Prince Dhuiran pulled his old, chipped, steel sword out of the chest cavity of the adolescent novice monk. The spray of blood that accompanied the action was strangely satisfying to the Prince. He had never relished blood before, but he had had enough of these arrogant fools in all their supposed wisdom keeping him from his destiny. As far as Prince Dhuiran was concerned, this fallen kid was just like the rest of them.

The battlefield, such as it was, was dying down now, in more ways than one. The Navigator's Corps, as Dhuiran called them, were fiercely loyal to the Prince, and they were nearly finished with the remnants of the monastic order. He had always wanted to be called Prince Dhuiran the Navigator. It had a nice ring to it, and it emphasized his passion for exploration. But most of the ingrates in Belaroas called him Prince Dhuiran the Vagabond. Ingrates like that adolescent monk. Dhuiran kicked the monk's body one last time and wiped his blade on the robes.

Prince Dhuiran held up his sword and scowled at it. The blade was old, chipped and plain. It was a constant chore to keep the blasted thing sharp and free of rust. But what infuriated the Prince the most was its disturbing lack of glamour. It was merely an ordinary sword, and could never hold an enchantment for longer than a few weeks. Even the greatest Spinners in Belaroas couldn't make them last any longer. But Dhuiran was the crown prince, and custom dictated he carry it. The Prince caught the reflection of his own eye in its blade, then curled his lip in rage at the recollection of three days earlier.

"This isn't fair!" Dhuiran screamed as he tipped over the large, ornate candelabra. The crash it made only infuriated the prince all the more, and he looked about frantically for something else to throw around. The first thing to come close enough was the servant boy who was scurrying to the candelabra, hoping to prevent a fire. Dhuiran grabbed the poor servant by the shirt and tossed him to the side.

"Calm down, Dhuiran," his father said with his typical, vaguely authoritative voice. King Horrin rarely sounded much like a king, a realization that immediately rekindled his son's fury.

"Don't tell me to calm down!" The Prince shouted as he stomped over to small table nearby. With a primal growl, Dhuiran grabbed the table and flipped it over. "This isn't fair!"

"You could tear the entire castle apart, and it still won't change that," the King soothed, unsuccessfully.

"Then what will?" He bellowed back. Dhuiran wheeled around and stared daggers through a third man in the corner, the Royal Diviner, Phutho. "You! This is all your doing!"

The old man turned his head downward and to the side, trying to avoid the wrathful gaze of the Prince. King Horrin sighed loudly. "Now, Dhuiran, please. This is no one's fault, least of all Phutho's."

With his face twitching in rage, the Prince ignored the King. He crossed the floor quickly to stand nose to nose with the aged Diviner. "You told me, Phutho! All my life you've told me that I was the one! You told us that the omens all said it would be me! Didn't you?!?"

"My Prince, the signs are not always as clear as..."

"Not always clear!" Dhuiran snapped. "For twenty-six years, you've been telling me that I was destined to become a Traveler. For twenty-six years, you've been telling me that I'm going to ascend, and rule Belaroas like the Traveler Kings of old! But now, all of a sudden, the signs are 'not always clear!"

Dhuiran raised his hand to strike the old man, but his father's voice rang out again, this time much more forceful than Dhuiran had ever heard it before.

"Dhuiran, that's enough! What's done is done. That's the end of it."

The tone in the King's voice made Dhuiran hold, but it didn't stop him from wheeling around and advancing on his father. "What's done is done? It was done to me! This isn't fair!"

"No, it isn't!" King Horrin yelled back, his face beginning to flush red. "But that's the reality now. It wasn't fair that I never became a Traveler, either, or my father, or his father. You know as well as I do that this world belongs to the Travelers. We kings and princes are merely stewards. We step aside for the rightful rulers, for the Travelers. And you didn't ascend. Your brother did."

Prince Dhuiran pushed himself backwards. He was so furious that he began pacing in little circles, his arms constantly moving with no purpose. He would bring a hand up to his mouth, then back down, then up again. His hands repeated clenched into fists, then relaxed. His eyes were wide and twitching, and his shoulders were moving back and forth as if he were preparing to punch someone.

