My body feels light; the air is cool. I'm in a bedroom furnished with grand furniture and silk trimmings. The owner of such a place must have extreme wealth at their disposal. I notice a young man standing at the window, gazing at a nearby beach. The sand shines like silver beneath a full moon. He wears fine garments embellished with jewels and beads and a smile that lightens the gray of his eyes. I freeze where I stand, ready to apologize for my intrusion when a knock sounds at the door.

“Enter,” the young man calls out, turning from the window. His face is alight with some secret eagerness. The door swings open and another man, slightly older, though with similar features, strides in. A brother? Cousin? Either way, neither of the men seems to notice my presence. I don't think they can see me at all.

“Can't sleep?” the newcomer asks, joining his kin near the window. The latter shakes his head.

“I can't believe Lenna will be my wife in just a few short hours.”

The elder claps the younger on the shoulder. “I don't think I've seen two people more in love. You're a lucky man, Your Highness.”

The young man frowns. “We are cousins, Hamish, and in the privacy of my room. Call me Bronek.”

The two of them laugh until the door suddenly flies from its hinges, crashing to the floor. Three men dressed in uniform storm into the room. The one in the lead gives a hasty salute, though his expression bodes ill news.

“What's the meaning of this?” Bronek demands.

“Forgive us, My Prince,” the saluting guard says, “but haste has distracted us from decorum. There's been another attack.”

Bronek and Hamish exchange looks. “Where?” the prince asks, his voice losing much of its forcefulness.

The two other guards bow their heads as the lead one says, “Hender. It's been demolished. No survivors. I'm sorry, Highness.”

Bronek sways to one side, color draining from his face. His eyes roll back and, as he falls, one word escapes his lips.

“Lenna . . .”

***

I'm outside now. The sun shines above, yet the air is cold and thin layers of frost cling to almost everything. Bronek walks along a deserted dirt road in the middle of twisted wood, his gray eyes focused on each step he takes. His cousin is nowhere in sight. I'm guessing time has passed. The prince is thinner now and stooped in the shoulders. His clothes are that of a pauper who cares nothing for warmth or cleanliness. A pack is strapped to his back; it appears to be nearly empty. Behind him is a bronze-colored mare pulling a wagon. Something lies in the bed, covered with a white shroud. The only sound in the murkiness is the horse's clopping hooves and the steady clicking of the wagon wheels. I follow close behind.

Bronek rounds a spire of rock, which leans toward the road as if ready to collapse, and comes to a fork. One direction continues through the gloomy forest while the other swerves toward a meadow rich with life and sunlight. Bronek stops and reaches for his pack. From within, he pulls out a misshapen scrap of parchment, yellowed with age. It's a map. The details are astounding if a bit faded, but the area is unfamiliar to me. He studies it for several minutes and then glances at his surroundings. Finally, he rolls up the parchment and stows it away. Taking hold of the reins, he leads the mare along a new course—a path concealed between the roads. The narrow opening slopes downward, making it a tight fit for the wagon. Though the going is slow, Bronek seems to have gained new determination.

The dimness beneath the trees gradually deepens, taking us into near-total blackness. Night has fallen. Bronek puts his arms out to feel for obstacles and to catch himself should he trip on some unseen root or rock. The mare whimpers, but the prince ignores her. I, too, have a bad feeling about this place.

A flicker of light appears ahead. A strange smile comes to Bronek's lips and he mutters something I can't hear. He nears the source of the light—a torch secured to a pole at the entrance to a cave. Neither the mare nor the wagon can continue. Turning, Bronek walks to the back of the wagon. With deliberate care and attentiveness, he lifts the form without displacing the shroud and approaches the cave entrance.

I want to warn him, to shout that whatever awaits inside is evil, but it won't do any good. I'm just a spectator is this strange vision.

I follow as he enters.

The tunnel is not dark, yet there is not just one source of light this time. It seems to be coming from every direction. Bronek looks at the smooth walls where numerous unfamiliar creatures are sketched with charcoal or carved with incredible skill. He frowns at the images. They're grotesque things with deformed bodies and lifelike expressions of agony or rage. Fixing his attention back on the path, Bronek moves onward.

