The Last King stepped from the shadows of the Ebermere. He spoke no word, but we saw his pale eyes, brimming with . . . I don’t know how to say it. They passed from one to the other of us, resting here and there; terrible, like rage, frightening as love, soulful as sorrow, but alive. I once stood beside an atom bomb, and I felt something of the horrible power stored there, even if it was just a fancy. He was the same and more, and this was no fancy.
When those eyes fell on me, I wondered that I could live under that gaze, that I was not at that moment blown away into atoms. I gazed into his eyes. A king is an enigma. We’re told stories of wicked kings, tyrants and dictators; we’re taught to hate rulers by our rulers, but the King of the Ebermere, the Last King, grey like a mist, wrapped in shadow, his eyes answered the riddle.
There are no words for it. I knew I would die for him; I should have died to see him. I don’t know when I kneeled. We all kneeled. When he unsheathed his sword, I was sure I was doomed. I, who had come here to kill his servants—I most surely would die.
So, don’t call me a king. I’m not so great as all that. I have seen the King; when he laid his sword on my shoulder, I understood my doom. All you can do is send me to Ebermere. That is my home, that is my nation; there is my King.
I am a knight of Ebermere.
Tale Told 