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screams.
    â€œWhat did Andar call this creature?” she asked, struggling to push the memory of her dream aside by recalling the words of the High Sorcerer.
    â€œA manticore, my Queen.”
    â€œAnd he is certain?”
    â€œThere is no way to be certain,” Drake admitted. “But he has compared the reports with descriptions from the ancient texts.”
    There was a long silence, and the Queen felt the chill of the wind reaching down into her belly yet again. Once more her son kicked in response. The King had known their child was a son before he had left to destroy the abomination stalking the forest of his people, just as she had known. The Sight was strong in them both. They had decided to name him Vaaler.
    â€œAndar tells me the manticore is one of the weaker Chaos Spawn,” Drake said at last, hoping to bring her some reassurance.
    â€œHow could he possibly know?” Rianna wondered aloud.
    â€œI … the ancient texts, no doubt …,” Drake stammered.
    The Queen turned slowly to face him, a wan smile on her lips. “Drake, I know your words were words of comfort. But I am not a fool. For all his wisdom Andar knows as little about this beast as you or I.”
    Drake bowed his head in acknowledgment of the truth of her words.
    â€œThese are dark times,” Rianna whispered, her gaze pointedly ignoring the ominous moon above them.
    â€œWe have seen dark times before,” Drake replied. “We have survived them.”
    She knew he was referring to the Purge. Twenty years ago, when Rianna had been but a child, the Order—self-proclaimed guardians of the Southlands—had declared war on the wielders of Chaos. Nazir, the Order’s bloodthirsty Pontiff, proclaimed the practice of magic to be a crime punishable by death. And, as had happened so many times before in the history of the Southlands, the Seven Capitals bowed meekly before the Pontiff’s will.
    Court mages were stripped of their positions as guides and advisers, replaced by Seers sent out from the black walls of the Monastery. Those who still dared to dabble in what had suddenly become the forbidden arts—wizards, witches, traveling conjurers—were seized and charged with the crime of sorcery. Anyone even suspected of having Chaos in their blood fled or faced imprisonment without trial. Any citizens foolish enough to protest the atrocities of the Purge were branded as heretics and suffered a similar fate.
    Within a year the so-called purification of the Southlands was all but complete. Those who practiced magic had renounced their ways or disappeared into hiding. Hundreds had been executed by the legions of fanatical monks who served the Pontiff. Nazir’s own loyal followers were strategically placed in every royal court, the power behind the throne in each of the Seven Capitals.
    The Danaan kingdom had prepared itself for battle, certain Nazir would now turn his army of monks against the heathens of the Great Forest. The power of Chaos flowed freely in the blood of the Danaan monarchy; surely the Order would see their entire nation as an affront that must be destroyed. But the atrocities of the Purge never reached the Great Forest. They barely even left the Southlands.
    In the Free Cities of the North people dared to speak out against the Order. Those who lived on the borders of the Great Forest bowed down to no one, not even the Pontiff. For a year the armies of the Order lay siege to the walled towns, with little success. Faced with their fierce independence and steadfast refusal to accept his will, Nazir had two choices: drive the entire Southlands into battle against the united armies of all the Free Cities, or end his holy war.
    The Order’s influence in the Seven Capitals was greater than it had been in three hundred years. The wizards and mages of the royal courts had been scattered and forced to live as outcasts, bereft of their former political power. The Order had