Consciousness returned in painful increments. Ashura lay on the hard, cold floor. Cramps wracked him, locking his muscles with agonizing spasms. Gradually, the aftereffects of his disastrous encounter with the vault's protective spells faded to mere twitches. He stayed motionless on the ground, waiting those out as well, exhausted and bewildered.

He felt he had the answer, if only he could comprehend it. The dream was true. The god himself had said it was possible to change the future.

"Sacrifice all," the Dying God had told him.

But what was there to sacrifice? Ashura had wealth, but it was meaningless in this context. The only things of real value he held were his honor and his kingdom.

Those things would buy nothing; both would be sacrificed anyway when he finally succumbed to madness. What difference would it make if both were destroyed sooner rather than later? In this case, later was better.

But still his counterpart's words captivated his heart and imagination. "Sacrifice all." They resonated in Ashura's being, touching something he could not define, defining something that he could not understand.

He stood on the precipice of some soul-deep revelation, but it was too much and he couldn't yet grasp the knowledge...

His dreams were incomplete pieces of the puzzle, hopelessly fragmented and jumbled. No vision thus far had offered even the slightest hint of a route to possible salvation, neither for his kingdom nor for himself. He had no guide, except for a broken, half-hidden dream path that led only to a river of blood and utter damnation.

—a river of blood—a river of blood—

Shadows gathered in his heart once more, his brief ray of hope smothered by the ever-present morass of despondency. He could see no positive outcome to any action presently available to him.

That other sorcerer had made certain of that.

The memory of that sorcerer caused his blood to burn. Who was that man? What right did he have to manipulate Ashura's dreams in such a way as to virtually guarantee that he would destroy Seresu? Without the cloaks the sorcerer had placed, Ashura might see a different path, one that didn't lead to madness, blood, and destruction. Why did that sorcerer desire Ashura to destroy himself and his kingdom?

Ashura dragged himself to his feet. He leaned heavily on the table, and his gaze fell upon the hematite sphere. He saw his reflection, gray and distorted.

At last, he understood the significance of all the hematite in this room. As hematite bleeds when it is ground and shaped, so a Sacral King bleeds his whole life as he is ground and shaped to fit the role that fate demands of him.

But in his case, it was a purposeless destiny. It existed only to satisfy the bloodthirsty desires of some stranger who didn't even live in this world.

Ashura stared at the hematite sphere, the symbol of everything that was wrong with his existence. Breathing hard, letting his rage boil up. Rage at that bastard of a sorcerer who was manipulating him and his curse for some twisted game of his own. Absolute fury that he would be forced to murder his own country for someone else's amusement. Anger and helplessness at the curse that made the manipulation possible.

He couldn't beat that sorcerer. He couldn't defy his curse. But he still had one option, one drastic way to take back control. The encounter with his godly counterpart had confirmed what he already knew.

"No more," he said through clenched teeth. He turned and swept out of the room.

He rushed up the stairway, taking the steps two at a time. Fury and determination lent him strength and energy. He passed through the royal crypt, took more stairs to return to the castle's main corridors. He knew exactly what he had to do, and where to do it. He knew how to change the future.

He'd always known.

He only slowed his pace when he reached the castle armory. It was over an hour before dawn, and already the metal smiths and armorers were hard at work. Weapons and armor always needed repair, if only due to damage from training and practice sessions.

He flung open the wooden door and stormed into the main workroom. "Everyone out!" he ordered.

"Majesty?" the chief armorer queried, looking confused.

"Get out!" Ashura shouted. "Now!"

Alarmed, the armorers began to set down their tools and walk toward the doorway. They didn't move fast enough for Ashura. He summoned a whirlwind of magic that caught them all and shoved them out of the armory. The door slammed shut behind them.

He glowered at the door and put up a magical barricade. Then he turned and faced the room's contents. Axes, arrows, spears, shields, chain mail, plate armor. Tools for construction and repair. Furnaces and fuel. Quenching vats. A million other things he recognized but didn't know the uses for.

Swords.

He selected a short sword and admired it. The craftsmanship was superb; the steel blade glittered, sharp, honed, and keen. Perfect.

He placed the tip just under his breast bone, the blade angled up toward his heart. His hands clutched the grip, his fingers contracted with harsh rigor. He inhaled, closed his eyes, and shoved upwards with all his might.

The blade slid harmlessly to the left. It didn't even nick the fabric of his clothing.

Ashura held the sword before him, staring at it in confusion. Was he such a coward, that he had turned the blade aside at the last moment?

"Fool," he berated himself. Surely Seresu's survival was worth his own life.

He tried again. This time the blade slid to the right.

Ashura dropped his head. He really was such a coward. He must be, even if he didn't save himself deliberately. He hadn't consciously changed the direction of the sword blade, and yet he had done it. He must have. His mind didn't even know what his own body was doing.

Fine. There was more than one way to do this. He got down on his knees, and braced the pommel of the sword against the floor. Again he put the blade's tip against his breast. He leaned in, so it pressed against him uncomfortably, so it tore the fabric of his tunic and cut into his skin. A drop of blood trickled down the blade.

