters.

The Theft of Mihr

   Now the time drew near for the Children of Denu’s annual pilgrimage into the depths of Oramon to pay tribute to their grandmother, Nomra. Denu requested to accompany the caravan. Ner was justly suspicious but, with his mother present, did not dare to forbid his father anything.
   Onera asked Nu to help her create a gift for her mother. Nu used a shell and lined it with hairs from Onera’s head and called it the Omra, the first stringed instrument.    Onera gave it to Denu and told him to give it to Nomra with certain words.
   So Denu set off with his Children to the cleft that led into Nomra’s domain. Ner was beginning at last to grow old after the centuries and sent his son Teris in his stead to visit Nomra, warning him before he left, “Beware of your grandfather, Denu, for he is a cunning one.”
   The procession wound through the forests and hills to the cleft where darkness slept. And then down into the heart of Oramon, along the sparkling paths where silver grass grew, down the golden steps into the caverns of glimmering phosphorus and shimmering flame, along the road of chiseled onyx into the crystal caverns where jeweled birds swooped and gemstone flowers bloomed. The pilgrims came to the carven palaces made by Syn and the stone man himself opened the silver doors for them and they passed into the halls of glittering gold, jewel, and crystal. These stones and metals had been formed expertly by Syn, depicting animals and plants and vistas of unimagined beauty.
   In the center of the palace hung Mihr, the Night Light, glowing over Nomra’s throne of jade and the pearlescent tomb of Onys.            Nomra was waiting, with bats swooping around her head, to greet her visitors. Sylo was at her side but Phiron was in the world above, teaching the new race that he and Nomra had crafted together, the Pyrites, small salamander-men that would become great craftsmen.
   Deru greeted Nomra and introduced Denu. Nomra’s eyes sparkled and she turned her scorching gaze upon Denu.
   “I have not always smiled upon Neron’s new beings,” she said, “But your Children have behaved well. They came slimily at first, with flattery and groveling, but long has been our covenant and true respect and friendship has arisen between us. Upon hearing of Nemrus’ curse, I even granted them room in my palaces after their mortal existences were through. After all, it is what Onera’s shadow told me of long ago when these spaces were terrible and dark. But what merit have you, Denu, of the starry eyes?”
   “I have brought a gift from your daughter,” Denu said, laying the Omra at her feet.
   “And she did not come herself?”
   “She did not wish to impose upon the palaces of thy refuge without first sending an emissary,” Denu said, bowing low. “She wishes to reiterate that she bears you only thoughts of warmth and affection.”
   “Thoughts,” said Nomra darkly. “The thoughts of the mind are manifold and much afflicted with duplicity. But the feelings of the heart are true, no matter how frequently thrust through with shafts of contrary emotions. How does her heart read? How does thine, Denu?”
   “Mine is open to you, Lady of the Center,” said Denu. “Read it as you will.”
   “I do not like what I see.”
   “’Tis the many broken shafts,” said Denu, “the darts of fate and the cold loveless eye of a father.”
   “Your children have told me some of your history,” said Nomra. “And that was fed to them by a bitter mother. Neron has always loved his creations. If he does not love one, I trust he has reason.”
   “A reason that pales beneath sound judgement,” said Denu. “That of jealousy, a sin that has touched even you, Lady of the Center.”
   Nomra’s eyes flashed but she did not move.
   “Tell Onera that if she truly wishes it, she may come and see me, but unaccompanied,” Nomra said at last.
Teris and his uncles and aunts all paid their tribute and the pilgrims made their respectful exit.
   “Father,” said Deru to Denu, “it was not good that you said those things to Nomra.”
Denu, seeing that Deru was not flexible, turned his lips secretly to Teris’s ear. “The craft of your father’s city is great and powerful,” he said. “The power of creation is in all thine eyes. Beheld you, the great shining sphere that glows in serenity above Nomra’s throne?”
   “Mihr,” replied Teris. “It is a sentinel, they say, and Nomra uses it to form things in the dark.”
   “And think to what heights it could take your artifice,” said Denu. “If you had this light in your city, you would be powerful beyond Neron and beyond Nomra. All of Oramon would be yours.”
   Teris did not at first like his grandfather’s suggestion, but by the time they had nearly reached Nemraltus, Denu had convinced him that naught could go wrong, and so, secretly, the two turned back and slipped into the darkness once more.
   They crept into the underworld palace and Denu disguised them that they might blend into the shadows. Thus, they peered into Nomra’s throne room and beheld her communing with the bats of her own creation. Syn was gone, but Sylo waited beside his mistress.
   Denu changed into a bat and, flitting into the light of Mihr, stole the Omra from the steps of the throne.
   He gave it to Teris and told him to go far off into the hallways and play it loudly, luring Nomra off in investigation. “Whilst she is gone, I will change into a dragon and wrench Mihr from its fixtures, flying it free from these chambers,” he said.
   “And I?” asked Teris.
   “You will have to slip away before she finds you,” said Denu. “Don’t be afraid, I do not doubt that these myriad bats and birds all watch for Nomra and will alert her to the theft. She will pursue me and you will be free to slip out at your leisure.”
   Teris was reluctant but at last crept off into the shadows. Denu waited. Nomra rose from her throne and whispered to her jeweled birds. She was about to mount Sylo when quiet bell-like sounds echoed from the distance. Nomra narrowed her eyes and quickly mounted her metal steed and rode off into the palace.
   Denu quickly morphed into his dragon form and flew to Mihr. With his claws he gashed the silver fixture that fused it to the ceiling. At first, it would not budge, but Denu shot fire from his eyes and melted it.      Looping his claws through the intricate cage of the light, he flapped his ungainly way towards the exit. As he had suspected, the jeweled birds flew to Nomra, but the bats pursued him angrily.
   Nomra rushed back to her throne room, to find it in darkness, and the cocoon of Onys oozing at it began to breathe freely in the gloom. Nomra spurred her metal steed on and called for Syn.
   “We must retrieve Mihr immediately, or the Dark One will escape!”
   Nomra pursued Denu to the cleft, but he escaped into the night air. The bats pursued him and Syn raced after him across the ground, but Nomra saw that there would be no catching him without flight. She turned her steed instead and went to find Phiron.
   Denu flew high and higher, trying to shake the bats that gained steadily upon him. Still higher he flew, towards the very stars. The bats were too swift and soon they fell upon him, biting and clawing ferociously. Denu swooped and arced, trying to shake them, but they stayed with him, no matter how many loops and dives he performed. He knew he could not make it back down to lose them in the trees, and he saw gleaming Syn waiting for him on the earth, so he flew higher still, until the stars were about him.

