Chapter XLII
A grievous, misshapen beast emerged from over a surreal landscape. Topped by a ridiculously small, featureless head, black as coal, his grotesquely massive shoulders grew into fearsome arms, dragging upon the ground or perhaps aiding his stride. He bore down on pitifully stubby legs as thick as columns. The eyes, the nose, a snarl — all bandied for prominence; then the face belonged to Mog, and he held fire in one hand and grain in the other. With a great booming sound he brought his hands together, and shards like missiles flew from between his fingers and shot through the air. Suddenly his legs grew long as he lifted his tremendous feet high into the air and brought them crashing to the ground. Then the head turned black again, and, bending over, the figure extended his massive reach and embraced great armfuls of earth. Drawing the two farthest points together, he pulled a broad blanket of soil and rock over the sun. Artur snorted and tried to stand as the light dimmed, but he fell back and felt his head hit the hard, flat stone beneath. The creature’s missing face made a sound of wailing triumph, then faded into oblivion. The dim light returned, and a single flame burned above Artur like an idea. He caught dusky visions of a man standing over him.
“Lo, will ye be joining us now?”
Artur squinted, as even the single candle’s flickering made his head hurt. His legs felt stiff when he tried to move, and his knees would not bend. “Wyllem?” he asked.
“Nay, not any woolens here. Will ye want some dew water?”
“No questions, if not Wyllem,” groaned Artur.
“Aye, then, your own damn choice. Ye have entered the Eternal City. I am Linus, minister to the Raspars. Ye have been brought inside for your safety.” He reached around behind him and produced a small stone vile. “Lo, take a drink of this; it is your treatment.”
Linus handed him the container, and as Artur took it he heard the clank of metal. There on his wrists hung shackles, with chains leading to rings embedded in the stone walls.
“Lo, just a precaution,” said Linus. “We had to use leg irons to fit your devilish arms.”
The chains were heavy, but the metal light, probably copper or tin. Artur took one link in his fingers and twisted it open, then again with the other chain, freeing his arms.
“Lo. Aye. Damn,” said Linus, trying not to sound concerned.
“Strong enough for this as well,” grumbled Artur, defying his suspicions and lifting the vile in a toast before drinking down its contents. The redness of his anger returned to his face; he was feeling better. He glanced at his knees and saw the bandages wound tightly around them; only then did he become aware that milling people filled the room. He saw too that Kylie had gone missing.
“Lo, ye have nothing to fear. For hours ye have lain asleep, and Bryn nursed ye back to health, blinking tenderly, too.”
“Who?”
“Lo, Bryn,” said Linus, as though Artur should understand, and he gestured toward the area behind him again. Deep within the shadows, Artur could make out a forlorn, delicate face, appearing like a portrait hanging upon the wall. The light glowed softly off her dark eyes and velvet skin.
“Lo, Bryn is wife to me, and shaman to our clan,” Linus continued in a distracted manner as he stacked empty cups scattered about Artur’s rigid bed. “Though Raspar women are allowed a single child, Bryn cannot bear children at all. Bloody barren she is, so our clan honors her most highly, because Gryphon has so used her to benefit all the Eternal City. Her sacrifice causes the clan not to spill over the walls’ protection. Symbolic for us; damn real to her. As well, her service to the health of all Raspars requires time and ability that might otherwise have been granted only to a son or daughter. So she receives much honor within the city, my lovely cow. She has nursed ye.”
“Thanks to you, then,” said Artur toward the wall.
Bryn did not respond, except to lower her eyes. “Aye, she has the sadness,” said Linus, stopping his activity to look upon his wife. “The shadows are her realm, she feels less hell in hiding, and she seldom speaks. Many hours she spends polishing the carvings of the city, silent and lost within the melancholy of her heart.”
“Lo, ye talk too much,” a woman’s voice said.
“Aye,” and Linus gathered up the implements and left.
Artur silently gazed into the shadows of Bryn’s corner; her eyes met only the floor. Her faint figure seemed to blend and disappear into the pattern of the stone construction behind her. Raspars came and left without comment nor notice.
“I have felt the sadness, too,” said Artur, not knowing what to say.
Bryn remained silent and sank deeper into the darkness.
