CHAPTER XVII

A WINTER'S SOLACE

It was many long days before the fortress was cleared of the dead, and even thereafter much remained to be done ere the castle was fit to withstand siege again. Through great labour the breach was repaired, in the chance that the armies of Porre would soon try at a swift counterstrike. But that was only a dim fear: those of that host that remained in Guardia were weak and in flight, and to march a new number into the north from their homeland would continue the war well into the winter, and they were not foolish enough to do such a thing. Whatever might chance, it was near certain that the time of battle had passed, at the very least for the winter. And so, once all that great work was complete, the victorious people of Guardia thronged the castle to celebrate their victories.

In the throne-room itself Crono held a great feast for those who had been his captains. There tales were told, by the loremasters and those who had skill in the making of songs, of both of this past battle and of those heroes and wars of legend that warriors oft think back upon: of the great fleets and hosts of the Achaians as they sought the downfall of Troy; of the wanderings of both famed Odysseus and Aeneas in the years that came after; of the deeds of Herakles and Perseus and many other heroes of old; of Gilgamesh, the favoured of Ishtar; and even some of the myths and wars of old Zeal, such as were remembered. Many beyond count they told, and there the minstrels sung of the high deeds of their own king, placing his name aside the great heroes of old, even beside the like of mighty Agamemnon. Much joy was there as they drank to the peace and glory that would assuredly be Guardia's again, and the hall was rife with laughter and song, such as it had not heard in many a long year. But at last, as the sun grew dim in the eastern sky, Crono called for silence, and he stood to speak:

"So is victory accomplished, and Guardia reborn," he said. "All that stand here are blessed with the honour of having aided in this, but twofold is the honour of those that have died for it."

A great murmur of assent ran through the hall.

"Let the fallen have their peace and glory alike!" Crono cried, drawing a drink from his chalice.

The captains did likewise, a few murmuring echoes of his words saluting those who had perished.

Crono looked about the room, with mournful eyes.

"Let the perished not be forgotten, and let their memory persist in honour: Sir Hadrian, a terror to his foes; Medesior, lord of spearmen, who stood against the sorcerers of the Black Wind with dauntless courage; captains and mean warriors alike, a thousand-fold host of slain. And lastly the Lady of the White Flower, Marle Blancheflor, Queen of Guardia!"

"Hail! the fallen queen of our land!" a noble cried, raising his goblet high.

Crono drained the last of his chalice. Then, having done so, he drew his sword.

"And now must we give honour to those yet living, so that the knighthood of Guardia will not fade, but be fairer and mightier than even it was in past years!"

He strode forward, down from the stone dais. Standing at the foot of his throne he called out:

"Lord Janus, Magus of old, come forward!"

Janus rose from his mead-bench, with a sweep of his cloak coming to before Crono like some hero-vassal of old before a legendary king. Or maybe it was indeed so, for Janus was with certainty a hero, and the deeds performed by the hands of the king spoken of as legend.

"My friend, as an ancient sorcerer you were once the most bitter enemy of my land. But now are you her dearest of friends. You have shown faithfulness to me in my need, and done services of valour becoming a knight. And so I gladly name you a knight of Guardia: you shall be Lord Janus the Night-Raven. Elth aith asant rosfaiao, my friend."

And he placed the broad edge of the sword upon Janus' shoulder, signifying that what he had said was a king's law.

Janus bowed, and with a flourish of his cape returned to the place from where he had come.

"Lady Schala, princess of Zeal," Crono said once Janus had left.

She rose with fay-like grace and stepped lightly to before Crono. With the war now come to completion, she had cast aside her battle-raiment, and was rather dressed in lightly gilded samite, and through the youth of her fair face, and the splendour of her array, she appeared even as she was: the princess of a high ancient realm.

Her golden hair shimmered as she rose, for it was spun with silver-thread, as was the ancient custom of Zeal.

"My friend," Crono said, "about whom the great tales have all been spun. Aged and youthful alike, you have borne many titles grander than this, and a ladyship in such a small realm is but a trifle to a child of Zeal, but may it serve as a token of my thanks for all that you have done. I name you Lady Schala, Mistress of Enchantment."

With a smile she bowed before him as he placed the sword upon her shoulder.

"To me it is greater than all others," she said and, rising, bowed a second time, and returned to her seat at her mead-table, beside Serge and her brother.

"And last of the three that came with me from the west, Serge of El Nido."

Serge stood, treading with slow paces; all the eyes of the captains and great warriors were upon him at this moment, and never had he revelled in the praise of many. Arriving at the throne he knelt, and felt the weight of the sword upon his shoulder, as the king spoke:

"For all the many things you have done for me, my friend: in Guardia you shall be remembered as Lord Serge Masamune, in honour of the holy sword that you bear."

Then Serge rose, and rejoined the others. It felt more than passing strange to him, to be granted such high favour for his effort. Never before had his deeds been so honoured; they were, for the most part, forgotten, so that to the memory of most they were as though they had never been. Yet now he was called a lord in an ancient land, and befriended by a king. But such were the odd chances that befell in life, and he shrugged it aside as he came to sit beside Schala and Janus, joining them in their mead.

That eve were many other honours bestowed as well, so that the soldiery and knights of Guardia were as many, if not as strong, as they had been in past days. And, last of all, Crono brought forth his son, and presented him to the archbishop at the cathedral. There, in the presence of all the nobility, he was blessed as both a true Knight and Prince of the realms of Guardia, and was charged with all the duties becoming of these titles. For his valour in the war he was given the name Sigurd Taksdios (That is, Foebane; for at needs a prince must have a fearsome title, and what less could be thought of one that came of the lineage of not one, but two, heroes?) The people celebrated his deeds greatly, for they felt him to be, as his father before, one come from their own ranks.

And so things turned out well in the end according to Crono's wishes, save only that his dear wife had not lived to celebrate victory at his side. But he was consoled by the company of his son who reminded him not a little of Marle, with shimmering golden hair.

As for the others...

Certainly Janus and Schala were their usual selves. Not war nor anything else had changed them. Janus haunted the lower halls of the castle so often and so furtively that more than once a terrified page would swear he had seen a ghost or wraith. He would take to speaking with the older and wiser loremasters when his mood was softer, or stride around noisomely in his steel-shod boots, muttering curses, if it wasn't. Schala, for her part, spent her days reading through the many histories contained in the vast libraries, and scribing her own accounts of ancient times, learning what she did not yet know, amending errors, and writing much that lived now only in her ancient memory. Often when Serge, on his way to have solace upon the battlements, walked through the great library hall he would see her there, head bowed over quill, in profound thought. Yet she never failed to notice him passing, and always glanced up to greet him merrily.

Upon one of these days he took thought to ask her of what she so zealously wrote. She looked up at his approach, smiling as she ever did these days following the war.

"Ah, Serge," she said. "The battlements grown too chill for you, are they?"

"Maybe," he answered, though not having known before that his own wandering about the castle walls had been so noticed. "Writing our stories down?"

"Our own tales? Partly," she replied with a faint laugh. "I suppose those need telling also, though I am not nearly so far. I am now scribing the history of our world and race, for there is none such as rightly tells it. I have spoken of our earliest years, and have now come only to Zeal; but the tales of that land will alone fill many a book."

