Darkness took her, but it was warm and wet, and when it began to break away, part of her cried out and tried to cling to it. It will be your death, said a voice. Whose? She could put no name to it, but she remembered eyes pale as the dust of the moon and the scent of spring blossoms. She let go. Light returned. Color. And cold. Not the deep cold of the winter or the nameless horror that stalked her memories, cloaked in ashes, but the crisp, clean coolness of the open air. The high, thin clouds of autumn, tattered and torn like rent tapestries, rode across a morning blue sky that stretched from horizon to horizon in every direction except one. Before her, breaking the perfect dome of the sky, rose a high mound, flat and broken on top and bleeding greenery into the grasslands below. She knew it, had seen it from just this view, but she could put no name to it. The name was in her memory; she knew it as she knew breath and blood, but it was closed to her. Something was moving near the crest of the hill. As if spurred by the thought, her vision flew toward it, coming closer and closer until she could make out the form of a man. Clothes of leather and cloth and robes of animal hides covered his lean frame. His hair was raven black, the top and sides pulled back into a thick braid that fell well below his waist. He walked with a staff that seemed to have been made from three woods, each of a different shade, twisted together and bound with leather and silver. Tassels made from bits of bone, stone, and sprigs of herbs dangled from the top of the staff. Arantar, said the voice. The man made his way through the woods. He stopped before a great fang of rock that broke through the surface of the hill. Again she felt as if she should know this place. The rock almost looked familiar, though taller and sharper than she knew it to be. The man stood before an opening in the rock, the autumn wind sending the loose bits of his hair waving before his face like tendrils of seaweed tossed by the tide. For the first time, she saw his face. His weather-worn skin was dark, the color of newly tilled soil, and his face was shaven. But his eyes… she didn't see them so much as she felt struck by them. They were golden, and even in the shadow cast by the fang of rock they shone with a light all their own. She had seen those eyes before-or ones very like them. Not quite so intense perhaps, their majesty weakened by the ages, but still she knew them, and for the first time her memory did not fail her. A name came to her. Jalan. Those were Jalan's eyes. Arantar stepped into the darkness within the rock. Again the darkness took her.
This darkness was different. Not warm but hot and foul. Choking.
She fled this darkness, clawing for clean air and light. And so she came out of the great column of smoke, and beneath her was a field of battle, men and women dying amid steel, flame, and spell. Though death filled the valley, it was near the center, amid the clashing of steel and the cries of dying men, where the battle would be decided. In the midst of his elite guard stood a man wreathed in tentacles of flame.
The fire did not touch his robes nor catch in his thick, black hair.
The top halves of skulls-both humans and beasts-dangled from his necklace, and within their eye sockets flickered a terrible life and vitality. The man did not radiate power. He drank it in. Frost spiraled from his fingertips and enveloped entire lines of the opposing forces, freezing them where they stood, still as statues.
"For Nar!" the sorcerer's forces shouted as they ran forward. They struck the frozen soldiers. Limbs broke off, heads cracked, and some few shattered into hundreds of shards. Still more warriors rushed forward to replace their fallen comrades. The sorcerer sent shards of ice, some large as daggers, some small as needles, into their midst.
They ripped through exposed flesh, sending a fine mist of blood to the ground. Scores of men died this way. Dozens more fled. The front lines of the opposing armies met, sword and spear clashing on shield.
Protected by their line, wizards from the opposing forces summoned magical shields to block the sorcerer's spells. The ice and frost broke on the invisible energy, and for the drawing of a breath the Nar advance faltered. The sorcerer chanted an incantation, and his own power absorbed the energy from the wizards. Their shields melted away, and he renewed his attacks. "Gaugan!" shouted the Nar as they renewed their attack. "Gaugan! For Nar! For Nar!" The opposing force's wizards died beneath sword and upon spear, and for a moment the Nar stood upon an open field, their foes fleeing back like the receding tide. But the tide parted around one who stood in the midst of the slaughter. She saw him, standing with staff in hand, the winds from the Nar sorcerer's spells sending his robes whipping around him. He was older, but she knew him. Arantar. Beside him stood another, similar in coloring, though his eyes were dark and his frame smaller. Where Arantar stood with the weight of years in his countenance, the one beside him still had the look of youth about him. Fading, yes, but still there. The two men raised their staffs. Every spell the Nar sorcerer sent against them, these two broke or sent back into the lines of Nar soldiers. The warriors who had fled before the Nar now turned, reformed their lines, and charged, shouting, "For Raumathar!"
