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Volume 2, Chapter 3: Once There Was a Little Boy

  As Margrin finished the poem, he said "And it's simply titled ‘The Black King,’ no author, date, no reference in print ... but, ho! Here's a note: ‘see ”

  “Nicely done, Margin. Now, hopefully they have the volume here."

  But when we had an adept try to track it down, he came up empty handed.

  “It appears it's been stolen, Gentlemen. I can't do much about that, but I do believe Father Vastil has another edition."

  “Of course, I should have gone to him in the first place. I don't know what I'm looking for.”

  “If you'll follow me, Your Majesty, I'll take you to his presbytery. It's just down this cloister."

  When we stepped outside it had finally stopped raining and the sun was poking through the redwood crown in the canopy, casting shadows like broken glass on the forest floor.

  Father Vastil was pleased to have us, offering tea and biscuits. Of course he had the book, “An excellent reference,” he said.

  He wouldn't allow us to take his copy, understandably, but gave us several sheets of parchment, quills, and ink, and bade us take plentiful notes if not just to copy the entry on the Black King verbatim.

  Back in my rooms, I opened the tome and carefully turned pages until I got to 49. This volume was bound in soft, tanned, goat leather, stamped with gold leaf, And had intricate colored ink illustrations in each of its more than 500 pages. The thing was a priceless bookbinder's masterpiece.

  And there he was, in all his black glory, though the ink didn't do justice to the sheer depth of his blackness. Sitting on a throne of basalt, perhaps, a massive iron crown, a black face covering, black plate mail armor, and holding that massive two-handed sword.

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  The image showed no emotion, no intent, purpose, nothing but a menacing presence.

  The entry on the being had a surprising start, mimicking the poem we had seen.

  I began to read out loud, “

  “That name sounds Swalesian. Probably from a merchant family. He's over 700. Let's see, it's 1481 PA so 738 years old.”

  "

  Margin was looking at me glassy eyed and it occured to me that he was in one of his trances. Snapping my fingers in front of his face, he sat bolt upright in his chair, trying to look suddenly attentive.

  “We're all tired, Margrin. But this is all so very important. You need to read this before you come sup with us this evening.”

  “ Ugh! Very well, Your Majesty.”

  “I'm not sure how all this works, but ascending like he did, there may still be a bit of mortality left in him, and maybe we can exploit that.”

  


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