Dreamwalker

Prologue

The last wizard was dead, and Judicael was alone once again. He had been alone for most of his life anyway but this was a different kind of alone. To know that you are unlike everyone else, to stand out no matter how much you try to blend in, to be a swollen pus-filled boil on the smooth surface of society. Judicael did tend to be dramatic from time to time but this was no exaggeration. His father's books and Judicael's limited knowledge of magic were all that remained of the wizards.

He supposed that he was the lord of the land now. Well, his father was dead, and Judicael was his last living relative, being the king's only son. There was no beating around the bush. King Judicael, he pondered, entertaining the idea. King? Lord? Lord Judicael? Master Judicael?

Nothing sounded right in his head. He cursed out loud and sat down in the throne that now belonged to him. The empty throne room was cold and drafty. Some of the wall-length windows were unrepaired from the fight and there were even still a few oozing corpses that hadn't been cleaned and burned yet. The crimson carpet leading from the door to the throne was scuffed and charred. Ash floated in the frozen sunbeams that cut through the air. The drapes that once hung from the ceiling, bearing Judicael's family crest, were torn down, probably somewhere outside in a heap. Judicael made sure those were the first things to go when he raised an army in the first place.

The throne was not very comfortable, Judicael noticed. It was one of those stiff wooden ones with no cushions and a straight back. He slumped forward and stared around the cavernous room, dark eyes glittering in the morning sun.

"I won," he told himself very quietly.

He waited for the happy victorious feeling to sink in but it never did. Everything was just cold, and the flakes of ash were snowflakes falling on a white-tiled valley of death.

"My father is dead," he said a little louder, to nobody in particular.

Still no feeling. Maybe there was a little spark in his stomach but it felt more like indigestion than elation.

"He's dead, all the wizards are dead. So magic belongs to me now. This land belongs to me," Judicael continued, resting his head in his palm in that bored way that fools with too much time on their hands sometimes do. "All mine. All mine. He's out of the way and nobody can stop me."

Judicael peered warily around, maybe hoping for a response of some kind from outside, yet everything was silent and still.

He stood up and paced the length of the hall, hoping the air would clear his head. Perhaps he was still dizzy from the battle and hadn't allowed his emotions to sink in yet. He marched up and down the carpet. "I am King Judicael Roux. King Judicael Roux, ruler of everything. Nobody can stop me. There's no more magic. I made sure of that. So."

So. So what? What now?

Judicael reached the end of the hall. He turned around again, arms crossed over his chest, and stared down toward the throne again. It must have been built for an eight-foot tall man, it was so large. A jewel-encrusted crown was carved into the top of the wood, shining with unnamable stones and immaculate polish. Judicael remembered his father explaining to him that every ruler in his family had sat in that throne for hundreds of years.

"Sir?" someone said behind him. He turned around, but it was only Piano, with his long blonde ponytail and ruthless blue eyes like fragments of razor-sharp glass. Piano was an extraordinary young warrior who lead Judicael's troops to victory. His eyes were not lined like the other soldiers' were, and his pale skin was nearly unscarred.

"What is it?" Judicael asked him angrily. "What do you want?"

"I apologize. Am I disturbing you?"

Judicael folded his arms over his chest. "No. No, what is it, Piano?"

"I wondered where you had gone. I thought you would want to celebrate with us. You lead the rebellion, after all. I only supposed you would relax now that you have defeated the king," Piano explained.

"Oh. Of course. In a moment." Judicael turned back to examine the throne on the other side of the room. Piano followed his eyes and he too stared at the throne, but didn't say anything until Judicael remarked, "has the fire gone out yet?"

"Sir?"

"Has the fire gone out yet? You built a fire for the bodies, didn't you?"

"Yes, we did. It burns still. Would you like us to clear the hall of the remaining bodies? I confess the men expected to rest for a while and may not be persuaded to work any more. The battle only just ended."

"All in good time, then. I am not impatient. But first--" Judicael pointed at the throne-- "I want that to go."

Piano glanced skeptically into Judicael's face. He was never the type to question his master, and yet this didn't seem right. "Might I ask why?" he asked quietly.

"It's an eyesore. I'll have a new one built to represent the new era of my kingdom." Judicael waved his hand carelessly at the throne. "Take it apart, burn it, throw it into the river, I don't care. I want it gone by the time I return to the castle. Do you understand, Piano?"

Piano nodded. "If you say so," he replied coolly.

"Fine. I'll round up our soldiers. They deserve a feast tonight." Judicael managed a grim smile and patted Piano on the shoulder, then left the hall without looking back.

Piano's eyes wandered around the great hall and finally rested upon the throne again. A terrible, unexpected grin stretched his face. "Long live the king," he muttered. He turned on his heel and left as well to fetch soldiers for the destruction of the throne.