Born to Greatness
This content was originally included in an issue of Duelist magazine. The original article can be accessed via Internet Archive here.
Main Magazine Page: The Duelist #29
Short story by J. Robert King
Long before he traveled to Rath aboard the Weatherlight, long before his fateful, final encounter with Selenia, Crovax met and fell in love with an angel. This is a story of Crovax in his you—a boy who believes he is born to greatness—and his date with destiny.
Part One
The hot air of the bedroom swam with visions of liches and fireballs, panther warriors and volcanoes. Sultry winds turned curtains into columns of billowing smoke. Piles of windup soldiers became armies of undead. The very bed knobs were the jutting feet of a ruined lava giant, and young Crovax lay on the giant’s belly.
He sighed in bliss and drew the summer heat into him. Ah, to be Lord Windgrace. Ah, to be destined for greatness…
Crovax clutched to his chest a book of stories, as other hoys might hold a puppy or a favorite stone sling. But this was no mere plaything. This book was history and adventure and… destiny. Of all the books in Father’s library, this was Crovax’s favorite. He’d read Lord Windgrace’s exploits five times already and had been forbidden to read them again until his tutors eens improvements in his sums and geometries.
“Father doesn’t understand me,” Crovax told himself, in the way of all twelve-year-old boys. “He doesn’t understand that I will be like Lord Windgrace—powerful!” It had been an easy enough thing to nip the book from Father’s study. It would be easy enough to return it in the wee hours tonight, before the Old Bear awoke. “Father doesn’t understand I am grown up. He treats me like Jolav and the girls—children!” After all, Lord Windgrace had been no older than twelve when he began his training, when he began his destiny!
A thrill ran through Crovax, as he wondered about his destiny, beyond the all-too-orderly walls of Father’s noble estate. He read on:
Only a creature born to greatness could rise as Windgrace rose, virtue surrounded by vice, life surrounded by undeath. But he did rise, greatest hero of Urborg, beset on all sides by the monstrous minions of—
—and the lamp wick burned out. Crovax startled as the cream-colored pages went black beneath his fingertips. Binking he stared in dismay at the oil lamp on his bed stand, its once-bright fire now reduced to a tiny, red-glowing spark. Next moment, even that ember winked into darkness.
That’s when the song began. It started low, like a mere trick of the wind and the dark and the rioting phantasms of a boy’s imagination. Crovax stopped breathing and listened. The sound was like cool water over smooth stones, or like reed pipes played by a wild breeze—high and sweet and rich, unutterably sad. It spoke to him on the hot winds of summer, drawing him up from his pallet.
He was standing. It was as sudden as that. He had not even realized he intended to rise until the cool touch of tile spread across his feet. An intimate breeze brushed past him, drawing his white nightshirt out in a ghost curtsey, before it continued on to the door of his room and out into the hall. It beckoned him to follow.
Crovax swallowed. It could be a ghost. Noble estates were always haunted. Father often spoke of a ghost in th high parlor—an old hag who stalked the place at night and ate boys naughty enough to venture from their rooms. It could be the ghost of the hag.
But what hag could sing as sweetly as this?
Taking up the book as if a shield, Crovax tiptoed away from his bed. He reached the marble door frame and peered into the hall. It was as black as a dragon’s throat, and twice as long. Doorways stood open on either side of the hall, beyond which lurked who knew what.
Perhaps he could wait until tomorrow to investigate.
The song, lagging for a moment, returned to him again. As sleek and swift as a panther warrior, Crovax stepped into the hall. The melody drew him forward, singing of grand futures, battles and betrayals, and glorious power. He had nothing to fear. He was grown up. He was destined for greatness. Crovax clutched the book tightly in his hands and pressed forward. He seemed suddenly to hear words in the music:
Bright and burning brighter is the fire,
Melting voices merging in the choir
Of conflagration eating oils glisten,
The holocaustal requiem, the pyre,
Of yearning heroes gathering to listen.
It was a song in the epic language of heroes, a language Crovax instinctively understood. It spoke of bright fame in fires of war, songs of mourning sung over the fallen, and hosts of brave men and women—those who won through and became heroes—paying their respects to lost comrades. The burning fallen and the brave heroes.
A thrill quivered through Crovax.
He made his way past door after door—guest suites, the low parlor, the common room, the kitchen—all empty now except for vagrant summer air. Rising up a set of slate steps, Crovax reached the upper hall: Father’s study, where he meant to return the book; and beyond it the high parlor, domain of the ghost hag. It was the one room in the house Crovax was forever forbidden to enter. And the music came from within.