   The bats did not let up and Denu’s blood sprinkled some of the nearest stars. At last Denu made a desperate dive, but the great orb of Mihr caught upon the stars and stuck, lodging in the stellar web that was as old as Oramon itself. Denu tried to yank it free but could not. At last, he let go and plunged down, down, down, his speed mounting as he free-fell towards the earth.     The bats dove after him, but could not catch him. He plummeted down, but his upward course had led him out over the sea and he plunged into the water, transforming into a fish and sinking away into the depths.
   Nomra found Phiron and they returned to the cleft, followed by a small army of Pyrites. They gazed up at the night sky, transfigured by the addition of a great light.
“We shall attempt to get it down later,” said Nomra. “Now we must stop Onys.”
   But Onys heard them coming with the crackle of fire and the tramp of numbers. He slid out of his melting prison and slipped away through the palaces, out into the dark passages beyond, to the very edge of darkness and crept over the edge into oblivion.
   Nomra and Phiron followed his slimy trail but they were too late; the fiend was gone. They did find poor Teris, though, lost in the winding halls, clutching the Omra in terrified fingers.
   Nomra kept him in her palace until Onera came and begged her to release him.
   “It was Denu,” said Onera. “None of his children knew of his intentions, and had they an inkling, they would not have brought him to you! His wish to visit seemed pure. If I had come with, perchance I might have stopped him. Teris was led astray, let him come home with me.”
   “You have not planned this thing, to wreak revenge upon me?”
   “No, mother, I never bore you ill will for killing me,” said Onera. “I see you have made a wondrous dwelling for those who will die.”
   “If I will let them come here after what has transpired,” said Nomra darkly. “Do you know what vile creature your lover has released? In that melted sphere of pearl and darkness I had locked away Onys, a being I found in the dark. A vile monster who would that all creation remain in darkness and unformed possibility. Where he has gone now, I know not, nor who he may try to harm next.”
   “Denu did not know that!” Onera pleaded.    “And his children are innocent of his sin!”
   At last, she was able to convince Nomra to let Teris go, but she forbade him to return, or any of his descendants. So Onera and Teris returned to Nemraltus, where still there was no sign of Denu, but Mihr shone bright in the night sky. And ever after, on nights when the Night Light shone its brightest, the children of Denu would work their most powerful sorceries.

