But he had a different kind of dream. He dreamed of a stable where a black horse stood waiting while a man in black clothes ground his sword upon an emery wheel. The sparks flew in Dreamer’s mind. He recognized the titan knight who toiled at the wheel as the Prince of Mirrors. Dreamer knew that the crude stable would be his first stop in the capital of Ellanor, though he knew not why. Nor was he sure why Invader showed him this, but he trusted inner light.

When he awoke, his feet sped with lightness, as did the days upon the lower ledges of his flight. Finally, he came to the Steppes of Varge and Thade. They had been the first to suffer in the War of Fire. Now twenty other cities to the east were smouldering in death. When Dreamer saw the carnage, he wept.

Varge and Thade were dead. Whole cities gone! Only ashes where once the children played and sang their rhymes:

“Seven princes on the spire,

Seven diamonds in the mire,

Seven Vollkons dropping fire

On the burning forests.

Who keeps the dragons in their lairs?

Elan, Lord of Ellanor.”

“It is a mad existence,” Dreamer thought, “when nonsense rhymes contain the only sense there is.”

He was about to proclaim all life meaningless, when Invader stirred him to remember: the Singer was the only value in a senseless universe.

Against the morning sun, above the smoking ruin, rose up the glistening towers of Ellanor.

XVII

Death is a confirmation of the believer’s creed.

For the skeptic it is discovery, immense and late.

Elan soared above the smoking cities. Nothing stirred. Death was universal. He gloated on his power. The rumor of the alien army was a farce. Beyond the devastated, blackened earth he saw nothing.

And then his blood ran cold! In the sky ahead—in the sky, where only Vollkons rode—he saw a great winged horse bearing a man in armor. Beneath the flying cavalier he saw the army. For the first time in his reign of tyranny, Elan doubted Elan. He drew the reins on his dragon’s head and the reptile turned back across the burning ash toward the Plains of Man.

He knew his fires had been in vain. Burning cities would not stop these aliens. He pondered their origin and feared the flying horse. He remembered old tales that spoke of days of doom and wars of fire.

His bravado ebbed. Was he Emperor? Did he have Vollkons? Was his city safe?

He smiled upon his former fears, then glanced back. The sun on Ansond’s golden armor nearly blinded him. He heard the singing host:

“Raise the praise in gilded flame

Till fiery letters etch the name

Of love across the waking universe.

Singer, Prince of Planets,

Troubadour of Life!”

His Vollkon screamed. And—for the moment—its piercing cry blotted out the battle hymn below.

XVIII

To break a mirror always brings seven years of evil luck,

Unless you have run out of years.