The mysterious light grows stronger and the tunnel opens into an antechamber. At the other end is another opening trimmed with open-mouthed skulls. Candles flicker in their empty eye sockets. Bronek halts at the center of the chamber. To his left is a stone table littered with dried weeds and a thick layer of dirt. After a moment's hesitation, the prince approaches the structure and carefully places his burden on top. He stands there for another few seconds before making his way back to the center, facing the skulls. Taking a long, deep breath, he walks forward and vanishes through the ominous opening.

The adjoining chamber is smaller than the first and much more crowded. Tables, cabinets, strange instruments and tools, bottles of murky liquid, bundles of plants, frayed lengths of rope, books, cracked mirrors, iron cauldrons of various sizes, and other indistinguishable shapes fill most of the space. Bronek swallows hard.

“Hello?” he calls out.

One of the dark shapes against the far wall suddenly moves, leaving the shadows of its hiding place. Bronek stares; a pair of gold eyes stare back.

It's a man, standing no taller than Bronek's hip, but he's not human. His skin is pale, like ivory, and smooth. He's made of polished stone. He wears a vest and breeches of ragged brown material, but no shoes. A few strands of black hair hang down to his forehead, curling above his eyes.

Bronek takes a step closer, his hands fidgeting together. “Are you Mulogo, the legendary sorcerer?”

The little stone man grins widely, showing rows of rounded teeth, and then glances over his shoulder. “Master,” he says, his voice unexpectedly deep, “you have a visitor.”

Bronek follows the little man's gaze. The only thing on that side of the room is a broad glass cabinet, its shelves laden with an assortment of containers. A swirl of dark mist suddenly gathers in front of the cabinet, growing tall and slender like a cyclone, yet nothing around it is disturbed. The mist settles and dissipates. In its place is a man draped in a black-violet robe with a floor-length hem and high collar. Only his bald head and pallid, bony hands are visible. His yellow eyes narrow as they shift from the little stone man to Bronek.

“How did you find this place?” he demands in a hiss that ends in a sneer.

The prince swallows hard. “A map,” he stammers, “bought at a high price. I've come to ask a favor.”

A rumbling laugh vibrates within the sorcerer's chest. “I know what it is you desire, Highness. Did you bring her with you?”

Eyes widening in surprise, Bronek nods his head. The sorcerer's gaze flickers to the little man. Nothing is spoken between them, yet the latter seems to know what his master wants. With a bow, the little man crosses the chamber. As he nears the exit, his body inflates, growing taller and wider than that of a normal man. He has to stoop to fit through the opening. Seconds later, he returns carrying the shrouded form. Bronek tightens his fists as he watches the giant place the form on one of the less crowded tables. Backing away, the stone man shrinks to his previous size and scurries out of the chamber once again.

“I heard about the attack on Hender,” the sorcerer says casually, strolling to the table where the form lies. “You've come a long way. War continues to rage in your kingdom, yet here you are. The maiden was to be your bride, correct?”

“Yes,” Bronek says through clenched teeth. “Can you help me or not?”

One of the sorcerer's thin eyebrows rises, wrinkling his already creased forehead. “That depends. This favor will require an output of extreme power, something even I can't do on my own.”

“I know what it is you need,” Bronek says firmly, regaining his confidence. “I'm willing to do anything.”

Mulogo purses his lips together thoughtfully, trailing his fingers against the side of the shrouded body. “Very well, Highness. Come lie beside your beloved.”

Bronek moves forward, never taking his eyes from the sorcerer, who simply smiles, showing misshapen, mossy teeth. When the prince is in position Mulogo leans over him.

“Try to relax,” he says, rubbing his bony hands together. “This is going to hurt.”

Splaying his fingers, he lowers his hand over the prince's face. An ebony mist forms between them, seeping into the prince's wide eyes. Bronek screams. The sound does nothing to convey his agony. His fingernails dig into the table, scraping gashes in the wood, drawing blood as the splinters fight back. His limbs twitch and seize, yet they are held down by some unseen force. The mist begins to retreat from his eyes, which stream with blood-stained tears, bringing with it a golden mass shining like sunlight.

