PROLOGUE - REUNION

When the world was young and the bitter, grinding weight of the ages was an ever-present shadow vilifying and corrupting the hearts of men, a cloudburst hammered the Shoulder of Peyennar, an imposing outpost hidden on the doorstep of the Mournful Peaks in the heights of the northern Pentharan mountain range, south of the Forlorn Wood and east of the Plains of Power. The stronghold's twin banners rippled in the fury: a single sparrow perched atop a lone branch; a silver spear, silent on a battle-torn field. Together the two ensigns danced in tandem above the hold's apex and the tower that stretched from the base of the foundation-empty now but with a menacing watchfulness that was there even when not whipped by the wind and rain. For the third of three consecutive days and nights the rain continued to beat at the hold, a jet black structure carved in the rock face that would have appeared a part of the Peaks to anyone gazing eastward towards Peyennar. Few knew a fortress was hidden in the midst of the storm. Silent. Brooding.

Watchful.

Westward under the shadow of the hold a strange settlement bore the wind and rain in an outcrop hidden beneath tall evergreens. There, a cluster of roofed buildings lined an orderly lane. The village green stood proudly at the heart, balancing the line of solid homes and modest establishments, the village inn, butcher, cobbler, and seamstress. With fewer than a hundred residents, everything in Peyennar appeared to have a purpose, none more important perhaps than to collectively stand against the fury of the Peaks and the isolation from the plains below.

Near the edge of the village not far from the green a boy was attempting to shield himself from the elements. Although he found it next to impossible to penetrate the misty spray ahead through the downpour, he still found his gaze pulled to the firmament and the currents circling the world without end. The ominous airstream held the memories of thousands, some claimed, but it was from somewhere infinitely remote within that the voices of eternity and memory heralded the unfolding history of Man.

The sound of thunder above the Pentharan mainland to the west brought him out of the reverie. Remembering himself, he quickened his steps, crossing the settlement's outskirts along a narrow lane the Oathbound used for transferring supplies to the hold. Although no one saw him passing under the trees, there was a safety to Peyennar that at times felt disarming. Rumor from the far west did not often reach the village, but what word came, when it came, spoke of ruin: bands of Ardan and Earthbound sweeping through the countryside sowing bedlam. Here, though, they had been untouched by it. Safe. The thought should not have troubled him, but it did.

Struggling through the tempest, Luc Anaris pressed on. At his location near the western edge of the village, Peyennar sat concealed in the heart of the ancient wood, trees that seemed almost timeless-the spruce, mingled with the maple, willow, pine, and evergreen; what little light penetrated the forest was lost in the heart of the wood even a stone's throw from the nearest window. But caught up in the surging celestial forces, he hardly noticed. That was not to say the unsettling undertones were lost on him. The world was changing and war was the device driving these people to flee their homeland for the mountain haven. Any other time he would have grieved for them, with them. Now he had a sense of duty and purpose to drive him forward.

From the heart of the village a man in his prime would have found the hike to the western escarpment a considerable distance, but Luc's strides were nowhere near as deliberate or even. Already he had been on the trail roughly half again that time and had hardly reached the midway point. The biting wind did not help matters and the speed with which night was falling shocked him. Still he made efforts to keep moving. He supposed if it came to it he could always turn aside and make for the Acriel farm as he had originally intended. You must not fear the night, his father often maintained. Do this and welcome your kin as you were meant to, Luc's brother, Far, had added with a smile and a nod of encouragement.

Absently he stepped over a hooked branch nearly a foot thick that must have broken off sometime during the storm. As he carefully made his way, he considered the welcome he would receive when he returned with the news. Generally the village residents were a selfless lot who did not spare the notion of fame or fortune a second thought, both of which Peyennar had in short supply anyway. Oh, those in the hold were a separate, secretive lot. They were sworn to the will of Alingdor. Luc, on the other hand, had never quite fit in. He was not apprenticed as the few other village youths were. He had no skill uniquely his own. He sometimes wondered if his father and mother had given the matter any serious thought. Reason enough to see this through, he thought. Either that or announce his intention to leave. The mere mention would have unhinged the village Elders and the Oathbound both. No one left Peyennar, let alone a boy not ten years past his name day. No one.

Pausing under the cover of an especially bulky spruce, Luc attempted to ignore the hissing air gusting through the wood. Somewhere along the way he'd picked up a rock in his right boot. Wiping the rain out of his face, for the first time he realized he was not feeling the chill precisely, and hardly seemed to feel anything at all. After removing the pesky stone, he tried moving his toes but thought it best to work the warmth into his hands first. Though the waning autumn season had not yet turned to winter, the crisp air speeding in from off the Peaks was taking a toll. For some reason he almost thought he smelled the fresh scent of bread baking in Gam's brick oven and not the earthen odor of evergreens. Rubbing his hands together seemed to help a little, but he could do nothing for his sodden clothes. While he caught his breath he seriously considered abandoning the entire effort, but the way back was almost as far and it was as if forces beyond his ability to control were compelling him onward. Alone, he tried to get his bearings, but his vision was obscured by the downward spray and he felt a little light-headed whenever he moved too fast. Straining, he managed to lean himself into an upright position against the base of the tree, waiting for a lull in the storm. There were others coming. He was certain of it. Now if only he could summon the will and belief to continue.

For the rangers of Atan Martyre, Pentharan autumns, which were not by nature especially cold, might seem a romp in a springtime garden, but the untamed Pentharan wild amidst the Peaks was no place for the timid, especially one used to the comfort of the hearth and a warm glass of milk before bed. At this hour with the rain beating down on him and the sky darkening by the minute, he had no way to pinpoint where he was precisely and could only follow the path blindly. Should he turn back? he wondered. Make for the Acriel's? Considerable distances either way, he knew. And no less risky than going forward.

Just standing was an exercise that sent his raw senses reeling. Silently pleading his father did not thrash him when he learned of his son's foolhardiness, he took a hesitant first step, difficult as it was. Numb, he stumbled forward. The rough path's gradual rise peaked at the edge of Peyennar where it descended sharply and eventually gave way to the plains northeast of Alingdor. Grueling for him to attempt it in the harsh conditions, but with what felt a second strength and a streak of obstinacy he clawed his way along the trail at a rate that would have been the wonder of the village had anyone been there to witness it. For his pains he earned himself a skinned knee but eventually crested the rise where his first full view of Penthar awaited. Even by nightfall the sight from Peyennar was gripping. Stretching beyond the limits of normal sight, he envisioned the plains caressing the sea to the west, giving birth to vast groves in the north and south, and engraving the landscape with gentle rolling hills and cool streams. Its crowning feature was the walled capital of the Penthar, Alingdor, city of House Viamar and birthplace of her kings. A pity the twilight veil impaired much of the view. Even so he drank in the sight, but just as before found his eyes drawn most forcefully to the upper reaches of the globe, as he always did.

"What do you see, boy? Is it the afterimage of the Eternal City in its glory? Or perhaps the twisted columns painted in blood and ash?"

Luc froze.

"You were angry. But not because the world nearly burned at your hand, your whim. You were prideful. You painted each stroke painstakingly-no matter the canvas had been ripped to shreds. Well, you did not face me then. You were too busy destroying. You thought to chain the innocent and those you deemed responsible. You chose Ruin over the Dream. Do you remember?"

The voice was distant, distant but somehow present. Jarring. Images blurred. A past incomprehensible, a present sorely misunderstand, and a future where only the storm existed. Luc urgently sought to make sense of the oppressive memories, so fast and furious they blotted out the ire of the gale, but the images were too daunting. There had been a city. A city where the...