Artur lay on his back and considered his situation. He wondered what the outcome of the battle had been, and if he alone among the travelers had been injured or perhaps alone had survived. He wondered if he would see his fellows again, dead or alive, and if he would return to the Rufoux village. For a moment he thought of Andreia, and Lauræl, and wondered if returning mattered. Thinking of Geoffrey, he felt sure the old man probably had finally found a way to die. He eventually slipped into thinking he knew not what. Raspars came in and went out of the room, looking at him only from the corners of their eyes, trying to appear disinterested. Suddenly he was aware of a light grasp upon his arm, and he lurched toward it, grimacing at the pain in his legs.
Bryn pulled away with a slight gasp, retreating halfway into her shadows.
“What is it?” Artur barked. “Don’t startle me like that!”
“Lo, do not grow angry at me,” Bryn returned.
“I don’t grow angry, I am angry.”
“Aye, your anger remains too long. Ye will heal better if ye are at peace.”
“You will not keep me here that long.”
“Nay, ye will not stay long here. Your wounds are not such as to lay ye out. We found this caught in the crease of your neck; some kind of great bug.”
Bryn held out her hand and revealed the crumpled form of a hummingbird, its still delicacy caught like a painting by its utter death.
“Lo, so beautiful. So pitiful in its beauty, never to breathe again. Its life denied,” Bryn said softly.
“What did that fellow say? You serve your clan as healer?”
“Aye, though little sickness ever curses us here. No injury within the city, for the law forbids any to strike out against another within the walls. It is our first law.”
“Sounds like you would have trouble keeping busy, then.”
“Lo, an occasional accident occurs. Odd accidents. Lo, even Linus, my husband, wears his collar high to hide the scars of such an injury. He walked the ramparts of the high towers one day, and falling he caught the sharp edge of the stones with his throat. Vicious cuts, cuts from stones. Odd accident. I see little sickness, but much death.”
“Yes. What?” said Artur, distracted and stretching uncomfortably. “These bandages on my knees bind too tightly.”
“Aye, but we must keep them tight for now. If bones are broken, we must force your joints to remain still. Now that ye awaken enough to stand, we can test for pain.”
“Well, that can wait,” said Artur. “My head’s too woozy to stand now, I think.”
“Aye. Ye show medical wisdom.”
“Sure I do.”
“Lo, ye had best heal in haste that ye make your escape quickly. These walls will devour your soul if not your life.”
“Escape?” said Artur with renewed irritation.
“Nay, no danger hangs over ye here. But the walls stand not as a fortress so much as a prison.” Bryn looked about, her features painted with anguish, and she rubbed her palms down the front of her torso and loins.
“Why do you say prison? Do you speak of yourself? You feel safe here, don’t you, and held in high honor? Isn’t that what your husband said?”
“Aye, I receive their honor. I sit upon their pedestal, a sacrifice to their gods of empty survival. Every couple to keep only one child, but Gryphon decrees I am to bear none. A great and won
derful honor.” Her voice trembled as she seemed to fade further from sight.
“I am sorry. Still, it is not your people’s doing.”
“Lo, isn’t it? For the dead cry out for their mothers, and there is none to hear but the executioner! My people’s honor mocks my tears, drains the blood from my heart! Oh, that they would simply drive their arrows into me, and not celebrate the denial that tortures me! My voice alone cries for mercy, and yet there is not even one to listen,” and she flung a hand toward her passing clansmen, not seeing and not hearing.
Bryn fell to gentle weeping in the corner, Artur struck mute in confused silence.
“Lo, would I not take one?!” Bryn suddenly cried out. “Would I not take one innocent child? Must they all go down to death, when I would take any one offered to me? These little ones, innocents sacrificed to the whims of the past! But these my people, oh, they so honor me! They worship their law, their first law, and prefer the strictness of their habit over healing one broken heart!”
Artur lay in silence, watching the encroaching gloom fold over Bryn. Soon her sobbing offered the only hint of her presence, and Raspars came and went.
Rhodan approached Mercedi in the council room.
“Lo, regent,” he said with a bow.
“Aye, Rhodan,” she replied.
“Lo, how do you judge in this matter?”
“Lo, the outsiders pose no threat to us. We will let them rest and heal, then send them away.”
“Aye, I agree. Will ye counsel with them before that time?”
“Lo, that remains for me to decide. They come from barbaric tribes far to the west. What can they do to add to Raspar fortunes?”
“Lo, but did ye not see what the giants have done to destroy the tower?”
“Lo, indeed.”
