The voice echoed from within a hollow stone throat, then passed through an unmoving stone mouth. It was a human voice, but rough and without easily discernible emotion—at least to those unused to dealing with a Stoneguard Warrior. But to the being lying helpless on the ground—chin sheared away, cracks and fissures spiderwebbed across the rocky surface of his chest, arms and legs snapped off like so much kindling—the voice communicated a wealth of emotion. For he, too, was one of the Stoneguard.

The voice repeated the question, stressing each word individually this time.

“Do . . . you . . . yield?”

The being lying on the ground didn’t answer. His throat had been crushed and was incapable of producing sound. The defeated warrior felt no pain from his numerous injuries, severe as they were. If he had been flesh and blood, he would be dead by now.

The Stoneguard Warrior stepped forward until he straddled the dismembered torso of his fallen opponent. He lifted gray, thick-fingered stone hands above a head wrought to resemble a skull with jutting demon horns. “Answer me, my brother, or my voice will be the last sound you ever hear in this world.” Within the hollow eye sockets of the stone skull burned twin pinpoints of crimson flame.

The fallen one tried to point to his throat, hoping to indicate that he was currently incapable of communicating by speech. But then he remembered: he’d lost both his arms.

“Have it your way.” The Stoneguard Warrior interlaced his fingers, tightened his grip, and brought his joined hands down toward his brother’s stone chest.

The horse-drawn wagon juddered across the uneven ground, making Coran’s kidneys ache. He drew back on the reins to slow the team, but it didn’t help. If anything, the slower pace made the wagon shake even worse.

“I can see why this place is called the Treeless Plain,” said the woman sitting next to Coran. “The ground here is so hard and lumpy, it’s a wonder that even scrub grass grows.”

Coran didn’t turn to look at his companion. “Is this your first time here?”

“Yes.” A pause. “In truth, this is my first journey since I obtained the rank of Underwizard.”

“Ah.” Through they’d been traveling together for the better part of two weeks, this was the first time Elleka had admitted how inexperienced she was. Coran had suspected as much, given her age. He doubted she’d reached her twentieth summer yet. She’d have been far too young to come here before. The last time Coran himself had been here was seven years ago. Elleka would’ve been thirteen then, perhaps younger. Still an acolyte studying in the Halls of Arcane Wisdom, and not a soldier in the front lines of battle.

Elleka was a petite woman with blonde hair arranged in a complex pattern of braids favored by both male and female mages. She was garbed in a simple brown traveler’s cloak of coarse woven cloth, the hood drawn up to conceal her braids. She looked human enough, save for her amber-colored eyes and a sprinkling of silver scales around her eyes. On most mages, such scales looked like snakeskin or perhaps some disease of the flesh. But on Elleka they helped accentuate her large yellow eyes. She was beautiful as well as young, but Coran felt no attraction toward her. Not only were mages and ordinary humans forbidden to mate, the fact that she wasn’t quite human made her seem less like a woman to him and more like some kind of alien creature.

You’re a fine one to talk, Coran Yrggson. You’re not altogether human yourself.

Coran glanced sideways at Elleka. More human than her, he thought.

Mages—both Overwizards and Underwizards—were the servants of the Magelords themselves, and went out into the world to do their particular lord’s bidding. Though he didn’t know it for a fact, Coran had heard it rumored that the last ritual a person went through before assuming the mantle of Wizard was to be touched by a Magelord. This touch imbued them with a small portion of the Magelord’s inhuman essence, thereby trebling their magical strength. But as far as Coran was concerned, giving up part of one’s humanity was a high price to pay for power.

And what of you? What price did you pay for your power?

Coran thought of the cargo they carried in their covered wagon—the only cargo besides food and water for themselves and their horses—and shuddered.

Coran wasn’t that much older than Elleka, only ten years or so, but he felt much older. He had short brown hair and a beard to match, and while his features were on the plain side, he was not considered unhandsome by women. Perhaps it had something do with the weary sorrow that perpetually clouded his gaze. It made women pity him, want to take care of him, mother him, heal him. He sometimes took advantage of such women, but most of the time he ignored their interest. Some wounds were just too deep to heal.

Like Elleka, Coran wore a traveler’s cloak, though he kept his hood down. The two of them were supposed to look like husband and wife merchants on a trading trip from the Southern Kingdom to the Northern. Thus, their simple clothes, plain covered wagon, and unimpressive horses. It all seemed a bit too calculated to Coran, and he wondered if Balasi would be fooled. He supposed it didn’t matter if Balasi fell for the ruse or not. Just so long as his brother came out of hiding to investigate.

Coran gazed out across the hard, uneven gray plain toward the Daggerfrost Mountains to the north. The tallest of the grim, forbidding gray peaks were capped with snow, and Coran thought it was a good thing that winter was still several months away, or they’d never have made it this far. When he’d last been here, this plain had been covered with thousands of tents, wagons, horses, cookfires, and—of course—soldiers, all of them waiting in uneasy truce while their superiors attempted to negotiate a final and lasting peace. Emphasis on attempted.

Coran was surprised at how peaceful the land looked now. There was no sign of the blood that had been spilled on this ground, of the thousands of men and women from both kingdoms that had breathed their last here. This should be a place where the ghosts of the angry dead marched in legion, seeking redress for the foolish way their lives had been wasted. Seeking vengeance against Coran, for if he hadn’t failed to stop Balasi seven years ago, they all would still be alive today. Now that he was here, he expected to feel the full weight of his guilt settle upon him, bear him to the ground, and crush him beneath its awful weight. But other than a distant muted sadness, he felt only the breeze whispering across the rocky plain and the gentle warmth of the sun on his face. He looked up at the sky, half-expecting to see the ghostly images of a thousand dead warriors gazing down accusingly at him. But he saw only blue sky dotted with gray-white clouds, and the mountain range rising up on the horizon. It seemed almost as if the world had moved on, forgotten the devastating battle that had once taken place here. But Diran hadn’t forgotten. And neither, it seemed, had Balasi.

“What does it feel like?” Elleka asked. “To return here after all these years?”

The sounds of the wagon wheels creaking as they turned on their axles, and the hooves of the four quarter horses clopping on the hard ground as they pulled their load without complaint . . . these sounds fell away, to be replaced in Coran’s mind by the clang of metal as sword struck sword, the twang of bowstrings being released, the thunder of hooves as cavalry advanced, the high-pitched tones of signal horns being sounded, and of course, the omnipresent screams of the wounded and dying.

