ON THEIR SECOND DAY ON land, Haomane’s Allies compared notes as they rode along the coastal road that lay between Harrington Bay, where the dwarf-ship Yrinna’s Bounty had deposited them, and Meronil, the Rivenlost stronghold whence they were bound.

All of them had been plagued by strange visions in the night.

The Borderguardsmen spoke of it in murmurs, clustering together in their dun cloaks, bending their heads toward one another. Even the Ellylon spoke of it, when the tattered remnants of Malthus’ Company found themselves riding together on the broad road.

“’Twas as if I dreamed,” Peldras mused, “or so it seems, from what Men have told me; for we do not lose ourselves in sleep as Arahila’s Children do. And yet it seemed that I did wander therein, for I found myself watching a tale not of my own devising unfold. And a great wind blew toward me, hot and dry as the desert’s breath, and I beheld him emerge from it—the same, and not the same, for the Wise Counselor was somehow changed.”

“Yes!” Fianna breathed, her face aglow. “That’s what I saw!”

“’Twere as well if he were,” Lorenlasse of the Valmaré said shortly, coming abreast of her. “For all his vaunted wisdom, Haomane’s Counselor has led us into naught but folly, and we are no closer to restoring the Lady Cerelinde.”

Nudging his mount, he led the Rivenlost past them. Sunlight glittered on their armor and their shining standards. Peldras did not join his fellows, but gazed after them with a troubled mien. At the head of the long column of Allies, Aracus Altorus rode alone and spoke to no one. His dun cloak hung down his back in unassuming folds, but his bright hair and the gold circlet upon it marked him as their uncontested leader.

“What did you see?” Blaise Caveros asked Lilias abruptly.

Bowing her head, she studied her hands on the reins—chapped for lack of salve, her knuckles red and swollen. She preferred to listen, and not to remember. It had been an unpleasant dream. “What do my dreams matter?” she murmured. “What did you see, Borderguardsman?”

“I saw Malthus,” he said readily. “I saw what others saw. And you?”

Lifting her head, she met his dark, inquisitive gaze. What had she seen, dreaming beside the fire in their campsite? It had been a restless sleep, broken by the mutters and groans of Men rolled in their bedrolls, of Ellylon in their no-longer dreamless state.

A Man, or something like one; venerable with age. And yet … there had been something terrible in his eyes. Lightning had gathered in folds of his white robes beneath his outspread arms, in the creases of his beard. There was a gem on his breast as clear as water, and he had ridden into her dreams on the wings of a desert sirocco, on a horse as pale as death.