A Realm of Shadows by Morgan Rice

them—yet as they neared, Theon
suddenly, to her shock, screeched and came to a sudden stop in the air.
    He flailed, and would
not proceed.
    “What is it,
Theon?” she asked.
    His words come
to her in her head.
    I cannot fly
forward.
    Kyra looked out and
with a sense of dread realized there was some sort of invisible force here, a
shield keeping Theon out. She looked down at the landscape, the gushing river,
the mouth of it waiting below her, and she knew it was where she was meant to
go. She needed to travel that river to the other side of those mountains, and
it was a journey, she realized, she would have to take alone.
    With a pang of
panic, Kyra realized she would have to leave Theon here.
    “Down, Theon,”
she said softly. “I will land.”
    Theon reluctantly
heeded her, diving and touching down beside the mouth of the river. As she
dismounted, she felt a creepy feeling beneath her feet as she stepped onto a soft,
mossy landscape, all black.
    Theon lowered
his head, looking ashamed—and looking concerned for her.
    Return with me, Theon said to
her in her mind. Let us leave this place together.
    Kyra slowly
shook her head, stroking the scales on his long nose.
    “I cannot,” she
said. “My destiny lies here. Fly south, and await me in Escalon.”
    Kyra looked over
at the slow-moving river and saw a wide, black raft, made of logs tied together,
waiting at the mouth of the river, as if only for her. On the raft stood a
being, perhaps a man, perhaps some kind of evil creature, his back to her, wearing
a black cloak, holding a long staff, its tip in the water. He did not turn to
face her.
    Theon lowered
his head and pushed it against hers, and Kyra rubbed his scales and kissed him.
    “Go, my friend,”
she commanded.
    Theon finally screeched
and leapt into the air, his great talons just missing her. He spread his wings
wide and flew off, never looking back, his screech the only reminder that he was
ever here. Soon, the sky was empty. Theon was gone.
    Kyra turned, a
pit in her stomach, and walked over to the raft. Slowly, she stepped foot on
it.
    It rocked as she
did, unsteady beneath her feet, her heart pounding in her throat. She felt
completely and utterly alone, more alone than she’d ever had in her life.
    She gripped her
staff tight.
    “Let us go,” she
said to the creature, sensing it was awaiting her command.
    Its back still
to her, it reached forward with its staff and dragged the river’s bottom, and
soon they were off, their raft floating downriver, into the blackness—and into
the very heart of hell.
     

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
     
     
    Softis made his
way slowly through the ruins of Volis, picking his way with his staff, walking,
remembering. He paused at the remnant of a wall and ran his hand along its edge,
still smooth, and recalled playing here as a boy. He remembered, as a boy, knowing
that Volis would last forever.
    Softis recalled his
father and grandfather, remembered playing at their feet, learning about all
the great historians, the famed Chroniclers of the Kingdom who had traveled
from Andros. He knew there was no higher calling, and he had known as soon as
he could walk that it was what he was meant to do. For him, it was the
histories that held the glory, not the waging of wars. Wars, after all, faded
away, while the Chroniclers made them live forever.
    Softis breathed
deeply as he continued walking, his staff gently picking through rocks. He was
alone now, utterly alone, everyone he knew and loved dead. For some strange reason
he could not understand, he had been cursed with the mixed blessing of
survival. And he had survived. He had survived his grandfather, his father, his
wife, his siblings—and even all his children. He had survived kings and wars, one
commander after the next. He had seen Escalon under many forms of rule, yet had
never seen it entirely free. Nearly a hundred years old now, he had outlived it
all.
    Softis knew he could
find a way to go on, a way to live without the men