“Not immediately.” He continued as though she had not spoken, turning his back upon her and pacing the confines of the chamber. “Oh, the world would have gone on for a time, Daughter of Erilonde; Urulat, rigid and fixed. An echelon of order in which Haomane’s Children reigned unchallenged, complacent in their own perfection. A sterile world, as sterile as I have become, ruled by the Lord-of-Thought, in which nothing ever changed and no thing, no matter what its passions, no being, no creature, sought to exceed its place. And so it would be, on and on and on, generation upon generation, age upon age, until the stars fell from the sky, and the earth grew cold, and died.” His voice raised a notch, making the walls tremble. “Is that what you wish?”

“No,” she whispered. “Yet—”

“Look!” Rage thundered in the air around him. He drew near, looming over her, smelling of blood and lightning. “Do you not believe me? Use your paltry Rivenlost magics, and see.”

Shrinking back in her chair, Cerelinde stared into his eyes and saw a barren landscape of cold stone, a dull grey vista stretching on endlessly. There were no trees, no grass, not even a trickle of water. Nothing moved. Nothing breathed. Nothing lived. Overhead there was only a void; perfect blackness, the space between the stars, aching with the pressure of emptiness. Cold, so cold! Her teeth chattered, her flesh like ice, her bones aching to the marrow.

“Please,” she got out through a clenched jaw. “Please!”

“Life quickens, little Ellyl.” Granting her mercy, he turned away. “Quickens unto death, quickens into generation. Living and dying, giving birth unto ourselves. Everything. Even Shapers,” he added in a low voice. “Even worlds.”

Cerelinde rubbed her arms, trying to restore warmth to her flesh. “Is this the famous wisdom of dragons, my Lord? They twist truth into lies and they are not to be trusted.”

“They are older than the Lord-of-Thought, you know.” His head averted, the Sunderer laughed softly. “Ah, Haomane! We are but parts, scattered and broken; heart and head, limbs and organs. None of us perceives the whole, not even you, my Elder Brother. They do. What they think, what they feel … I cannot say. But they know. And I, I spoke to them, and I am cursed with knowledge for it. Skeins of lies, woven with threads of truth; that is the world we have Shaped. You need me. Urulat needs me; Urulat, Uru-Alat that was, that will be again. I did not choose this role. I do what I must. All things, in the end, must be as they are. Is it not so?”

Uncertain whether he spoke to her or to the specter of Haomane First-Born, Cerelinde gazed at the Shaper’s back; the taut sinews, the wrath-blackened flesh. “Forgive me, but I do not understand.”