Author's Note: This is, believe it or not, a one-shot at this point. I just had this… idea, a single scene, and I had to write it down. I know it seems the cornerstone of an ambitious epic fic, but I have neither time nor inspiration to develop such a tale. So this is it for now. Fun to think about, in any case. :D I mean, in Tortall we get so much of the patron-god(dess) adventures that we forget about good old "you are the inheritor of this ancient cosmic legacy…"

I'm really sorry about Daine and Numair. *hanging head* But they had their time, definitely. They're still heroes, and will always be celebrated as such.

Well, please review. It's my first epic-type fic….

Disclaimer: Tortall belongs to Tammy; Daine and Numair belong to Tammy; Shari and no-first-name Irsen *blush* are mine, as is this story.

2nd Edition: touch-up and miniscule poetry excerpt.

Yladar's Heir

by Starchild

Alas! the dawn

Of Youth forgone!

-- Stardust by Almien DeRaiso, 412 H.E.

The single taper between them cast a scant and trembling light around the room; darkness filled the corners and shadows thrashed madly but soundlessly as the fragile flame sputtered. The soft light played across her face and brought out the depths of her dark eyes as he watched her, searching her delicately carved features as he might scan an ancient text for its secrets. She was beautiful - as all in the realm, and others, knew - but not the fresh-cut beauty of youth, pristine as a untrodden snowfall. She was thirty-three, neither young nor old, and by now thread-fine lines had settled like cobwebs around her eyes and mouth. For now, he knew, she had finally drunk enough sorrow and bitterness for his chance to approach her.

"I offer my condolences, Mistress Salmalín," he said solemnly, "for the passing of your parents, Black God give them rest."

Her face gave away nothing but a strong set of her jaw - confidence. "Thank you. But it was months ago."

He smiled gently, concealing his elation. "But surely such a loss would mire itself in the one left behind, even when the period of mourning has passed."

He gloated inwardly as her eyes hardened. She resented him, it was clear, and she resented sitting across from him at his summons, listening to him. "I am grateful for your sympathy, Master Irsen."

"They fell in battle, serving the realm, and together. They died with courage, honor, love. They were hailed as heroes. Little more can be sought."

She didn't allow her lip to curl or her elegant eyebrow to arch, but he could tell from the slightest shifting of the curves and planes of her face that she was suppressing a sneer. Her sentiment came across plainly: Who are you to speak of my parents? You never knew them.

"No, I didn't know them," he agreed quietly. "But, Mistress Salmalín, I dare tell you that I have followed you and your work for many years."

Now she did raise her eyebrows, regarding at him as a conservative noble might a peasant. "Have you?" she asked lightly.

He smiled slowly, and took his time in replying. "Ellesharia Salmalín, known in her youth as the Magechild. Possibly a greater mage then, for your potential, at a tender age, awed the public."

Her face had returned to its stoic expression, but currents of anger pulsed in the depths of her eyes.

"Perfectly successful as a mage and wildmage," he continued. "And quite well regarded, given the magnitude of your powers. But you never felt the thirst for true greatness satisfied. All throughout your youth - up until this very point - you waited for some deity to approach you and present you with a cosmic mission or quest, in which hung the fate of the world. But years passed, and it never happened. Not as with the Lioness, or your mother. You couldn't help but feel a failure. Unrealized, unrecognized.

"Your parents' deaths woke to you several understandings. One, that even the greatest mages are not invincible. That your own time might be limited. That you have reached the noon of your lifespan, still no heroine, no legend. You fear, even, that your parents were disappointed in you. And, with them gone, your bonds to this unsatiating life further loosed. You have none left to speak to of your hopes and despairs. None to understand them."

"On the contrary." Her voice was commendably even, though her eyes had narrowed at his speech. "I have ample friends and comrades in Tortall."

"None who fully appreciate the motives of a great mage. Few do. I am one such."

Her upper lip curled slightly at the corner. "You, Irsen," she said lightly, "are hardly my friend."

He smiled openly in return. "Ah, but I might well be."

A pause. "Why don't you tell me, then, why you summoned me here?" Her voice was icy. "Other than to analyze my life and complexes."

His smile widened almost manically as he leaned forward over the table, tracing her features with his wild eyes as though with touch. "Ellesharia," he whispered almost reverently. "Dawn-Waker." He caressed the words on his tongue. "It's truly what you are. And you never knew."

She stiffened visibly. "Just tell me what you brought me here to say, Irsen." Her voice dripped distaste.

"I can open a door for you." His eyes shone with glee. "A door to greatness. I can uncover the brilliance that would shine forth were it not smothered by the bounds of your life. I can help you to fulfill your name.

"The Tomb of Yladar, Dawn-Waker. It has lain silent for seven hundred years, waiting to be roused. And you are the one to do it."

"Tomb of Yladar?"

"She was a great mage of pre-Human-Era Carthak, one of the greatest. A world-renowned sehalet - in Old Thak, 'of two powers' - a Gifted wildmage. Yladar developed great tracts of knowledge, beyond what had ever been known, or has been known since. But she kept them well protected. Sehalets were as rare then as they are now, and Yladar found no inheritor to suit her. So she took her secrets to her grave - literally." He smiled. "But they can be recovered. She allowed for that, even after death. The tomb can be opened, with the proper workings, and by the proper hands. Only a Gifted Wildmage, a great one such as yourself, can do it." He shook his head. "Imagine - and your parents never knew. They never knew what their daughter was, what she might be. Not even your father, for all his learning…. Or perhaps he did know some of Yladar." He shrugged. "But few do. Small surprise you never heard of her legacy."

