He reached a staircase and climbed through the palace, passing by many halls and chambers. Finally, five stories up, he emerged onto the roof.

He stood upon the edge and inhaled deeply, filling his nostrils with the scent of the gardens around him, the city below, and the sea beyond. Eteer, center of the Eteerian civilization, spread along the northern coast. Home to two hundred thousand souls, here was a hive of limestone houses topped with white domes, gardens leafy with palm and fig trees, and cobbled streets lined with cypresses. Walls surrounded the city and ran along the shore, topped with battlements.

The greatest wonder of Eteer, however, was not its massive size, its fabled gardens, or its towering walls, but the city's port. A canal drove into Eteer, ending with a ring of water large enough to surround a town. Other cities built ports that stretched into the sea; Eteer brought the sea into the city. Dozens of ships navigated this man-made canal, their sails high and bright. In hulls and upon decks they carried the treasures of distant lands: spices, copper and tin ore, exotic pets, collared slaves, and tales from across the world.

Eteer was a stronghold of might, a city none could conquer—not the southern city-states with their own bronze blades, not the rising desert tribes in the western desert of Tiranor, and certainly not the fur-clad barbarians of the north.

Nobody could harm this place, Raem knew . . . nobody but dragons.

"And so they will die," he said, gazing upon the countless roofs and streets below.

"Do not be so quick to deal death, my son." The voice rose behind him. "Only Taal, Father of All Gods, may doom us mere mortals to our eternal rest or damnation."

Raem frowned, anger filling his throat like bad wine, and turned away from the view.

Gardens covered the palace roof, lush and flowering, the greatest in a city fabled for its greenery. Olive trees grew from wide clay pots, twisting and ancient, their leaves deep green and their fruit aromatic. Vines hung from terraces, their grapes deep purple. Flowers of every kind bloomed, and finches fluttered among leafy branches. Cobbled paths ran through the gardens, lined with statues, and a stream ended with a waterfall that cascaded down the palace wall to a pool below.

Nearly invisible among the plants, clad in a simple green robe, stood Raem's father, King Nir-Ur of House Seran.

At seventy years of age, Nir-Ur still stood straight and tall, though deep creases filled his face, and his beard was long and white as milk. His eyes, glittering under bushy brows, were as blue as the sea. A headdress of golden ivy and lapis lazuli crowned his head of snowy hair. In gnarled hands, he held a small clay tablet engraved with cuneiform prayers.

Raem was a child of war, a soldier who had commanded armies in battle, a man of bronze and blood. His father was a weaker sort of ruler, a man who valued his gardens, his jewels, and the music he played upon his lyre.