The Return of Denu

   Denu had remained hidden from the sight of Neron, in the far desert. He had taken the shape of a fearsome dragon and no animals came near. The fire that spurted from his eyes singed a great tract of the desert and it never gave birth to life again.

   Still he missed Onera.

   At last, he left the desert and flew as a bird to espy the peaks of Neron’s domain. He saw with amazement that magnificent palaces had sprouted from Amalteron and that they were heavily populated with a bronzed and beautiful race. He alighted in the old orchards of Nomra and watched the children play.

   From whence these fleet and fair people? They were not his children. Where were the children he had abandoned? What had Neron done to them? He dared not reveal himself upon that holy mountain, but he lingered long, watching and listening. He found Nez, sitting on the cliff, watching the horizon.

   Ariaj tried still to lure him into a smile, but Nez was still heartbroken.

   “At least play with your grandchildren!” Ariaj implored. “You have lost Onera, but she is still here, all around you!”

   So. This brazen being was the father of this strange race. And Onera…with an anguished cry, Denu flew from Amalteron. How had Onera done this thing? Had Denu really been gone for so long? Had she forgotten him? He had never forgotten her…not even when entwined in the arms of Triona beneath the sea.

   He circled Neron’s mountain again.

   Perhaps he need not hate Onera…she had done no worse thing than he…but he could hate this gold-haired seducer. He could hate him and he would hate his children.

   Where were the children of Denu?

   He flew over the sea, and skimmed the boughs of Onerae with his blue wings. He saw Onera beside the healing stream, alone and sad. He alighted beside her and chirped.

   “Be gone,” she said. “I wish to see none but my Denu.

   Denu transformed into a dragon and roared furiously, rippling the waters of Nyr. Onera leapt back with a cry, but she saw his fiery eyes and ran to him, throwing her arms around his scaly neck.

   “Denu!” she wailed. “I have missed you more than any one thing in the world!”

   “Then why did you love another?” Denu hissed as he resumed his original form.

   Onera looked into his starry eyes and hers filled with tears.

   “Denu, forgive me!” she said. “I never meant to! He—he deceived me with a magic brew…I’m sorry, I thought, I thought he was you, for the potion he gave me befuddled my mind and reason. As soon as I realized what was done, I was very furious, but it was too late! Eanez, Arathez…their children now flood my father’s palace as ours once did.”

   “Ours?” Denu asked.

   “Yes!” Onera beamed. “We had seven. Ner, Deru, Nom, Ee, Nerus, Nu, and Dena. But Ner was vicious. It was he that gave Nez the potion that confused me. I am sorry, Denu. I love only you!”

   “I forgive you,” Denu said slowly. He paused, thinking of Triona’s lips. “I only love you, too,” he said, and his shadow loosened from him.

   “And Neron?” Onera asked. “He does not know you are here?”

   “He believes me dead,” Denu said.

   “He never told me,” Onera said indignantly.

   “No,” said Denu, glad that she had not heard of Triona another way.

   “Well, we shall be able to live here happily, then!” Onera said. “Neron is not looking for you! No more fleeing and hiding, we can be happy at last!”

   “I wish to see my children,” Neron said. “What happened to them?”

