Half a day after the workmen started digging, the Faramal came out of its castle.

"I knew my latest strategy would get his attention," King Joska told the dozen advisors gathered around his throne, a throne from which Joska could no longer rise without help.

King Joska's throne stood on a green hillside affording an excellent view of the Faramal’s strange, seashell-shaped castle and the land on which it stood: an upside-down fin of stone jutting from the world's edge. At that distance, the Faramal looked no bigger than an ant.

Sir Andor, one of the knights standing near King Joska, wondered if getting the Faramal’s attention was a good thing. He’d heard many strange stories about the creature: that it was thousands of years old, that it was the last of a race of beings that had once populated all the Circle Lands, that it possessed arcane knowledge far beyond that of any human priest or sorcerer. Strange stories were all anyone knew, for it had been more than a century since any human eyes had looked upon the Faramal. Indeed, until this moment, there had been some serious question as to whether the Faramal still lived inside the fortress.

"Sir Andor."

He turned to face King Joska. "Majesty?"

Joska waved in the direction of the Faramal. Reflected sunlight sparkled off the rubies and sapphires of the many rings he wore. "Go and see what it has to say."

Andor’s first thought was to refuse. More than a mile separated them from the world’s edge, but that was still far too close by Andor’s reckoning. The thought of venturing closer still to that most awful of falls turned his mouth dry and his palms wet.

You can’t refuse his order, Andor told himself. The king might forgive him the mild treason in recognition of his past services, but he would certainly lose his place among the royal inner circle. There were too many men ready to take his place at the slightest excuse. To preserve his family’s wealth and power, he had to go.

"You have my leave to depart," King Joska told him.

Sir Andor bowed and left. He headed down the hillside, past the grand tents that housed the nobility, past the more practical tents and workplaces of the smiths and other craftsmen who maintained their armor and weapons, past the temporary horse corral to the palisade that encircled their camp. From the palisade gate it was only a few hundred feet to the start of the land fin.

The trench the workmen had hacked wasn’t more than a few inches deep, but it was enough to make Joska’s strategy clear: he intended to cut the Faramal’s castle loose from the world’s edge and let it fall into the perpetual cloudscape below. Just thinking about the drop made Andor’s stomach shrink to the size and shape of a prune. He’d had nightmares about dying that way ever since his father had once held him out over the edge to "give him a good look" and then laughingly pretended to drop him.

The land fin was thirty feet wide at its narrowest point where the workmen labored. They were a scurrilous lot, condemned prisoners who worked under the threat of being thrown over the edge if they didn’t. Joska loved to watch people die in that manner so much that he’d made it the official means of execution for all crimes.

How long would you fall? Andor wondered. Some learned men claimed a man’s heart would burst from fear before he hit the great ocean below. Others spoke of flocks of dragons that lived beneath the clouds and snatched falling men, like birds gobbling insects from the air.

Andor kept to the exact center of the land bridge as he walked toward the castle and the Faramal. A light breeze flowed to the east, occasionally building up to the level of a true wind. Each time the breeze grew stronger, Andor feared it might grow powerful enough to push him over the edge. He had an urge to drop to all fours and crawl for greater stability, but he dared not do so while the king and his advisors watched.

Gray storm clouds lit by occasional lightning flowed underneath the land bridge like a muddy river. Weather at the world’s edge was an unpredictable thing. Storm clouds could boil up over the edge and quickly turn a cloudless day into a pelting hailstorm. Andor hoped the weather would remain good for the next few minutes.

To distract himself, Andor focused his attention on the Faramal. The closer he came, the more he had to look up, for the Faramal stood at least three feet taller than he did, and Andor was a tall man.

The Faramal’s flowing blue robe covered everything but its head, a diamond-shaped mask of ivory with an eye set in each facet. The eyes were globes the size of walnuts, with a black slit instead of iris or pupil. The two lower eyes moved to keep their focus on Andor as he approached; the upper two remained fixed on the camp on the hill. Were it not for the slow turning of the lower two eyes, the Faramal could have been a statue for all the movement he showed. Even the blue silken fabric of its robe seemed unaffected by the rise and fall of the wind.

As Andor closed to within ten feet, two hands slid out of slits in the Faramal’s robe. Each hand consisted of a single large tentacle without suckers, the same ivory color as the face. Two pairs of smaller, triple-jointed fingers stuck out from either side of each tentacle.

One of the hands held a transparent sphere that contained a human head.

Andor stopped.

The head of King Sebo, Andor thought. He knew the story behind the head quite well. King Sebo had bargained with the Faramal for immortality and received his wish in the worst possible manner.

The Faramal’s free hand pointed at the trench. From within the Faramal’s robes came a sound like the buzzing of a beehive. A few moments later, animation flooded into the muscles of King Sebo’s head. His eyes opened and he spoke, translating the buzzing noise into human speech.

