Prologue
A light breeze brushed across Vanrid’s face. It was threaded with the musty smell of the water stretching out before him. The Fejorn, a vast lake near the city, offered many people a place of peace and reflection with its glass-smooth surface and the green landscape surrounding it. In that same breeze, Vanrid could also make out the scent of his lover’s Tallmar flower cream. Not far from where he sat, she was busy with one of her newest pottery pieces. A commission from the local blacksmith, who wanted to give it to his wife for their thirtieth wedding anniversary. She had already made quite a few such works. One for the seamstress Salja. Another for Rogbert the tavern keeper, who proudly displayed the exquisite clay jug on a ledge behind his counter. Nithael had even decorated that one with runes from her homeland, something many people eyed with suspicion. Foreign things were never entirely welcome. But one thing was clear: the townsfolk could never get enough of her unusual creations.
Vanrid followed the Tallmar scent with his nose, let his gaze rest on Nithael, and smiled with quiet satisfaction. She was completely absorbed in her work, her head tilted slightly forward, her black hair hanging like a curtain behind the spinning wheel. Her pointed ears fascinated him every single time. So did her delicate hands, which moved with effortless skill around the clay form, while the wheel beneath it was driven by a simple hydraulic mechanism she worked with her right foot. She was simply an incredible artist, Vanrid thought every time she showed him something she had made. She claimed that back in her homeland, she had done entirely different things than art, but Vanrid never quite believed her. Still, he could imagine that the Nankara simply had a natural fondness for such things. Even though Nithael could match the finest artists in all of Astram in both quality and style, she was never truly satisfied with her own work. Once, she had shown him a painting she had worked on for two weeks in the shed behind her house. She had been obsessively focused, chasing off curious townsfolk with dark looks whenever they came too close. When Vanrid was finally allowed to see the finished piece first, it stole his breath. It was as tall as he was and showed him on the Kaylar, naming his little fishing boat.
The deep, powerful blue of the water beneath him faded gradually into darkness. Yet that darkness at the bottom of the painting was filled with light, emanating from the lure hanging on the hook of his fishing line. Like wavering sunbeams, fragments of light rose from the glowing bait, pierced the water’s surface, and wrapped themselves above Vanrid’s head into a star-filled night sky. The painting hit a person right in the face with its grandeur; it was that magnificent, that rich in detail. “I know what you’re thinking,” Nithael had said with a look caught between understanding and resignation. “I just need to put more into it.” Vanrid had stared at her in stunned silence while she, arms folded and head shaking, studied the painting as if it had failed her somehow. That was when he had realized his lover was the next Kil Waidenbrandt, whose name had been spoken in artistic circles for centuries. Since the day he had first met her all those years ago, Nithael had been a mystery he loved unraveling piece by piece, even if she was very good at wriggling out of any conversation about her previous life.
A slight twitch in the fishing rod leaning against his left leg demanded his attention. Vanrid brushed aside a few biting insects trying to settle on his dreamy face and lunged for the rod before it slipped away. “Nill, look!” he called, laughing loudly. “Look! This is a real beast!” His voice was full of excitement, and to Nithael’s amusement he wrestled with the rod as if he were trying to uproot a tree. It went on like that for another five seconds, until he lost his footing, stumbled, and pitched face-first into the lake. “Vanrid! Oh shit—” Nithael sprang from her place and rushed to the dock, where one Vanrid had suddenly become none, swallowed by the void of the water in a single second. Her cloth trousers scraped harshly over the planks at the edge of the dock. Her pale green eyes glowed within her slightly grayish skin as they darted restlessly over the surface. Then something broke through the water. A few meters to her right, her lover emerged. “I’ve got him, darling! Pull me out!” He coughed and writhed, splashing around like someone on the verge of drowning.
