PROLOGUE

Lionel was running.

Broken stone shifted beneath him, grey slabs leaning against one another with loose fragments gathered between them. His feet found the safer edges without thought, though he had never seen this place before.

Two figures ran ahead of him. Their footing was worse than his; they slipped often and flung out their arms to recover, yet neither slowed. Nothing in their pace told him whether they were fleeing him or trying to reach something ahead. They never looked back.

Lionel lengthened his stride. His heel slid, and he had to throw his weight forward to stay upright. By the time he recovered, the figures were no nearer than before.

A low hum threaded through the scrape of their boots. At first he took it for stone grinding underfoot, but it deepened as he ran. The vibration rose through his legs and settled in his

chest, until even his teeth began to ache with it.

One of the figures stumbled. The other turned, and Lionel thought he would see the face clearly at last. It was a young face, the mouth set and the gaze unwavering. The eyes fixed on him, but when he tried to hold the features in his mind, they softened and changed. By the next stride even the outline had altered.

Beyond the runners, a pale form stood in the grey dust. Thin layers rose around it, fitted closely together, their edges trembling though there was no wind. Above it, the air bent as it does over summer stone, but the cold scraped at Lionel's throat with every breath.

He had no name for the thing, but his hands closed at the sight of it. Whatever it was, no one should touch it.

A hand lifted toward it.

Lionel shouted a warning. His throat strained around the words, but no sound emerged.

The hum broke into a grinding roar, and the air split sideways with a crack he felt through his ribs. White light burst from the place where the hand met the pale surface. It

had weight but no warmth, pressing against Lionel's skin as it swept across the broken ground and washed the colour from everything it touched.

The figure who had turned was still facing him. Through the white, their eyes held his.

Too late.

The roar rose until his ears could no longer follow it. White closed over the last of the grey ground.

He reached for them—and woke before he saw what came after.

***

Lionel opened his eyes with one hand lifted above the blankets. He lowered it slowly and listened.

The hum was gone. In the quiet of the room, his own breathing sounded unsteady. He waited until it eased.

"Well," he said to no one. "That was new."

He sat up, ran a hand through his hair, and felt for the water. His fingers struck the tabletop before they found the glass. He drank slowly,

the cool rim against his lip.

In his dreams, he was always too late. This time he had run with everything his legs could give him, and still the distance had remained unchanged.

He left the bed and drew the curtains aside.

Morning lay grey over the Velorin Coast. Early boats passed beneath the narrow bridges, leaving soft wakes on the water. On the nearest deck, a man worked a length of rope into a neat coil. Lionel watched it gather at the man's feet.

"All right," he said quietly, still facing the window. "We're going, then."

He dressed for the road, pulling on his boots and fastening the clasp of his coat at the throat. When he found Oren in the corridor, his hands were steady again.

"Good morning, Oren."

"Good morning, sir."

"Have the horse saddled. The smaller pack. I don't expect to stay long."

"Right now, sir?"

Lionel smiled.

"Right now. It would be rude to keep a disaster waiting."