He peered under his dripping hair and fought to catch his breath. Blinking hard, he could make out his uncle’s face. “Yes, Uncle?”

“Don’t argue with me, lad.”

Before Dani could ask why, the last remaining air was driven from his lungs as Uncle Thulu hoisted him like a sack of grain and flung him over his shoulder. Without hesitating, Thulu set off at a steady trot.

In the darkness behind them, loping through the falling rain, the Kaldjager Fjel grinned and gave its hunting cry. Across the reach, its brethren answered, passing on the cry, until all had received the word.

Their prey was found.

MERONIL WAS FILLED WITH SONG.

A vast contingent of Haomane’s Allies would be departing on the morrow. For the past two days, delegates from other nations had met in the great hall of Ingolin the Wise. Seahold, the Midlands, Arduan, Vedasia, Pelmar, the Free Fishers—all of them had sent pledges. Their armies were on the march.

They would converge on the southern outskirts of the plains of Curonan, and there their forces would be forged into a single army under the command of Aracus Altorus, the would-be King of the West. From there, they would march to Darkhaven.

While they would march under many banners, two would fly above all others. One was the Crown and Souma of Elterrion the Bold, and it would be carried by the host of the Rivenlost. Ingolin the Wise would command them himself, forgoing his scholar’s robes for Ellylon armor, and the argent scroll of his own house would fly lower than that of Elterrion’s.

The other banner was that of the ancient Kings of Altoria, a gilt sword upon a field of sable, its tangs curved to the shape of eyes. It would be carried by the Borderguard of Curonan, for their leader, Aracus Altorus, had sworn that he would take up the banner of his forefathers the day he led the Borderguard against Satoris Banewreaker. So it would be carried, as Aracus would carry the sword of his ancestors; the sword of Altorus Farseer, with its gilded tangs shaped like eyes and a Soumanië set as its pommelstone. And at his side would be Malthus the Counselor, whose Soumanië shone bright as a diamond, who carried the Spear of Light, the last of Haomane’s Weapons.

Tomorrow, it began.

Tonight, Meronil was filled with song.

It began as darkness encroached from the east and Haomane’s sun settled in the west in a dwindling blaze of golden splendor. As the last rays faded like embers, purple dusk settled over Meronil, turning its ivory towers and turrets, its arching bridges, to a pale lavender that darkened to a violet hue.

At her lonely window, Lilias sat and watched.