His soul. I cringe as I watch, knowing the same was done to me.

Bronek's screams grow louder and more wild, begging for an end. Mulogo ignores him, smiling as the golden glow swirls around his outstretched hand. It expands, changing shape until it resembles the body of a man. The sorcerer moves his hand away, pulling the black mist with him. Sighing, he fixes his full attention on the golden soul.

“Beautiful,” he murmurs, reverently beckoning to it. “A soul given willingly holds the most power.” The glimmering figure glides toward him, sinking past his dark robe, joining him. He tips his head back, letting out a long sigh of pleasure, his expression trance-like. After a moment, he looks down at the prince, who trembles and moans pitifully.

“You are to be congratulated, Highness,” Mulogo scoffs. “You're the first to have survived the ordeal of losing his soul.” Inhaling slowly, savoring his new boost of power, he moves around the table and lifts the white shroud that covers Lenna's body. She is beautiful, even in death. Dark hair frames her delicate ivory face, which seems frozen in peaceful slumber. Mulogo traces the edge of her jaw with his finger.

The whimpering prince manages to open his eyes. A ring of crimson encircles each iris. He turns his head to watch as the sorcerer places both hands over the young lady's chest, directly above her motionless heart. A string of strange words pass his lips and his arms begin to shake. He suddenly steps back, frowning as he gazes at his weathered hands and gnarled, spindly fingers.

“What's wrong?” Bronek asks, his voice strained and weak, conveying a lingering pain.

“The power of your soul is not enough,” the old man says with a sneer. “I need another.”

Bronek's hands clutch at the table again. “That . . . wasn't . . . our bargain.”

Eyes flashing, Mulogo snarls. “Then she'll remain in death's clutches forever!”

The expression of pain on Bronek's face hardens into anger. “What must I do?”

Glaring in return, Mulogo looks at the ceiling, muttering more strange words. When he looks back at the prince, he says, “There is someone in the forest not far from the cave entrance. I'll send my servant to fetch—”

“No,” Bronek says, pushing himself up to a sitting position. “I'll do it.”

He swings his legs off the table, wobbling for a moment, and strides to the exit. I follow yet again. The little stone man is crouched beside one of the skulls around the opening. He looks up as Bronek passes, his gold eyes shining with something like concern.

Ignoring him, Bronek leaves the cave.

He narrows his reddened eyes as he scans the dark expanse of trees. To his left is a distant glow, like a small fire. He rushes toward it. When the source of the light comes into view, Bronek halts, staring. A young boy is sitting on the ground putting handfuls of round mushrooms into a basket. The alluring light emanates from his small body. Bronek crouches down without a sound, his face pale. “A child?” he whispers, his eyes transfixed by the aura that beckons so persistently.

Still making no sound, the prince slithers closer to the warmth of life.

The boy gets to his feet, his basket full, and turns to leave. His youthful face and innocent eyes make Bronek pause again. He tightens his fists. “For Lenna,” he mutters to himself, springing forward.

He tackles the slender body, pinning him to the ground. Mushrooms fly everywhere. Clamping a hand over the boy's mouth, Bronek gazes at him, the red in his own eyes flashing. The boy looks back in terror. He doesn't struggle. The two of them stare at one another, neither blinking more than once or twice. Bronek's stoic expression begins to falter.

“You can't do it, can you?” asks a deep voice from behind.

Turning his head, Bronek sees the sorcerer's stone servant walking toward him, his golden eyes still holding a trace of concern. Is it for the boy or for Bronek? The prince glares at him. “I have no choice. Mulogo needs more power.”

The stone man shrugs. “But the boy will die.”

Bronek's gaze flickers to the boy and then back to the servant. “I survived. Perhaps the boy will too.”

“And become a creature without a soul, just like you. Unlike you, who gave yours willingly, he will have no memory of who he was before. He will be alone with his biting hunger forever. Look at him again and tell me you can do this terrible thing.”