Coran turned and gave his companion a weary smile. “What makes you think I ever truly left?”

Elleka cleared her throat. “Yes, well . . . I was, of course, too young to have fought in the war, but I can imagine what it must have been like.”

Coran stared off into the distance for some time before replying.

“No, you can’t.”

“Aren’t they beautiful?”

“I think they’re hideous.”

Balasi laughed and shook his head. “Perhaps they are at that, little brother, but then they have been crafted for warfare, have they not?”

Coran had to allow that Balasi had a point, though he’d never admit it to his brother. The two of them stood inside a large tent that had been pitched on the grasslands of Moora, in the heart of the Southern Kingdom. Within the tent a small glowstone hung from a strip of leather tied to one of the supports. The glowstone’s light was dim and feeble; instead of dispelling the gloom within the tent, it seemed to accentuate it, deepen it, gather it in dark pools of inky blackness that seemed somehow more than the mere absence of light. It seemed somehow almost alive.

The shadows created by the glowstone’s weak light made the two large figures lying on the wooden dais before them seem even more sinister. They were taller than a human, ten feet at least and perhaps a bit more. They were broad-shouldered and thick-limbed, with rippling muscles formed of stone and blunt fingers that looked more like the head of a hammer than digits. They wore no clothes, but since they had been created to only approximate human form, they had no genitals to conceal for modesty’s sake, and no matter the weather, how dry, wet, hot or cold it became, they wouldn’t feel it. But worst of all—at least as far as Coran was concerned—were their faces. Hairless, wrought to resemble demonic skulls with empty eye sockets, fanged teeth, and ram’s horns jutting forth from the temples. They were dark gray from toe to horntip, the color of the specially enchanted stone from which they had been made. Neither golem was outfitted with a weapon, for each was a weapon in its own right. Carved into the chest of each golem was the symbol of the Magelord Marsyas: an upraised fist within a circle of flame.

“Just think,” Balasi said. “Come tomorrow, when the battle is joined, we will animate these two golems. They will serve us as suits of armor and even as weapons.” Balasi stepped up to the dais and reached out to touch one of the statue’s blunt-fingered hands. “Can you imagine how much force this hand can strike with?”

Balasi’s own hand could strike with quite a bit of force, as Coran had learned growing up with him. He was shorter than Coran, but his shoulders were broader, his chest wider, and while he appeared stocky, Coran knew from experience that his brother’s meat was all muscle. Balasi’s hair had the same brown shade as Coran’s, but he wore it longer, and his beard was thicker and fuller. Though they were both adults, Coran thought that of the two of them it was Balasi who most looked like a man, while Coran still looked too much like a boy.

“I don’t have to imagine,” Coran said. “I’ve had the same training as you, don’t forget.” But, unlike Balasi, who was as enthused as a child soon to receive a long-desired plaything, Coran wasn’t excited by the thought of the destruction the golems were capable of causing. He was afraid of it. Afraid of being in control of such power—or of being controlled by it.

“There’s no reason for worry, brother,” Balasi said. “The golems will do only what we command them to.”

Before Coran could stop his older brother, Balasi leaped up onto the dais and rolled over onto one of the golems. As soon as his flesh came into contact with the stone, both forms blurred and merged, and then Balasi was gone. A moment passed, and the golem Balasi had entered sat up. Its demon-skull head swiveled on a neck made from rock to look at Coran. Tiny crimson fires burned deep within the skull’s dark eye hollows, a sign that Balasi’s spirit was inside the golem, granting it life and mobility. Together, man and golem had become a Stoneguard Warrior.

The golem’s right hand shot forth and stone fingers fastened around Coran’s neck. At first the grip was so tight that Coran couldn’t breathe, but then Balasi opened his hand and released his younger brother.

The crimson fires within the golem’s sockets flickered and danced with merriment. “See?” The voice that echoed from the demon-skull’s open mouth was low and grating, and without any hint of emotion. “Nothing to worry about. I’m in total control.”

Coran forced a smile as he rubbed his sore neck muscles.

That’s precisely what I’m afraid of, he thought.

“Are you certain we’re on the correct route?” Elleka asked for the third time that morning. “You’d think there would be signs that this was a path frequented by trading caravans.”

Coran suppressed a sigh. The young Underwizard had a tendency to be a bit of a worrier. Once, he’d been that way himself, but instead of making him more tolerant of her fussing, it actually made him more impatient with her.

“The hard ground, remember? The land is almost solid rock here. While it’s not easy going, it’s the most direct route between the Two Kingdoms. Skirts westward around the foothills of the mountains. Trust me, this is the right place.”

They continued on in silence for a time before Coran spoke again.

“There was no reason to bring the golem. I won’t use it.” Can’t use it, he amended mentally, but he didn’t know Elleka well enough to tell her that. He doubted he’d ever know anyone that well. “I made that clear to the Overwizards before I agreed to accompany you on this journey.”

Despite the enchantments that allowed the wagon to bear the golem’s weight without collapsing—and which helped lighten the load for the horses pulling it—the going had been slow these last few weeks, and it seemed even slower today. Coran wondered if the enchantments were beginning to weaken and, if so, if Elleka could refresh them.

“My masters hoped you might change your mind during the trip,” Elleka said. “But even if you don’t, hopefully it won’t matter. Perhaps you’ll be able to make your brother see reason without resorting to violence. If not, there are . . . other resources available to us.”

“Chief among them your skill at spellcraft,” Coran said.

Elleka hesitated before replying. “My magical abilities might prove useful, yes. My masters—”

“Don’t play games with me. I know the Overwizards gave you orders to stop Balasi by whatever means necessary. I’m one of those means, but if I fail, you’ll surely use your magic against him. What will you do? Cast a spell that will force the separation of his human and golem bodies? Or will you simply cause his stone form to crumble away to nothing, thereby ensuring he’ll no longer be a threat to anyone in the future?”

The Underwizard didn’t answer, but then she didn’t need to. Coran was confident that he’d guessed the truth.

“Look at it this way,” Elleka said, tone neutral but expression grim. “If you can convince your brother to surrender voluntarily, then nothing need happen to him.”

“That,” Coran said, “will no doubt prove to be the biggest if of my life.” And Balasi’s, too.

Half an hour later they came upon a scattered collection of splintered wood. Amidst the debris were rotting corpses that had been picked over by scavengers. Some of the bodies were human, and some were equine. Some had been crushed or pounded to a pulp, and it was impossible to say what species they belonged to.

