April 10, 2008
A Word to the Reader of this Tome.
The words of the Wizard-king, written by my hand, the 21st of Ghostmoon, 1531.
Burn this book.
If such an act is too abhorrent to you, then please, I beg you, read no further. Shut this book up in some dark attic; lock it in a trunk and bury it in the depths of the earth.
Do not send it to the depths of the sea – what is thrown there is invariably thrown back up; as a mermaid’s son, I know this more surely than most.
If you are still reading these words, then clearly you are not prepared to heed my advice without a reason to back it up. Unfortunately, it is the nature of this tome that I cannot write clearly what this book intends – the words vanish into the depths of the paper when I try. All I can say is this: it is an evil book, possessed of an evil nature, and an evil will. Whether or not it has a mind per se, I cannot tell, though it certainly has some rudimentary personality at least. The best I can do is liken it to a leech, but one that gorges on, not people, but nations. It has made its way through my world; now it seeks to make its way through yours.
This book is my demon; I cannot escape it. It has consumed me entirely; even as I write these words, I am nothing more than a vessel for this demon, a slave to this cruel tome. And so I prepare this text for publication, and pray to any god that still listens to me that the spirit that rules these pages does not spread to animate its copies.
I cannot take the chance, so I plead again (a king pleading!) – burn this book! If I am still alive when you read these words, I will give you any and all you ask of me, if you do as I have here asked. If I am not still alive, I must trust that your own morality and native intelligence will cause you to heed my words.
Please…
Wizard-King.
A slimy, scaly hand grips your ankle, pulling you deeper into the murky water. You scream –
- Only to find that your head is already below the water. Slimy, cold water floods your lungs, and you choke.
The mermaids are gathering, grinning at you with their mouths full of needle-sharp teeth, leering at you with their fishy, dead eyes.
A hand grabs you by your shirt collar and hauls you out of the ocean. You are unceremoniously dropped onto the deck of a small wooden boat.
A tall, wiry man leans over you. He holds out a thermos, and you drink its contents gratefully. The concoction warms you instantly.
Still without speaking, he turns the boat toward a forbidding spit of land. A sudden fear seizes you.
“Where are we going?” you ask.
“To the Wizard-King’s castle,” replies the man.
Something about his voice is disturbingly familiar. So is something about his eyes. But you put it all out of your mind, content simply to be alive.