And at that Serge wondered, for certainly he had heard tell of great Zeal, not least in Schala's ballads during the war. But those were skald-songs, and he now wondered what the truth of that lands was, that Schala wrote of in so scholarly a manner.

"Zeal," he said. "I've heard its legends, and I've heard you talk and sing about it. But really: what was it like? Your songs were nice and all, but in your own words, tell me of Zeal."

She smiled.

"Ah, you do not care overmuch for them? Those songs were my words, lays written by me and my brother. So that we, and all people might remember Zeal."

"I didn't know you were a poet, too," he said, having not seen her quite in that way before.

She smiled with a small nod. Closing her eyes, she took up a simple verse she had sung weeks before:

Hear! Thou skalds of long-passed fame!

That sing of shining spear and sword

Once held by heroes great and bold

Of ancient fields and godlike men,

Who boast of many valour-deeds.

Yet ever still in fate enmeshed

And overcome with doom to die

And take the road to Hades' hall:

Cross Styx and into shadowed-lands.

Most surely all of this you know

But have you heard of glory old

Sung ere thy ancient tales were set?

Ere heroes sires did firstly tread

Upon the fields of this green earth.

See all the Argive's fabled hosts

Those men of passéd legend-fame:

King counsellor, lord Nestor old

Diomedes, who wounded Love

Odysseus, resourceful, see.

There stood the son of Telamon

And the child of king Atreus

Lo! as Ares in his dread wrath

Is the scion of Peleus.

Yet, nay!

Not all of these in gold-arrayed

Did over-splendour my great lords!

Ah! Ye bards! Of Zeal I sing!

The fairest land, upon the airs

Like cloud of silver-silk..."

But at this she paused and, smiling, reopened her eyes.

"Ah, but you wished to hear of Zeal without the flowery of poetry, was that it?"

He nodded.

"What was Zeal like," she said to herself and leaned backward in her seat, closing her eyes in solemn thought.

"It was debauched and depraved, arrogant and selfish," she said, shaking her head with more than a little disdain. "Yes, that was Zeal the glorious."

This perplexed Serge, for her words were none of praise, as they had been before.

"Then your songs about the glory and beauty of Zeal were lies?" he asked is surprise.

She opened her eyes once more, and cast a serious glance upon him.

"Lies, Serge?" she said, and laughed somewhat. "What do you expect of such things? They were lies only if you think such things to be pure truth. Know that those who write down songs of legends and history exaggerate much of which they tell. It is a common failing, or is rather simply the mode of such things, for few enjoy hearing tell of evils in the past, for it rarely bodes well for the future. It is true, Zeal was beautiful beyond words. And they were most certainly powerful, beyond the measure of all other mortals, and yes, even wise after a fashion. But the heart of Zeal had ever been its rulers: its kings and queens alike in the varying years, through countless generations to the very reign of Ter-Meredior himself. And my mother was corrupt, drawing down the people, for the most part, into this. She looked upon the power of Lavos, and coveted it. She ordered the forging of a great device whereby this might be accomplished, and standing before it told her people: 'See, here is your god that has saved you. Worship it.'" Schala paused as she said this, and was quiet for a space. At length she said: "My memory of that day is clear and terrible, for it was upon it, at first, that I felt a nearing doom. That day marked the chief step away from glory, and into our destruction. The day we held the things of our making, and we ourselves, as gods. But it was not the fault of the day. No, that was only what was made manifest, a mirror to our own hearts. For our might was tainted by supreme arrogance, and we believed that our sorcerous powers made us worthier of life than those who dwelt yet upon the earth, to whom magic was yet a mystery. And from this arrogance came an ambition. The old ambition to conquer death, and never know the frailty and weakness of old age. They deemed that even this was their destiny." And she tightened her fists in wrathful memory as she said it. "That accursed dream of immortality! They believed themselves so mighty that it might be in their grasp. But they fell in reaching for it, fell upon the sword of their own ambition. That glory they attempted to gain they found all too late is not for mortal hearts to desire. And so perished Zeal, of all the kingdoms of Men most glorious and wonderful."

"I pity the people of Zeal. That they weren't content with the life that they were given," Serge said upon hearing this; he himself had, in his bygone quests, been tempted many a time by promises of power and glory, but had always held himself content and unshaken by such things. Yet in having felt such tainted offers, he could quite easily understand how that people had succumbed to ambition.

"So you should," Schala replied sadly, "and so should all learn the lesson of the folly of Zeal. One should not seek a power greater than what is granted unto them. Ai, so much learning those of my land possessed, yet a simple wisdom they lacked: they did not know the truest desire of their own hearts. For ever it is peace, and the joy that proceeds from it, that our mortal souls yearn for."

"They were blinded by their ambition and power," Serge said knowingly. "That was what betrayed them."

"Precisely! Our flawed mortality ever taints that which shines brightest. Zeal may have lasted for many thousand years yet. Perhaps even unto this very day. But the learning that may have come from its minds is now lost in the questions of what might have been."

"And we forgot it so quickly," Serge muttered. "Everything they did, built, and lived for. Your people wouldn't have been all too happy to know that. It fell in one night and was forgotten about."

"Ten thousand years is hardly a short span of years, Serge, by any reckoning, but it has not been wholly forgotten. People of after years have certainly made tales of its glory and splendour, and of its fall, but you know it in those stories by other names. For who ever knew the truth of Zeal? Those that outlived its ruin - yes, there were some few - faded swiftly, and the memory of their kingdom with them. And so it became but a legend: a seed of truth mixed with fable. But did not wise Plato himself speak of it? He named it Atlantis, a mythical island of great learning and beauty that was beset by a great disaster upon the eve of a great venture; struck down by the gods for the sins of arrogance and debauchery even at the pinnacle of its glory. Surely Zeal was the Atlantis that was spoken of. And so, too, were we the mythical Tower of Babel that is ever the symbol of the folly of pride. No tower did we build but that of our own ambition, but truly in thought we sought to reach God, to be as Him, and gain immortality. What fools we were! Those that lived were scattered to the ends of the earth. But nothing so great is ever wholly forgotten, for our legend lingers still as an echo of a myth. Yet it is a fading memory, only."

She looked to high ceiling with a sad-touched smile, thinking back to ancient days passed above the clouds.