Coran reined the horses to a stop, then pulled the wooden lever to set the wagon’s brake. While he did so, Elleka stared at the corpses splayed upon the ground.

“Did . . . did Balasi . . . ?”

“I expect so,” Coran said in a toneless voice. “After all, that’s why we’ve come here, isn’t it?” He climbed down from the driver’s seat and scanned their surroundings for any indication that Balasi might be lying in wait somewhere nearby. But even though they were but a half mile at most from the mountain known as Firstpoint, the ground here—while corrugated and rough—possessed no outcroppings large enough to conceal Balasi, especially if he were still inside his golem form.

Elleka climbed down from the wagon and joined Coran on the ground. Coran had made no move to help her, partially because he was too busy keeping watch for his brother, but also because it was a breach of protocol for a human—even an Augment such as Coran—to initiate physical contact with a mage.

Elleka continued staring at the dead bodies amidst the wreckage that was all that remained of the trading caravan’s wagons. “It looks as if they were struck by an avalanche.”

It was difficult to tell, given the current state of the caravan, but judging by the amount of splintered wood, the number of intact wheels, and especially the number of corpses, Coran felt confident there had been at least three wagons in the caravan, perhaps four.

“An avalanche,” Coran murmured. “That’s as good a way to describe it as any, I suppose.” He sighed. “Balasi always was more aggressive than I. Our father was a soldier—human, not Augment—who fought for Lord Marsyas. He died at the Battle of Serpent-Tooth Ridge when Balasi and I were both children. We became determined to follow in his footsteps and become warriors, but where I wanted to do so to honor our father’s sacrifice, Balasi wanted only the glory and adventure that he believed battle would bring.” He turned to look at Elleka. “You can’t imagine how many times we played warrior in the woods near our cabin as we grew up. Balasi always made me be one of Jirkar’s warriors, of course.” He smiled sadly and shook his head. “It all seemed so innocent then.”

Coran turned his gaze toward the mountain a half mile to the north. Elleka looked in the same direction.

“Is that it?” she asked.

Coran nodded. “That’s Advent Mountain.”

Elleka squinted. “I don’t see the tower.”

Stone crumbling, clouds of gray dust rising into the air, and above all, the screams of the men and women trapped inside the tower as it collapsed upon them. . . .

“That’s because it’s not there anymore,” Coran said softly.

Silence fell between them for a time while they stared at the mountain, Coran glanced sideways at Elleka. She’s probably trying to imagine the tower’s fall, he thought. Coran wished he could forget it.

“How much do you know about being a Stoneguard Warrior?” he asked the Underwizard.

“I’m acquainted with the physical construction of the golems, as well as the myriad of complex enchantments that allow—”

Coran held up a hand to stop her. “No, I’m speaking of being a golem . . . of inhabiting and operating a stone body.”

Elleka’s silence answered for her.

“It’s a very strange experience. There is a sensation of strength and power that’s almost intoxicating. You feel as if you are capable of anything, that you are almost a god. And yet . . . there are limitations. While you can see and hear, you cannot smell, cannot taste, cannot feel the objects you touch. Since there is no need to breathe, not even to speak, you do not draw air into your lungs. Indeed, golems don’t possess lungs or internal organs of any sort. They are simply stone all the way through. If you remain inside a golem body for too long, you can become . . . cut off from the experience of being human. Even forget what it’s like to be human.” He gazed with sorrow upon the twisted, mutilated corpses of the merchants and their steeds. “That’s what happened to Balasi.”

“And what of you?” Elleka asked. “What effect did becoming a Stoneguard Warrior have on you?”

Coran hesitated before answering, and when he finally did so, it was in a soft, quiet voice. “You’re a mage. You know there’s always a price for power.”

Elleka reached up with her left hand and lightly stroked the silver scales near her eye. Coran wondered if she was aware of doing so.

He went on. “Sometimes that price isn’t magical. Sometimes it calls for one to sacrifice a bit of his mind . . . or soul.”

“I’m impressed. I didn’t know my brother was a poet.”

Coran and Elleka turned in surprise toward the harsh, grating voice and saw a large stone figure shove aside a pile of rocks and pull itself out of the ground. Coran thought of spiders that laired within the earth and leaped out to snatch passing prey. He understood then how Balasi had managed to surprise the trading caravan—he’d dug himself a hiding place.

Eyes blazing crimson, Balasi emerged from his pit and came striding toward them. Though the golem’s skull face was incapable of expression, Coran could hear the smile in its voice when Balasi said, “What’s wrong, brother? Aren’t you happy to see me?”

Battle raged less than fifty yards from them, but Coran and Balasi remained with the wagons, as they’d been ordered. It was eight months after their baptism of fire on the grasslands of Moora, and the war against the north wasn’t going well. The forces of the Magelord Jirkan had penetrated into the south as far Three Forks River, only ninety miles from the stronghold of his father—and mortal enemy—Magelord Marsyas. Jirkar’s army had captured the riverport city of Ghrell, one of the most important centers of trade in Akantha. Marsyas have given orders for his army to recapture Ghrell, no matter the cost. They fought in cramped city streets, standing on cobblestones, the fresh smell of riverwater rich in the air. The human soldiers fought hand to hand, while Augments used their mystical abilities to deadly effect, sometimes against their opposite number on the other side, but often against any mortals unlucky enough to get in their way.

As the battle wore on, Balasi smacked his fist into his palm. “Damnation, but I can’t stand just watching! We should be out there fighting!”

Coran wasn’t upset to be hanging back. In fact, he hoped they wouldn’t be called to battle at all this day, but he couldn’t tell his brother that. There was no way Balasi could understand.

“We have our orders,” Coran said.

“Orders from a man, not from an Augment,” Balasi said in a voice close to a growl.

Though Coran knew Commander Arkash was out there in the thick of the fighting, he nevertheless cast a quick glance around to make sure the man, or one of his subordinates, wasn’t close enough to overhear Balasi’s words. “Augments are no better or worse than humans. Just different.”

Balasi snorted. “So different that humans are afraid of us, afraid of our power. Why else would Arkash order us to hold back?”

Coran knew it was because there were far fewer Augments than human warriors in Marsyas’ armies, and that they were spread throughout the various divisions. Coran and Balasi were the only two Stoneguard Warriors in Arkash’s command, and the soldier wasn’t about to deploy them unless it was absolutely necessary. Not because he feared them, but because he wanted to conserve them, not risk their becoming damaged until he had no choice. Balasi was well aware of this, of course, but Coran reminding him wouldn’t do much to calm him. Balasi was caught in the throes of battle fever now. He needed to be inside his golem form, needed to be stomping across the battlefield on stone feet, slamming rock-hard fists into fragile flesh and bone protected by only slightly less fragile armor. Balasi needed this the same way some people needed strong drink or intoxicating drugs. And only shedding the blood of the Magelord’s enemies would satisfy his all-consuming craving.