"Stop that or you will all die."

The Faramal drew both of its hands back into its robe. Its head turned back to face its castle with the smooth rotation of a potter’s wheel, not the twisting of a creature with a backbone. The Faramal then moved away from Andor at the speed of a fast human walk. The hem of its robe clung to the ground like lake water to the shore, never rising high enough to provide a glimpse within. The fabric bulged as much to the sides as to the front as the Faramal retreated. Andor waited until the Faramal had withdrawn all the way back inside its castle. The sides of the opening in the castle wall slid together like a closing curtain, except that, instead of fabric, the curtains were made up of the very substance of the castle walls: a nacre-colored material that could withstand the mightiest blows of the biggest battering rams and catapults King Joska's engineers could build. The moment the entrance vanished, Andor turned and hurried back to the king’s tent.

"That’s all?" Joska said when Andor made his report. "Stop that or you will all die?"

"His words exactly," said Andor.

"Did you tell him I’d stop if he surrenders his castle to me?"

"No," Andor admitted. Realizing he’d made a mistake, Andor dropped to one knee and lowered his head. "Your majesty, please forgive me, I was so overcome with the strangeness of that creature that I didn't think to do so."

"Oh, you’re quite forgiven," Joska told him, his smile and light tone making it clear that the lapse really was no great sin in his eyes. "Just remember to do so the next time you speak with him."

"You think he will come out again?" asked Bishop Emre, the oldest and least outspoken of Joska's advisors.

"I know he will," said Joska. "We’ve got him by the short sword and he knows it."

"But Majesty," Andor said, "what of his threat to destroy us all?"

"He’s bluffing," said Joska. "If his kind possessed the means to kill us all, they would have used it when we first started driving them from the Circle Lands. The digging will continue until he surrenders or he and his castle fall. I will be the undisputed ruler of all the Circle Lands before I die!"

The digging continued. The next day, at the same time, a lookout warned that the castle gates were open once again and the Faramal had emerged.

The trench was now half a foot deep. Although the land fin had yet to show any sign that it was about to give way, Andor couldn’t help but wonder if the addition of his weight to the other side would be enough to break it clear. Still, he could no more refuse Joska’s order today than he could the day before. Swallowing his fear, Andor stepped up onto the fin.

"We will stop digging if you surrender your castle to us," Andor called out to the Faramal as he approached.

"I refuse," the Faramal told him via the head of King Sebo.

"Then the work will continue."

"Then you will all die." The Faramal turned its head back to its castle.

"His majesty, King Joska, does not believe you have the means to kill us all."

The Faramal stopped. Its head turned, making a complete circle. Seeing that made Andor's stomach flutter, but he managed to keep enough of his wits to speak.

"He says that, if you did, your kind would have used it against ours long ago."

"We have always had the means," the Faramal replied. "What we lacked was the willingness to kill you or any other living thing."

"You used your magic against us," Andor said. "You cursed our crops and caused hundreds to die from starvation."

"We were not responsible for the blight that struck your crops."

"So you claim."

"We are no more capable of lying than we are of killing. It is your kind that lies and kills." The words coming from King Sebo’s lips carried no emotional inflection, but the fingers of the Faramal’s free hand tightened into a fist. "You broke your promises to us, you killed us, and still we could take no action. The elders thought that you would learn shame. You did not. Even now, I have no choice but to warn you that what you do here will bring about the death of all humans."

"How can you kill us all if your kind is incapable of harming any living thing?" Andor asked.

The Faramal's free hand opened and pointed at the world's edge.

"If you were to walk in that direction, you would soon fall off the edge and die. If I warned you that you would die if you did not stop walking, would I be guilty of your murder if you failed to heed my warning?"

"I suppose not," Andor said, "But how does..."

The buzzing within the Faramal's robe interrupted him.

"I have given you my warning. Not one thing more is required of me and not one thing more will I give." The Faramal headed back toward its castle.

Andor’s fear gave way to frustration. "How does cutting your castle loose threaten all of us?" He shouted. Only a lingering sense of caution kept him from running after the Faramal.

Sebo’s head spoke once more, only this time his words were heavy with emotion, a great desperation. "The Skakel..."

Sebo stopped talking and winced as if invisible fingers were squeezing his skull. The Faramal said something to him in its strange, buzzing tongue. Although Andor could not understand the words, he could tell that it was a short phrase being repeated.

"Translators should only translate," King Sebo yelled. "Translators should only translate." He shouted out those words again and again as fast as he could speak, as if the mantra were his only defense against the pain assailing him.

The castle walls closed and cut off Sebo’s voice.

"What does Skakel mean?" King Joska asked a short while later once Andor had finished his report.

"I do not know, your majesty," Andor answered.

"Do any of you know?" Joska asked his circle of advisors.

It was Bishop Emre who answered.