"Ah, Zeal! How clearly I yet remember your splendour and magnificence!Ai, es meredet malecho! Serge, nothing seems magnificent to one who has once seen those towers. And the armies of my land, one hundred thousand strong, against which no foe could stand. Not merely dauntless and valiant, but so wondrous and beautiful to look upon: our spears, whose heads were cut of flawless diamond, shimmering as fields of crystal in the midday light; our swords, woven with enchantment which no malice could undo, shining pale in the twilight as the sun crept below our horizons; and the golden helms and gilded coats of mail of even the lowliest soldier. When the war trumpets of Zeal sounded aloud it was a symbol of fear to all the earthbound kingdoms, and even the mightiest land trembled at the very rumour of our coming. For to them it seemed as if the very heavens broke open with thunder, and gleaming legions of angels descended; so magnificent were the hosts of old Zeal. And so by the time of my life there was no enemy to Zeal in all the western world. Beneath our heel we held subject all the lands of the west. Some might say with stern yet benevolent lordship, while others would name us tyrants, oppressing all beneath us. For what I knew, we were some of both. At times our great masters of lore would come among the people yet lacking any strength of sorcery, and teach them what they could of our knowledge. But as the years lengthened we became cold and stern, and tired of the life granted us. It was not our beauty that diminished; that grew till the very hour of our destruction. But on a time the forums of Zeal were thronged with multitudes, not only of Zeal but also of the earth. It was partly by their strength that the Arythfala, the Pillars of the Stars, the beautiful towers of the citadel, were raised. However in the last days to which I belonged no earthbound could so much as peer up at the Kingdom without fear of punishment. And this was at the command of my mother the Queen, and few dared oppose her in word or action. Her three counsellors, the great Masters, did so, and thus they were banished to far flung and woeful prisons. I also worked against her evil, though being but a child did so more in secret, and through an indirect hand. I alone of all the high Zeal court yet visited the lands beneath, to bring my learning to those unenlightened that lay under our rule. But I did far too little, and was blind to how far things had come, because for all our might, we crumbled at our own hands. Our grandest legions could not forestall the enemy that we became unto ourselves. And in my weakness I did not, I could not, oppose this nearing end."

She sighed.

"Perhaps even the magic itself we so boldly used with ease was a folly in and of itself."

"But there's no evil in magic," Serge said. "It's how someone uses it that makes it good or evil."

"Perhaps," she said. "But I doubt there being much truth in that. Serge, magic is a power. And know that power will corrupt those who wield it, unless they are of surpassing valour and nobility of mind. None I have yet seen would deny a gift of might, and not abuse it to their own glory. Can any man use such a power as magic with only the most pure of intent, and not give thought to one's own honour and glory? I do not think so. At times I even begin to wonder if magic itself was never intended to fall into human hands, and that we happened upon it by ill chance: that it was only by some sin that it came as a curse upon us. For it seems too great for our frail minds to master, and of all the end-fruits most seem evil, with magic twisting us in mockery to evil. What has it availed us but sorrow and hardship? We war with it, and slay with it in meaningless wrath, using it with little thought or care, and scarcely ever for art or beauty. Look what has come upon us: death and war; ruin to beauty and to life."

"Those things would be even without magic," the voice of Janus said as he wandered out of the far shadows of the room, his steel shod boots ringing loud on the stone floor.

"For magic and sorcery is not the cause of our evils. Rather, it may only be in some measure the judgement visited upon us."

"Zeal fell because of it," she replied, resting her hand absently on her writing. "You of all need not read my account to know the tale of that folly."

"Partly, my sister. It was because of what we sought to accomplish by it, and the manner in which we allowed it rule over our hearts. It, rather than we, became the master," Janus said. "But so is it with all things: when the things we possess become the possessors, it is our downfall. Yet do not curse magic: there were many wonderful things, things of surpassing fairness, that came of it too. The legions of Zeal you spoke of so lately. I was not so young then that I do not remember those as well. The great display at the high winter festival: marching from the Autumn Gate to the Spring Gate like a serpent of gold."

"And I remember a little brother so enamoured by their glorious parades that he eagerly told his sister that he wished to be one of the high captains when he grew to age," Schala said.

Janus laughed.

"Did I truly? I do not wonder at that. I would have done so, I deem, had Zeal endured. I should have been captain of her legions in my turn, and all would have revered my commands. Janus: Field-Lord of Zeal."

A faint smile touched his lips.

"One hundred thousand awaiting my words. Janus Valasant, at whose coming all enemies cower in fear."

"And to this title you must promptly add 'Janus the hot headed fool who thinks to much of himself,'" Schala replied. "Had Zeal endured, I should have been queen in my turn; if you lament the loss of such captainship, look only at what fate has wrested from me: the rule of the greatest kingdom the world has ever seen. Such things were not our destiny. And perhaps it was well, for if history is to be judge of your leadership, you would be found lacking."

With a blaze of anger in his eyes he said:

"That was merely a means to my end. I have told you this many a time. History has vindicated me of fault, for my sole desire was not the ruin of Guardia, nor mastery and lordship of the lands, but to rise in power."

"For vengeance," she said wearily, plainly having heard the very words from him many times before.

"Yes, vengeance. For me, for the world, and for our fallen land. How else could I build my power to such strength with which I could challenge the Demon? I did as the Mystics had me do, and led them along their path so long as it suited my own designs. And did I not make good on my intent, sister? Did I not summon Lavos himself to my fortress to do battle with him?"

"Yes, as a fool, my brother, for surely you failed. By rights you should be dead now. For we all know that after that day the Mystic armies faltered, and their beloved Magus never returned."

He glowered at her, saying:

"That fate is gone forever; I am not dead now, and so I did not die then. And even if that was once my destiny, fate had me die a noble death, for it was in saving the world that I perished."

"Do not colour your mis-truths so lightly, Janus," she said, and her voice was one of gentle, sisterly, reproach. "You cared nothing for the world, and your only desire was to pay due to your enemy the injustice it had dealt out upon you. There was no holy honour in your self-serving vengeance."

"There are times when one must worry only about oneself, and dismiss the fate of others, if only to survive. Think you it an easy thing to cast pity from one's heart, and to force oneself to dissemble all kind emotion and caring? To not weep tears at the death of friends, to make one's lips laugh at cruelty and the drawing of blood, to perforce live a life of bloodlust and deal harshly, and even evilly, with those near? I walked those paths for so long, I can even now scarce see any other way to live. But I am not by nature evil: those things pained me deeper than words can tell, and I still bear remorse for every one of my misdeeds; I only justify myself through purpose and. But am I not changed, now? Sister, why must you always deride me so? Can I do nothing with pure intent in your sight? Am I still the Sorcerer to your eyes?"

"I remind you of your place, Janus, and restrain your pride. But for me you would cease all caution. You are mighty, in some ways more so than I myself am, but lack the wariness that proceeds from wisdom. Take care, and learn this."

For a moment it seemed to Serge that Janus would protest bitterly. But he did not. Nor did he glare in vehemence as he often did. Instead he lowered his eyes, as if in shame over the rebuke.

"Perhaps you speak truly. My heart cannot abandon its old pride, no matter how bitterly I struggle against it. Lavos, and my folly ridden vengeance, have left their marks deep, I am afraid."

Serge said little more to Schala following this, and decided rather in favour of walking the battlements. The chill drafts of winter stung him keenly through his mantle, and a slight dust of newly fallen snow lay beneath his feat. But he did not care overmuch, for his thoughts were turned inward.

And these were thoughts of the past, of war, of peace and not least of his long forsaken home. Now that the war was ended he once again thought of it, far away cross the horizon though it lay. Certainly it would not be snowing there, nor would it be so bitterly cold. And at this thought, remembering the winter, warmer than even the Guardian summers, he shivered. He was not used to the north, not even after these many months. And the temperature lent a certain substance to his thoughts and mood. The drear sky, overcast with low sailing grey clouds, weighed in on him. He longed for the clear, unbroken blue sky of his native land. The disquiet in his heart had grown again, filling the void that the ended war had left.

"And here we come to one who is yearning for his home," Crono said, for he had wandered up soundlessly beside Serge.

Serge nodded, rubbing his hands all the while so that they might be kept warm. Crono smiled, understanding the mood upon him.

