Song of the Beast

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This one is, as always, for the Word Weavers past and present and all they bring to their reading. And it’s well past time to raise a glass to my editor, Laura Anne Gilman, and her nose for nuance—no spackle!—and my agent, Lucienne Diver, for her encouragement, enthusiasm, and expertise. But mostly and entirely for the one who completes my being.

The light had almost undone me. I had not been prepared for any of it, dead man that I was, but never could I have been ready for the shattering explosion of sunlight after so many years in the dark. They had threatened so often to burn out my eyes, the thought crossed my mind that it had finally come to pass. Perhaps my memory of being dragged from my cell through the bowels of Mazadine and kicked through the iron door that would take me back to the world was only another cruel nightmare.

Wrapping my arms about my head, I sank to the ground, huddling to the faceless prison wall like a pup to its dam, and there I remained until the sun slipped below the rim of the world. Only when blessed darkness eased the agony—never had I thought to bless the dark again—could I consider other pressing matters, such as getting as far away as possible before someone decided to put me back behind that wall.

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