The guard looked up with eyes that were reddened, perhaps by the acrid smoke. "The Primate called for a prisoner, an old man, but the prisoner had escaped. The Primate was angry. He ordered that the dungeon be sealed, with all guards and prisoners still inside. They tossed in prismatic orbs." He gestured to the two bodies in front of him. "One of them is my brother. I'm just having a hard time figuring out which."

"I'm sorry," Killian said.

Evrin had escaped.

But where had he gone?

15

15

TIME passed, and in the warmer lands winter gave way to spring. Daylight lasted longer, spirits grew lighter, and a new generation of young animals and wild flowers filled the air with the exuberance of youth.

In Altura's capital, Sarostar, the ferryboats again travelled the Sarsen, taking a new year of students to classes at the Academy of Enchanters. A ferryman named Fergus looked up at the azure sky and smiled, happy to be busy; his children had grown tired of old apples.

In Ralanast, capital of Halaran, the cruellest winter in a hundred years was finally over, and now it was time to count the toll of the dead. The legionnaires and regulars of the Black Army felt angry eyes on their backs, as young men and scarred veterans hatched plans for liberation, and for vengeance.

In rust-coloured Petrya a soldier on patrol saw a great dust storm rise in the east, in the direction of the trade town of Torlac. It wasn't the time for sandstorms, and they never travelled this far north. The soldier wiped his eyes and shrugged.

In Vezna's capital, Rosarva, spring was normally a time for growth — new plants sprouting, trees becoming saplings, and a thriving living city that was unrivalled anywhere in the world. This spring, however, the cultivators shook their heads and cursed their young High Lord, Dimitri Corizon. They remembered the days when his father, Vladimir, had ensured their neutrality in every conflict. Some began to speak of a change in leadership.

In the cooler lands: Torakon, Loua Louna, Aynar and Tingara, the change of seasons meant little. In Torakon families missed their fathers and sons, for the Black Army still requisitioned builders for walls and fences, turrets and fortresses, at every corner of the world. In Loua Louna the artificers waited, idle and frustrated; essence had stopped coming long ago, and their workshops were silent and still. In Aynar the templars watched each other; a colleague's careless word could mean instant promotion. In Tingara the commanders and legionnaires felt proud to be ruling the world, while the common people struggled through life in the same way they always had.

~

THERE was one place where the passage of the seasons meant nearly nothing at all. The days were a little longer, but it was still cold. It was always cold.