"That I understand well, true friend."

He swept the snow from nearest battlement, rested his hands on it, and cast his gaze out over the wide lands of Guardia that lay before them, strewn with a ghostly sheet of snowfall.

"Yes, I know how you must feel. I have been in exile for nearly half my life, and should still be, had not four of my truest friends aided me. I owe what I have now to you, Serge, and likewise do my people. You know that whatever you wish for is yours if it is mine to give. Stay how long you will, and take what you wish. But what do I say? You do not care for such things."

Serge stepped up beside him, the chill air freezing his lungs with every breath.

"These lands aren't where I belong."

"All too true," Crono affirmed with a nod. "One must live where one's heart lies, else life tires. So you wish to return home now, is this your thought? I had thought it so."

Serge nodded.

"Yes. By the sand beaches and palm trees are where I belong. And the sky's so much more blue," he said longingly, seeing the grey sky hang low above him.

Crono nodded.

"Let us not forget it is where the one you love resides."

Serge glanced to Crono beside him, who smiled sadly.

"What's that mean?"

"If you do not see that yourself, I will think you blind for all your musing. You miss her, Serge. You miss Leena greatly. Do I not know such things when I see them? I, too, was taken by love once, and am not blind to it in others; you may not see, perhaps, that I grant you. But we, the three of us, are your friends and comrades through battle and adventure, life and blood we may shed, but with her has always lain the greatest part of your heart. And to her you must return, for it will not allow you to remain apart at length without misgiving."

And how truly had Crono guessed his feelings. That, even as he had said, he himself was well near unaware of.

"Yes, I miss her too. I'm not fooling myself about that. Even before this began, when I still had those dreams, when I thought I was going insane, she always listened to me, with compassion, no matter what bothered me. I guess I should have seen it for what it really was then, but didn't. That was my blindness, and stupidity. All that was her love for me. And I loved her in return. Though I suppose I didn't understand it like I should of until I left; maybe we always made pains to hide it from each other, and acted like mere friends. But no, it took being apart from her to show me what it really was; maybe that's what I needed so that I could see it, but it makes me quite homesick at the moment."

"As I said, home is where your heart lives. This," he swept his hand about, "may be my home in name, but can never truly be so. Marle is perished, and so I always find heart-rest elusive."

Serge sighed. His friend was still pained by her death, and merely hit it better nowadays.

"You're right; you're older, wiser than me, and very right. I can't stay here longer than I have to. In spring, when the seas become better, I'm returning to El Nido."

Crono nodded.

"As you must. But take joy in your time here while it lasts. I daresay it will make the time of waiting pass all the swifter."

He turned and left, leaving Serge alone once again.

He had not told Crono all that was in his mind, certainly. As always doubts hovered there unspoken of, made all the more potent in this grim weather. He had no doubt of his love for Leena now. But what of her? Had she, too, come to such an understanding? Moreover, he had been gone many months now, sending no word and hearing naught of her. And so he had no assurance in any way that she still shared his love. And how could he even expect such a thing? She did not know even if he yet lived, or if he lay dead upon a battlefield. He had known the girl his entire life, from childhood on, and Leena was true to both words and unspoken bonds. But even so he would not have faulted her forgetting him, and it sat worrisomely upon him. He only prayed that her love had not waned in the passed time, and that the old saying holding that time apart strengthens love was not false.

And so it was that his waiting for spring were days filled with doubt and uncertainty, and the turn of the season could not come nearly soon enough. The winter appeared to last forever (and, in the north, Serge learned, was not counted equal in length to the other three, but was in truth the longest of all.) Yet spring came at last, and in early March the first green buds were sprouting in the trees. And even then the forests sparked alive with meandering streams and reborn life.

Yet the change of season was to Serge the signal bell that the time when he could return home was nearing.

It was on a day of early spring that Serge at last prepared to leave Guardia castle. Once, perhaps for the last, he strode up to the high battlements where he had been wonted to walk in mindful thought so many times the span of the winter. Crono stood there, gazing out across his vast kingdom with a mellow smile. Sadness still lingered in his mood, a melancholy that ever sat hidden within his countenance. Already he had earned repute as the quietest king that had yet sat upon the throne of Guardia, for he spoke little to any but his dearest friends save in need.

"Hey, Crono! I thought I'd find you up here," Serge greeted lightly.

Crono looked over at him, seemingly unsurprised, yet more likely it was only that he was startled from thought.

"Oh, greetings on this day, Serge. And all the more blessed for you, I think. Today is the day you leave us, then? You appear more joyful than I have seen you in many weeks."

Serge nodded.

"Yes. Going home at last."

"But it simply is not home," Crono replied for him, "as you have told me so many times. Have your farewells been said, then, and am I the last to give your journey blessing?"

"No. I'm not exactly sure where they are, but I thought I'd find you up here." Serge answered.

"Of course, Guardia in the spring is a sight not to be missed by those that care for beauty. But this land shall not last, Serge. Even as winter must at needs follow summer, Guardia must some day die, as is the way of all things in this world. We have merely given it new breath, for a lifetime, or a hundred years. That fate time shall tell. But it will come to pass, with certainty, that no one will remember us. Both our wars and our efforts will be utterly forgotten. It may be a fond wish to think that a thing might endure for eternity, but any that has lived some score of years in this world will know it to be naive. Ah, history tells a grim tale. Time, the merciless destroyer of the strong and mighty: all kingdoms and empires are destined to fall, and their tales pass into shadow. After all, who weeps for Carthage? Who laments the fall of noble Athens? Where now are the walls of once peerless Uruk? Countries rise and fall, and the pages of history are written red in the lifeblood of civilizations. And yet from the ashes arise new lands and people, forged from the death-pyres of the old. Rebirth, as surely as spring follows even the harshest winter. So time is not only a destroyer; it is also the redeemer, a creator of things more wondrous than ever before, though I deem it is a hard thing to see in the moment in which we live. It seems to bring death and endings only, but we must always remember that it brings rebirth, and new beginnings."

He paused, then seemed to have another thought, and his face darkened again, where it had been lightening a moment before.

"And then there is war. It seems to be the bane of mankind, and yet history itself is but a chronicle of our wars, petty or otherwise. Thirteen thousand years ago, I have heard it said, Zeal vanquished the kingdom of Astrad; near to a million died in that war, Schala has told me, yet the lives of every one of those that lived and died then is forgotten, by near everyone that lives now. What meaning then did their struggle have? What lasting end did it accomplish? It was a chasing after the wind, maybe, a toil of only vanity. And here we have fought a war that is but a small affray aside that, great though it may seem now to us. Our victory has reborn a kingdom; perhaps in a hundred years another such time of strife will wrest it away again, and put all this struggle at naught. And then the time will come when even the very name of Guardia is no longer spoken. On that day, what will the lives of these people mean? What will our lives mean, and what end will the struggle we endured have accomplished? Even as the men that fell in the battle over Astrad so long ago show us: in the eyes of history, nothing. Our lives are but a fleeting shadow; we grow for a season, are felled by the sickle of death, and are swept away like chaff in the wind of fate."

He paused in his words, and shook his head sadly.

