The woman’s white robes rippled across her body as she stood beside the pedestal. Then, with a voice like a clear bell, she began to sing.

Slowly, Selene unclenched her hand as the song filled her mind. The words were in the old tongue, but she could almost understand them, as if they had been spoken in the modern language.

The young woman sang of the Light, of that Selene was sure, and it sounded like waterfalls, flowers, and the songs of birds. As if all of life was raising its voice to the Light.

Like the sun’s rays at the end of a rainstorm, the woman’s song swept away the chill inside of her, leaving behind a tender warmth.

The song ended on a long, low note. The hall was silent. No one moved, not one word was spoken.

Selene stood there, spellbound. She wanted to hear that song again, to have it fill her, like the song the people of Nor Esen sang at the Festival of Light.

The moment was broken by a quiet sob from Lady Adalyn.

Those around the pedestal stirred and slowly began to move away. The crowd behind them lined up in order to view Lord Warin. Lady Bryren turned and acknowledged Damien and Selene with a tilt of her head before leaving with her consort by her side.

Damien caught the eye of Lord Leo, while Lady Adalyn hid her face in Lord Elric’s shoulder. Lord Tyrn looked stoically over the crowd. Damien nodded and the oldest Luceras nodded back.

Then Damien squeezed her hand and turned, leading her out of the grand hall. As they walked back to their room, Selene glanced at Damien. The heaviness that hung across the castle—coupled with the song she had just heard—seemed to have finally penetrated the numbing fog that had shrouded her the past day.

For the first time, death felt real—more real than it ever did inside the dreamscape. Death came to everyone. And with the conflict coming up, there would be more.

But perhaps, like the song seemed to indicate, there was light in the darkness of death.

36

Here you go.”

Amara looked up into the face of one of the pilgrims she had joined a couple of days ago on her way to Lux Casta. The young man smiled at her, his eyes twinkling as he handed her a bowl of gruel. Morning sunlight filled the meadow where the small band of pilgrims had stopped the night before. Dew clung to the long green grass. The trees had begun to bud, and birds warbled out their tunes. Spring seemed to arrive earlier here in the hill country compared to the Magyr Mountains.

Amara took the bowl and almost grunted a reply back, but realized it was not how the pilgrims treated each other, so she put on a smile and said, “Thank you.”

He seemed to take her answer as an invitation because a minute later, he was sitting beside her with his own bowl of gruel.