shone like jewels on a cloak of black. Dardalion flew down, down … The two priests hovered some hundred feet in the air, and Ekodas saw the scores of ships harbored there, heard the pounding of the armorers’ hammers in the town.
“The Ventrian battle fleet,” said Dardalion. “It will sail within the week. They will attack Purdol, Erekban, and Lentrum, landing armies to invade Drenan. War and devastation.”
He flew on, crossing the high mountains and swooping down over a city of marble, its houses laid out in a grid pattern of wide avenues and cluttered streets. There was a palace on the highest hill, surrounded by high walls manned by many sentries in gold-embossed armor of white and silver. Dardalion flew into the palace, through the walls and drapes of silk and velvet, coming at last to a bedchamber where a dark-bearded man lay sleeping. Above the man hovered his spirit, formless and vague, unaware and unknowing.
“We could stop the war now,” said Dardalion, a silver sword appearing in his hand. “I could slay this man’s soul. Then thousands of Drenai farmers and soldiers, women and children, would be safe.”
“No!” exclaimed Ekodas, swiftly moving between the abbot and the formless spirit of the Ventrian king.
“Did you think I would?” Dardalion asked sadly.
“I … I am sorry, Father. I saw the sword and …” His voice trailed away.
“I am no murderer, Ekodas. And I do not know the complete will of the Source. No man does. No man ever will, though there are many who claim such knowledge. Take my hand, my son.” The walls of the palace vanished, and with bewildering speed the two spirits crossed the sea once more, this time heading northeast. Colors flashed before Ekodas’ eyes. If not for the firm grip of Dardalion’s hand, he would have been lost in the swirling lights. Their speed slowed, and Ekodas blinked, trying to adjust his mind.
Below him was another city with more palaces of marble. A huge amphitheater to the west and a massive stadium for chariot races at the center marked it as Gulgothir, the capital of the Gothir empire.
“What are we here to see, Father?” asked Ekodas.
“Two men,” answered Dardalion. “We have crossed the gates of time to be here. The scene you are about to witness happened five days ago.”
Still holding to the young priest’s hand, Dardalion floated down over the high palace walls and into a narrow room behind the throne hall. The Gothir emperor was seated on a silk-covered divan. He was a young man, no more than twenty, with large protruding eyes and a receding chin that was partly hidden by a wispy beard. Before him, seated on a low stool, was a second man, dressed in long dark robes of shining silk embroidered with silver. His hair was dark and waxed flat to his skull, the sideburns unnaturally long and braided, hanging to his shoulders. His eyes were slanted beneath high flared brows; his mouth was a thin line.
“You say the empire is in danger, Zhu Chao,” spoke the emperor, his voice deep, resonant, and strong, belying the weakness of his appearance.
“It is, sire. Unless you take action, your descendants will be overthrown, your cities vanquished. I have read the omens. The Nadir wait only for the day of the Uniter. And he is coming from among the Wolfshead.”
“And how can I change this?”
“If wolves are killing one’s sheep, one kills the wolves.”
“You are talking of an entire tribe among the Nadir.”
“Indeed, sire. Eight hundred forty-four savages. They are not people as you and I understand the term. Their lives are meaningless, but their future sons could see an end to Gothir civilization.”
The emperor nodded. “It will take time to gather sufficient men for the task. As you know, the Ventrians are about to invade the lands of the Drenai, and I have plans of my own.”
“I understand that, sire. You will wish to reclaim the Sentran Plain as part of Gothir, which is only just and right, but that will
“The Ventrian battle fleet,” said Dardalion. “It will sail within the week. They will attack Purdol, Erekban, and Lentrum, landing armies to invade Drenan. War and devastation.”
He flew on, crossing the high mountains and swooping down over a city of marble, its houses laid out in a grid pattern of wide avenues and cluttered streets. There was a palace on the highest hill, surrounded by high walls manned by many sentries in gold-embossed armor of white and silver. Dardalion flew into the palace, through the walls and drapes of silk and velvet, coming at last to a bedchamber where a dark-bearded man lay sleeping. Above the man hovered his spirit, formless and vague, unaware and unknowing.
“We could stop the war now,” said Dardalion, a silver sword appearing in his hand. “I could slay this man’s soul. Then thousands of Drenai farmers and soldiers, women and children, would be safe.”
“No!” exclaimed Ekodas, swiftly moving between the abbot and the formless spirit of the Ventrian king.
“Did you think I would?” Dardalion asked sadly.
“I … I am sorry, Father. I saw the sword and …” His voice trailed away.
“I am no murderer, Ekodas. And I do not know the complete will of the Source. No man does. No man ever will, though there are many who claim such knowledge. Take my hand, my son.” The walls of the palace vanished, and with bewildering speed the two spirits crossed the sea once more, this time heading northeast. Colors flashed before Ekodas’ eyes. If not for the firm grip of Dardalion’s hand, he would have been lost in the swirling lights. Their speed slowed, and Ekodas blinked, trying to adjust his mind.
Below him was another city with more palaces of marble. A huge amphitheater to the west and a massive stadium for chariot races at the center marked it as Gulgothir, the capital of the Gothir empire.
“What are we here to see, Father?” asked Ekodas.
“Two men,” answered Dardalion. “We have crossed the gates of time to be here. The scene you are about to witness happened five days ago.”
Still holding to the young priest’s hand, Dardalion floated down over the high palace walls and into a narrow room behind the throne hall. The Gothir emperor was seated on a silk-covered divan. He was a young man, no more than twenty, with large protruding eyes and a receding chin that was partly hidden by a wispy beard. Before him, seated on a low stool, was a second man, dressed in long dark robes of shining silk embroidered with silver. His hair was dark and waxed flat to his skull, the sideburns unnaturally long and braided, hanging to his shoulders. His eyes were slanted beneath high flared brows; his mouth was a thin line.
“You say the empire is in danger, Zhu Chao,” spoke the emperor, his voice deep, resonant, and strong, belying the weakness of his appearance.
“It is, sire. Unless you take action, your descendants will be overthrown, your cities vanquished. I have read the omens. The Nadir wait only for the day of the Uniter. And he is coming from among the Wolfshead.”
“And how can I change this?”
“If wolves are killing one’s sheep, one kills the wolves.”
“You are talking of an entire tribe among the Nadir.”
“Indeed, sire. Eight hundred forty-four savages. They are not people as you and I understand the term. Their lives are meaningless, but their future sons could see an end to Gothir civilization.”
The emperor nodded. “It will take time to gather sufficient men for the task. As you know, the Ventrians are about to invade the lands of the Drenai, and I have plans of my own.”
“I understand that, sire. You will wish to reclaim the Sentran Plain as part of Gothir, which is only just and right, but that will
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