"I speak too darkly. I have a kingdom in my hands: both crown and kingship are mine. But bereft of my queen I feel empty, even now, Serge. I take solace in the company of my son, but it will not ever assuage my grief. Never before did I take to such contemplations as I do now, or muse on the meaning of my deeds, or what lasting end I accomplish through them. I merely did and left such thoughts to the old and grey. But now I am upon the verge of such years; now, in a sorrow that will haunt me to my grave, I feel compelled to discover the reasons and truths behind my deeds, and the ways that govern this world. Not only that of my own mortality, but that of my kingdom, and of memory itself: it is ever-present in my mind.

"What I have come to see is this: that we would be fools to forget our past, for we must understand that to forget the deeds of our own forebears puts their lives and deeds to naught. In doing so we must then remember that if we are so swift to forget they that came before us, that will be the fate that will befall us as well; if we would wish to be remembered, we must first ourselves remember, and teach our children to do the same."

As he finished saying this his words trailed slowly, and he sat down wearily. At length he looked up again.

"But I have rambled beyond reason in my uncertainty. This was not my purpose; rather, I wished to ask you, Serge, to stay but a day longer. I beg this of you, for there is something I wish you to see. But it will not come till dawn tomorrow at earliest."

"What's that?" Serge asked, his curiosity suddenly wakened.

But Crono shook his head.

"Ah, but I wish you to be surprised by it. I assure you will be most pleased if you stay."

And how could Serge argue to this? He agreed to stay, but only that one more day. The days were becoming warmer, and he wished to be back in his village and with Leena before summer came.

The next day dawned bright and clear, with a certain chill edge upon the air.

"A true northern-spring morning!" Crono said with a laugh when Serge found him. "Here we do not put too much faith in the coming warmth. At times it snows well into May." He glanced at the sky, smiling. "But it is a fair guess to say that this is not one of those years. Ah, well, here you are, and I dare-say you are not much interested in the weather. So, come and see!"

He led the way to the furthest wall of the castle, from where a great deal of the lands of Guardia could be seen. The brown forest surrounding the castle was beginning to break into green, a sure sign that spring was here (and Serge had difficulty imagining that it might yet snow after such a time.) The sky was no longer grey, as was so often the case during the winter, but shone clear and blue. A cool spring sun greeted his eyes with soft but merry light.

"Ah, the land of Guardia. As I have said many a time: free. But it is not alone in this! Porre is retreating its fingers because of our victory."

"They're beaten?" Serge asked, quite surprised; from the manner in which Crono usually spoke, he would have never imagined Porre releasing its grip upon its lands willingly.

"Yes," Crono said, then added: "For a time. My heart forebodes ill in the coming year: Porre is wrathful at our victory, I am sure, and this retreat is but a foreshadowing of a gathering counterstrike, maybe. Yet for now we can be glad: your El Nido is free! The fight you thought to be only for a faraway kingdom has touched your own home dearly as well, it appears."

"But how do you know that?" Serge asked. "You haven't sent messengers to El Nido, have you?"

"Some, yes," he answered, "in spite of the peril of the winter storms. The seas clear early and are passable in February, but are still perilous until April. You see, I had heard rumours of the retreat of their armies, but I wished for surety in the report. And what I heard was true: not a ship of the Empire remains in El Nido. But what do you care of the affairs of state?" Crono said, shaking his head. "Yet in this lies the reason for my begging your staying. See over there, beyond the farthest reaches of the forest" he said, and pointed out at the wide lands all about, but most in particular to where the path of the forest trail wove from the plains beyond, through the woods and came at last to the fortress. Here could scarcely see anything that passed under the boughs, but even so he could discern a small company that wound their way down the road, perhaps a mile from the castle.

"You see those who walk down the road?" Crono asked.

In reply Serge nodded, to which Crono said:

"Those are the very messengers I sent to El Nido. But their errand was not all one of state affairs; they bring some tidings from your village as well."

"They do?" Serge asked, very much surprised.

"Yes. When I heard you speak of your wish for your home I made certain of it that you should at least hear tidings of it to lessen your longing. Come," he said, waving his hand in a command to have Serge follow him, "and you shall hear what they have to say."

He strode off along the wall and to the tower stairs. But Serge remained in his place for a short time thereafter, watching the company in the far distance wind its way among the trees, appearing and disappearing as the trail went along its way.

Ah, it would be good to hear some news from home once again. He had heard nearly none in all of the past few months, and was quite anxious to hear how his mother and friends and Leena were faring, especially now in the aftermath of war and the retreat of the Empire.

As the company passed into the last passage of the forest, Serge made his way from the battlements. It was a lengthy walk, down flights of spiralling stairs, and through not a few arched hallways, and lastly cross the great throne room itself, so when at last he came into the main courtyard the gates were already open, and the travellers inside.

Here were a few merchants with unusual wares (or, rather, unusual to the eyes of Guardia; to Serge they were very much common), but more numerous were the officials and heralds, bearing dragon-crossed banners and arrayed in dress of red, gold, and black. And least of all, and far most astounding to Serge, was perhaps the most simple of all that stood among them. For here, to his full amazement, was Leena.

For a fleeting moment he thought it to be some illusion or half-seen memory born of the wish of his mind. But it was not so: she truly stood there, real amidst the men of office and trade.

"Leena?" he asked, but said little more, for such was his surprise.

"Of course!" she cried, indignant, but at once her face softened into a smile. "They've told me all about your battles and the like. I thought it best to come here, seeing as I didn't know when you'd actually get around to coming back with all these battles or yours."

Serge could hardly keep his joy at hearing her voice and words hidden.

"I was leaving today," he said.

"I know," she answered with a smile. "Your friend Crono sent a message to me at the harbour when we landed, and told me to hurry to stop your leaving."

"You wanted to see me so much that you came all the way from home?" Serge said, his voice becoming soft.

She nodded at this, as any looking upon the exchange would have expected. To Serge, however, who had spent so many long days in uncertainty over her feeling toward him, it had not at first been so clear. But now he ceased caring for all else, and the gladness of his heart at seeing her was magnified ten-fold, for he saw that she yet bore him love even as she had before, and looking toward her eyes he felt that it were greater now than before.

At that moment everything became aright to his mind, and every concern vanished as though they had never been.

After they spoke many tender words to each other, as is the way with two who love each other dearly and have been perforce separate for a long while (and even more so when such a thing as war has been the dividing wedge.) As it was, Serge was so enlivened by having Leena's company again that he fully forgot his desire to return home. The days thereafter were more pleasant than any he had spent for months. Indeed, absence had made their love manifest, and all the more sweeter, and they spent their days merely speaking. On occasion they would talk a space about the war, but Serge cared little for any of those things of last autumn, and all his thoughts were now turned toward Leena.

Little enough needs be said of the things that passed in the following days, save for this:

When Leena had stayed there for little more than a week, it came into Serge's mind, which was now freed from the shackles of both war and heroic duty, to ask Leena to wed (for in all his troubles with the war he had at least come to the full realization that he loved her, and that there was little reason in delaying such a thing for longer.) And, being of like mind to him in the matter, she readily consented to it.

In truth, however, the whole thing was a somewhat humorous affair to those that witnessed it, for it ran so.