The peal of a horn cut through the sounds of battle—three short blasts, followed by two long. Arkash had sent the signal for his two Stoneguard Warriors to join the fray.

“At last!” Balasi grinned and hopped onto the open wagon where his golem body lay prone and still. Its eyes were dark hollows, empty of crimson fire.

Coran made no move toward the wagon containing his golem. He knew he should, but he couldn’t force his feet to move. He turned to Balasi, though he wasn’t sure why. Perhaps to ask for his brother’s encouragement—or forgiveness. But Balasi had already merged with his golem. Crimson fire blazed forth within its eye sockets, and the golem sat up.

“Time to go to work, my brother.” The voice that emerged from the golem’s mouth was harsh and grating, like two large rough stones grinding together. Without waiting for Coran to reply, Balasi climbed out of the wagon, the wooden vehicle creaking alarmingly beneath his weight, and then strode off toward the mass of battling soldiers. The ground trembled slightly with each of Balasi’s footfalls, and he released a battle cry that sounded like a monstrous roar. More than a few combatants on both sides paled when they saw the massive skull-headed, demon-horned golem approach.

Coran turned toward his wagon and looked at the golem lying prone in its bed. His golem looked exactly the same as Balasi’s, save for a few scratches and knicks the Overwizards hadn’t gotten around to repairing yet. These marks corresponded to scars on Coran’s body—scars that no magic could erase. To enter the golem and take command of it, to become it, all Coran had to do was climb atop the stone figure and merge his body with its. The golems were constructed by the Overwizards for a specific Augment, and attuned to them so that no one, not even another Stoneguard Warrior, even Balasi, could enter and control Coran’s golem. The only one in all the world who could make use of the great weapon lying motionless in the wagon bed was Coran—and he was too terrified to move.

Beads of sweat formed on his skin, and his heart pounded rapidly in his chest, blood surging through his veins so fast that it sounded as if the ocean roared in his ears. He felt a cold crawling sickness deep in the pit of his stomach, and his vision became edged with gray, as if he might pass out any moment. Coran had never been comfortable joining with his golem, though he had done so dozens of times before. But each time the fear had grown steadily worse, until now he couldn’t bring himself to take a step toward the wagon, let alone merge with the stone figure within.

It wasn’t that the joining hurt. During the merging all sensations save sight and sound were cut off, so it was impossible to feel pain. Physical pain, at least. But the act of allowing one’s entire body, one’s very self, to become encased in a stone figure was like being buried alive. Coran had suffered from a fear of enclosed places since childhood, but it had never proved a great impediment to him—until he’d undergone the mandatory testing Magelord Marsyas required of all youth in his kingdom. The Overwizards had discovered that he—along with his brother—had the potential to survive the dangerous process of Augmentation that transformed a human into a mystically powerful warrior. Coran might’ve been all right if the Overwizards had transformed him into a Wolfclaw or a Basilisk, but no. They’d decided both he and Balasi were most suited to serve the Magelord as Stoneguard Warriors.

But Coran couldn’t do it, not again! He couldn’t bring himself to enter that prison of cold stone. He turned away from the wagon and faced the battle to see how Balasi was faring. But before he could track his brother’s progress, a silver glint from above caught his attention. He looked up just in time to see a Swordfalcon swooping down toward him. The silver-winged avian held a razor-sharp black-diamond sword in each clawed hand. The enchanted weapons were capable of cutting through stone like butter—including the living stone that made up a golem’s body. She wore a silver helm wrought to resemble a falcon’s head, and though the eyes that gazed out were human, they glittered with the cold calculation of a bird of prey preparing to strike. She wore an ether-mail vest, the magical armor paper-thin but strong enough to withstand the blow of even a Stoneguard Warrior. Over the armor she wore a tabard emblazoned with the cerulean-eyed symbol of Magelord Jirkan.

It seemed the Swordfalcon had decided to slay Coran before he had a chance to merge with his golem, thereby ensuring one less Augment would fight this day for Marsyas’ side. As swiftly as the bird-woman came, Coran knew that even if he could bring himself to enter his golem form, he’d never reach it before the Swordfalcon cut him down. He was a dead man.

But then Coran became aware of the cobblestones shaking beneath his feet, and, moving far more swiftly than seemed possible for such a large, ungainly creature as a golem, Balasi came toward him. When he was close enough, Balasi reached out and grabbed the Swordfalcon by her ankles. The Stoneguard Warrior planted his feet solidly against the ground and yanked backward with all his might. The Swordfalcon screamed as her leg bones shattered and muscles and ligaments tore. The woman released her grip on her black-diamond swords, and the mystically sharp blades spun through the air—barely missing Coran—and sliced into the cobblestone street, sliding smoothly into the ground as if it were liquid instead of solid, until only their hilts remained visible.

Before the Swordfalcon could recover from the surprise of Balasi’s attack and begin to fight back, he took hold of one of her silver wings at the juncture where it emerged from her shoulder and ripped it out. The woman’s previous scream was nothing compared to the high-pitched shriek that she released now. Blood spurted from her wounded shoulder and splashed onto Balasi’s chest, obscuring the symbol of Marsyas engraved there. Balasi flung the torn wing away and it soared overtop the roof of a nearby tannery. He then took a grip on the other wing.

“No!” Coran shouted. But Balasi ignored his brother’s protest and blood gushed from a second wound in the Swordfalcon’s back. The woman was no longer screaming. She now hung limply in Balasi’s grip, whimpering softly as her lifeblood pattered to the street.

Balasi looked at Diran, the red fire in his eye sockets growing smaller and dimmer, the golem equivalent of a scowl. “What’s wrong, brother? Losing your stomach for battle?”

Coran struggled to find his voice. “Battle is one thing. Slaughter is another.”

Balasi laughed, the sound booming forth from the golem’s stone throat. “Don’t be naïve. War is killing, pure and simple.” He closed a massive hand over the Swordfalcon’s helmet and squeezed. Metal crumpled and flesh and bone were reduced to a pulp. Balasi dropped the woman’s twitching, headless corpse to the cobblestones and wiped the gore form his hand onto his chest, further obscuring the symbol of Marsyas. Coran watched bits of helmet, skull, and gray matter slide off his brother’s body and fall with soft wet smacks onto the blood-slick street.