It was a moment of destiny. Beyond that closed door lay the hidden wonders of Father’s world—delights and dangers. Beyond that closed door lay also, perhaps, a ghost who’would sink her teeth into Crovax and slowly consume him until there was nothing but a gibbering jawbone left. But none of that mattered:
To remain here was to obey Father, and remain a boy.
To venture within was to defy Father, and become a man.
Curling his fingers like the claws of a panther, Crovax lifted the silvery latch and slowly drew open the door. It swung, silent and massive, on giant hinges, releasing a tide of cool air. He shivered, each droplet of sweat on him turning cold. He stalked in, silent and ready.
The room smelled of mahogany, woolen carpets, and rich smoke. Stout chairs clustered around a finely crafted table. On the far wall, an array of spirit decanters glimmered serenely. In an adjacent corner stood a bronze ancillary globe, marking the positions of Dominaria and the planets nearby. Beside it stood a telescop, a sectant, and a cabinet with map drawers. Another corner was decked with the family banned, the coat of arms, and a marble bust of Father.
Crovax suddenly realized he was heir to all these things—the noble estate, the coat of arms, desks, maps of the world, models of the heavens. He felt a moment of welling respect for Father, but then he wondered how a man with all this power could squander it in petty trade deals and empty conversation. With all this power, Crovax would sail to distant lands, claim new worlds, raise armies, cleanse Urborg…
Something flickered above the vast stone fireplace. With feline grace, Crovax pivoted toward it. In a niche atop the mantel, a red light gleamed. The boy approached, feet silent on the thick carpets. The niche held a short glass dome, beneath which lay something beautiful—a golden amulet that theld a gemstone the’size and color of a boy’s heart. Crovax stared wonderingly at the glistening facets and realized the song that had drawn him here came from the stone.
Without pause or though, Crovax set down the sweat-spotted volume of lore, reached up to the shivering glass dome, and lifted it. The stone sang out:
Slide the stopper, scion of the fire.
Claim the pendant of a faithless sire
Who keeps an angel capitve in
a gemstone.
Confess the aching secrets of desire,
And claim Selenia ever more your own.
He drew the cold gold chain about his neck and lowered the amulet to rest, warm, upon his heart. A small, glass stopper protruded from the base of the stone, and he reached, unthinking, and drew the glass forth.
The stone winked, and beads of scintillating light stretched out from the crystal. Thousands of glowing motes whirled up in a sudden rush and circled the astonished boy. His nightshirt flapped all round him, seeming a ghost in its own right. Crovax suddenly remembered the ghost hag of the high parlor, emerging to feed upon foolish and overly curious boys. But what hag could make such splendid lights?
The multicolored cloud of sparks drew apart from him and coalesced on the hearth. A face formed, slender and serene and beautiful. Long golden hair and strong shoulders framed the face. A body, both powerful and lithe, took shape below. To either side of the figure formed great gray wings. She. held in her hand a sword of glinting steel.
Crovax fell to his knees before the creature and her glirmmering sword. He bowed his head in shame, feeling small in his nightshirt and tousled hair.
The woman reached a slender hand out to him, and one finger caught him, beneath the chin. With gentle pressure, she lifted Crovax’s face toward her own.
He saw her then, fully formed, Her beauty was so great he began to weep. This was Father’s “ghost-hag,” Crovax realized suddenly, a powerful and dangerous spirit held captive in the amulet. But this was no hag…
“Rise, Crovax,” the woman said in a voice that was both invitation and command. The warm touch of her fingertip grew stronger, and Crovax found himself standing before the glorious creature. She seemed to begin a curtsey but continued the motion until she knelt on the hearth at his feet. “It is right that I bow to you.”
“You, b-bow to me?” stammered Crovax, the teard drying on his cheeks. “No, dear lady—”
“I am Selenia, spirit of the stone,” she explained. “I serve whoever wears the amulet.”
“Y-you… serve?” asked Crovax incredulously.
“Yes,” she replied, and there was a flash of hurt and defiance m her eyes. “Yes, I serve. I am bound to the stone, and I serve.”
Crovax was amazed. “You are a djinn, then?”
“I am an angel from the plane of Serra.”
A Serra angel! His tears were gone now, and visions of volcanoes and liches once again swarmed across his eyes. “You must grant me whatever I ask?”
The angel’s features darkened. “What ever I can grant, yes. But there are many things beyond ny power. I cannot make you a giant or a king or a rich man.”
Crovax puffed out his chest and said, “Luckily, I shall be all of those things anyway.”
Selenia smiled. It was a beautiful sight. “I do not doubt you will. Some men are born to greatness.”
Yes. She sensed it too! And on her smiling lips, the word greatness meant more than coiled muscled and feline grace. It meant majesty. It meant beauty. Greatness was not just a matter of body, but of soul.