   “They had many children of their own and grew until father became displeased with their number and so Ner led them away and they dwell now beneath Neronimahnon, in their city, Nemraltus."

   “Let us go and see them!” Denu exclaimed in delight.

   “But Neron—” Onera began.

   “Fie in Neron!” said Denu. “He will not hear of it, and anyway, I have discovered his power and no longer fear him.”

   “Of what do you speak?” Onera asked. But Denu would not tell her of the eyeless semblance he had called forth. He changed into a dragon and flew to Nemraltus, with his shadow barely clinging to him. Ner had not yet aged and died, but he was beginning to show more age than the father he greeted with respect and a shadow of wariness.

   Here was the father that had abandoned them…was this a time for vengeance, or a time to unite in hatred of Neron whose distrust had caused the rift?

   Ner was double-minded and it was no trouble for him to hold both sentiments in his heart. Denu, too, was confused. Here was his long lost son, also the sorcerer to blame for aiding Nez in the seduction of Onera. But Denu was as capable as his son in the holding of hatred and love together at once.

   And he planned a vengeance and a blessing in one as Ner brought him to banquet with the other six children. Nu at once spotted the fluttery shadow of Denu and remembered the old tales that Ariaj had whispered of the days when shadows were rent from flesh and heinous acts were committed.

   If she had known what was to come, she would have silenced her brother Deru when he spoke of the pilgrimage to see Nomra beneath the earth. He told of the sparkling chambers where Nomra was preparing to receive them when Nemrus’ curse would cause them to die like animals. He told of her seas of gold and milk, of her fantastic creatures and of her Night Light, Mihr.

   Denu’s eyes sparkled at the tales.

   He remained with Onera in the city of their children, disguising again in the form of a dragon, lest Ariaj should espy him from the air.

   And the words of prophecy spoken by Unonera still troubled him.

   They will be reviled! The Race of Nez will take your eyes!

A New Mythology--Oramon--The First City

   The race of Denu grew larger and soon the palaces that they had built for Neron on the top of Amalteron were not enough to contain them. Neron’s ire was once again raised by the these upstart children, these bright eyed usurpers who thronged in his halls and made raucous noise in his once quiet gardens.

   At last he went to Ner. But cunning Ner had anticipated him, so before Neron could express his displeasure, Ner hailed him.

   “Oh great Neron, benefactor and holy guardian,” he said. “I have seen that your halls are overrun with the silver-eyed children. Though it breaks my heart, I have decided to part from you. I will take my people to live in the valleys below. We will build a new habitation there. A home big enough for all of us. We will still bring unto you gifts in annual visitation, but we must have room to spread out. You will understand, I hope, oh, Grandfather?”

   Neron could scarce contain his joy. “I understand,” he said. “My blessings go with you.”

   As he watched the Children of Denu gather and depart down the luscious green slopes of his chief mountain, a niggling question came to him: where would they settle? And what would the crafty race create there? Now he could not watch them as closely.

   But now his beautiful palaces would be home to only him, Onera, Nez, Eanez and Arathez. Eanez and Arathez had grown to maturity and now Onera asked Neron to make for them companions as for the Children of Denu. He did as she asked, and when Onera saw that her children were happy, she left, for she had not forgiven Nez, and did not wish to remain in his company. So she departed for the Island that was named for her.

   Onera had cursed Nez that none should ever love him, but she had been too late: Ariaj had loved him from the start and she loved him still. Nez watched the horizon whence Onera had departed and would not accept Ariaj’s advances. Neron saw that he pined and wished for him to be happy, but he had already sent Ner, the brewer of potions, away…

   Ner led his siblings and their many children on through the forests towards Neronimahnon, the flaming mountain.

   “Where will we settle?” complained his sister, Ee, “There is naught out here but wilderness and the wild animals. We grew up in Amalteron’s orchard: to leave is grievous!”

   “We will make a new home, a brighter, grander place than any other,” Ner said. “We are a born of Denu and Onera and the power of creation is in our eyes. We will create such wonders as Neron could never imagine. We will become greater than he or any other. Upon Neronimahnon we will build and use its fire for our craft.”