Concern wrinkled the Nar sorcerer's brow, the briefest flicker of what could only have been fear, and then he smiled and began a new incantation. His back stiffened, his eyes rolled, showing only bloodshot white, and the muscles beneath his skin vibrated with a sick vitality. Behind him the air cracked and widened. Within the torn reality yawned blackness, and a wind poured forth, cold enough to freeze skin and crack bone. Five creatures, each twice the height of a man, clawed their way out of the ragged portal. They were like nothing that walked under the gods' sunlight. More insect than humanoid, they nevertheless walked on two legs, their mandibles clacking like the breaking of boulders, their long tails, covered in jagged barbs, whipped about their bodies, some even striking into the Nar ranks and ripping through armor and flesh alike. The Nar sorcerer pointed at the two Raumathari sorcerers. The five abominations struck the earth, tearing through grass and soil, and charged. The younger of the sorcerers stepped back, eyes wide and rimmed with fear, but Arantar stood his ground. Even as the first wave of frigid wind hit him, he raised his staff, looked to the sky, and shouted, "Father!" Darkness and cold seemed to falter, as if their foundation had been struck with a great hammer, and now tiny cracks ran through them. She looked down on Arantar, and two beings seemed to stand there in his frame, two hearts beating in his chest, and two minds looking out from his golden eyes. They shone with righteous indignation and a joy so pure that she cried out in wonder. The five creatures roared in defiance and agony, then struck at Arantar with claw and spell. The world melted away, flowing in great spirals, and as she fell, she heard Arantar laughing.
In the silence, she wept at the absence of Arantar's laughter.
Within it she had heard a power and majesty from beyond the circles of this world, and in its absence her heart felt heavy, yet strangely empty. Sound returned before sight, speaking a language she had never heard. Still, the meaning came through in her mind. "He is dangerous, Khasoreth." In this voice, deep and rich, she heard the faintest echo of that sweet laughter. "You know this." "I do know it," said another voice, this one younger. "Gaugan is dangerous, master. As are you-the most dangerous man in all the Empire." "I do not use my power to dominate. To conquer." "Nor did he, at first. He was as much victim as victor. You saw those devils he summoned. They fought at his command, but the leash by which he held them tore at his soul. You sensed it as well as I. They were using him as much as he used them." "All the more reason to be wary of him." "Wary, yes. But to murder him-" "Execute, Khasoreth. Execute. You know his crimes. None would call his death unjust." "No. But what is it that you have told me since before you taught me my first spell? 'In justice, let us remember mercy.'" Sight began to return to her, slowly at first but growing with each breath.
Arantar and the other, younger man, Khasoreth obviously-where had she heard that name?-stood in an empty hall. As she saw it more clearly, she realized that to call this a hall would be like calling the Trackless Sea a "body of water." Words did it no justice. Stone so white that it almost hurt the eyes made up the floor, the ceiling, and the great columns that joined them. Veins of gold and silver ran throughout the stone, fine as spider silk. The walls were of a darker, though no less smooth, stone. More the color of summer-sky clouds, heavy with rain, though not yet to the point of bursting. Artisans had carved scenes of battle into the very walls with such skill that she thought they might move at any moment. The grasses upon which heroes trod seemed to wave, and the blossom-laden trees through which they walked seemed to flutter in a unseen wind. Set between the great columns, brass braziers lit the room and filled it with warmth, their coals glowing with an almost golden radiance. Arantar stood a few paces away from one of the great columns, his arms crossed over his chest and his brows low and heavy over his eyes. He was dressed much as she had first seen him-in rough cloth and leathers covered by an animal-skin cloak. Before him stood Khasoreth, resplendent in clothes of linen and silk. The wine-red cloak draping his shoulders had threads of gold and gems woven into the hem, and his boots and gloves were of the finest lambskin. Arantar looked away, more intent on his own thoughts, and said, "It might be no mercy to let him live, my friend. His heart is dark as winter's heart." "Is he beyond redemption, then?" Arantar shook his head, then smiled down upon the younger man, but there was more sadness in the expression than anything. "The emperor has spoken, Khasoreth. Gaugan must die. You know this." "Yes," said the younger man. "And I know that the emperor's sister loves you, and you her. Were you to suggest-" "You would have me meddle? Question the word of the emperor?" Khasoreth laughed. "It's not as though you've never done it before. Were it not for Isenith whispering in his ear, he would have banished you dozens of times already. That business three years ago almost had him ordering your head brought to him on a spear. I'm not asking you to do anything you don't know to be right. 'In justice, remember mercy.'