As the angel’s smile faded, Crovax suddenly ached to see it again. “What if I commanded you to carry me on your back and fly over the island?”
“Yes,” she responded. “l could, and I would.”
“And if I commanded, you would fly to the plantation of my Tevon and show yourself to him?”
“If that is what you desire.”
“And then maybe you could take Tevon and me both to where Hixton lives, and you could send fireballs and lightning blasts down and kill him and burn his estate and drive his family out of Urborg?”
Selenia breathed deeply. “I can and will do anyhing you desire. Your father dons the amulet to send me into battle.” A sudden sadness entered the “You can don it to ask whatever you desire.”
“Whatever I desire!” Crovax sighed. The possibilities were endless. He wondered what Lord Windgrace would do in such a position. He wondered if, with this angel at his side, he could rule the world. Struggling to put his wishes into words, Crovax noticed at last the sorrow in Selenia’s eyes. On sudden impulse, he said, “I desire that you smile again! I want you to smile and never stop!”
Selenia smiled again, though the look was forced, tainted with sadness.
“No,” Crovax. said. “Not like that. Like you smiled before. You’re. just pretending to be happy. I want you to be truly happy. I command it!”
Selenia bowed her head, looking away from Crovax for the first time. “I could more easily make you a giant or a king or a rich man.”
Trying to amuse her, Crovax puffed out his chest again and said flippantly, “Then make me all those things, and I will . make you smile.” She did not respond to his banter, and Crovax grew serious. “How can I make you smile?”
Selenia lifted her head, a light of hope in her eyes. “Break the crystal stopper, that I cannot be imprisoned again. Set me free.”
Only then did Crovax realize he had never loved anyone before. In that moment, looking into those hurt and hopeful eyes, he knew he loved Selenia. It was desire and devotion and destiny all rolled into one. How could he have considered using her like a mere tool? How could he have overlooked the sadness of her imprisonment? How had he found reason to draw breath before looking into those eyes?
And he wondered, would she ever love him, too?
There was a way… Crovax glanced about the parlor, seeking something that would be hard enough to shatter the amulet. There was the mahogany table, the brass armillary sphere, the brick hearth; the marble bust of Father—
Father. A chill swept over Crovax. He had blatantly disobeyed Father. He had entered the room where he was forbidden, had awakened the secret spirit Father held in thrall, and now he would dare to shatter the stone that held her captive? Crovax shivered. He would be bruised badly enough when the first offense was discovered. The second would bring unbearable punishment. But that final transgression—
“I would—I will free you,” Crovax pledged, “but I cannot yet. Father would kill me, He’s my master as well as yours. I’m still still just a boy. But some day, I will be a man. Some day, I will be free from him, too, and that day I will take you with me. I swear on my life, Selenia, I will take you with me, and I will set you free.”
Her head bowed again, and sorrow was written plain across her features, “Whatever you desire. Only know that he approaches even now in the hallway.”
Crovax’s eyes grew wide with alarm. He lifted the amulet from his neck and fumbled to replace they stopper. As he did so, Selenia burst into a shimmering cloud of swirling motes. The cloud spiraled inward, drawn back into the stone even as Crovax set the stopped in place. The last sparks slipped beneath the lip of the bead and sank into the red crystal. Crovax set the glass dome in place and whirled about, just as Father burst like an angry bear into the room.
“Crovax! What are you doing in here!” the sleepy-eyed man roared.
The boy staggered forward, bumping into a chair, and then turned slowly, in apparent disorientation. “I’m looking for it,” he mumbled.
“Looking for what?” Father demanded.
“My panther staff. The lich is coming, and I’m supposed to have my panther staff,” Crovax said muzzily. He pawed at empty air.
“Panther staff? Lich?” Father wondered. The anger was draining from his voice. “What is this all about?”
“I’m supposed to fight him today, will die without my panther staff.” Crovax staggered to the door, and then gave a happy sigh. “Oh, I must have left it in my room.” He plodded dizzily’ away.
The master of the house watched his son retreat dow hall and then went through the high parlor to make sure nothing was amiss. The spirit decanters weren’t touched. The coat of arms and bust were fine. The amulet remained glowing, in its case.
Then, with a knowing nod, he discovered the forbidden volume of stories, still wet from the boy’s feverish grip. Shaking his head in mild annoyance, the man left the room, taking the book with him.
A veteran (expatriate? refugee?) of many shared worlds, Rob is seeking to make his home on Dominaria. In addition to his Magic short stories detailing the lives of Karn and Crovax, Rob is writing the third book of The Artifacts Cycle, telling of the creation of Karn and the Weatherlight.
[Part Two]