"Arran? Arran ascends?" He exhaled sharply. "Arran is not fit to rule this country, father. You know that! You have always known that! He's always too busy with his damned books, or trying to feed the homeless trash that litter our streets! He doesn't have what it takes to rule Belaroas!"

"He is a Traveler now," Horrin snapped back angrily. "He will rule as he sees fit, and we will obey his as his faithful subjects. When Arran returns, he will be our king."

Once again, Dhuiran approached within an arm's reach of his father. As he spoke, he spat his words like venom. "I will never obey that weak, pathetic little..."

With a sudden motion that belied his age, King Horrin brought his arm up quickly and fiercely, slapping Dhuiran with the back of his hand hard across the mouth. Dhuiran stumbled backward from shock and pain, tripping on his own feet and landing hard on his backside. He stared up in disbelief as his father towered over him.

"I will not have my own son disobey a Traveler and sully our customs! I am your father, and until Arran returns, I am also your king! After he does, he will be. Have I made myself clear, Dhuiran?"

The Prince said nothing, his face convulsing in abject hatred. Finally, he climbed to his feet, considered speaking, but then thought better of it. In a huff, he turned around a stormed out the door. King Horrin and Phutho shared a concerned glance, but said nothing.

"Where is it?" Prince Dhuiran demanded.

The old, terrified monk kneeling before him trembled, his voice shaking as he responded.

"Wh-where is what, my lord?"

"Don't waste my time, old man. I know what secrets you guard. Now tell me where it is, or I swear upon Oltan and Vushra I will put the rest of your order to the sword!"

The monk's lips quivered at this. "P-p-please, I beg you, do what you will with us, but please do not utter the names of the Shadow Gods here."

"The Shadow Gods!" Dhuiran roared. "You fear the names of dead gods, old man? Look at me! I am Prince Dhuiran the Navigator! My army surrounds you, and the blood of your brothers and sisters stains their hands. Fear me, not them."

"P-please, Prince. What do you want."

Dhuiran's hand was flying before he even realized it, a slapping blow catching the bald monk right in the temple. The monk flew to the floor, his hand grasping his head as he simpered. Dhuiran stared down at the monk with narrowed eyes. "You know exactly what I want. Where is the sword?"

The monk's complexion paled as he looked up in horror at the Prince. "You...you...you can't..."

"Can't!" Dhuiran yelled. "I am Prince Dhuiran the Navigator! I will be the Traveler King of all Belaroas! Don't you ever tell me what I can't do!" He paused, then turned to one of his captains behind him. "I'm not getting through to this doddering old fool. Bring in one of the novices."

The captain nodded sharply, then turned to leave. A few moments passed before he returned, pushing a young man of about twenty in muddied and torn monastic robes in front of him. The novice was terrified, tears still streaming down his face at everything he had seen.

Dhuiran turned back to the monk on the floor. "Are you going to tell me where to find the sword?"

The monk stammered, trying to speak, but fear had stolen his voice. Dhuiran read his silence as an unwillingness to cooperate, and his anger raged forth once again. He drew his old, chipped sword and, with one sudden motion, embedded it in the novice's gut. The groan the monk gave was a sickening sound, but Dhuiran grinned as he glanced back at the older monk.

"Captain, how many more survivors are there?"

"Thirty-one, my Prince."

"Well, then," Dhuiran said, refocusing on the old monk. "How many more of your brothers need to die before you answer my question?"

"But, my lord, that blade is an abomination! It is an insult to the Travelers who own this world! Please, my lord, I beg you, forget that sword! No good can come from it!"

Dhuiran closed his eyes and took a deep breath in. "Captain, apparently this monk is more interested in spouting inanities than sparing his order. Bring in another one."

"Yes, sir!"

"No!" the monk screamed. "Please! What purpose will this serve?"

"Ideally, it will convince you to tell me where the sword is."

Before the monk could respond, the captain returned again, dragging in a sobbing young novice with him. The girl was clearly terrified, and she began to panic when she saw the dead body of her fellow novice on the floor before her.

The prone monk shook his head in disbelief. "But you can't..."

"I warned you once about that!" Dhuiran screamed, raising his sword to deliver his fatal strike to the girl.

"No! Wait!" The old monk screamed.

Prince Dhuiran stayed his hand and looked at the man. "Will you tell me where the sword is hidden?"