"They are creatures who supposedly live beneath the blanket of clouds we see from the world's edge."

"I thought nothing but a great sea existed beneath the clouds," Joska said. "Does not the church tell us that the Earth floats like a raft upon a great sea that fills the bottom of the innermost of the heavenly spheres?"

"That is true," Bishop Emre said. "But there was a popular heresy some years ago that claimed a tier of land exists below the clouds, or that there are other, smaller islands floating in the great sea beneath the clouds. Those hidden lands were the domain of creatures called the Skakel."

"Tell me more," Joska said.

Bishop Emre lowered his head slightly under the light of everyone's attention. It seemed to Andor that the bishop was trying to pull his head and arms into the great fat mass of his body, like a turtle would draw in its head and limbs when frightened.

"There is little more to tell," the bishop said. "The Skakel are just like the Faramal. The Faramal are supposedly exiles from the lands of the Skakel, who rose up from beneath the clouds on great floating globes."

"Why were they exiled?" Joska asked.

"Supposedly they were all of a religious order that had found a way to make its adherents physically incapable of any sin."

Joska spat in disgust. "You’ve only to look at my ancestor’s head to know that the Faramal can sin better than most humans. Poor Sebo negotiated with them in good faith for immortality and they turned him into a bodiless parrot."

"But what if at least part of the legend is true?" Andor asked. "If we cut the land fin loose, it will fall down on the lands of the Skakel and cause great destruction. It would give them cause to attack us."

"The legend is nothing more than a legend," Joska said. "This Faramal is just being both stubborn and clever. He thinks to play upon our fears and our ignorance in order to trick me into giving up my attack."

"But Majesty… if there's the slightest chance he's telling the truth..."

"There's none," Joska said, pressing the palms of both hands down on the arms of his chair.

"Can we be so sure of that?" Andor asked.

A few of the other advisors looked at Andor with shock and alarm.

"Both the king and the church have said that nothing but water lies beneath the clouds," Bishop Emre said quickly. "There can be no doubt."

"Indeed not," Joska said. "The Oracle said I would be the undisputed ruler of all the Circle Lands before I die. This castle is the last holdout to my authority. The digging will continue!" Joska fell to a sudden fit of coughing.

"Leave me," he said once the fit had passed. "Call my doctors. I have need of a bleeding."

Afterward, Andor followed Bishop Emre to his tent. As the bishop walked, his lips trembled in the pattern of a prayer and his fingers ticked off beads on his prayer belt.

"For a man who has no doubt, you seem most worried, Bishop," Andor said once they were well out of the king's hearing.

The bishop started at the sound of his voice.

"Do you not believe what our king and the church tell us about what lies below the clouds?" Andor asked.

"I believe it is not wise to stand in the way of the king's will."

"Even at the risk of every man, woman, and child in the Circle Lands?"

Emre pulled him close and whispered in his ear. "There was once a young prince who sought out a famous Oracle to learn of his future. When the Oracle told him it was his fate to die just short of achieving the goal of uniting all the Circle Lands under his rule, the prince flew into a terrible rage. He put his sword to the Oracle's throat and threatened to kill her if she did not amend that prophecy. For fear of her life, she did. The prince then killed her to keep her from refuting her words later."

"And that young prince's name was...?"

"Not something you repeat if you wish to live," Emre replied. "I shall pray for us all."

Andor knew himself to be a man of actions, not prayers, but what could he do to change the king's mind on this matter? There was no argument that had not already been made. Was he being presumptuous to doubt the king's wisdom, or was it King Joska who was guilty of folly for the sake of his pride?

Does Joska really care what becomes of his subjects after he dies? Andor asked himself. There was every sign that the empire Joska had created would not long outlive him. He'd bypassed his eldest son's succession in order to win the submission of one province. With the eldest son still alive, that meant there was a strong chance of civil war upon Joska's death.

It does you little good to be first in line at the miller if you forget to bring any wheat, Andor thought.

The digging continued. The same time the next day, the Faramal once again emerged from its castle. The trench was now deep enough that a wooden ramp had been built to facilitate the hauling of stone out of it.

"His majesty, King Joska, believes you are lying," Andor told the Faramal the moment it finished delivering its warning. "If you do not surrender, you and your castle are doomed."

"Continue and it will be your kind that is doomed, human."

"Because the Skakel will rise up and attack us for dropping a great mass of stone onto their lands?"

"Yes," the Faramal said after a few moments' pause.

"Can you offer us some proof that what you say is true?"

"I can no more lie than you could breathe water."

"His majesty, King Joska, will not stop without proof."

"Then your kind is doomed." The buzzing within its robes sounded more like the purring of a cat now.

"You will die as well!" Andor said.

"I know."

"Don't you care about that? Do you want to die?"

"Yes."

Now it was Andor's turn to hesitate before speaking.