Nithael’s long leather coat fluttered behind her as she sprinted off the dock toward the place where her man appeared to be fighting for his life with something golden. She dropped to her knees, reached down, and grabbed Vanrid by the hood of his jacket. With all her strength, she hauled him upward. “Yeees! I’ve got him! I’m rich! I.. uh.. WE are rich! Rich, Nilly! We’re going down in history! Books will speak of this day!” he proclaimed euphorically while pressing the seventy-centimeter beast of a fish into the grass. “Why didn’t you just let the thing go, you idiot? I was worried!” his lover scolded. But Vanrid was not to be distracted. “Just look at it! Don’t you know what this is?” For the first time, Nithael looked properly and studied the catch still struggling under Vanrid’s weight, though its strength seemed to be fading. Sunlight made its scales glitter, while its broad mouth gaped helplessly for air not meant for its body. Nithael twisted her mouth. “Well... it’s a pretty fish.” Vanrid looked as if he had misheard her. “A pretty fish? That just shows what my woman knows about fishing!” he ranted between breaths. “Hand me the club from the kettle, expert.” Nithael’s left eyebrow rose slightly, ready to answer the verbal jab, but she noticed the impulse, chose a shrug instead, and handed him the requested object. “Here. Carry out your sacred duty, my hero.”
Vanrid grinned as he took the stick. The “judge’s staff,” as he sometimes affectionately called it—though only among his fishing friends at the tavern. He had always thought Nithael would find that stupid. *Who names a stick?* he could almost hear her saying in his mind. His woman could seem a little humorless at times, but Vanrid suspected the Nankara were perhaps less fond of jokes and fooling around in general. He would likely never find out. For that, he would have to travel beyond the western mountain ridge into the lands of Westbreak, or have the dubious luck of encountering another one of her people here in Astram. The Nankara liked to keep to themselves and only rarely involved themselves in the affairs of the Duhnar, Vanrid’s own people, who were the most widespread folk in Astram. “So what kind of specimen is it?” Nithael asked, arms folded, just as Vanrid was about to strike. Her question made him halt the fatal blow and answer instead. “This, my dearest, is a Goldspine Reide. Easy to recognize by the dark discoloration of the gills and the black crest up here,” he explained, pointing to the features. The Reide let everything happen without protest. It had probably accepted its impending fate. Its right eye seemed to follow the conversation, shifting back and forth between Vanrid and Nithael.
“And the golden scales,” Nithael added. “And the golden scales, sharp eye,” Vanrid said. “This fish is described as a legend in numerous books, and Nellar Fessmer in particular, the greatest fisherman of them all, wrote in his book *King’s Waters* that it was a unique fish and absolutely should never—” He broke off mid-sentence. “Should never be killed,” Nithael finished for him. “Ah, you know... it wasn’t described all that clearly, and even if it was, that still wouldn’t mean that...” Another break. “Mean what?” Silence. “You can see the fish is suffering. I really should put it out of its misery,” Vanrid said, drawing back his arm, but the club remained hanging uncertainly in the air. His jaw worked. The Reide stared. Nithael’s accusation lingered between them without being spoken. She crouched beside her lover and simply watched him. She knew she didn’t need to say a thing now. Better to observe what was happening inside this other creature. Like a researcher at the zoo. And Vanrid, at that moment, was the most fascinating animal of all.
After a few moments, his expression softened. He sighed, lowered the club, and looked at Nithael with resignation. At once he fell under the spell of her presence again. This beautiful, rare being he had once found injured in the forest. The being who, once healed, had chosen him against all expectations. Vanrid said nothing. He reached out and gently brushed a hand across her cheek, a gesture of appreciation needing no words. Then he lifted the fish, walked to the water’s edge, and threw the Goldspine Reide, the catch of his life, back into the lake. It hit the water with a splash and disappeared at once into the depths. No farewell. No gratitude. “You are a good man, Vanrid,” Nithael said once she had stepped beside him. Together they looked out at the water. Vanrid put an arm around her shoulder and drew her close. “It doesn’t matter. I already have my wealth.” And when their lips met, Vanrid knew he would protect this woman for the rest of his life, even if it cost him everything. The moment was steeped in magic. A flock of black Ahlorn doves sailed over their heads, while on a nearby lily leaf the usual endless croaking of a Tifus suddenly went silent. It was one of the most peaceful moments those times had seen, an energetic imprint woven forever into the underlying connection of all being.