Serge had reached his decision to ask her favour in the matter on a sudden one day. Upon reaching his decision, and being suddenly enflamed to it, and unwilling to wait in the asking (less his nerve fail him ere he asked it) he sped up to her even in the middle of the court, where she stood. He had had the intent of bowing to a knee, and gracefully asking marriage of her, but as he came forward he faltered in his steps and, far from approaching her in a noble manner, found himself lying at her feet most ungracefully. Few there were in the court that did not laugh, in despite of the formality of tradition, for, to see a hero, who had fought through dire battles and wielded terrible power, be overcome by the very floor struck even the most stern of lords as a laughing matter. For Serge's part it made the whole thing all the more difficult. He stood and greeted Leena meekly, glancing nervously at the dimming laughter. But, dismissing his own embarrassment and fear, he at last took her hand suddenly in his and asked her, even there and after such a foolish display, saying simply:

"Marry me, Leena?"

Of course this could be counted among the least eloquent of all such requests but, seeing as it was not something she had looked for at that moment, she was put into a most awkward place (for which she after reproached him in her wonted way of feigned vehemence.) But could think of nothing else to say other then to accept his words. For she knew herself well enough to know what she wished, perhaps being wiser than he in heart-felt matters, and had in truth secretly hoped for it for a great length of time.

The news of the marriage spread swiftly around the castle. The others of the company, Crono, Janus, and Schala, were the first to be told. Crono was greatly pleased to hear that such a thing had come of his certain gift of bringing Leena to Guardia. Janus merely said: "Wonderful," and though this could have easily been in mockery, it was likely that it was simply as short a congratulations as he could think of to say. Schala, for her part, was somewhat more graceful, saying: "A blessed day indeed. But may it be more blessed when the promise becomes oath."

Yet upon the eve-tide of that day Janus found his sister alone upon the battlements of the keep, pacing with a disquieted mood about her.

Janus frowned at his sister.

"Are you not pleased with this news? I think it troubles you somewhat."

Schala smiled faintly.

"Troubles? No. And yet..." she sighed, and looked the other way.

But ere she turned, her brother had read her mood, and he peered at her curiously, and in surprise.

"You love him. That is it, is it not?"

"Love him?" she said vaguely, still glancing upon the setting sun. "By all the company of heaven, yes. From the deepest chambers of my heart, I do. That is why I sought him out again from the other world," she turned to her brother, "despite what I may have told you. And do not tell me you could not see through my poorly feigned words."

He merely shrugged it aside.

"Such things are foreign to me. I am inclined to see love as the chief downfall of heroes. I assure you, I could not till now."

"Then you are not as wise as I thought," she said, and buried her head in her hands. "I must keep assuring myself this is all best. So! he chooses Leena, and my love-blinded hopes are cheated."

"You never spoke to him of it," Janus muttered, and she replied:

"Were it strong enough in him, he should have felt it without the need for words. Even as it is twixt the two of them. And seeing that, I now ask myself what could I give him as it is."

"You can give him your love, just as she does," Janus replied. "If poets speak true, what greater gift can a woman give to a man, sister?"

She shook her head and turned once more to the sun.

"Yes, that I surely can. Yet love is not a river that flows but one way, Janus. Would he love me? I think not."

He frowned at her in disagreement.

"Would he not? You are in his heart as well, that much, at least, I have seen. He cares for you more than he might concede even to himself. And was it not his love that saved you so long ago?"

"Ah yes, that he did. Had he not loved me, that dragon relic could never have redeemed me," she paused in uncertainty, thinking deeply about those times they had shared. At last she said:

"He loves part of me, I deem. He loves Kid, that free spirit. But she no longer exists, at the very least not as she once did."

She struck the stone before her in grief.

"Curse that! Now part of me is also Schala, whom he has never known before. And I would not have him love but part of me. Such a thing must be shared fully, else it is only a mockery of what it should be."

"And so you would allow him to wed another?" Janus asked.

She sighed, dropping her shoulders sadly, looking to the stone floor, and said:

"Yes, I would."

She glanced up again.

"I love him greatly enough to wish what is best for him, in spite of what my own girlish heart may desire. His longing is one whom he may love with his whole heart, and who can return it in full. Such a union I cannot give him. Perhaps that vagabond Kid could have, had things been different. Yet that now is a thing lost forever."

Janus quickly replied, and said:

"But what of those things she does not have? You have wisdom, and strength beyond the reckoning of that peasant maid!"

"Wisdom?" she wondered aloud. "Perhaps I do, though such a thing only others can truly judge."

She swept her hand dismissively and began pacing, saying:

"But shall he love the princess of a fallen land? No, I should not think so. Might and sigaldry, it truly is a curse. I do not want this! I would rather have his love than ten times my power; yet how can one deny what they are? I am Schala, latest princess of old Zeal. And I am of like power to him, for there are few living that may command such true sorcery, and the four of us are almost as kin now; too near in some ways for love.

"Crono and Marle were of like power, were they not?" he countered. "You do not speak with reason, but rather make excuses to ease what you feel you must do. Yet the way of things is hardly set, even now."

But she shook her head.

"What once was between us is now lost, forever. Kid will never more be without Schala, and only in such a thing could any bond of love have been found. I have seen this: his heart craves peace and simplicity, as the simple devoted love that Leena bears towards him. That is what he wishes for. And that is what I cannot give him, in despite of all my will. Accursed fate! I am ancient in wisdom, yet still trammelled to the loves of a maiden heart! What wicked chance brings this paradox to be? Each calls the other folly in my mind, and I cannot see which to obey. Which is more noble a thing: to love wisdom and knowledge, or to love another. Janus, bless your fortune that you are not so divided."

"I rather bless my fortune that I do not care for such loves at all," he answered, but she laughed a little, saying:

"I did not curse it, and neither should you be so thankful. It is a wondrous thing when requited, yet if not it can be harsh to bear. Such, it seems, is my fate."

She turned her face to see the last rays of the sun, fading behind the far hills. She grasped the stone of the battlement, and Janus could plainly see she was making a choice difficult to accept.

"So I will deny my heart and dissemble my feelings. And I wish the best for him. I hope their love may never fade, and be as that between Crono and Marle: strong even past death. Yet my coming was not wholly in vain. His friend I was, and that I remain, until the end of things."

She turned to her brother, and he could see slight tears in the corners of her eyes. She smiled ever so slightly, and then looked at him grimly.

"But he must never learn of what I have just said. I will not have him doubt his heart once again! Janus, I charge you as my brother not to say a word: if you ever speak to Serge of this, I will make certain of it that you never speak another word in your life again."

Perhaps it was an ill timed jest but, yet again, he did not fully understand his sister's heart in many matters. And he would not wish to cross her for any love or hate.

The day of the marriage came swiftly, and it was certainly grand. The courts of the fortress were thronged with people, both inside and outside the cathedral. The magnificent stained-glass once again adorned the windows, and the symbol of a great cross set therein was aflame with sunlight. And far below, at the foot of the alter, Serge knelt before the Archbishop. At his left hand was Leena, upon her knees as well, and bedecked in as fine array of samite as could be found in all the kingdom. A crown of silver flowers, crafted by some master silversmith, adorned her head. Her hazel hair was woven with wild-flowers in the custom of the brides of Guardia. Serge could not remember a day on which she had looked more beautiful to his eyes, or when he had loved her more.

