‘What of justice for the House of Purake?’ Silchas Ruin demanded. ‘Is that not a virtue to be defended by our goddess? We, who are sworn to her service? Will she deny us this as well?’

No response came from Endest Silann. He turned to leave, and Kellaras distinctly heard the priest mutter, ‘Come along now, boy, this was not for you.’

Even the High Priestess seemed at a loss. ‘Lord Silchas, I am sorry,’ she said.

He glared at her, and then made a sharp gesture with one hand. ‘No matter.’ He shot her a look and added, ‘How does it sit with you, High Priestess? Being… superfluous?’

Her expression tightened, but she said nothing.

‘Oh, Kellaras,’ sighed Silchas Ruin, ‘free the man.’

* * *

Rise Herat stood in the unlit corridor, staring at a tapestry. The absence of light proved no obstacle to his study of the dragons woven into the scene. He had been atop the tower when the Eleint sank down from the heavy clouds in a spiralling descent that took it into the heart of Kharkanas. It was well, he reflected yet again, that he was not a believer in omens.

Still, even I must lend credence to the notion of harbingers. We are in difficult times to be sure, but our disputes seem petty in the face of such powers loose once again in the world. There are forces at work far beyond our frail borders.

But anger and fear make an enemy of humility, and of all the emotions within reach of a desperate mind, they loom closest.

If only desperation was not a plague among mortals. If only our lives were not spent rushing from one breach to the next.

There had been word of Endest Silann’s blessing of peace in the Winter Market, and the anguish left in its wake. But how many now denied the simple truth of that aftermath, its rattling lesson of despair? Peace haunts us like a dream, an echo half forgotten, but still whispering its perfect promise.

The ancient tapestry offered no lies, no inventions of the imagination. The dragons depicted were accurate. In the scene seven of the creatures whirled above a burning city. There was no attribution to this work of art – even the age that spawned it was lost to memory, and nothing of the city itself was recognizable. Nothing but the river running through it, black as a fissure in bedrock.

If Kharkanas rested upon ruins, they’d yet to be revealed. Only the temple at the heart of the Citadel hinted of a world now vanished.

Then again, the city trapped by thread and dye was burning, dying within a firestorm. In such a storm, even the rocks would shatter, crumbling to dust.

Omens are for fools, but every truth of the future resides in the present, if only we have the will to see.