   Nemrus watched the multitude pass through his quiet glens and peaceful forests with concerned eyes. He saw them approaching his favorite mountain, Neronimahnon, and he waited anxiously for them to pass it by. To his dismay, they instead came to a halt upon the mountains grassy slopes. It was a rich and verdant land about the mountain, and the children of Denu began to make themselves comfortable, planting seeds they had brought from the orchards of Amalteron and erecting shelters.

Nemrus watched as they made his mountain their abode, but he was shy and did not confront them. Instead he went to Neron.

   Neron frowned. He had finally gotten the burdensome children away from his own dwelling and was reluctant to chase them from their new chosen place, lest they return…but he also loved Neronimahnon.

   “Perhaps they will leave if the mountain is unstable,” Neron suggested. “But let them not know why it shaketh.”

   Nemrus silently withdrew, disappointed that Neron was not willing to help. But he went to the volcano and inspired it to shiver and tremble and belch ash into the sky. The shelters that the  Children of Denu had constructed fell down and Ee was distraught.

   “This is not a place that is good!” she said to Ner. But Ner was not deterred. He ordered their settlement to move down the mountain to the valley at its foot. There, the soil was still rich, and a stream meandered through; it was a much better place for a palace.

   Ner began to build his palace beside the stream, while Nu continued to plant orchards higher up the mountain where the soil made them to grow lustily. One day she was alone, tending to the tender shoots. Nemrus appeared there, his antlers outlined by the rising sun. The Children of Denu had rarely, if ever, seen the solitary god of the woods. Nu was surprised and bowed before him.

   “Uncle!” she said. “It is an honor to see you here at our new settlement. Our bustling disturbed Neron upon his sacred mountain and it is good that we come here. We welcome you warmly!”

   “This mountain is sacred unto me,” said Nemrus. “I would that your family goeth elsewhere.”

Nu returned to the valley and told Ner and Deru this, but Ner scoffed.

   “This place is perfect for a dwelling of so many!” he said. “Where else could we go? Here we have soil, stone, water, fire, everything is bounteous for our sustenance!”

   “But great Nemrus is displeased,” Nu said.

   “And he is not Neron,” Ner said.

   “He has the power of earth, of animals,” Nu said.

   “Then we shall give him gifts,” said Ner. “We will adulate and worship him as we did to appease Neron.”

   “I do not think he will be pleased,” said Nu.

   “You must please him,” Ner said.

   Nu was not happy, but she knew that her brothers and sisters would not listen, so she went to negotiate with Nemrus.

   “Great Nemrus,” she said. “This place is perfect for a host this large. We will only grow and few places would sustain us. Would it not be better that we anchor here than to flood your quiet glens and bounteous sacred places? If we remain here, we will not need to go elsewhere. We will name our palaces after you and bring you gifts. We will pay tribute unto you, in goods and in song.”

   Although Nemrus could see that she was right, he was bitter.

   “A child must be thrown into the fire of Neronimahnon each year,” he said. “Or it will erupt and destroy your city.” He thought perhaps they would yet be dissuaded from staying there. Nu was horrified but went and told Ner.

   “We cannot tarry here,” she said. “Let us find another valley! There must be some other place where we can live.”

   But Ner was decided. And he sent Nu to tell Nemrus that they would agree to the terms.

Nemrus told her to bring the sacrifice on the following morning, then he waited and watched to see what would happen. Nu would have nothing to do with the act, and so Ner chose one of his own grand-children and along with a procession of singers and bearers of jewels, brought his grandson, Etas, to the lip of the volcano at dawn.

   Nemrus watched in horror, realizing that Ner meant truly to do this thing. Etas was about to be hurled into the flaming crater. But as Ner reached for his own progeny, Nemrus commanded the earth to swallow him, and Etas vanished into the rocks and soil before he could be slain.

   “Thou merciless people,” roared Nemrus, emerging from the vapors of the mountain. “You would slay your own kin? You deserve not the life that has been granted you!”