The monk bowed his head. "Will you swear to spare the rest of my order?"

Dhuiran laughed. "I care nothing for your lives, you old fool. Tell me what I want to know, and the rest of you live."

The monk was silent for several moments, but as Dhuiran grew impatient, the monk nodded. "Very well, Prince Dhuiran. I will tell you. The sword rests at the Shrine of Nordistra."

Prince Dhuiran lowered his sword. "The Shrine of Nordistra? No one has worshipped her in a thousand years. And her shrine is virtually inaccessible, up in those mountains. Has anyone even been up there in centuries?"

"None but our order."

"Old man, if you are lying to me..."

"I swear, my Prince. The sword rests at the Shrine." There was a sadness in his eyes, but more importantly, an honesty.

Dhuiran smiled. "Captain, leave these meaningless monks to clean up their mess. We move out immediately."

Arran stepped out of the Blind Eternities and into his father's throne room; his throne room, now. The young prince could hardly believe everything that had happened to him over the past few days. Never in his life had Arran even considered the possibility that he might become a Traveler. The omens had always seemed to point to that honor falling on his brother Dhuiran, and Arran was more than pleased to let him have it. Although the thought of Travelling the worlds was a thrilling proposition, the reality of ruling Belaroas was a burden Arran was happy to see fall to others.

But then, out of nowhere, it was Arran who ascended. The places he had visited and the sights he had seen in just his first few days were absolutely astounding, things he never could have imagined, things his books could have never described. It had taken an incredible surge of will to force himself to find his way back to Belaroas, but it was his duty. All his life, Arran had heard his father and the Royal Diviner speak to Dhuiran about his duty. They told him that once he ascended, he would be able to travel the vast worlds of existence, but that his true calling and duty were to rule. Dhuiran had accepted both roles with unwavering eagerness. Now that things were different, Arran forced himself to accept them, as well.

As soon as Arran returned to being, he knew immediately that something was wrong. There was a heaviness in the air of the royal throne room that he had never felt in all the years he had been living in his father's castle. He could feel the very mood of the place, something he had never experienced before. He had noticed that there were many things he could sense now that he never could before. It was likely due to his being a Traveler now, but it felt strange. The mood of the throne room, however, felt far more strange, and far less pleasant.

Moments after Arran materialized, his father, King Horrin, stood up and rushed over to him, removing his crown as he did. He approached his younger son and, with a forced smile, handed the crown to Arran.

"The Traveler has returned," he said. "Long live the King!"

Arran accepted the crown reluctantly, but he looked with a deep, heartfelt concern into his father's eyes. "Father, does it pain you so much to pass me the crown?"

Horrin looked surprised. "What? No, my son! I mean, my King. It is not that. I am happy to name you the King of Belaroas. It is your brother, Arran."

The new king was suddenly consumed by worry. "Is Dhuiran alright? Father, what happened."

Horrin looked downward. "After you left, Dhuiran was upset. Beyond that, really. He was furious. He couldn't accept that you had ascended and he didn't. He stormed out of here and assembled his damned Vagabond's Corps and marched off northeast."

"Navigator's Corps, Father," Arran said with a mildly cautious tone. "You know how that bothers Dhuiran."

"I don't think we have to worry about semantics bothering him at this point, Arran. I mean, King Arran."

Arran sighed heavily. "Please, Father! Arran is perfectly fine. But what do you mean about Dhuiran? What's happened?"

"I don't know for certain, but only one thing lies northeast of here."

"The monks of the Forgotten?"

His father nodded.

"Have you heard anything from up there yet?"

His father shook his head.

"I think I should go there."

His father nodded.

Arran thought for a few moments. "Do you have any idea what I'll find?"

His father shook his head.

Arran closed his eyes. His father had run out of words. There was nothing left to say. Arran opened his eyes, nodded to his father, and vanished.

Dhuiran stepped into the shrine, an excited grin plastered on his face. It was time to receive his due. The Shrine to Nordistra was a simple structure, no more than a tiny antechamber leading into the main shrine, where Dhuiran now stood. The rest of the Navigator's Corps was waiting lazily outside; because the Prince insisted on entering alone. This was his moment. This was the destiny that had been stolen from him. This was his time.