He focused gravely on her once more. "Ellesharia Salmalín, I can guide you to Yladar's resting-place. I have uncovered the necessary workings to gain admittance. When opened, the Tomb will yield… amazing things. Knowledge and power beyond the imagination. Things no bard has ever sung of, nor greatest mages looked upon for seven centuries. Imagine… such glory has lain in slumber throughout the ages, waiting for Yladar's heir to release it. You, Dawn-Waker -" he smiled - "are indeed to usher in a new era of magecraft. You are suited to be her successor."

Her eyes seemed bottomless; her face still revealed nothing. "Tell me, Irsen," she said softly. "What might be your - stipend - for this guidance?"

A clever woman, as well as a great one. He paused, caught off guard.

"Surely," she continued, "a man like you wouldn't simply hand me the map to infinite glory. That is hardly your way, I've seen."

He moistened thin lips with his tongue, and smiled again. "Indeed, Salmalín. For such a quest - and afterwards as well - cooperation would be necessary. We would aid each other when needed, and such aid… or favors… would be repaid."

"And your favor in aiding me to find Yladar's Tomb would be repaid… how?" She tilted her head to the side, long black braid sliding over her shoulder.

He suppressed a frown, resenting her forwardness. She would be difficult, he could tell. Unconsciously he moistened his lips again. "Well. I can see you'll want the terms directly." He gave her a starched smile. "In return for the powers you would gain, I would… call on your services after the completion of the quest."

"Service - or servitude?" she wanted to know.

His lips tightened in irritation. "Don't be presumptuous, Salmalín."

She sneered and leaned back leisurely in her chair, arms crossed. "I presume nothing, Irsen. I'm simply asking your terms for the professional relation you propose. And for good reason, given your history."

"I'll be open with you, then." Anger heated his words. "I lead you to Yladar's trove; you reap the glory of her work. In return, you use it as I ask."

Her jaw flexed. "And once I donned the powers you speak of - just how could you ensure I do as you say?"

He smiled coldly. "Oh, I'm sure you know, Salmalín - there are workings that can bind any oath beyond hope of reneging." He raised a hand and sketched a shimmering rune in the air. From the flicker in her eyes, he knew she understood well what he meant. The sparkling symbol dissolved, leaving the two mages in near-darkness once more.

"So," she said tersely. "I would gain such power, only to serve you? Hardly appealing, I must say."

He smoldered. "For the acquisition, you'd think to just walk away in your glory? Some recompense is reasonable. We would be partners. It's fitting."

"Partners… connotating equality?"

He stared at her for a long moment. "Think of the possibilities, Salmalín. You would be the greatest mage in the world. Possibly the greatest mage ever to be."

"And in return, be serf to your will."

"I would hardly say -"

"No." The word was absolute.

"Pardon?" he said tightly.

"I said no, Irsen. I won't do it."

His facial muscles twitched in fury. "You're a fool, woman."

She laughed harshly. "I think not. Some of us hold liberty above the prize of power, Irsen. Though I can certainly understand that one like you would go to any lengths for the opportunity you describe."

Quelling his anger, he tried a different approach. "Think about it, Salmalín. It's written, for instance, that Yladar found the key to immortality. To live forever…."

"I'm not interested in immortality, Irsen," she told him acridly. "One lifetime is more than enough." For a heartbeat, a shadow crossed her face, as doubtless she dwelled upon the misfortunes and disappointments she'd seen.

He leapt at the opportunity. "You say that only because of what your life has seen so far. There's a world beyond, despite what anyone might tell you. You've lived all your life on idle fantasies, dreaming of the day when a god or goddess might appear and make you a legend." He smiled slyly. "I assure you, it doesn't take a god to find a place in the annals of magecraft. The ability falls equally to human hands. We can make a legend of ourselves, Salmalí n. It's well within reach."

"And it's my prerogative," she replied. "You can't open the Tomb without me. I'll not change my mind, I'm afraid." She stood, revealing her impressive six feet of height. "Now if you have nothing more to say, I will take my leave."

He all but lunged from his seat, leaning with his face less than a foot from hers. "You don't seem to realize what this means," he pressed. "You are Yladar's heir. It falls to you, Ellesharia Salmalín, to open her Tomb and inherit the wealth of her work, the power that awaits you."

She returned his stare evenly. "I repeat myself: I won't open the Tomb."

He pulled back, drawing himself up and looking down his nose at her. "And I repeat myself: you're a fool."

"And you're a greedy, unprincipled man." She turned away from him and pulled the door open, admitting the long sigh of the wind outside.

He gritted his teeth. "You will go where I lead," he muttered under his breath. "If it's the last thing I do."

Her midnight-blue cloak swirled around her feet as she turned back to him abruptly, eyes narrowed. She gave him a long, measuring stare, and he knew she'd heard him. He stared back defiantly.

The moon traced her silhouette in pearly light. It was several more moments before she spoke. "When next we meet," she said quietly in Old Thak, "it will not be as friends."

It was a well-known declaration among the learned; several historical mages had made just such statements to their enemies. It was a challenge, an official call to combat.

Then she left, slamming the heavy wooden door behind her and causing a gust of air that extinguished the dying candle on the table. He stood alone in darkness.

"Indeed not, Dawn-Waker," he whispered in the same tongue she had used. "But neither, I think, as foes."