“Enough talk,” Balasi said. “Enter your golem and join me.” He started to turn and head back toward the thick of the fighting, but he stopped when Coran said, “I can’t.”

Balasi turned back around to face his brother. “What do you mean you can’t?”

Coran looked up at his brother with eyes suddenly moist with tears. He opened his mouth to try to explain, but no words came out.

Balasi stared down at his brother, eyes of crimson fire blazing, his emotions unreadable on the skeletal features of his stone face.

“Coward,” he snarled at last, then turned and stomped back toward the battle.

Coran fell to his knees and sobbed, his golem form lying in its wagon, lifeless and useless, as the fight raged on without him.

“Direcat got your tongue, brother?”

Coran stared at Balasi. His golem body had changed a great deal since Coran had last seen him. The living stone was light gray instead of a healthy dark, and it was shot through with cracks and fissures. It was so dry that tiny pebbles broke off as he moved and pattered to the ground like hail. The golem was missing fingers on both hands, and its right horn was gone, broken off sometime during the last seven years. But worst of all were the brown stains covering the golem’s hands, arms, and chest. The stains resembled rust, but Coran knew what they really were—blood.

“You’ve looked better, Balasi.” Coran was surprised by how calm he sounded.

“The enchantments that animate and maintain the stone body have grown weak,” Elleka said. The Underwizard’s voice held a slight quaver, but she didn’t shrink back as Balasi drew closer. He stopped five yards away from Elleka and Coran—close enough to attack but still far enough away that he could flee if necessary.

“Who is your companion, Coran? Do I have a sister-in-law now?”

“I am the Underwizard Elleka, sent by the Hall of Arcane Wisdom on behalf of Magelord Marsyas himself.” Her words were meant to be official, but she didn’t sound very self-assured speaking them. Coran imagined it was difficult to maintain one’s confidence when surrounded by the dismembered and crushed victims of a golem attack.

Elleka continued. “Balasi Yrggson, in the name of the Southern Kingdom, I command you to separate from your golem form and turn yourself over to us immediately.”

The Stoneguard Warrior looked at Elleka for several moments, crimson eyes flickering enigmatically. But then finally he put his hands on his hips, threw back his demon-skull head, and let out a booming laugh. The action was so sudden, and the posture so human, that Coran was startled.

“For what reason?” Balasi asked.

Coran detected an edge of anger in his brother’s golem voice, something an ordinary human—even an Underwizard—wouldn’t notice. He wished Elleka would stop talking and give him a chance to speak to Balasi brother to brother, one Stoneguard Warrior to another. But she was his superior on this trip, and thus he remained silent as she went on.

Elleka gestured at the splintered wood and ravaged corpses surrounding them. “For attacking the trading caravans that pass through here, for—” she swallowed, “—murdering all these people, and dozens more like them.” Her face went pale, her words ending in a whisper. Coran guessed that the full implications of what she was doing had struck her: she was speaking to the creature that had committed these atrocities, that had used his stone hands to mangle and crush the twisted, broken bodies scattered around them.

“It’s not murder if one kills during the course of battle,” Balasi said. “The trade routes between north and south were closed by order of Marsyas. I am simply enforcing his wishes, as any good soldier would.”

Coran could no longer remain silent. “The war is over, Balasi. Peace was declared seven years ago.”

Balasi’s demon-skull head swiveled toward Coran, and his crimson-flame eyes flared as they gazed upon his brother. Coran almost thought he could feel the heat emanating from the golem’s eye sockets.

“The peace negotiations failed,” Balasi said.

“The initial talks, yes. After Firstpoint Tower came down, there were nine more months of fighting.” And those nine months had been more savage and deadly— and exacted a higher toll—than all the fifty-three years of combat that had preceded them. “But then talks began again, and this time they were successful. Peace now reigns throughout the Two Kingdoms. An uneasy, fragile peace, perhaps,” Coran admitted, “but peace nonetheless.”

“You lie.” Balasi spoke these two words coldly, and even Coran couldn’t detect the least hint of emotion in them.

Elleka spoke once more. “So you see, if there is no war, if trade between the Two Kingdoms is no longer forbidden, then what you have done is indeed commit murder, numerous times over. But as bad as that is, it’s still not your worst offense. As Coran said, the peace is an uneasy one, and your actions threaten to reignite hostilities between our peoples. Both Magelord Marsyas and Magelord Jirkar wish to avoid that happening. The Two Kingdoms are still struggling to recover from the ravages of the war. Neither can afford to return to those dark days of conflict.”

Balasi looked back and forth between Elleka and Coran before speaking once more. “Even if I believe that the war is over—which I don’t—how can the actions of one warrior defending one trade route set off a new war? Every man likes to think himself important, and while I am an Augment, I am still only one man, and this is only one place.”

“It’s the Land Barons,” Coran said. “Both Northern and Southern. Marsyas and Jirkar were weakened by their decades-long conflict, for all magic—no matter how great or small—comes from them. They both expended a great deal of their personal power during the war. The Land Barons have grown in confidence since then and now wield greater influence over the kingdoms than ever. The Southern Barons blame the destruction of the trade caravans on the north, and the Northern Barons believe the south is responsible. So in this case, the actions of one man can indeed spark a war.” Just as the action of one man prolonged the last war, Coran thought bitterly.

“I care not for politics,” Balasi said. “I am a warrior. I live only to fight.”

“The war is over,” Elleka insisted. “You no longer have any reason to fight.”

Balasi ignored her words and returned his attention to Coran. “How did you know it was me, brother? I was certain you believed me long dead.”

“About a year ago you attacked a caravan coming from the north. I’m sure you thought you killed everyone, but a single member—a young boy of twelve—survived. Despite his injuries, he managed to make it back to the nearest northern settlement, where he told the tale of a giant of stone destroying his parents’ caravan. The boy died soon after, but the story spread until at last it reached Jirkar’s ears. He sent a message to Marsyas, and Marsyas dispatched us. The Magelord used his magic to confirm your identity, but he needn’t have wasted his power. I knew it had to be you. Who else could it be? Now you tell me something, brother. Have you remained inside your golem form all these years? Have you never left it?”

Balasi didn’t answer.