“Aye, and they might have thrown down many more towers, if the outsiders had not known how to throw rocks through the air.”
“Lo, what do ye mean to say?”
“Lo, the one called Theodoric, he speaks with wisdom I do not understand. I fear to answer him. And the woman of the Bedoua, she makes marks with an artist’s tool, and by them her leader knows what resides in her head. We can not call these barbaric tribes. They are not inferior to us; they are only different.”
“Lo, now ye it is who speaks wisdom,” said Mercedi, smiling slightly. “I fear to answer.”
“Nay, say not that,” said Rhodan. “But I believe it wise at least to talk with these men, before ye send them on their way.”
“Lo, the Raspars do not know this tradition. For generations we have remained inside these walls, safely hidden from the world.”
“Lo, indeed.”
“Aye, our forefathers always claimed Gryphon did bless us with the safety of these walls, alone inside, forever shielded from the wildness of the outside. How now shall Gryphon reward this breach of trust, this lack of faith?”
“Lo,” said Rhodan, “Gryphon does not see us.”
“Aye. Gryphon does not see us,” said Mercedi.
Lo, Gryphon’s Chasm
Aye, here begins the legend of the clan of the Raspars, their past and future.
Lo, when the sun first dawned upon the horizons of Medialia, and the stars glimmered in their newness and smiled upon the denizens of the world, and the planets had only just found the paths that they would take for the rest of eternity, and the shoulders of the Rivers Alluvia and Gravidas shrugged to raise the mountains and standancrags, and the winds blew the sands and seeds across the full expanse of the land, and rumidont and hippus roamed wild with no love for man nor obligation either, and the deviltooth and draughgon both abounded across the landscape, and the trees of the forests had grown to only a fraction of their height today, and the peoples of the Earth had not yet divided themselves into clans and nations, lo, the gods and spirits came together in council under the direction of The Overlord.
Aye, upon the jagged ridges of Cragmont, the tallest peak among all the highlands of the long Medialia mountain range, all the gods and spirits of the Earth gathered at the behest of The Overlord. From the pools and streams, the grasses and leaves, from the far flat dunes of the deserts to the rolling grassy meadows along the southern Alluvia, all of the gnomes, wraiths, nickels and other varieties of woodland folk hastened to the mountain. Magnificent chariots drawn by majestic birds of prey, grand ships with tall masts and billowing sails, great herds of stampeding hippus: All hastened to Cragmont, bringing their riders to confer with The Overlord.
“Lo, we have known an age when ye gods and spirits ruled the stars and waters and lands of the Earth,” said The Overlord in the great meeting hall. “In days past ye sprites filled the forests, and ye merpeople skimmed the ocean’s surface and sunned upon the islands. Aye, but liberty passes with the fleeting moment, and ye now are pushed from the habitats ye enjoyed in the emergent world.”
Lo, The Overlord stood precariously high upon a spire erupting from the floor of the hall, black as the night itself, yet glistening before the torches. Long robes, sparkling like the galaxies, hung from his shoulders to well beyond his feet, cloaking them so that ye might believe he grew naturally from the jutting spire, though he did not. Even his long sleeves draped the sides of the fearsome rock, clothing it in his own gentleness, and the glimmering fabric swayed gently with his every movement. His long whiskers caught in his gesturing fingers and swirled about them like a fisherman’s net. The great mane of wild, white curls upon his head looped away in every direction, and the light danced off the strands.
“Nay, ye will no longer rule your realms,” The Overlord continued. “For man has multiplied to fill every corner of the world, and ye have no more place to lay your heads. Though ye are powerful, ye are weak in your independence from each other. Lo, in your desire for your own self-interest, ye have forgotten to be strong and know isolation’s frailty. So the multitude of mankind pushes ye even to the margins of creation. Do I not watch over ye, and see the wide world, and speak truth, as ever?”
“Aye,” said the assembled spirits. “Ye are our sovereign.”
“Lo, shall we battle them, then, Overlord?” asked a troll eagerly.
“Nay, but ye shall not,” replied The Overlord, and the troll muttered. “Ye cannot overcome the expanse of man’s abundance upon the land. Ye have heard, yet ye have not listened. Ye shall defeat no enemy until ye defeat your own self-absorption. Ye each have divided to yourselves your own domains: forests for elves, mountains for dryads, streams for nymphs. Ye kelpies, ye have separated yourselves to the meadows, each to his own plot; ye daemons have laid claim each to his own stone. Not until ye have come out of hiding in each faerie habitation will ye learn true strength in the nubile world.”