He himself was dressed in a gilded robe that Crono had presented him with; a very costly gift, no doubt. Upon his finger he wore a ring of true-silver; its match was on Leena's, and was to be in remembrance of the oaths they were to take. These, too, were gifts from the kingdom of Guardia, and were or worth such as not even the lords of his islands were accustomed to wear.

"Before God and man," the bishop said, his voice in a strange manner grave and kindly, "will you swear to bind yourselves to each other for all your lives."

Serge nodded.

"I swear to hold Leena, daughter of Miguel, as my wife and companion. Before God and man I will swear this, and abide with it until death, or the world's ending."

"And I likewise bind myself to Serge, son of Wazuki, for life until death," Leena replied.

The bishop then replied: "Then before God and all Men, and by the authority given to me in representation of our Holy Lord, you are now husband and wife. Arise in this new union, and in the knowing that you are not two but one."

He made the sign of the Cross between them, and they rose.

"My king," the Archbishop said to Crono who stood nearby, "will you, too, bless this marriage, and pray that God keep it?"

"I will indeed," he replied, coming forward. "As king of this realm, may you be blessed here forevermore, Leena and Serge. May your days be joyous, and never grow dim."

And bowing he returned to his place with a gracious smile.

Then all cheered aloud, for Serge, though of a foreign land, was indeed one of their heroes, and to see him so upon such a joyful day gave them happiness. And only Janus could perceive that, though all smiled greatly and laughed with the mirth of the day, one there was whose countenance bore a hidden sadness.

And with this marriage the spring came joyfully, and not a tear was in any eye in those days, unless it was of joy. Everyone, from the King to the meekest peasant, felt an assurance of better days, and that the end of their fifteen year struggle was come at last.

CONCERNING THE HISTORY OF ZEAL OF THE THOUSAND NAMES

From the preface to the volumes pertaining to it in the later writings of the mistress of lore, Schala Faeri:

It is often thought, wrongly, that the time of the dominion of Zeal was for only one generation. It lasted, rather, for a span of no less than one thousand years, over the course of which near to thirty kings and queens ruled from its throne. Certainly it did not possess its great might at its founding: that grew through its ages until it became the greatest and most powerful kingdom that the world had ever seen, and perhaps shall ever see.

The first king was, in origin, a captain of some renown in the kingdom of Antaras which thrived yet in those years. He had fought countless battles both upon the sea and in the northern wastes (that in those years were still encroaching further south). It came to pass, in time, that this captain rose to such power amongst his people that he was made king of all Antaras, and took the name Ter-Meredior, which is 'the king who is a man of glory' in the old tongue of that land.

When he had sat on the throne for but a few years he summoned to his court all the greatest of the sorcerers of men from all corners of the earth, and spoke to them concerning a grand dream that had come to him for many nights. He told of a fortress and city, built high amongst the clouds of heaven, untouched by the tumults of the earth. Upon hearing this all the people and wizards were amazed, and wondered at how it might be accomplished, whereat the king brought forth a great treasure that had for long been forgotten. This, it is said, was the ancient gem known as Selinost, or dreamstone. And he spoke saying the following words:

"This is a gem of great power and ancientry, kept safe and secret by my kin since the first days, and through it may many things of wonder be achieved. Yea, even this dream that I have had! Though the years of building may be long, should this come to fulfilment, as I indeed think it our destiny to be, we shall be the greatest of all mortal kingdoms, and may in time encroach even upon the realms of immortality."

And all who heard his words that day thought them to be exceedingly fair and wonderful, though long after, in the years following the Great Ruin, it was thought that perhaps the dreams and thoughts that brought about the kingdom of Zeal were not so pure, and born only out of man's sinful desire for unending life and power. But for then things seemed yet good, though in the great will shown by Ter-Meredior this new kingdom was named Selevroth (that is Zeal in the latter tongue of the west.) For zealous indeed was the king, as were all the people of the earth as they rose to help him in this endeavour.

And even as he had prophesied, it was not short in building. Great towers and cities, more fair than aught others that graced the earth in that age, were raised on the plains of Rosannoth. These fields were a hundred leagues across, and lay in the west-most lands of Antaras.

And then at last the long awaited day arrived, and there gathered all the sorcerers of the world, from least to greatest, and they ringed about the entire field. And in the very centre of the plains, upon the tower of the King, upon a spire of gilded limestone, stood Ter-Meredior. Holding high the dreamstone, he spoke ancient words of power long since forgotten, and it is said that his voice that day echoed even across to the verge of the plain, and all the magicians who heard it took up the call. And even as they did so the land shook and a great earthquake began. An lo! the plains themselves, bound to the sigaldry of the king and the stone of dreams, rose from the earth. As the day waxed the plains loosed themselves from their bond to the earth. And so, in that day, was the kingdom of Zeal born.

Little else is remembered, for the later people of that fair land were more eager to remember their own deeds than those of their forebears, but this at least is remembered: that when the twilight grew dim on that day, and the great shadow of Zeal for the first lay long upon a wondering earth, a prophet by the name of Tiresias stepped forward. He was blind, and had had no part in the great raising, for his powers were only those of foresight. Then he stood tall amongst the wizards, and raised high his voice so that all heard. And he cried:

Hear me, children of this new kingdom! On this day is born what is fated to be the greatest of the kingdoms of men, so rejoice! But do not hold too dear this land of your making, nor become too enamoured of its fair halls, nor forget that you are but mortal. For behold! I see in the sky circling ten ravens. For each of these will this land last one hundred years, and in this time will it prosper and grow, and none shall surpass it in beauty or might; all shall flock to its halls and call it blessed. But when the tenth raven has died, then beware! For should you have forgotten who you are, and that you are mortal, then shall you find all that you have built and hold dear crumble to ruin."

Then most jeered, and mocked him for but a blind fool. But the wisest of those that heard the words took especial thought to them, and never did they or their children forget those words that were spoken. And so when, after a thousand years, the last queen of Zeal, Tiros-Rosmered, sought to take the power of the ancient demon Lavos for her own, so as to become immortal, there were some that became wary, and remembered well the words of the old seer. And these worked in secret against her designs, in guard against the prophesied day of ruin they feared was nigh. But this is told elsewhere, in the great lay The Fall of Zeal and, also, in the poem called Tirnis Selevrotho, or the Princess of Zeal, which recounts the grim fortunes that befell the last daughter of that great house. Yet her tale is woven into many another, and has no place in this chronicle.

REGARDING THE LAST OF THE DESCENDANTS OF GLORIOUS ZEAL

As recorded in the tenth and final Annal of Zeal scribed by the Lady Schala Faeri:

Some, indeed, of the noble and high lineage of Zeal outlived the cataclysm that whelmed their kin. These, however, became but a shadow and a memory of what they had been before the Ruin. At the time of the height of Zeal those that lived upon its blessed land became so fair and powerful that they seemed no less than Nephila (that is, angels), descended to earth from the realms of high heaven. But after the Fall their glory and power dwindled, so that their splendour was no more than that of others, and the light of their eyes was dimmed as they wept over what they had lost through their own pride and folly. Through the countless years they were mingled with the lesser peoples, and in time all that they had been was forgotten. Only a few yet held the ancient heritage that had graced those of Zeal, and in after days they arose as mighty memories of that forgotten golden age, and those who beheld them and the deeds that were performed through them were in awe. For the strength of the ancient world was in their limbs, and the glory of Zeal shone like a memory from their eyes. Chief of these were the last two children of the ruling house of that downfallen kingdom, named Janus and Schala.

