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as far as he could tell, and it was not there
before.
    Someone was on
this beach in the last hours.
    Tannil
whistled. His shadow materialised nearby. Pointing at the
unsettling design he asked the guard if he saw anyone place it. His
reaction confirmed Tannil’s worst fears.
    “My Lord, I
don’t see anything.”
    Tannil
dismissed the man and closed his eyes. After long moments he
reopened them. The hope was he imagined it. The circle was
there.
    He pinched his
nose, deciding to let it lay untouched. Who knew what power was
trapped within? It would not be there in the morning, of that he
was certain. It was laid for him. Something or someone knew before
he did that he would walk that path this night - perhaps the thing
threatening him in his dreams.
    With first
light he would corner Caballa and Kismet.
     
     
    Quilla
wandered the Temple.
    Ten minutes
earlier, and he would have seen Tannil on the bridge.
    A hundred
years ago there was famine on Luvanor neither Senlu nor Valleur
could arrest, a natural event, a combination of disasters that
included a decade of no rain. The Q’lin’la left Valaris to assist,
and stayed. They knew the long peace meant the Enchanter was not
due and settled on Luvanor without guilt. He missed the Temple
terribly, and now walking the chambers within chambers brought
tears of joy to his eyes.
    Outside,
Buthos grumbled and made himself comfortable in one of the guest
cottages. He could not enter the Lifesource - to do so would result
in the loss of his immortality.
    Despite the
moans, he was happy to be on Valaris again. It had been a long
time. He chased Murs across the universe when Torrullin sacrificed
himself and while he had not spent much actual time on this world,
it felt like home, and had everything to do with the Enchanter and
no one else. Valaris was the ghostly domain of Torrullin Valla.
    Both he and
Quilla misjudged the time difference, forgetting in their haste it
would be night here.
    In the morning
they would see Tannil.
     
     
    In Moor, an
old man opened a bleary eye, awakened from fretful slumber.
    He rose
automatically to make his way to the outhouse - his old bladder no
longer played fair with his sleep - and then sat on the bed. He did
not feel the need to go - why had he awakened?
    Muttering to
himself, he thought he may as well, or he would be awake before
long again.
    He froze and
stared into the dark next to the window. Someone stood there, a
shadow darker than the corner. A glint of an eye.
    His bladder
loosed. The acrid smell of urine filled the room and he
whimpered.
    A chuckle
sounded from the corner and then a derisive snort. The shadow
detached and pushed the old man onto the bed.
    “Move, old
man,” the shadow said. “Leave this house in the morning, for when I
return I shall obliterate it and everything in it.”
    A young man’s
voice, full of hatred.
    The shadow was
gone.
     

Chapter 5
     
    Mortals take
the shorter view of history and destiny and that is as it should
be. Why burden oneself with matters of nuance if one won’t live
long enough to see results or understanding come to pass.
    ~ Beacon’s
political writings
     
     
    Valaris did
not suffer radical change in the two thousand years that passed
beyond the Enchanter’s rule.
    Changes were
achieved over time, a natural progression. The Great Forest did not
fall to the axe and continued to work its magic. It had grown to a
size greater than before the destruction the Darak Or brought upon
it. It no longer filled Valarians with superstitious dread either;
where it once divided north and south, it now hosted roads to the
three northern peninsulas, and the Ness River was a busy water
highway with great trees flanking the banks.
    Sheshi in the
far north of the Nor Peninsula had been rebuilt as a staging post
for expeditions to the polar region. The Meth Peninsula, once the
clanlands, was repopulated and three new cities graced the western
seaboard. A fourth nestled in the angle of the mighty