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for he didn’t think he could bear to keep drawing this out, “is it not also written that ever since we fled from the Darkness that pursued us in the years of betrayal and loss, none of the Silverun may seek that which was lost except that they must leave Skysand and not return until their seeking is over, for in the act of seeking shall they draw the eye and will of the Darkness upon them, and upon all Skysand if they remain?”
    “The Lord of Waters hears her youngest child and . . . and sees . . .” she broke off, took a breath, and composed herself. “And sees that he does well understand that the command of Terian lies upon him, and that he must leave his home, his city, and his people, not to return until twenty-four years have passed, or until—beyond all hope—that which was lost lies within his grasp and the Darkness is confronted by the Light.
    “By our ancient laws, our child must know he has but a single day from the moment the card was drawn. More, he must know that he may taken nothing but what he may carry upon him, and that without the aid of any magics or powers not his own.”
    He nodded. I know .
    It was a truth drilled into the Silverun from the time they could walk, the truth that lay beyond, beneath, behind the existence of Skysand itself. Once they had been a great people, a proud people with a land that was truly their own; but in the last Chaoswar something had happened —enemies monstrous and fell, demonic or worse, had fallen upon them, driven them from their lands.
    And because of the effect of the Chaoswars themselves, the details of their heritage were forgotten. The clear records only spoke of the early years here, in the great and burning desert on the northwest of the huge continent, and the struggle to survive. None could say where the true homeland was, or even the true nature of the enemy.
    But they still wait, and when we begin seeking . . .
    Thousands of years ago, the first of the Mirror readings on the Skysand had chosen Vancilar Silverun, and it had been a moment of joy; for Terian was their patron god, their protector, and for any other family the face of the Mortal God meant good fortune, victory, protection. The Nomdas had told Vancilar he must begin the search for that which was lost, and—as he was the Lord of Waters, ruler of all Skysand—he bent to that task with a will, preparing the entire country to search for its lost land of origin.
    Catastrophe struck the very day he was preparing to launch the first ship; an earthquake sudden and violent, followed by a wave that the wizards and priests could only blunt, not stop. Vancilar paused in his quest to repair his country, but did not forget his holy mission; a year later he stepped foot on his flagship, and in that instant the dormant volcano at the head of the bay exploded into violent eruption.
    Concerned but still aware of his holy mission, Vancilar stayed to deal with this new emergency, and at the same time prepared to send out other agents to begin the quest. The moment the first group passed from the gates, a cloud appeared on the horizon, grew, and enveloped the city in raging dust filled with howling, water-stealing demons.
    Battered by repeated perils, Vancilar could see the pattern; he demanded answers from the priests who had told him of this mission, set his wizards—those who had survived—to tell him why he seemed unable to so much as begin the work that, he was told, was the command of the gods. He got his answer . . . and knew his fate.
    “I know, Mother,” he said aloud. “Our enemies laid upon us a curse, one that used the very power of the Chaoswar to drive us from our old lands. It is a curse upon our people that they can never know their past, and a command and destiny laid upon some small number of our family to seek that past. If we ask our people to assist, the curse will punish them—punish Skysand. Any who are truly part of Skysand will share in their anger and the danger. Only by