Schala, the elder, fell through much torment because of the Fall, and was made subject to the very evil she had striven against, the might of the demon Rosroth (who was named once Lavos, in a tongue all but forgotten, even by the time of Zeal.) Yet in time her bonds were shattered, mostly through the works and cunning of the master named Balthasar, who was once a subject lord under her hand, for she had been the princess of Zeal, before her darkness. Balthasar, being a man of high nobility and honour, held her to be his liege-lady, even though her torment seemed hopelessly eternal. Yet seemingly in despite and scorn of fate he achieved the end of her rescue, and so redeemed her through both the works of his own hand, and by the guiding of the destines of other heroes (of whom the chief of these was the one after called Saereth Masamune, which signifies "The swordsman of the Masamune," for it was indeed that sword that he carried; but forgotten to history he was, in his youth, known by other names.) In the later days of her life, when she had been saved, her eyes became once more as one of Zeal undimmed: shining like twin stars, and even as profound.

Janus was the younger of the two. He was also swept away in the great Ruin, though in a way unlike that of Schala, who was his sister. He, rather, was by chance, or maybe fate, winged to the time when the eastern Mystics who held Medina threatened the western world with war and conquest. But being at that time but a youth of scarcely five years, he fell in with the ranks of the East. From them he learned such ways of sorcery and spellcraft as was known in later days, and through the dark nature of his teachers his mind was darkened. But the power of Zeal that was in his blood was strong, mightier than any other that was on the earth in later days. Spells he learned, and bettered them. And enchantments there were that he knew that were a mystery to all others even among his teachers. So it came to pass in time that he rose to such high standing amidst the ranks of Mystics that they took him to be their king, and even the proudest and strongest of their lords bowed to him and pledged fealty to his rule. So, when at last the leaguer of Medina was broken and the storm of the assault of the East broke heavy upon the Western lands of Zenan, upon both Porre and mighty Guardia, they were lead by he. To his enemies he was a mysterious figure, a dark sorcerer of supreme power (for which he was named in fear Magus, the Sorcerer), and his coming on the battlefield was a herald of doom, for enmeshed in shadows he appeared as a figure of frightening terror, and only the boldest would stand firm against the onslaught of his dread guard. This might seemed near divine to those who beheld it, and some there were that whispered that their enemies were led by the very prince of darkness himself, and that to take arms against him would be fruitless. But, in truth, it was that none anymore knew of the mortal power that had been possessed by the children of the great kingdom of Zeal, and so to lesser men he seemed to be mighty beyond compare (for none there had ever seen the armies of Zeal as they had been of old; if Janus was mighty upon the later fields, he was but one, and the gathered hosts of old Zeal were said to number greater than one hundred thousand, and shone like a legion of angels). Yet even in this darkness of conquest the cunning of his lineage did not sleep, and neither did his pride. For he was consumed in a fiery fervour for vengeance against the demon that had wrested from his kingdom and birthright. Behind the veil of his darkness and sorcery his dauntless mind bethought itself a way in which to find redress for his loss, and slay the ancient demon. This is a long tale, and is a web of intertwining destines and fates, and spans many an age. But at long last he, even as his sister had, found himself free from the burden of both darkness and vengeance.

Thus until their deaths there lived two at least who echoed of the glory of the ancient world, of Zeal the Lost and the greatness of those who had dwelt therein.

In all history only three others there were that kept alive the ancient traditions of Zeal. These were known by many names, but here it might be said that they were the three chief lords of the land of Zeal and, moreover, were men of great wisdom and knowledge, and lived by nobility and honour that might rival the most righteous of kings. But being born of Zeal they, too, fell under the Judgement, though in all the evil later deeds of the kingdom they were blameless (having fought against them).

Eldest of the three was the one named in later traditions Gaspar. His mind was keenest to understand the workings of fate and destiny, and marvelled over the road of time, seeking to understand time itself. It is held that in this he did in some measure succeed for, though it was often later thought to be but myth, he indeed forged a thing of great power and destiny. In legend this is remembered as the Time Egg. Thereafter he forged two more, and these he gave to his two peers. But this deed went even beyond his wisdom, for world stood at the edge of ruin, and it would be these things of his that would be the sword by which the evil would be undone.

Second before him in years was a man of great worldly knowledge, named Balthesar in most lore. Kingly and tall, and marked with a great beard of white, he was held by those under him to be nearly king-like. But, as his two nearest friends, he did not care for glory overmuch. His chief love was in the making of things, and in the understanding of the truths that reside in and govern the world as it is seen to the senses. Little of the ways that pass under the watch of the sun was unknown to him, and with many devices he even looked far into the heavens as an astrologer, marking the movements of the stars and planets. In after years he would have been known as a man of science, but as yet in Zeal no such thing was known, and he it was that first gave birth to many of those ideals that were later re-learned by those knowledgeable men of the Hellenes (of whom Aristotle was chief.) He mastered the rules of the world, and knew the ways in which to turn them to his own ends, forging wondrous creations: a great flying machine, devices uncounted, and even the great time-ship called Epoch, used in the salvation of the world by the Great Hero, is accounted to his hand.

Youngest of the three Masters was the kindest, named Melchior (that is 'the man who performs deeds of skill' in the tongue of Zeal.) As Balthesar he was renowned wide for the creating of marvellous works, and yet they were of a different sort. Whereas the elder Balthesar saw all with worldly eyes, Melchior thought upon things differently, and looked rather for the truths and realities that lay behind things, rather than in them. Swords and arrays of weaponry he oft fashioned, yet he looked at them not as things of steel and iron with which to cleave flesh, but rather as destroyers of life and at what would be accomplished through them, seeing all with a mind of philosophy, and more apt to magic. While Balthesar looked to the earth and skies, and Gaspar to the past and future, Melchior was wont to discover what laws bound all these unseen beyond the understanding of knowledge, and ever held that truth lay not within things, but behind them in a realm of spirits unseen to the eyes of Man (very much, indeed, as Plato would later hold the world to be.) It was not, then, to be wondered at that of all things he was most renowned for, chief was the forging of the great sword Masamune, the sword of dreams and angels, as some named it. For it was fashioned of Selinost Dreamstone, and through his understanding he gave birth to the brethren spirits of the blade that later would do great deeds in the service of righteousness. But in counter of his smithing of weapons, he was compassionate, despising death and battle, and taking part in such things only by the wisdom that they need be at times. Yet life he ever held in highest regard, holding it to be a glimpse in this world of the Power that lies beyond the understanding of Men, and is the truth in and behind all things.

So ends the chronicle of the fortunes of Zeal. Thereafter the world lived in many an age of darkness, till nine millennia later the rise of the kingdoms of Uruk and Egypt signalled the renewed birth of civilizations. In the years that then followed there were empires and kingdoms without count, many of which are remembered to history: Babylon, the people of Akkad, Assyria and the Hittites, and a thousand others, to be succeeded by the time of the Hellenes, in which art and things of beauty once again began to rival Zeal. This, and the tales of after days, is told elsewhere.

(Last Edited Septemeber 21, 2004)