He steadied the hilt with his hands, and let himself fall forward.

He heard a sharp snap and a clang, and felt the wind knocked out of him as he landed sprawled on the stone floor.

For a moment, he just lay there, his mind blank and confused. He realized he was still breathing, and in no pain at all, and that was wrong. There was no possible way he could have escaped injury after falling on a sword.

He pushed himself to his hands and knees. The sword lay beneath him, its blade broken in two.

Had it been defective? Ashura sat back on his haunches and picked up the pieces. He examined the edges. It looked like a clean break. Perhaps there had been some internal flaw in the steel.

He tossed the broken sword aside, and got to his feet. He went to the sword racks and selected another. This one was a two-handed longsword, meant to be used against armored attackers. Mere flesh and blood would not break it.

There was no other choice but to fall onto this sword. Its blade was too long and unwieldy for any other method. Once again, he positioned the weapon and his own body carefully, gripped the weapon to steady it, and pushed himself forward for extra momentum.

The snap and clang resounded in his ears, even as he slammed face first into the floor.

No, he thought. This wasn't possible. It couldn't be. One sword might be flawed, but two? How could a heavy, double-handed longsword be broken so easily?

He broke a third sword before he gave up in defeat.

With disgust, he removed the barrier on the door and left, ignoring the questions of the armorers who still waited outside. He brushed past them and strode away.

His next stop was the apothecaries' workshop. Like the armorers, the apothecaries were also up before dawn. Ashura grew even more aggravated. Did no one in this entire castle ever sleep?

His actions would cause a great deal of talk, he knew, but he still ordered the apothecaries out. It didn't matter. If he were successful, the gossip would have no power to harm him, and a great good would be accomplished. This time he waited for his people to obey him on their own, and did not use any spells to hurry the apothecaries on their way. However, he didn't neglect putting a barrier over this door, as well. After a moment's thought, he extended it to cover the entire room, so that no entry was possible at all from any location.

Then he searched the shelves until he located the poisons. His fingers found a thick, glass container of hemlock. With a grim smile, he got a good grip on it. It suddenly took on a greasy feel. It slipped out of his hand and fell off the shelf, shattering on the floor.

"What was that?" an older female voice said. The senior apothecary entered the workshop. Her eyes widened when she saw Ashura, and immediately she sank into a low curtsey. "Your Majesty, are you all right? I'm sorry, I didn't want to disturb you, but there was a crash..."

Ashura gaped at her. "How did you get in here?"

She stayed bowed, but lifted her head. "I came in through the door, Your Majesty," she said, looking surprised that she had to state the obvious.

"The main door?"

"Yes, Your Majesty. I came in when I heard the crash. Majesty, what have we done to anger you? Why did you want us to leave?"

Ashura focused his senses on his barrier. It was still in place, and from all indications preventing entry as designed. And yet, it hadn't worked.

"Majesty, are you well?" the senior apothecary asked, staring at him with undisguised concern.

"I'm fine," he lied absently, pondering his frighteningly ineffective barrier. With a mental shrug, he dissolved it. Useless thing.

The senior apothecary was still bent in her deep curtsey, waiting. Ashura broke out of his abstraction and addressed her. "I'm not angry. Please, get up. Just looking at you in that pose makes my knees hurt."

She smiled at him and straightened. "Thank you, Your Majesty."

"Tell the others they may return to work." Ashura again resorted to running away from his own people, rather than face the inevitable questions.

There could be only one explanation for his repeated failures, and it was magical. It seemed even suicide was denied him until the curse ran its course.

There were other ways he might try. But he wondered if they would all result in failure, as well. He remembered the morning on the eastern wall, when he had almost leapt to his death. The way the guards had arrived just in time to distract him. Vainamoinen's equally timely appearance, and how the councilor's mere presence had made him reconsider. Had that all been chance, as he had believed at the time? Or was something else at work?

Had he taken that fatal step off the wall, would the very wind have borne him up and prevented him from falling? It seemed ridiculous, but equally ridiculous were six failed suicide attempts in an hour that had resulted in three broken swords and a shattered bottle of hemlock.

Would circumstances always prevent his death? Could it be his own magic at work? Did he use it to do these things unknowingly? Or was it used against his will and wishes, by the curse or by something external?

He couldn't tell, but he wondered if this was what his ancestors' scrolls had meant when they said there was no escape until the curse played out. It must be. Surely others had tried to evade or stop the curse as he had. They couldn't all have passively accepted fate.

It seemed that even his own actions were not under his control, but instead under that of a power greater than his conscious will.

He could try world-walking, leaving Seresu with the intent to never return, but that method was too uncertain and left him vulnerable to the demands of his curse. Deep down, he knew that he would be drawn back home when the curse manifested. Perhaps in the madness he would even desire to return to shed the blood of his people. Simply running away was no answer.

Was there no way open to him? Was he reduced to impotent wishing?

Wishing...

There was something...something about wishing. Memory teased, tantalizingly out of reach. It was something from his childhood, a fairy tale, a fanciful fable. Wishing...

He suddenly remembered, and rushed to the castle library.