Amon rolled up the larger map and slid a map of the city of Makaran to the center of the table.

  “One day in the seventeenth year of Fay’d’s rule,” he began, “the Player showed up in the main plaza of Makaran. Street musicians often performed here, but his music was different. The haunting melodies and impassioned singing drew in ever-growing crowds.”

  “He showed up out of nowhere? No history for him?”

  Amon shook his head.

  “That seems odd given how powerful he became.”

  “And yet it is the least odd aspect of this story.”

  “How so?”

  “You remember that the Guardians were about to move on his fortress?”

  “Yes.”

  “The leadership decided to trust the bodyguard and follow his plan. Their moment of opportunity came when a foreigner tried to assassinate the Player.”

  Hastiand’s eyebrows went up, “Foreigner?”

  Amon nodded. “Someone other than a Vai’Aneen elf tried to kill the Player. Details about the would-be assassin are sketchy at best. He fled the scene quickly. None of the eyewitnesses could agree on what exactly happened. Some said he used a crossbow, others magic. What is certain is that this incident served as the catalyst for what happened in the days to follow.

  “The Player retreated to his fortress immediately after evading the assassin. Scouts reported to the Guardians as soon as the Player entered the fortress. In the confusion and chaos, Terza brought along a few Guardians disguised as the Player’s guards.”

  “Hang on. I thought the Player hand-picked his guard. Didn’t he recognize the fakes?”

  “How closely would you pay attention to every detail when you’re running for your life?”

  “Point taken, but still…risky.”

  “Absolutely. But the chaos is exactly what the Guardians needed. The fake guards made it into the fortress along with Terza. They had to act quickly, otherwise, they would be recognized and caught. Terza and the three Guardians followed the Player’s main group. Their moment to act came as the Player crossed into the wide vestibule outside his main chamber. According to the plan, this spot would afford them the time needed to stop the Player before he barricaded himself in the reinforced inner chamber.

  “When they crossed the threshold from the narrow tunnel into the vestibule, the Guardians made their move. Two of them rushed outside the group to cut off the Player’s exit while Terza and another Guardian attacked the rearmost guards. The tactic worked. Terza and his companion felled two of the rearguards before they could react. As the Player’s men caught on, the other two Guardians cut down three more. This left the Player cornered by the Guardians with only one guard to protect him.

  “The moment they had been waiting for had finally arrived. They would kill the Player and free the people of his spell. What exactly happened next in that room is unclear, but its effects were devastating.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Hastiand.

  “A great rumbling shook the ground. The Player’s fortress exploded, sending debris raining down and destroying a large portion of the city. Homes and shops were crushed. Many of the Vai’Aneen living closest to the fortress were killed. Miraculously, Terza crawled away from the rubble, but he wasn’t the same. His body was mangled and broken; his eyes were wild. He could barely put together two words, much less a full sentence. From his fragmented jabbering, the Guardians pieced together the events I described. He kept referring to a yellow eye and black smoke.”

  Hastiand’s eyes narrowed.

  “Like the other night,” said Amon.

  “It's not a pleasant experience,” Hastiand said solemnly. "Please continue."

  Amon nodded. “From Terza’s account, the Guardians surmised that the mandolin was, in fact, the source of the Player’s power. While they had suspected that the mandolin held magical properties, they realized that it was far more dangerous than they originally thought. Such an artifact could not be allowed to survive. They tried picking through the crumbled fortress for survivors and clues, but with everything buried under rock and sand, excavation work was slow.

  “Meanwhile, the people, no longer under the stupor of the music, became agitated. They wanted the Player and his music. Junay’d Traern did his best to calm them, but the impatience of the people grew worse by the day. Riots—before then a rarity in Makaran—broke out in the streets.”

  A surge of blue filled Amon’s eyes. “Then one day, it happened. What vicious conspiracy whipped them into a frenzy no one can say, but a large mob formed outside the royal palace. The larger the crowd grew, the more out of control they became. Finally, they stormed the gates. The mob overwhelmed the royal guard. They found the emperor in his bedchamber in the high tower. The emperor, Ta’Kish bless him, tried to assuage them, but his words fell on deaf and angry ears. They stabbed him and flung his body out the window. Down he fell, straight into the clean, pure waters of the oasis.”

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  Hastiand let out a breath. “Oh.”

  “Quite. As soon as his body hit the water, Vai’Aneen across the empire felt it. Those nearest to the pool recounted that within moments, the water began to recede. A hush fell over the empire. The whole nation went into a state of quiet mourning. The silence within the walls of Makaran was enough to make one go mad. Over the next few days, the crops and the grass fields died, disappearing into the sand. Thousands of people fled the city. Most did not make it out of the desert.

  “If it had ended there, the empire might have survived. Alas, such was not the case.” Amon closed his eyes, took a long breath and let it out slowly. A quaver infiltrated his voice as he continued. “In the weeks that followed, the cities and villages of the empire succumbed to the wrath of the desert. Finally, roughly a month after the oasis dried up, a great earthquake shook Makaran. It sent a city teetering on the edge of ruin tumbling down the precipice.

