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The Duchess Elara favored the hour when the dew still clung to the heather. It was during one of these morning constitutionals, near the rusted iron gates of the eastern wood, that she encountered Old Maude. The village woman was shivering, despite her heavy wool shawl, looking up at a sky that remained a bruised, stubborn purple long past the hour of dawn.
"Your Grace," Maude whispered, her breath visible in the unseasonal chill. "The light won’t come. The folk say the Wizard Bright has grown greedy. He usually waits for the solstice to take the sun for his winter hoard, but he has claimed it early this year. The North is in total shadow, and the cold is creeping south."
Elara looked at the horizon. A thin, pale ribbon of grey was all that remained of the morning. "Bright," she murmured, the name sounding like a cruel joke. "He would leave us to freeze in the dark?"
She hurried back to the manor, her silk skirts catching on brambles. She found the Duke in the solar, trying to read by the flickering, desperate light of a dozen beeswax candles.
"The sun has been stolen, Arthur," she said, her voice steady despite her haste. "The Wizard Bright has taken it early. The neighbors are frightened, and the air tastes of iron and ice."
The Duke sighed, leaning back into his high-backed chair. He was a man of action, but his joints were stiff with age. "If the North is already dark, then the crops will fail before the month is out. We need a man who knows the northern winds." He paused, a spark of inspiration lighting his eyes. "We shall send for my nephew, Basil. He has lived among the crags of the North since he was a boy. He is hardy, and he is hungry for a name."
Basil arrived three days later, riding a pony that looked as rugged as he did. He stood before his uncle, his face wind-burned and his eyes keen.
"Basil," the Duke declared, "find this Wizard Bright. Reclaim our sun from his clutches and bring the spring back to the valley. If you accomplish this—if you return the light to the sky—I shall personally petition the King to grant you knighthood. You shall be Sir Basil, Defender of the Dawn."
Basil bowed low, his heart hammering against his ribs. Knighthood was a dream he had chased through every mountain pass in the North. But he knew he could not do it alone.
Before departing for the capital to receive the royal blessing, Basil sought out the King. He stood in the great hall, which was now draped in heavy furs to keep out the unnatural cold.
"Your Majesty," Basil said, "I accept the quest. But I must inform you that I do not go alone. I have taken a husband, a man named Amish. He is a healer and a navigator of the high seas. He will accompany me on this task; his steady hand is as vital as my blade."
The King, a man whose crown seemed to weigh heavier in the dim light, nodded slowly. "A husband’s devotion is a fine shield, Basil. If you seek the Wizard Bright, heed the whispers I have gathered from the coastal watches. They say the wizard does not hide in a tower of stone or a cave of ice. He has built himself a fortress of vanity."
The King leaned forward, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial rasp. "Look along the shoreline, far to the north where the salt spray freezes in mid-air. The wizard lives in a gargantuan sandcastle on the shore. It is a fragile-looking thing, built of grains and seawater, yet held together by the darkest enchantments. Seek him there, where the tide meets the dark."
With Amish at his side and the promise of a golden spur in his mind, Basil turned his horse toward the coast, chasing the last fading echoes of the light. And then you know what happened: the wizard killed all but one. The descendent that would introduce Oculus in the future. The End
S