“I see.” It was as Coran had feared. “You’re not in your right mind, Balasi. Cut off from almost all human sensation for seven years . . . isolated from all human contact. It’s no wonder that you chose to believe the war is still going on, why you decided you needed to continue enforcing the old trade embargo. But there is no war, my brother. You are no longer a warrior but a man who has refused to stop fighting. Please—in the name of our father—separate from the golem and leave this place with us. It takes a strong warrior to know when to lay down his weapon and walk away, Balasi. That’s what I’m asking you to do now.”

Ever since Elleka and he had departed the Hall of Arcane Wisdom, Coran had mentally rehearsed what he would say to Balasi once they found him. But now his words sounded hollow and ineffectual to his own ears, and he feared that he had failed to reach his brother.

“Who are you to lecture me about what it means to be a warrior?” Balasi said, crimson eyes blazing in fury. “Tell me, brother, what have you done with yourself since last we saw one another? How have you honored our father’s memory?”

“For the last seven years I have made my living as a fisherman. I have a cottage on the edge of Crystalmere Lake, and I own a small boat. I live alone, but it’s a peaceful life and it suits me well enough. You would be welcome to join me there, if you wish.”

“And do what? Catch fish so others can fill their bellies and grow fat?” Balasi said. “Father would be ashamed of you.”

“And you think our father would be proud of you, continuing to fight a war that ended almost a decade ago?”

Out of the corner of his eyes, Coran saw Elleka take a step closer to Balasi and raise her hands. The air around Elleka’s hands blurred as she began summoning forth mystic energy. A crackling sound filled the air, as if a raging fire had been lit, but there was no light, no heat. Only the strange shimmering around the Underwizard’s hands.

Balasi made no move toward Elleka, and at first it appeared that he wasn’t going to defend himself. Coran wondered if, despite his brother’s words, he was tired of his one-man war and wanted Elleka to destroy him. But then Balasi lifed his right foot and slammed it down onto the rocky ground. Coran braced himself as a sound like thunder split the air and a jagged crack opened in the ground, running swiftly from Balasi’s foot toward Elleka. The Underwizard struggled to maintain her footing as the crack widened beneath her, but the vibrations from Balasi’s attack were too violent and she fell onto her side. Her left elbow hit the ground with a solid crack, and Elleka grimaced in pain. But despite being knocked off her feet and likely breaking her elbow, she maintained her concentration, and instead of winking out, the shimmering around her hands grew stronger.

Balasi lumbered toward Elleka, obviously intending to prevent her from completing the spell she was attempting to cast. Coran knew from too many battlefield experiences that his brother struck swiftly and without mercy. If Balasi reached Elleka, the Underwizard would die, pure and simple.

Coran ran toward Elleka. He was closer to her than Balasi, and a human form was far lighter and more maneuverable than that of a golem, and thus Coran reached the Underwizard first. She’d managed to pull herself into a sitting position, and the shimmering around her hands was now so intense that Coran could no longer see the hands themselves. She chanted furiously in the ancient tongue of the Magelords as she drew upon the power that Marsyas had implanted in her, shaped it, and prepared to hurl it at Balasi. Elleka’s voice rose in volume and pitch, and Coran sensed she was close to completing her spell.

As he reached her, he leaned down, made a fist, and struck her jaw as hard as he could. Elleka’s head snapped back, her eyes rolled white, and she slumped to the ground, unconscious. The shimmering around her hands was gone, and the air held the singed-hair and sulfur scent of magic power that had been gathered but remained unchanneled. But the smell quickly faded as the magic energy dissipated.

Coran looked up just as Balasi reached them. He stepped between the unconscious Underwizard and his brother, knowing there was nothing he could do to stop Balasi if he truly wished to kill Elleka, but knowing that he nevertheless had to try.

Balasi stopped and looked down at his brother, flicking red eyes unreadable.

“What’s wrong, little brother? Do you think me incapable of handling one underwizard?”

“I wasn’t trying to save you,” Coran said. “I was trying to save her.”

Balasi gazed down upon Elleka’s motionless form and chuckled, the sound reminding Coran of bone-dice rattling around in a stone cup. “If that’s how you protect your friends these days, I’d hate to see how you treat your enemies.”

Balasi took another half step forward, and for an instant Coran thought his brother was going to knock him aside and slay Elleka. But then Balasi stopped and cast his crimson-flame gaze toward the covered wagon Coran and Elleka had arrived in.

“What’s in the wagon, Coran?”

“What do you think?” Coran answered with more bravado than he felt.

Though Balasi displayed no reaction, Coran had the sense that if his stone features were capable of smiling, they would’ve done so now.

“Is your golem in there, little brother? Did the Overwizards send it along in the hope that you’d overcome your cowardice and use it against me? Why don’t you go slip into it, and then the two of us can spar for a bit. It’s been a long time since I’ve had an opponent that could match my strength.”

“Not your strength,” Coran said. “Your golem’s.”

Balasi shrugged, the gesture looking stiff and awkward as the golem body performed it. “What’s the difference? So how about it? You going to indulge your big brother one last time?”

A chill ran down Coran’s spine at the thought of merging with his golem after all these years, and cold sweat began to roll down his face. “You’ve been inside your golem for far too long, Balasi.” Though Coran tried, he couldn’t keep his voice from shaking. “The experience has rendered you insane.”

“I’ll take that as a no.”

Before Coran could react, Balasi—moving with startling speed for a creature so large—swung the back of his hand toward Coran’s face. Coran felt an impact, saw a flash of bright light, and then knew only darkness.

When Coran awoke the only reason he knew he wasn’t dead was that his head hurt so damn much. He struggled to pull himself into a sitting position, and once he did, he nearly fell back over, so dizzy was he. But he managed to stay upright and took slow, even, deep breaths until his head cleared somewhat.

He tried to recall what had happened. He remembered riding in a wagon for a long time . . . remembered a woman with braided brown hair . . . Ermalyn? Elsperth? Elleka! That was it! But what had he been doing riding with her? Where . . .

And then his full memory came rushing back, as if some sort of hastily erected dam in his mind had broken.

Balasi!

He looked around for any sign of his older brother, but he saw none. He also didn’t see Elleka. Coran understood at once what had happened—after knocking Coran out, Balasi had picked up Elleka and carried her off. Not to harm her; he could easily have done that while both Coran and she remained unconscious. Balasi had taken her to taunt Coran, to lure him to come after his older brother.

Coran rose to his feet. His knees were weak and wobbled beneath his weight, but they held—barely. Coran took several lurching steps, but then the world seemed to suddenly spin around him, and he fell to the ground once more. As he lay on the hard, cold rock, Coran knew he was in no condition to go after Balasi. Not if he continued to rely solely on his human form. He turned his head, wincing at the pain the simple motion caused, and looked at the wagon. It was still intact, but the covering had been torn away to reveal the massive stone figure lying in the wagon bed.