“Lo, then what would ye have us do, Overlord?” asked a faun.
“Nay, ye can not defend your place in the Earth. Ye will survive the onslaught of men only by joining with their numbers. Only by making league with these growing nations of humans can ye retain your very existence. Lo, I have thus called ye here — all ye phantoms, ye leprechauns, ye satyrs — I have called ye into my presence to make pact with men. I will name for each of ye a man, a man to whom ye will be bound, and ye will bless him, and he will reverence you, and in this pact ye both shall learn to rid yourselves of your sins — ye your desire to remain separate, your men their hedonist appetites.”
Aye, and to each of the woodland folk did The Overlord appoint a man. And to one named Gryphon he gave the man Raspar.
“Lo, and what duty do I owe to this man Raspar?” asked Gryphon.
“Lo, ye shall be his head, and ye will offer him blessings to make him to prosper,” said The Overlord.
“Aye, and what shall his duty be to me?”
“Lo, he shall reverence ye in your distance.”
“Lo, distance? Am I not to show myself to this man Raspar?”
“Nay, ye shall not show yourself.”
“Nay, then, this does not please me. How will the man Raspar know it is I who ble
sses him? How will he worship me without seeing me with his eyes?” Gryphon’s anger mounted.
“Lo, reverence, not worship. For this very reason ye will not show yourself to him, for in your subtlety he would misdirect his worship. But ye will talk with him in the winds, and in the grasses, and in his mind.”
“Nay, this pleases me not. I will not have it!” declared Gryphon, and at the same time grumbling arose from among the ogres, the nickels, and the minotaurs.
“Aye, but ye will have it.”
“Nay, I will not, but I will show ye what I will have,” said Gryphon, and he leapt upon the stone spire like a cat. With the goblins and specters rushing below, he scaled the narrow peak, muscles rippling his shoulders and back, bounding ever closer to the motionless Overlord. Below, the large and fearsome among the gods and spirits rampaged in utter chaos, while the small and timid scurried out of the hall and headed down the mountainside, seeking whatever cover the nearest hole could offer. Hand over hand Gryphon shimmied upward until he reached the gossamer hems of The Overlord’s robes, which he grasped with a single claw-like hand. The Overlord remained still.
“Lo, ye overstep your bounds, Gryphon.”
“Nay, but ye demand too much. I will no more be nursemaid to a man than a deviltooth preens a rumidont. These low beings will serve me, I will have worship. Ye will not deny me what I desire.”
The Overlord stood utterly still, with neither objection nor struggle. In swift fashion Gryphon tied him into a tight bundle, to the point at which he could not move his arms nor his legs. Dragged from his precipice and hung by his heels at the entry of the meeting hall, The Overlord reviewed what the fearsome spirits had wrought.
“Lo, before this night is over, ye will do my bidding,” he said to Gryphon.
“Nay, but I will do my own bidding, now and through the night. Then will we decide what to do with ye. Come, let us make use of the kitchens and tables!” Gryphon called the ogres and minotaurs, the gremlins and hobgoblins, to rejoin him in the hall, to the great cheers and congratulations of the mob.
Lo, the slovenly crowd laid waste to the cupboards and larders, pulling every bit of perishables out of storage and onto platters and tables and floors. Soon an abundance of breads and puddings, fruits and vegetables covered every flat surface. The gods and spirits went at the food like rooting hogs, filling their bellies and sending crumbs and scraps flying through the air. Fights broke out among trolls and nickels, arguments arose between satyrs and cyclops, and brawling spilled out from the great table into surrounding rooms. The melee rose to such a level that nobody noticed the one standing among them.
Aye, atop the rugged spire again stood the elegant figure of The Overlord. His face no longer glowed with beneficent preparations, but instead burned with defiant rage. In upraised hands he held the bonds that once held him, now turned to writhing snakes.
“Nay, enough! Ye will stand down!” he roared. The sound of his booming voice overturned chairs and left the great and fearsome of the spirits scuttling for doorways, as though an invading army had descended upon them. Immediately only Gryphon remained, unable to wrench himself from his seat at the head of the table.
“Lo, what will ye do with me? Will ye have your vengeance?” he croaked.
“Aye, well ye speak, for surely ye have so earned it. But I no longer hold judgment over ye.”
