"It must be a great privilege to be his daughter. But what would I know? My dad's a drover, and I'm a plain servant." Genevieve looked down and to the right, her eyes growing increasingly distant.

"I'll never forget you," Yuluru told her handmaid, her friend.

The girl looked up and smiled. "Might I hold the pelt against my skin, one last time?".

Yuluru pulled a corner off her couch and handed it to Genevieve. She pressed her face into it.

"My father hasn't been himself. Not since Thrond's betrayal. I don't understand why. Thrond was only a tentative ally, not a true friend. He made and armed the golems, and crafted Mortal skins for my father to wear when he wishes to mingle unnoticed among your kind. Why he's so bothered by his departure is beyond me. It's not as if he lost..." Out came the tears. She felt Genevieve's tiny hand on her forearm.

Yuluru's eyes blinked and she was once again in the present. She sat in her father's audience chamber, looking fearfully at the cloth that lay over his knees. The sword was gone.

"Father," she said, "where is the sword?"

He looked up at her, eyes hollow and mouth agape. "Your sister has it. It was heavy." His voice was a nocturne.

"Which sister?"

His gaze grew more vacant. "The dream is real."

Yuluru turned and left in a huff. Her father's once brilliant glow was now so dim his throne room was barely lit. She wondered if any other relics had been stolen while Mighty Arun sat in his ongoing stupor. She regarded the Mortal servants with suspicion as she stormed into the outer hall, her saffron gown fluttering candle-like behind her.

She went to her chambers and leaned on the rail of her terrace. Her rooms faced westward, overlooking Windaji and the grasslands of Arcadia. Phosphora was out there, weaving her webs, and now Kari had abandoned her mountain stronghold to do the same.

Troubled, Yuluru cleaved inwardly to the moment of her familiar's expulsion, and the wayward insights that scuttled behind the molding each time light crept into that ruminatory bower. Geneveive she saw, smiling upward at her Mighty King and Lady's father. Her smile was a comfort to all save for Kari, but nothing comforted Kari, save the dream of producing a child with a Mortal. It was a disgusting thing, this dream. Seeing her lost friend wounded her, so with celerity of soul she danced between evocations surrounding, for reasons she could not divine, her father's throne and her paramour's accursed blade. She remembered seeing, it, wishing to win it from her father, desirous of a hiding place to keep it where she could steal away and weep over it fondly, knowing her dark love lie far beneath the ground, chained in a maelstrom of sedation woven by Selenne and her cruel eldest son. Would that the stormlich were never born!

This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

Why this memory? Why this moment?

It was noontide, when the crown was brightest, Sunlight swirling in noxious ambrosia over the high tower. Genevieve was gone, and Father was solemn.

"The dream is real," he said.

"What dream?" she demanded, desperate to know the meaning. She heard him prattle on, saying this and that, fragments of delirium made mournful song. She hoped that maybe this perpetual return might produce some sort of epiphany from the moment. Kari was there, sneering as if her mind had invaded Yuluru's memory and she was mocking her from within.

"So many dreams," he muttered. "So, so so many. Thrond, he betrayed me. I took his eyes, he gave me mine back. Yes, yes this sword..." he stroked Foe as if he were a cat. "This sword will be there at the beginning of his end. Oh, oh no. No. Not that dream. No."

Kari stood by while Yuluru strode up the steps to his throne and shook him.

"What dream?"

"She's dead."

"Who?!"

He looked past her, where Sulphina cowered behind Phosphora.

"Thrond betrayed me. I took his eyes, and he gave me mine back. Reminded me I had them. I kept looking through the Sun and..." he reached up to his brow, almost fondling his eyes. "... these. He made Othomo a homunculus once, to see if it would eat. I, I, I sinned! We both did. Had them made, so we could take... we... I... the dream is real! Oh, if only I could give them back. Oroboron, I have him in custody...".

His weeping was pathetic. For once, Yuluru sneered along with Kari. The part of her that wanted to understand what drove him to this point had lost its patience.

"I'm sorry about your friend," he said as she left his throne room. She never stopped or looked back.

Her eyes blinked open again, and she was leaning over her rail. The moment was now, Othomo was back, Noctis a prisoner in the dustlands, Phosphora visiting her dogmen, and Kari off wooing father's favorite while he waxed nonsensical about his crown.

"My Sun," she'd heard him whinge, "my Sun is gone, and his light, his mighty soul. I kept it... kept it for the right time..."

She fought the urge to shake him and point to the opening in his high domed ceiling, and shout at the top of her voice: "IT'S STILL THERE!", but instead she sighed and went to the dining hall, broke fast on pomegranates and wine, then went back to the throne room to ask him where Foe was, having slowly taken notice that the weapon was gone. And now she was here, hating everyone and everything, and wishing that Othomo would just come to Avon Lasair and put an end to the embarrassment that had become Tartary.