“Come, my love. I want to show you something.” Nithael took Vanrid by the hand and led him to the place she had prepared for her pottery business. Beside the spinning-wheel apparatus lay a blanket embroidered with runes Vanrid did not understand, spread out like a picnic. The two of them sat down, and Nithael reached for a leather pouch, rummaging through it. “I had actually wanted to give it to you later, because I thought it might need a bit more refinement and that maybe you wouldn’t like it—you know how it is, an artist is never really finished with their work,” she said with a soft laugh that made dimples appear in her cheeks. “I did bring it with me, but then I got cold feet, and now I feel like it’s okay. Who can understand women, really?” Another laugh. Now it was Vanrid’s turn to listen with a raised eyebrow while Nithael fell into one of her spontaneous little bursts of chatter. “I, uh... I made it while you were in the forest yesterday with Mikkas and Melianne. Now where did I put it... Ah, here. Close your eyes.” Vanrid suppressed a smile and obeyed. She took his hands and placed something into them—light, flat, and round, like a coin, a medallion, or an amulet. “Run your finger over it. Can you recognize the pattern?” “Is it... is it a stork?” he guessed at random. Vanrid had absolutely no idea. The burst of laughter from Nithael that echoed over the lake after his pitiful attempt would not soon be forgotten by the “underlying connection of all being,” either. “You wooden-headed fool! Look at it—your stork!”
Vanrid grinned broadly, opened his eyes—and froze. All joy and lightness was gone in an instant. What lay in his hand filled him with an unnatural unease. It was an amulet of volcanic glass. The engraved pattern showed a man and a woman standing close together, holding hands. Vanrid’s heart began to race. His breath caught, and when he lifted his head, he found himself staring into a gaunt, pale face—white eyes, piercing, marked by silent accusation. “You didn’t stop me, Vanrid. It all happened because of you,” Nithael whispered. A withered, ruined version of the woman he loved more than anything. A version in tattered clothing, with thinning hair and teeth peeking through damaged, rotting cheek flesh. Vanrid looked around. Everything seemed blurred now, warped and washed out, like one of the paintings Nithael had once made. It showed a clearing in the middle of a forest. She had used only pale shades to make it feel ghostly, and she had succeeded. It had already seemed deeply unsettling to him back then. But this was different. This was real. And Vanrid felt something creeping toward him from far away. Something unimaginably evil, dragging his mind closer to the abyss with every passing second. “Hung up like a slab of meat. The body fouled with blood and dirt, and no one there—no one there to get me—only the shadow entering me and devouring my heart.” Vanrid gasped for air. He tried to fill his lungs, but no oxygen would go down.
He sprang to his feet, clutching the pendant tightly to his chest, because even though it had begun his horror, it was the only thing giving him any hold in this most terrible of experiences. “Nithael! Nithael, don’t go!” he screamed as his lover’s face was devoured by nothingness, dissolving like a shadow of his life that had never existed. A figment. The love of his life—nothing but a fleeting appearance. And in her place came total darkness. No lake anymore. No shore. No blanket. No Nithael. Only emptiness surrounding him now. But Vanrid was not alone. He could feel the presence from before. A presence that seemed everywhere, watching him. Something waiting for the smallest movement, the smallest thought. “What are you?” Vanrid asked. Then it felt as though pent-up waves of pure energy crashed in on him from every side and buried him, seized him, tore him apart like the claws of creatures from forgotten myths.
Vanrid jolted upright in his bed. Again, everything was soaked with sweat, as it had been practically every night for the past two moons. But he didn’t care. He had only one thought: the amulet. Where was the amulet? He sprang out of bed and stumbled, breathing hard, to a nearby dresser, where Nithael’s gift waited for him beside carved animal figures and her framed portrait. He snatched up the medallion, now attached to a cord necklace, and pressed it to his chest. His heart drove blood through his veins so violently it felt as though he were fighting for his life. “Why did you have to go...” he breathed as he sank to the floor, her absence and all the crushing emotional weight that had come over him after finding her hanging in the forest crashing over him once again. A void had spread through his being, a void that had drained all color from his world. Yet recently, another sensation had joined it. Vanrid felt increasingly watched. And every act of resistance against the terrible reality only strengthened that feeling, as though something were slowly drawing nearer. Sometimes his skin seemed to burn from the anxiety alone. It was the fear of having to spend his whole life in this state, mingled with guilt for having done nothing, mingled with rage that things were as they were and that nothing in this world would ever feel good again. He drew his legs up until his knees touched his chest and remained there in that embryonic pose until his circling thoughts rocked him back into sleep, where the nightmares continued to torment him. Vanrid was trapped, crushed between two hells. But he still had no idea what consequences his state would bring—not for him, and not for the world around him. Something was searching for him. And it was by no means kindly disposed toward him.