   “Our Grandmother, and your Mother, Nomra, did likewise in olden days,” Ner said.

   “And she paid dearly for such an unnatural act!” Nemrus hissed. “As shall you! May the cycles of the animals evermore affect you, O heartless ones, may you not continue to live and multiply and overrun this earth with your wickedness. But I shall spare Nu, for she is merciful.”

   Nemrus left Neronihmanon and vanished into the forests. And after, age came upon the Children of Denu and they grew old and died as the animals did. All save for Nu.

   Nu lived on as the city grew and filled the valley with magnificence. Eventually, Ner grew old and when he died, he passed the leadership of the city to his son, Teris. Generations now came and went, but Nu remained, young and beautiful in the city called Nemraltus, after the god of the forests.

   What had befallen Etas? He had been swallowed by the earth, but Nemrus brought him out of the moss and raised him in the woods and gave him power over the earth and they watched the forests together and minded the animals of Oramon. Etas was fleet and could run around the world in a day, bringing news to Nemrus from far and wide. He was also a child of Denu and had the power of creation in his eyes. He learned to transform into any shape he desired, just as his great grandfather, Denu. Untouched by Nemrus’ curse, he lived on, eternally youthful like his grand-aunt, Nu. 

A New Mythology--Oramon--Nomra and the Living Dark

   In the internal depths of Oramon, Nomra’s kingdom grew. Among her crystal forests and sculptured blocks of stone she grew new, strange plants for the dark spaces. Some of her new flowers gave light and some were made of living gemstones. She created also, great underground seas of water, molten gold, and milk.

   Before Denu and the wolves, and before she created her Night Light, she used Phiron’s fire to animate her first stone companion, Syn, who was cold and dead in aspect, but able to carve exquisite murals, statues, and hallways for Nomra’s expanding world. Phiron also helped her to make birds of sapphire and ruby that filled the halls with eerie music. She made, too, a steed of steel to carry her about her domain. It was named Sylo, and was like Phiron in form.

   Once, as Nomra rode Sylo to the edge of her demesne, she sought to form a new aviary for her birds. Phiron accompanied her, giving his light to reveal the dark that Nomra might form it as she pleased. But there was already someone there, asleep, as Neron and Nomra had slept in the shadow before light awoke them.

   Nomra drew back, startled and the dark swallowed the being up again before it could wake.

“What untold ancient one is this?” she wondered. “I have never seen the like.” Cautiously, she stepped forward again to reveal the being entirely.

   In her fear of new things, she subconsciously formed the dark as she revealed the new one, and in so doing, unintentionally disfigured the being.

   He opened his eyes and beheld Nomra.

   She was frightened by the terrifying aspect of the monster and turned her steed to flee.

   “Seem I strange unto thee?” he asked. “All is strange unto me. If I frighten you, let me veil myself.” And he took the darkness behind him and without Light, formed a covering for his many eyes and fluid limbs.

   “You create without Light,” Nomra marveled.

   “I have dreamed long and dreams are dark, their substance is real to me,” said the being. “The Dark is an insubstantial world, one of unending, unformed possibilities. The chaos of Night is not solid and can form and reform as it pleases.”

   “There is no need for such uncertainty,” Nomra said. “Let me show you the world of reality, of light and form and concrete beauty.”

   “I find true beauty in the abstract, yet you arouse my curiosity: show me these strange things you speak of,” the being said hungrily. 

   “What shall I call you, Strange One?" Nomra asked.

   "What wilt thou call me?”

   “Onys,” she said. “Of the Dark.”

    Onys nodded and approached Nomra. She led him into her kingdom and showed him the marvels thereof. Behind his veil of night, Onys’s eyes sparkled in delight.

   “These are indeed marvels,” said Onys. “I wonder what more marvelous things we could create in this half-light world of yours.”

   “Will you teach me how to create without Light?” Nomra asked.

   “It is not so much creation as suggestion,” Onys said. “To make things with Light is to bind the Dark. To weave Darkness is to teach it movement.”

