Reign of Madness (King's Dark Tidings, #2)

by Kel Kade

In the darkness with no ember, cold coals bear no flaming tinder, All the shadows man resemble, in the darkness wise men tremble. Prodigious foes made thee for pointless sake of prosaic power; Visited upon thyself no vestige of vision by late night’s hour; In the stillness of normal eve, in longing for the night’s reprieve, In air and earth arise a faint and subtle shift – ‘tis folly’s gift. With tremulous breath, whisper faintly from thy spirit’s tower – “Woe to me!” thy soul says – “Cometh nigh the Rez.” Know not the source of sudden searching – terrorizing, inner lurching, Not of fallen feet on fitted floors or creaks and sways of distant doors; Know ye cometh darkness, ‘tis this oath of righteous reign’s foul reaping, In the silent stillness plead thy heart doth surcease salient streaking. But why within, the heated rush, when without, all’s well and hush?

Be this mourning mists of magnanimous Maker? – the soul’s taker? Calls thy soul from madness, distant mind of fear-filled keeping – “Forsaken am I!” thy mind says – “Cometh nigh the Rez.” Whether merchant, sword, or money taker, son of lord or common baker, None escape when cursed with Knight, fall thee all by morning light. By thy virtue – desirous dissidence, drawn ye an inexorable imperious ire; Cleanse thy soul with steel or poison, drown in pool or blaze in fire. Never hear the slip of blade, never spy foul form or ghostly shade, Never taste the tincture’s tasteless tinge on tongue – cook’s praises sung. Nightly wakeful walking midst the walls and anxious dreams turn dire – “Maker, save me!” thy prayer says, “Cometh nigh the Rez.” Field of foe or Father’s breaker, never slip beyond the taker, Gracious court and pristine ball, in Maker’s house and saintly hall, Bulwark’s burden, breadth of boundary, lock and bar and solid door, Talents of a warded wielder, whispered prayers from ancient lore, Wealth and title, promise paid, a sultry seduction, no hand is stayed. Never bar nor divert passage of thy regal call – await

thy fall! Penance paid by blood, thy witness, righteous raven’s razing soar – “Gone be thee!” thy voice says, “Cometh nigh the Rez.” At the hour, on the morrow, not with certain sadness, woe, or sorrow, Prey ye never see him coming, never feel thy heart’s hard thrumming. May ye never mind the missive, forbidden song unsung in writings – In dark and devilish dirge, “Come I to thee with King’s Dark Tidings,” Fall to dream, thy breath deceased, dance with sylph, a soul released, But ‘twas day! – with bright and luminous halls – no shadowe...

It was born by the blood and leadership of common men – common men who had earned the power and respect of their people.”

“The nobles are the higher standard. It is the purpose for which nobles were created,”

“I was not angry with you, Tam. I was angry with myself. I failed you, and I had no way of repairing the damage.”