“Lo, what mean ye?”
“Nay, ye no longer dwell in my province, for I have awarded ye to Raspar.”
“Lo, so ye still make me to be guardian of a man?”
“Aye, and not merely guardian, but also servant, for surely ye must learn to know authority, and if not Raspar’s, then mine.”
“Aye, ye are my sovereign; so be it,” Gryphon’s words said, but his voice did not agree.
Lo, so Gryphon, alone, slid out of his chair and slinked from the room, descending the mountains and tramping across Medialia, searching out the man Raspar, alone. And he found him, sitting at the roots of a sittlebark tree.
“Lo, Raspar,” he said, whispering from the leaves.
“Aye?” replied Raspar. “What voice is this? Do the birds speak to me from the treetops?”
“Lo, I am one called Gryphon.”
“Lo, then show yourself, Gryphon,” said Raspar, craning his neck to see the source of the voice.
“Nay, I may not.”
“Lo, why is that so?”
“Lo, for I am one of the woodland folk, and The Overlord so ordains it. Even so does he send me to ye, to be guardian and benefactor to ye.”
“Aye, just the kind of benefactor I would receive — afraid to show himself.”
“Nay, not afraid. The Overlord so ordains it; I have no choice but to obey.”
“Lo, I do not know this Overlord of yours. If ye can not show yourself to me, what can ye do to so bless me as ye claim?” Raspar challenged him.
“Lo, I will make the sun to shine upon ye, that ye might forever be tempered and browned with good health and warm fellowship,” said Gryphon.
“Nay, but the sun shines upon me now, as it ever has. Why promise ye me this thing that I have always known? And what would ye require of me for this great privilege?”
“Lo, I ask that ye worship me, though ye can not see me, but still know that I do this wonder for ye, that ye might worship me,” Gryphon said, quite perturbed, with the tenor of demand in his voice. Still he sought more than The Overlord had allowed him.
“Nay, this ye do not do, for the sun ever shines, as I have said. If ye desire worship, ye invisible spirit, then ye must do more than put the seal of your name upon what creation commonly provides.”
“Lo, then, I will make the rivers and streams to ever flow beside ye, nurturing your families, cooling your throat and feet, filling your body with vigor and vitality.”
“Nay, do not the rivers and streams flow already today, and did they not flow yesterday? This is a thing of the Earth itself, and not the goodness of any spirit who must hide among the leaves. What could ye possibly want in return for such an empty promise?”
“Lo, I seek that ye reverence me, in spite of my hiding, for I have been given guardianship over ye, to watch over your ways, and prepare the blessings of the Earth for ye.”
“Nay, neither will I give ye reverence for such blessings, as ye call them. For the water flows where it will, and neither I nor ye can stop it from so doing. If I am to reverence ye, then ye must show me power worthy of such devotion.”
“Lo, then, I will make the soil of the Earth to bring forth the fruits of the ground in faithfulness and abundance, so that ye and your people will be ruddy with health, strong in your coming and going, with long years added to your lives.”
“Nay, do not the seeds already bring forth their leaves? And can ye even know how the clever seeds know what they are to do? Can ye explain how roots seek the soil, and branches seek the sky? Is this not the way of nature, that ye now promise to me? Do ye doubt at all in your promise? What is such an unlikely risk worth to ye, that which ye demand of me, ye doubly invisible spirit?”
“Lo, for this promise I ask of ye honor, though ye know me not, for of all the woodland folk, of all the large and fearsome, all the small and timid, the powers chose me to be guardian over ye.”
“Nay, neither can I grant ye honor for making no better promises than a dead grain of wheat can give. If ye expect to earn honor from me and my people who follow me, ye will have to offer more than the produce of dirt and water.”
“Lo, then, for ye I will make the air clear and fair, so that ye will never see it, even as ye shall never see me, but ye shall fill your lungs and strengthen your limbs with it to the fineness of life. Your chest will swell with the beauty of it, and your heart will beat stronger for it.”
Aye, Raspar fell fully impatient now.
“Nay, nay, what is the air now if not invisible, even as ye are? What does the air do now but inflate my lungs and give strength to my muscles? What do ye promise, but what is already now
and always has been? At what great price would you make this grand exchange?” Raspar asked, with sarcasm rich and copious.