  “It didn’t take long for the empire’s enemies to capitalize on the collapse. As resources and order vanished, they moved in like vultures on carrion. Many of the Vai’Aneen settlements on the fringes of the empire were overtaken by raiding parties or joined a nearby greater power. Some disappeared completely.”

  “How?” said Hastiand, eyebrow raised.

  “No one’s sure. My guess is that the townspeople, upon hearing of the fate of other towns vacated before the raiders had a chance to attack.”

  A shudder ran through Hastiand. “All this in a matter of a month.”

  “Aye,” said Amon.

  “So, I have to ask, where was your family in all this?”

  “My…family?” Amon suddenly seemed uneasy.

  “Yeah. They had to have been, what, your great-great-great-grandparents?”

  “Ah, that. My parents fled Makaran shortly after the oasis dried up.”

  “Parents?” Hastiand’s eyes had gone wide. “How old are you?”

  “Older than I care to admit. Vai’Aneen, like other elves, live very long lives.”

  “So, they told you all this?”

  “It is from the remnants of the Guardians that I learned all this.”

  “They survived?”

  Amon nodded. “A few escaped the city and found each other some years later. They made it their new mission to one day return to Makaran to try and to save it. They spent years gathering funds, materials and any other Vai’Aneen willing for a venture into the Neyhajin Desert. One of their recruiters found me not long after I reached the age of manhood. I joined them despite objections from my father.”

  “Ah, yes. The disappointed father.” Hastiand rubbed his chin. “Can’t say I’m a stranger to that one.”

  “My father was…a good man. Strict, but he instilled in me the traditions and pride of being a Vai’Aneen, ready and willing to do whatever was necessary for the empire. I saw this as a chance to finally do that, but my father’s faith in the empire by this time had waned. He saw it as a fool’s errand to save a dead animal.

  “When the day finally came for our journey, all of us in the party were excited and began our trek with fervor. A week and a half under the punishing sun did little to dampen our spirits.” The elf sighed. “However, the fervor died the moment we found the city, or rather what was left of it. Makaran had become little more than rubble in the sand. We found the remains of those who had stayed behind. It was clear that the city had vanished from this world and with it the Vai’Aneen Empire. Our dreams of rebuilding our empire shattered, we went our separate ways. The records of the last days of the empire were kept by several of the surviving Guardians in hope that others might learn from them. They have been passed to me…the last of the Guardians.”

  “Are there any more Vai’Aneen left?”

  The blue of Amon’s eyes deepened. “Not many. Certainly not enough to begin anew. Those that survived have either isolated themselves or married into other races. Vai’Aneen blood rarely, if ever, carries on into other species. No, my friend, I’m afraid there is no hope left for my people.”

  For a time, neither of them spoke.

  Hastiand finally said, “I’m sorry, Amon.” To his surprise, the bard found that he meant it.

  “Nothing to be sorry about,” Amon replied. The elf roused himself and looked at Hastiand, eyes changing to a light shade of green. “Now do you see? That instrument you carry with you is pure evil. It has to be destroyed.”

  Hastiand’s sighed. He moved to the window and stared out into the street for a long while. People went about their day unaware that an instrument with the power to wipe out an entire civilization lay within the limits of their city.

  Hastiand turned back. “I agree with you.” He paused. “But there’s something I have to do, and I need the mandolin to do it. Once it's done, we can find a way to get rid of the mandolin.”

  Amon’s eyes flared red. “Have you listened to anything I’ve said? I didn’t waste all this breath just to give you an idle story.”

  “Of course I’ve listened. It’s not that simple. You don’t know the situation.”

  “Enlighten me.”

  Hastiand waved a hand. “You wouldn’t understand. Besides, the mandolin can’t be destroyed. Believe me, I’ve tried.”

  “You’ve…tried?”

  “Yes. I’ve taken a hammer to it, burned it, even tossed it into a river inside a sack filled with rocks. Every time I tried to abandon it, the mandolin somehow found its way back to me.”

  “That only reinforces what I am saying. It is more than one man can handle alone. Eventually, it will consume you, Hastiand. The mandolin is not something to be controlled or contained.”

  Hastiand looked away and said nothing.

  “What compels you to carry this burden?” Amon asked. “What wish could the mandolin fulfill that you would give your life to it? No. Your very soul.”

  “I told you it’s complicated.”

  Amon grabbed Hastiand by the collar, lifted him off the ground and slammed him into the nearby bookcase.

  The bounty hunter’s anger burned brightly in his eyes. “My entire civilization was wiped out by that thing. I have no heritage, no family and no future.”

  “But Amon--”

  “To have the audacity to claim that your situation is ‘complicated’...are you that stupid?”

  Hastiand stared into those terrifying red eyes full of fiery anger.

  “All right. I admit you deserve an explanation. Put me down.”

  The red in Amon’s eyes ebbed, and he let go of the man’s collar. As the bard slumped into the large leather armchair, Amon pulled up a wooden chair and sat across from him.

  Hastiand's jaw worked for a moment. He then began, “It involves a woman. Her name was Catherine.”