"You want to die?" he asked.

"It is a terrible thing to be the last of your kind."

The sides of the Faramal's robe bulged. As they shrank back, a sound like three fingernails being drawn across slate filled the air. Andor winced and grabbed at his ears. The head of King Sebo moaned, but his face showed no anguish. It was the Faramal that was making a sound of grief. Sebo was just translating.

"If my nature permitted it," the Faramal said, "I would have ended my own life long ago, but violence against one's self is still violence."

"You seek vengeance against humans."

"I cannot seek it," the Faramal said. "But I can enjoy watching it happen despite my efforts to stop it."

Andor realized further discussion was pointless.

What could he do to stop the digging? Killing the Faramal would remove the need for cutting his castle loose. It would be a violation of the truce, but if sacrificing his honor could save the lives of everyone in the world it would be a worthwhile trade. The problem was, there was no way to do it. The Faramal was beyond reach of his sword. The winds were so strong and unpredictable that a thrown dagger would likely miss.

There is another way, Andor thought. It was the only sure way, but it entailed death by the worst means he could imagine and ruin for his family.

They’re all dead anyway if the Faramal speaks the truth, Andor thought.

On the way back, Andor stopped at an armorer's tent and obtained a small dagger, which he hid in his left sleeve.

"What news from the Faramal today?" Joska asked him when he returned.

"I have a message."

"Let's hear it then."

"It is meant for your ears only. I must whisper it to you."

Joska didn't answer right away. He hadn't survived as king for seventy years by being careless with his safety.

If he orders his guards to search me, Andor thought, I'm a dead man. He hoped the king would not insult him so. He had no reason to. The years he'd spent earning the king's trust were an investment he hoped would now be enough to bribe the way past Joska's natural caution.

Andor then had an inspiration, which he acted upon immediately.

"It's not an important message," he said.

Joska frowned. "I will be the judge of that," he said, "Not you. Come forward and tell me."

Andor stepped up to the throne. He put his right hand on the back of the throne to steady himself and leaned forward so his mouth was next to Joska's. As Andor opened his mouth, he jerked his left hand back so the dagger came into his hand and thrust it forward into Joska's throat. A flood of warmth over Andor's hand told him he'd hit his target.

Joska's guards knocked Andor to the ground, but it was too late. Joska held his neck in a vain attempt to stem the flood of blood from his severed artery. In a matter of moments he lost consciousness. Not long after that the blood stopped flowing.

A great silence followed as the advisors all stared at Andor in disbelief.

Andor blinked. "I was speaking to the Faramal." He looked at Joska as if seeing him for the first time. "Your majesty?"

"Dead by your hand," Bishop Emre said.

"No!" Andor said. "It cannot be!"

"The Faramal must have bewitched him somehow," Bishop Emre said. "Foul magic, indeed, to turn a knight against his king!"

Laszlo, Joska's eldest son, spoke next.

"Bewitched or not, the law is clear on this matter. Take Sir Andor to his tent and see that he does not leave it for any reason. We shall pass judgment upon him later, but now there are other matters to discuss."

The "other matters" took the rest of the day and the following night. The ring of picks against stone did not resume with the rise of the morning sun. A short while later, Bishop Emre came to visit.

"After much discussion, Joska's eldest has decided to press his claim to the throne."

"I thought Joska had made it clear it was to be otherwise," Andor said.

"While Joska lived, none dared refute him. Now that he is dead, many wise and learned men question the validity of that ruling, especially since Joska's chosen heir is just seven years of age. The Circle Lands need a grown man to keep them united, but we digress from the real reason I have come. I am here to save your soul. I pled your case as best I could. Laszlo accepts that the Faramal bewitched you somehow, but, even so, I fear you cannot avoid death for what you've done."

"My family?" Andor asked.

"Your family will not suffer, nor shall you much. I've convinced them to give you death by the edge rather than the short blades."

"I think I would have preferred the short blades."

"It’s worse to scream for a minute than for the better part of an hour. I've come to give you your last rites."

Andor confessed all to Emre.

"Did I do the right thing?" he asked Emre when he'd finished.

"I cannot say," Emre replied. "Perhaps the Faramal was telling the truth, or perhaps it was a clever lie to make you do what it wished. In that sense, maybe you were truly bewitched by it."

"I would die easier if I knew for certain."

The flap of the tent drew back. Two grim-faced guards entered.

"It is time," one said.

As they led Andor to the place of execution, the Faramal came out of its castle.

"What can it want now?" one guard asked. "The work has stopped. Can't it see that?"

A sound like a dozen fingernails scraping across slate tore through the distance.

"Why does it make that noise?" the other guard asked.

A cry of despair, Andor thought. Its hopes of ending its own misery and gaining some measure of vengeance on those responsible for causing it were now gone. The sound brought Andor some comfort as they led him toward the death he feared above all others.