“Lo, for this promise I ask only fellowship, that ye would act toward me as an equal, a friend, that I might fulfill my duty to ye as your guardian, for so has it been appointed to me by The Overlord.”
“Nay, still do I not know your Overlord, and I do not know ye except that ye make promise of things I have known all my life. What friendship offers nothing but empty talk and daft passing of time? If ye will be my fellow, then ye must at least show me your face.”
“Nay, I can not show myself to ye, for this too The Overlord has appointed to me.”
“Lo, then, what will ye offer me?”
“Lo, I offer this carving, my likeness in fine polished stone, a stroke of artwork to keep in your habitations at all times, through all generations,” and from the tops of the trees descended a beautiful statuette of multi-colored stone, ribboned with colors known only to Medialia, a perfect likeness of Gryphon.
Lo, Raspar took the heavy statue in hand and considered it at length. “Lo, is this cold artifact the only signet of the friendship ye offer? Is this token any better than a warm sun, or flowing water, or growing plants, or clear air? I reckon not.” And Raspar took the figure and dashed it against the foot of a nearby standancrag, and it shattered into a thousand pieces.
Lo, Gryphon sat silently in the branches, humbled as The Overlord would never have been able to humble him. Silently he slipped away and retreated to Cragmont, and Raspar never knew.
Aye, but the sun knew, and it grew dim as a great body passed over it to darken the skies and cast a chill upon the land. And Raspar beheld it, and he raged against Gryphon, “Lo, where hide ye now, that the sun no longer shines upon me with its warmth and goodness as ye have promised me? Where have ye run, who would not show yourself? Why do ye remain quiet in this my time of need, as I beseech ye?”
Nay, Gryphon heard him not in the deep rooms of Cragmont, but the rivers and streams did hear, and they waned and trickled until they left only barren, dry beds. So Raspar beheld it, and he cried out to Gryphon, “Lo, now the streams and rivers do desert me, oh Gryphon, though ye have promised that they would flow forever across my lands. What mean ye by this, oh guardian, who have abandoned me to the dryness of my heart and soul? Where hide ye now, even in your mystery, ye Gryphon, appointed to be guardian of Raspar?”
Lo, Gryphon lay behind the stone walls of Cragmont, and knew not the cries of Raspar. But the seeds of the ground heard, within their warm beds of the Earth’s soil, and they turned their heads away from his voice. Choosing death over the blessing of ingrates, the plants of the ground withered upon their stalks, their roots drawing into twisted brown tendrils in rich, black graves. And Raspar saw it, and he shook his fist into the empty air, “Lo, Gryphon, ye have betrayed me, he over whom ye have been appointed guardian, and your promise of the land’s abundance has blown away with the wind! Oh, that ye merely hid in the branches of the trees, that I might make my plea into your ears! Where do ye hide now, where do ye take refuge, away from the pleadings of Raspar?”
Aye, Gryphon remained silent, and heard none of Raspar’s pleadings. But the heavens all about him heard, and the very cursings he spoke clouded and choked the air, so that Raspar could barely breathe. Indeed, he fell to his knees in weakness, and in desperation, as he called out: “Aye, Gryphon, ye spoke wisdom to me, and even now do I feel the stings of your wrath. Where now is the promise of air to breathe? For ye have left me to myself and stand apart in your silence, I know not where. Live ye yet in the branches of the trees? Do ye take pleasure in seeing my despair? Why must ye remain hidden? Why did ye never show yourself to me, oh guardian?
“Lo, that I might see the carving once again, the fine countenance of your face, the noble lines of your shoulders and back! Oh, that the statuette once again lay in my hand, and I could at least gaze upon the graven image of your being! That I might know a place to direct my prayers! For neither do I see ye nor recall your appearance. Ye indeed grow cruel and hateful in your silence, and leave me to the caprice of a voracious world. I truly see ye not, and neither do ye see me.”
Aye, Raspar desired the little stone image that he had shattered, but this too, like Gryphon himself, eluded his presence, even his memory. Left in his cold, dank homeland, Raspar turned bitter, hating Gryphon for his distance, and hating the possibility that he might one day appear again, at his own time, in his own way. Though the sun reappeared, and the rivers returned, and the plants relented, and the air revived, Raspar’s heart grew ever harder for the sake of promises rejected, and benevolence lost.
“Lo, did ye not do my bidding?” asked The Overlord.
“Aye,” said Gryphon. “In truth, ye are my sovereign.”