Against the far wall of the Shrine of Nordistra, there was a simple stone altar. On the left side of the altar sat a simple wooden statue of the ancient Spider Goddess herself. On the right, there was a simple metal reliquary holding some random artifact that was once believed to belong to Nordistra. In the center, struck through the very stone of the simplistic altar, was the Sword.

Dhuiran could hardly believe his eyes. The sword was magnificent, a wonder that could never have been equaled. There were no smiths on Belaroas who could have crafted such a weapon, not now or in ages past. Even from the entrance, Dhuiran could feel the glamour dancing along its impossible blade. There were no Spinners the Prince had ever met that could have spun such powerful enchantments. Dhuiran drew his old, chipped sword, scowled at it, and tossed it angrily to the side.

"Tradition be damned," he said to himself as he approached the sword.

"And so will you, brother," Arran said as he emerged from the antechamber. Dhuiran stopped dead in his tracks, just two steps from the altar. His fists clenched in rage at the sound of his brother's voice, but he did not turn around.

"Leave here, Arran. Now."

"Dhuiran, what is wrong with you? The Monks of the Forgotten, brother! What have you done?"

"What have I done?" Dhuiran asked, his voice rising with each word. "What have I done!" He turned around sharply to stare at his brother, his king, directly in the eyes. "This was all your doing, Arran! You stole it from me! You stole it all from me! I was meant to be King! I was meant to be the Traveler! But you took all of that from me!"

Only now could Arran see the depths of his brother's madness. His brother had always been demanding and arrogant, but never before had Arran seen the man who stood before him. The past few days had changed Dhuiran even more than it had Arran. This was his brother's body, but it was no longer the mind that Arran had known growing up. This was a lunatic. A killer. A monster.

"Dhuiran, you slaughtered all those monks! How could you do that?"

"They kept me from what is mine," Dhuiran answered coldly. "Just like the rest of you."

"So you would kill me, too, then?" Arran asked, his voice tinged not with fear but with sorrow. "And what about our father? Will you kill him, too?"

"What do I have left, huh? Tell me that! What do I have that you and our dear father haven't stolen from me?"

"I have stolen nothing from you, Dhuiran!" Arran yelled, his own anger rising. "I didn't ask for this! This wasn't some treasure of yours I found lying around and decided to take! But it's what happened, and damn it, we both have to live with it! I am the Traveler, Dhuiran. Tradition demands that I be the king. I don't want the crown, but I don't have a choice. And neither do you."

"Oh, yes I do, Arran. I do indeed." Dhuiran glanced over his shoulder at the sword. "The monks hid this sword because they knew it endangered the Travelers. And do you know why? It is said that this sword can make a mortal man into a Traveler. I don't need to be born into your blasted spark. Belaroas is to be ruled by a Traveler? Very well! Let it be."

"Dhuiran, no!" Arran screamed. "Every story we've ever heard of that thing has been a horror story. It's an evil thing, Dhuiran, and you've done evil things to get here. Please!"

Dhuiran's eyes narrowed so far that Arran couldn't even see their color. "So once again, you want to keep me from what's mine." He paused, then turned toward the sword. "This blade is my destiny, brother, and you won't steal it from me. It is the Traveler's Bane, the Sword of All Worlds, the Blade that Cuts Eternity. And no one will dispute my rule once I'm a Traveler...and you're dead."

Before Arran could react, Dhuiran grabbed the sword, yanked it out of the stone altar, and, with hatred burning in his eyes, swung it at his brother. Arran's eyes widened in horror as the blade cascaded toward him, but a sudden flash of light blinded him, forcing the new king to shield his eyes. When he moved his arm away, he was alone in the Shrine of Nordistra.

For a few moments, Arran didn't move, didn't even breath. He was too shocked to react. His brother and the sword were both gone, leaving only empty air where they had been. Arran tried to force himself to calm down. This was simply too much to deal with in too short a time. But eventually, he started to get mad. Dhuiran had become a madman, a murdered. He had even gone so far as to try to kill Arran, his only brother. Something had to be done.

Arran frowned. His father would have to go on carrying the crown for a while longer. Arran had some travelling to do. He needed to find Dhuiran. He needed to stop him. And something deep within Arran told him that more than anything, he needed to make sure that sword didn't fall into anyone else's hands. His brother's were bad enough.