The message was clear: Balasi didn’t want Coran to come after him as a human. He wanted his little brother to come to him as a Stoneguard Warrior.

“No,” Coran whispered. But then he thought of his poor brother, his mind trapped within a stone prison that had driven him mad. He thought of Elleka, an innocent woman who would surely die at Balasi’s hands if Coran failed to do what his brother wanted. But how could Coran bring himself to go near his golem form, let alone merge with it once again? The thought of being encased within living stone, cut off from the world of physical sensation, made him feel as if he might vomit any second. But if he didn’t do it, Elleka was as good as dead—and Balasi would be lost forever.

Trembling, Coran once more rose to his feet, and this time he starting shuffling toward the wagon.

Coran stood atop Advent Mountain in the northenmost climes of Akantha, looking down upon a vast rocky plain covered with a sea of tents that seemed to stretch from one horizon to the other.

“How many do you think there are?” Coran asked.

Balasi answered without turning to look at him. “Ten thousand at least, perhaps as many as fifteen.”

Coran shook his head in wonderment. “I never thought this day would come. Did you?”

The sky was a clear bright blue dotted with full white clouds drifting lazily above the world. Coran had always loved looking at clouds. They were beyond the petty affairs of mortals and immortals alike. Clouds were free and pure, unspoiled by the conflicts of the tiny, inconsequential beings that crawled about on the ground below. But then again, perhaps not completely unspoiled, for tendrils of smoke rose into the sky from hundreds of cook fires scattered across the plain.

Balasi didn’t answer, and Coran didn’t press him. After the battle of Ghrell, they’d hardly spoken to one another—and in the months since, Coran hadn’t once merged with his golem.

They gazed down upon the tents in silence for a time. Roughly half of the tents were crimson, the other cerulean. None were very large, for these were not the tents of commanders or Augments, but of fighting men and women. The lowest ranked among them, common foot soldiers known as Firsters because they were the first into battle and most often the first to die as well, had no tents at all. They had to sit on the ground, huddled together as close to the cook fires as their low status permitted. There were supply wagons, horses, oxen, tents for blacksmiths and farriers. Flags and banners flew from poles erected across the plain. Some indicated the presence of special divisions or told from what region of the Two Kingdoms a particular company hailed. But the two most common standards were the crimson eye of the Magelord Marsyas and the cerulean fist of his son and enemy Jirkar. Two armies, gathered upon a single plain, but these forces weren’t assembled for combat . . . at least, not yet. They had assembled to wait while their commanders met, talked, and laid the foundations for what—after fifty-three years of constant warfare between the two Magelords—might hopefully become a lasting peace. Or at least a cessation of hostilities while the Magelords themselves met to resolve their decades-old conflict.

Coran glanced over his shoulder at the graystone tower that rose from the top of the hill. This was Advent Mountain, the ancient site where the Magelords—all fifty of them—had first arrived in Akantha long millennia ago from whatever alien world had birthed them. This was the only truly neutral ground left in Akantha, and here Magelords, or more often their representatives, met within Firstpoint Tower to negotiate trade agreements and resolve disputes . . . such as fifty-three years of war between father and son. High-ranking Overwizards from both sides were meeting in the upper levels of the tower at this very moment, just as they had for the last three days. But whether they had made any progress or not, no one knew.

The Augments—the elite forces of the Magelords— had spent the last three days housed in the lower levels of the tower, while the negotiations took place above their heads. All were present: Jirkar’s Swordfalcons, Dreadbones, and Ebon Reavers, as well as Marsyas’ Wolfclaws, Baslisks, and Stoneguard Warriors. Despite Coran’s . . . problem, he was still technically a member of the Stoneguard, and thus had been permitted to join the other Augments on Advent Mountain. Coran suspected this was a decision that his brother did not agree with.

The arcane power that had altered the Augments’ bodies and made them into deadly warriors also gave them a tendency to be high-strung. And they had a difficult time being in such close proximity to other Augments, whether friend or foe. To avoid getting into fights—and risk disrupting the peace negotiations—individual Augments would occasionally leave the tower and spend some time outside, as Coran and Balasi were doing now.

Balasi squinted in the light, and Coran noticed that he kept his gaze focused on the ground whenever he could. Balasi hadn’t wanted to come outside—Coran had practically been forced to drag his brother out into the fresh air and sunshine.

“I have a confession to make, Balasi.”

“Oh?” The word dripped with scorn. Ever since Coran’s failure at the Battle of Ghrell, Balasi had shown nothing but contempt for his younger brother.

“I wanted you to accompany me out here for a different reason than merely taking in the view. I’m . . . worried about you, brother.”

“You? Worried about me?” Balasi laughed. “You’d make a fine jester, Coran.”

Coran ignored the gibe and went on. “Over the last several months you’ve become increasingly ill-tempered and belligerent. What’s more, you shun open spaces and your eyes can’t seen to tolerate even the mildest light. And though you try to hide it, I’ve noticed how you keep sneaking glances back at the tower, almost as if you cannot wait to go back inside.”

“I take it back. You’re not a jester—you’re a fool, and a cowardly one at that.” Balasi turned to go, but Coran took hold of his brother’s arm to stop him. Balasi broke free of Coran’s grip at once and whirled around to face him, hands bunched into fists. Coran thought Balasi would attack him, but he held his ground. Balasi continued glaring at Coran, but he relaxed his hands and some of the tension drained out of his body, if not all.

“I fear that your time as a Stoneguard Warrior has had the opposite effect on you than it did on me,” Coran said. “Where I cannot stand to merge with my golem form, you have difficulty being away from yours. Don’t bother to deny it.”

Balasi didn’t say anything right away, but then he lowered his head and slowly nodded. “You’re right, Coran. When I’m a golem, I’m strong, invincible. Nothing can touch me . . . I’m the greatest warrior that ever lived. But when I’m this—” Balasi thumped his hand against his chest, “—I’m small and weak. I hate it! If I could, I’d remain inside my golem form forever.”

Coran put his hand on his brother’s shoulders. Balasi’s condition was worse than he’d feared.

“Of the two of us, brother, your condition is by far the worse. For once the war is over, there will be no further use for Augments. Like any other warrior, we shall have to put our weapons away and try to forge new lives for ourselves. Lives without our golems.”

