Epilogue

The Emerald Sea, Neron

Steam rose off the jungle, gleaming in the silver moon's light. Solis was waning, and the red moon was just a sliver. Clouds scudded across the sky. Beneath, treetops made a carpet that swayed in the warm night wind—an undulating ocean of leaves that teemed with life beneath. Strange birdcalls filled the air, and somewhere deeper in the wood a tylor shrieked. They all fell silent at the whoosh of wings and the serpentine hiss of the dragon diving down.

It was a huge wyrm, seventy feet from its horned head to the tip of its long, lashing tail. The night made it almost invisible, its scales shimmering black, a shadow across the stars. When the dragon, whose name was Whispershade, held still in a dark place, only its eyes could be seen, gleaming like embers. It swooped low over the treetops, it wingtips touching the highest branches on the downstroke, ripping leaves free to storm in its wake. It gave no call and made no sound other than that of its flight.

The beast was not alone. A lone figure, cloaked in black, sat upon Whispershade's spiny back. It had no saddle and did not grip to stay put. The figure seemed to stay where it was by will alone, even as its fearsome mount banked above the trees. Even its hood stayed in place, drawn low to hide its face.

The dragon carried two other things gripped in its claws.

In the left, it held a statue of black stone, depicting a man resplendent in ancient robes. A deep hood had fallen back to reveal a ruined, pitted face that was the stuff of nightmares. The sculpture throbbed with power and pulsed with the spirit trapped within.

In the right was a human woman. She was unconscious, scraped, and bruised from the long journey south. Her belly was swollen, great with child. She was very far from her home and from all she had known.

Ahead, dark shapes loomed out of the trees: three towering ziggurats of worn brown stone, webbed with vines and creepers that bloomed crimson in the moonlight. Atop the one in the center, the tallest of the three, stood several figures. Like the dragonrider, they were swathed in black cloth, concealing them among night's shadows. They watched the wyrm approach, utterly still, their cloaks flowing in the wind. A flurry of bats billowed up from the ruins and away, fleeing Whispershade's approach.

With a screech, the dragon pulled up and away from the trees. Its wings worked as it rose, then spread wide, guiding it down to the pyramid's top. Gently it set down its freight—first the statue, then the woman. Its rider leaped off its back, landed in a crouch, and rose to face its fellows. Then Whispershade pulled up, shrieked again, and wheeled away, over the trees to the distant caves that were its lair. The cloaked figures watched it go.

"You are late," said the leader of those who had been waiting. Its voice was a harsh rasp, the sound of a strangled man. "We expected you three days since."

The dragonrider nodded. "It was unavoidable. The lands of the League are covered with armies. They fight a civil war, even now. We had to fly around to keep them from seeing us."

"What matter if they had?" asked the other. "They could not have stopped you. The war is part of our design, or we would not have destroyed their capital."

The rider shrugged. "I thought it better to be safe. Anyway, we can afford to lose those days. No one knows where we are."

"But they will find out."

"Yes," the rider said. "They will. And they will follow. The elf has pursued the statue too long to stop now. And the man… he will want this one back."

The cloaked figures walked to where Essana of Coldhope lay, crumpled and shivering, upon the stone. They all looked down at her, gathered around, and nodded their heads.

"Good," said the leader. He looked up, his gaze turning toward the statue, and seemed for a moment to sniff the air. The scent of magic hung in the air like orchid attar. "The Hooded One has awoken, I see. As we hoped. And what of the horde?"

"Destroyed. The one led to the other."

The robed ones glanced at one another, murmuring in alarm. The leader raised a hand to stay them. "A pity, but it matters little." he said. "The Uigan were an asset, but far from our greatest. And they did what they were meant to do—they gave a reason for the elf to summon Maladar."

"Yes."

Far away, the dragon skirled. Hooded heads turned to stare in its direction. They watched it fly awhile, across the faces of the moons, then turned to one another again.

The leader nodded. "You have done well, brother. Now things have begun that cannot be undone. The Minotaur League is paralyzed by infighting. The Silvanaes are leaderless, and Thenol and the Tamire besides. The isles to the east we shall deal with at our leisure. Together, they might have stopped us. But that will not happen now."

"It is time," said the others. It was a plaintive sound, almost a sigh.

As one, they cast back their hoods. Their faces were like that of the statue, burned away, cut apart, and ruined. They stared at one another, hideous, barely more than skulls, bloodshot eyes gleaming like fire in their sockets. Marks of self-mutilation, of years of horrid discipline: these were the Faceless Brethren. Now their day was finally at hand.

"Yes," hissed the leader. "It is time. But the road ahead is yet long, and we have much to do. Come, my brothers. The great one belongs to us at last. Let us prepare the way for his return."

As one, the figures bowed. Several went to lift the statue and two more hoisted Essana. Together, they strode across the ruined rooftop and down the stairs into the moist, waiting dark of the jungle below.