At the end of the Second Age of Tamar the Five Gods, the Lorincen, played with the dice of history. Tarat, self-styled ruler of the Gods, and Kyra, once the Chronicler, now the Destroyer, urged their worshipers, the larin, to war upon mankind.

      Miune, the father of mankind, could do little to ward off the malice of his stronger kin, but he knew his children's hidden strength. He taught his worshipers to hate.

      Maera of the Mists and Jehan, known as Player, sought a different path...

4730, 473rd Cycle of the Year of the Ox
Month of Ingvash

      It was spring, the month of Ingvash when the ice breaks in the rivers of the north and the fishes called inglings die in their thousands and hundreds of thousands on the beaches. More, it was the first sunny day after a season of storms. The warmth, the blue sky and the lure of the sea had brought her to the harbor. Inanda loved watching the ships: galleons and frigates, schooners and caravels from all over Tamar, for Lutra was the second largest port in Illwheirlane.

      Over a hundred ships lay at anchor in the harbor or tied in the slips between the piers. Near Inanda's perch on the seawall stevedores unloaded a four-masted bark from Kailane full of bales of cotton for the cloth mills of Corin or Irthing. In the next slip a sleek schooner from the Isle of Sussey disgorged a cargo of oranges, lomcans, limes and barrels of wine. The sharp, citrus scent of the fruit mingled headily with the brackish smell of the sea. Inanda eyed the stocky crewmen. She wondered how it felt to change one's form whenever one wished, as many of the people of Sussey could do, and become a dolphin at ease in the sea.

      Inanda's idle thoughts changed when she felt the stirring in her mind, the first sign of a vision to come. Her white robe marked her as one of the Kindred of Maera, but she was more, a sibyl chosen by the deity. Thus, when she felt the sense that was not quite pain but the warning of pain to come, she climbed down off the wall. She hoped to reach the Sanctuary of Maera before the sight came fully on her.

      Although it was late afternoon, the area was still crowded. Merchants packed away receipts and bills of lading, and stevedores loaded or unloaded wagons. Inanda crossed the road through a gap in the line of vehicles and found herself in a square fronting the harbor.

      The pressure in her head was building too rapidly. Inanda paused as a group of young men pushed past, full of high spirits, come to mix with seamen in the dockside taverns. She could not make it to the Sanctuary; she had to rest. She wove her way through the crowd to a bench near the center of the square.

      The pain grew. The color of health faded from her face, leaving her wrinkled skin the shade of ashes. A woman paused to ask if she were all right. Inanda gestured the stranger away. Speech was beyond her now.

      The pressure built until it broke through her mind's instinctive defense. Then she saw, as Maera willed her to see, without the barriers of time and space, the unraveling threads of fate.

      Her scream drew the crowd's attention and someone recognized her, for this was not the first time Inanda had been the vessel of Maera's will. People gathered around her, not touching, but watching, waiting; stilled by apprehension.

      After the scream Inanda was silent for a time, her mind, a dry sponge in water, filling with visions. When she spoke her voice was soft, but her thin, clear tones reached everyone in the square. Two men, clerks by profession, wrote down her words.

      "Iltheocan a Gand ba sanne danod..." Not all her audience understood for she spoke in Eskh, the high tongue, the language of gods and eslarin, but not of men. Yet it was the trade tongue all over Tamar and the language of scholars. Enough understood for it to be quickly translated for the rest.

      "The Year of the Dragon is upon us. The time of peace is dead. The Banner of the Winged Snake has risen in the west. The Estahar shall die. A new emperor shall come from the north, a god-king who will never die save by the hand of that which he himself creates.

      "Woe, people of Tamar! The heavens will cry with tears of fire. The Talisman must be brought from the south. The child must be saved. So many paths, so many, many skeins unrolling like colored threads. The new age will be birthed in blood. If the child dies, it shall be an age of chaos worse than any known before."

      When she finished speaking, Inanda collapsed on the bench. A plump matron brought out smelling salts to revive her, and wine was brought for her to drink. A carriage was found, and she was escorted with honor to the Sanctuary of Maera. She remembered nothing but the pain of the pressure building in her head and then waking on the bench to find it gone.

Month of Agnith

      Aubrey Cinnac limped down the hallway toward his playroom, bracing himself against the smooth stone of the wall to ease the weight on his bad hip. At five, he was thin and delicate in appearance. The rich mane of his golden hair emphasized the pallor of his face and the intensity of his expression. Pain and other influences had matured him beyond his years.

      His progress ceased when he heard raised voices coming through the open door of the playroom. He did not need to see the speakers to know that his mother and father, and his grandfather, Idrim VII, Estahar of Illwheirlane, were arguing.

      "I want the boy here in Ninkarrak where I can supervise his upbringing," Aubrey's father said.

      "You supervise his upbringing?" Aubrey's mother snorted. "That's absurd. You hardly noticed his existence until you heard the prophecy. No! What you want to supervise is his sale, for your greatest profit."

      "Enough, Vanith!" Idrim interrupted querulously. "Show more respect for your husband. Thurin's expressing a legitimate concern."

      "My concern isn't legitimate?"

      "There's no reason his life should be in danger here in Ninkarrak." Idrim's voice rose with indignation.

      Aubrey peeked around the doorframe into the playroom, counting on the adults being too intent on their argument to notice him. All three were on the other side of the room, next to the exit to the stairwell, which was open. His mother, Vanith, stood on one side of the doorway and his father and grandfather on the other, as physically aligned in opposition as they were mentally. Aubrey bit his lip and crouched closer to the floor. He was the subject of their conversation; he did not want to miss what they had to say.

      "The prophecy...," his mother started to say.

      "Bah!" Idrim waved his arm, as though sweeping her words out of the air. "I've heard about nothing but that wretched prophecy for the last four months. No particular child was identified and, even if Aubrey had been named, it's blasphemy for worshipers of Miune to heed the words of the Whore."

      Vanith stiffened. "You know better than that, no matter what Theolan says." "Theolan didn't need to say anything," Idrim said. "I've had enough of your impertinence." He turned to Aubrey's father. "Can't you control her?"

      Aubrey saw his mother flinch. "I am still your heir," she said. "Thurin has no authority over me."

      Idrim turned back to her, his eyes narrowing. "No, perhaps not. But, as heir, you are oath bound to obey me, aren't you?"

      Vanith inhaled sharply. "Don't do it, father. Don't make this a matter of my oath of loyalty. Your grandson's life is at stake."

      Idrim's narrow chest expanded. "By your oath, Vanith, I command you not to remove the boy from Ninkarrak. That is my final word."