Balasi looked up and stared at Coran, eyes wide, and Coran realized that his brother had never given any thought to this matter. Indeed, it had most likely never even occurred to him.

“I . . . suppose you are right, brother,” Balasi said softly. Then he glanced toward the tower. “Assuming the peace talks are successful.”

Coran give his brother’s shoulders a reassuring squeeze. “They appear to have gone well so far. Why shouldn’t they continue to do so?”

Balasi kept looking at the tower, one corner of his mouth lifting in a half smile.

“Why, indeed?”

Elleka was aware of the throbbing in her jaw before anything else. She considered returning to the dark depths where she’d been, where pain was nothing more than a half-forgotten memory. But then she felt the ground tremble beneath her and she heard a rough voice shouting “Do . . . you . . . yield?” Then, much softer, “Answer me, my brother, or my voice will be the last sound you ever hear in this world.” A pause. No reply came. “Have it your way.”

Elleka opened her eyes and sat up in time to see a demon hewn from living stone bring its fists down upon the chest of another demon, lying cracked and broken on the ground. She felt the impact in her bones, almost as if she were the one that had been struck. The damaged golem flew apart in a shower of rock dust and stone fragments, and Elleka raised a forearm to shield her eyes from the debris. When she heard the last patter of falling stone, she slowly lowered her arm.

The victorious golem stood over the shattered remains of its foe. Little was left intact beside the demon-skull head, and that was now missing both horns and its lower jaw. Still a skull, but demoniac no more. Within the dark hollows of its eyes pinpoints of crimson fire still flickered, but weakly, like candle flames that had nearly burned down to the ends of their wicks.

The surviving golem stood looking down at the remains of its enemy. Its body was criss-crossed with cracks and fissures, and it was missing a good part of its left shoulder. But it still had both horns, and its color was a healthy dark gray.

“Coran,” she whispered.

The intact golem turned to look at her. The crimson fire in its eyes blazed so fiercely that it seemed as if the stone skull could barely contain it.

“Yes,” Coran said simply.

Elleka rose to her feet and rubbed her sore and swollen jaw. She took in her surroundings and saw a great mound of rubble formed of large stone blocks, many of them still intact.

“That was Firstpoint Tower, wasn’t it?” Elleka said. She heard heavy footfalls as Coran walked over to join her.

“It was. It fell on the eve of the fourth day of peace talks. Each side blamed the other for the collapse, and the war resumed. No official cause was found—not that anyone investigated thoroughly after the resumption of hostilities. But I knew what had happened. Balasi had brought the tower down in order to prevent peace so that he could continue to fight as a Stoneguard Warrior. And it was I who had accidentally given him the idea.”

Though Coran’s golem voice sounded little different than Balasi’s, she’d gotten to know Coran well enough over the last few weeks to detect the sadness in his rough, measured tones.

“I thought that Balasi had been caught in the tower’s collapse and destroyed. It wasn’t until the messenger from the Hall of Arcane Wisdom contacted me that I realized that Balasi had somehow survived. Perhaps he had been buried beneath the remains of the tower, and it had taken him a long time to dig free. Or perhaps once the tower came down he realized what he had done and fled into hiding, until his madness took complete hold of him and he began attacking trade caravans.”

Coran turned and glanced back at his brother’s jaw-less head. “I suppose we’ll never know for sure now.”

Elleka was still struggling to fully understand what had taken place. “You struck me unconscious to prevent me from destroying your brother . . . or him from destroying me. But then Balasi carried me up Firstpoint Mountain to the ruins of Firstpoint Tower, and you were forced to use your golem to save me. Thank you.”

Coran turned to look once more at his brother’s decapitated head.

“I couldn’t save Balasi, though.”

She wanted to comfort Coran, but as she reached out to touch his arm, she drew back. Despite all her mystic training, Elleka couldn’t get used to thinking of this . . . monster as Coran, and she couldn’t bring herself to touch the cold, hard stone of his golem body.

“I don’t think anyone could have saved him at this point,” she said softly.

Just then the crimson flame smoldering deep within Balasi’s eye sockets began to dim until it was gone, leaving behind only two dark, empty holes.

“He’s dead,” Elleka declared.

Coran stomped over to his brother’s head, bent down, picked it up, and straightened once more. He held the head up to his own stone face and examined it closely. Elleka walked over to join him.

“Perhaps,” Coran said. “Or perhaps that’s what he wishes us to think. Extinguishing eyefire is no more difficult for a Stoneguard Warrior than it is for ordinary humans to close their eyes.”

“I can tell you if Balasi’s spirit is still present. A simple spell will allow me to detect—”

Coran cut her off. “No. If Balasi is dead, then so be it. But if he only wishes that we believe him to be dead, then we shall honor that wish. Despite what he did these last several years, he was once a great warrior . . . and a good brother. He deserves our respect.”

Coran considered his brother’s golem skull for a few moments longer. Then, as if reaching a decision, he stomped over to the pile of rubble that was all that remained of Firstpoint Tower. Coran had to pick his way carefully because of his size and weight, but eventually he managed to reach the top of the mound of debris. Carefully, almost tenderly, he placed his brother’s skull atop the broken stone slabs and splintered wooden timbers. Coran then made his way back to Elleka, moving with just as much care as before.

“A monument to his memory?” she asked.

“If Balasi is alive and one day chooses to open his eyes again, at least he’ll have a good view from up there.”

Elleka gazed at the bright blue sky, thick white clouds, and the rocky plains spreading out beneath.

“A good view, indeed,” she said.

Without another word, Underwizard and Stoneguard Warrior turned their backs to Balasi’s head and began the long trek back down the mountain. As they descended, Elleka said, “What will you do now that our task is done?”

“Once we get back to the wagon, I’ll separate from my golem body and, gods willing, never enter it again. We’ll take it back to the Hall of Arcane Wisdom where the Overwizards can do what they like with it. After that, I’m going to return home, get into my boat, row into the middle of the lake, toss in my fishing line, and doze in the warmth of the afternoon sun while a gentle breeze blows across the water.”

After they’d gone some ways down Firstpoint Mountain, Coran said, “Do you remember a few days ago, when you told me that you could imagine what war was like, and I said you couldn’t?”

“Yes.”

“Well, after today, you do know what’s it like . . . a least a little.”

Elleka thought on this for a moment. “Yes, I suppose I do.”

They continued making their way down in silence after that.

Resting on the debris at the top of the mountain like some ancient stone sentinel, Balasi watched the two of them descend, eyes flickering with crimson fire, mind aflame with images of a war that—for him—would never end.