   So together, Nomra and Onys made Urr, a great eye of living stone that could see far forward and far backward in time. They made also the Je, four winged maidens with long tongues like snakes.

Onys built a breathing throne of chaos in Nomra’s favorite crystal garden and from this blasphemous throne he perverted her creations.

   Onys unformed her jewel birds halfway, so that they were eternally changing shape, from one kind of bird to another and bats and other winged things that had no names. The breathing throne of chaos expanded to fill the crystal chamber and Onys let loose tendrils into other chambers. Eyes budded on the tendrils and soon he watched all that transpired in Nomra’s domain.

   At first Nomra did not mind the aberrant intrusion and expansion that filled her chambers with dreaded Darkness and seething malice. She was thrilled by the ever-changing, though horrifying madness of these new things. She did not mind that the unblinking tendril eyes of Onys watched her wherever she went and wept tears of blood when she bathed in the sea of milk.

   She did not even care that great hideous membranes grew between her stalactites and rained creeping things upon the stones.

   Phiron whispered to her, warning that Onys was a vile creature, that she should not let him conquer her domain. She did not listen. At first.

   She sought to form Darkness on her own, and shaped for herself the first true bats, but she could not bring them to life without the help of Onys. Frustrated, she sat beside the sea of molten gold, poisoned with the shifting chaos and sparkling eyes of Onys.

   “Nomra…” whispered Onys’s voice from a thousand hidden mouths. “Nomra…”

   Nomra stood and followed the hissing voices to where Onys waited on his throne of chaos.

   “Come to me, Nomra,” he said. “I desire you. Step into my throne and let me embrace you and enfold you in my murk.”

   Nomra held back as the Darkness seemed to tug at her. “I do not wish to,” Nomra said.

   “Do I not excite you?” enquired Onys. “Have you not thrilled at my intangible and ever inescapable pandemonium? Give yourself over to me, Nomra, let us be one in anarchy. Let the Dark change you as I have been changed, as you changed me, dear Nomra. Let me kiss you!”

   His tendrils of slime and membranes sought to pull her into his throne.

   Nomra screamed and pulled away as the churning mucus lapped at her feet and the sticky webs entangled her arms.

   “Phiron!” she cried. “Save me!”

   Phiron tried to reach her, but the Je intercepted him and herded him towards the edges of Light, where Darkness was supreme.

   “Do not touch me,” Nomra warned Onys, but he only laughed.

   “You cannot escape me,” said Onys.

   Nomra seized his webs of Dark that he sought to enwrap her in and used her new skill to reform them. They broke away from her and she fled from the throne into her chamber of sparkling flames. Onys sought to extinguish them with his eye-covered tentacles, but Nomra reformed the tendrils into solid things and with the faint flame-light, managed to freeze them into stone.

   Phiron had singed the Je and escaped from them. He rushed to aid Nomra and they solidified all of the Dark tendrils, tentacles, and creeping feelers and roots that extended from the throne. Then Nomra sealed up the throne in a cocoon of diamond. She left Phiron to blaze bight and keep the Darkness from emerging while she went to the surface to collect sunlight and fallen stars.

   When she returned to the sealed throne of chaos, she formed a cage of silver to contain her new Light. The first lamp, a dazzling Light, which she called Mihr, she hung outside the cocoon to ensure it remained sealed and kept Onys from emerging and bringing pandemonium to her demesne.

Then she and Phiron went through all the chambers and all the caverns and halls and froze the tendrils and closed the eyes and scrubbed the place clean of unformed Darkness. Syn chiseled away the solidified remains of Onys’s expansions and carted them off to a new pit, called Obis, that Nomra made for the purpose. She left Urr alone in its chamber, but sent Sylo to hunt down the Je, which she trapped in silver cages and hung above the gloom of Obis.

   With her new Underworld Light, Mihr, Nomra was at last able to give life to her shadow creatures. She brought her bats to life and sent them to slay all of her old birds that had been commandeered by Onys and then she formed new birds of diamonds and opals.

   She also made the wolves out of shadow and gave them life with the Light of Mihr.

   So Nomra won dominion over Shadow.