Hesitating, as if wary to meet the boy's frightened eyes again, Bronek obeys. Seconds pass. The prince suddenly leans closer, baring his teeth. His grip on the boy tightens possessively. “His soul is so warm.” He laughs, though the sound is void of humor. “I want it for myself.” His laughter stops and he pulls away, breathing hard.

“The boy will die or become like you,” the stone man repeats. “Would your beloved wish for such a thing to happen on her behalf?”

Growling, Bronek lifts the boy and tosses him away. “Get out of here!”

Leaving the basket and mushrooms where they lay, the boy turns and runs, taking his bright aura with him. Bronek watches until the light is swallowed up by the shadows of the forest. He puts his face in his hands, his shoulders trembling, but no tears are shed.

“Your grief is deep,” the stone man says quietly. “But you might be stronger than you think.”

Bronek shakes his head. “I'm nothing now. The woman I love is dead and I'm a monster. There's a craving inside me . . . I wanted to rip that boy apart.”

“But you didn't. And you didn't take him to Mulogo. Even without a soul, you still have compassion.”

“That means nothing!” Bronek roars, leaping to his feet. He whips back his cloak, revealing a dagger strapped to his waist. He grabs the hilt, holding up the blade. With his other hand, he rips through the front of his tunic, exposing his bare chest. “If Lenna can't come back to me, I will go to her.”

Closing his eyes, he plunges the tip of the dagger into his chest, making no sound as it pierces his heart. Seconds pass. Lifting his eyelids, he looks down at the fatal wound and its river of blood. His mouth falls open. There is blood, yet his heart still moves in its slow, steady rhythm. He's still alive.

Retracting the dagger, he watches the wound close and the skin knit back together, leaving behind not even a hint of a scar. Muscles tensing, Bronek puts the blade up to his neck and, with determination to end his suffering, makes one swift slice. Again, he makes no sound. Blood seeps from the wound until, as before, the gash seals itself as if it never happened.

Lowering the dagger, Bronek turns and retraces his steps to the cave, his expression rigid with unspent fury. The stone servant trails behind, his ivory fingers tapping together.

Bronek traverses the tunnel and passes through the skull-lined opening, knocking one of the disembodied heads off with his shoulder. His gaze sweeps around the chamber, finding Mulogo at one of the cabinets. The sorcerer turns to look at him, his eyes and lips pulling down in a scowl.

“You've brought nothing. How can I—”

Before he can finish, Bronek is across the room, standing face to face with the old man. “You never intended to help me, did you?” he asks, his voice dripping with venom. “It's all been for nothing.”

The sorcerer smiles. “Not for me. Your soul is most invigorating. It will sustain me for a long time.” He glances at Lenna. “I'm afraid she is lost to you forever.”

Growling in fury, Bronek lunges forward, reaching for the sorcerer's face, but his hands find nothing but a cloud of black mist. The old man is gone.

Blind rage takes over. Bronek shrieks with madness, racing around the chamber, tearing objects from shelves and tables, breaking glass and scattering books. He doesn't stop until the entire room is in shambles. Breathing hard, he inspects the destruction with a satisfied smile, until his gaze falls upon a motionless body tangled in a white shroud, lying among flickering candles on the cold floor.

“Lenna . . .”

Distraught, he collapses beside her, pulling her close. He rocks back and forth, cradling her head against his chest, begging for forgiveness.

Hours seem to pass. He finally sets her back on the floor. He arranges the shroud back over her body and then kneels over her, his face a mask of sorrow. His hand once again reaches for his dagger and sets the point at his chest. “If I must live for eternity,” he says, “I will rid myself of this heartache.”

The dagger plunges again, deeper this time. Ribs crack, but he doesn't seem to feel it. The wound is wide, the blood runs freely. The blade comes out, clattering to the floor. Before his flesh has a chance to mend itself, he reaches into the cavity and rips out his heart. Three droplets of blood trickle down, landing on the flame of a single candle. He holds his heart out at arm's length, looking at it curiously, and starts to laugh.