"What do you mean?"

"Sending you out to face all these risks."

"Why not? All initiates have to do it."

"Lord Valentine has special plans for you. That's what I heard Divvis saying to Stasilaine last week."

"I'm destined for great things, yes. Master of the stables. Keeper of the hounds."

"I'm serious. Divvis is jealous of you, you know. And afraid of you, because you're the Coronal's favorite. Divvis wants to be Coronal—everybody knows that. And he thinks you're getting in the way."

"I think the venom is making you delirious."

"Believe me. Divvis sees you as a threat, Hissune."

"He shouldn't. I'm no more likely to become Coronal than—than Divvis is. Elidath's the heir presumptive. And Lord Valentine, I happen to know, is going to stay Coronal himself as long as he possibly can."

"I tell you—"

"Don't tell me anything. Just conserve your energy for the march. It's a dozen miles to Ertsud Grand.

And four more tracker beasts waiting for us along the way."

2

This is the dream of the Piurivar Faraataa:

It is the Hour of the Scorpion and soon the sun will rise over Velalisier. Outside the gate of the city, along the road that was known as the Road of the Departure but will be known from this day forward as the Road of the Return, an immense procession is assembled, stretching far toward the horizon. The Prince To Come, wrapped in an emerald aura, stands at the head of the line. Behind him are four who wear the guise of the Red Woman, the Blind Giant, the Flayed Man, and the Final King. Then come the four prisoners, bound with loose withes; and then come the multitudes of the Piurivar folk: Those Who Return.

Faraataa floats high above the city, drifting easily, moving at will over all its vastness, taking in the immensity of it at a glance. It is perfect: everything has been made new, the rampart restored, the shrines set up once more, the fallen columns replaced. The aqueduct carries water again, and the gardens thrive, and the weeds and shrubs that had invaded every crevice have been hacked down, and the sand drifts swept away.

Only the Seventh Temple has been left as it was at the time of the Downfall: a flat stump, a mere foundation, surrounded by rubble. Faraataa hovers above it, and in the eye of his mind he journeys backward through the dark ocean of time, so that he sees the Seventh Temple as it had been before its destruction, and he is granted a vision of the Defilement.

Ah! There, see! Upon the Tables of the Gods the unholy sacrifice is being readied. On each of the Tables lies a great water-king, still living, helpless under its own weight, wings moving feebly, neck arched, eyes glowering with rage or fear. Tiny figures move about the two huge beings, preparing to enact the forbidden rites. Faraataa shivers. Faraataa weeps, and his tears fall like crystal globes to the distant ground.