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seated, talking to Sigrandor opposite him. Sigrandor’s ruby eyes were glittering with mirth, and his red-gold flames fluttered and danced across the table like lively children. Chatter and laughter filled the dome. Tranin was leaning close to Falia, whose silver hair hid her silken green shoulders, and over them all Ghakazian circled, the beat of his brown wings fanning them, his necklet hanging, his naked limbs spread wide, unwilling to remain still. Janthis had his face turned to the being in the great chair, his sun-ball blazing in his hands. And in the great chair the Worldmaker sat, his arms folded, smiling as he surveyed the full table. I must look long, something whispered at the back of Danarion’s mind. This is a memory, this is the last day he took his place with us, the last day a thousand sun-lords met together. Ah, so beautiful you are, so full of light and goodness! I will never love any as I worship you! His heart full, he saw the Worldmaker rise. Immediately all talking ceased, and Ghakazian glided down to stand at his place at the table.
    â€œWell!” said the Worldmaker, and his voice quivered in their veins like wild music.
    â€œIs it good, all that I have made? You, my first ones, are you satisfied?”
    â€œIt is good!” they called back to him.
    â€œAnd are you content to know that you belong to me?”
    Suddenly Danarion sensed something, a change in the gentle tones, subtle and minute. His heart bounded in his chest, but in those days he had had no words to describe the emotion now inching through him. He tore his gaze away from the Worldmaker and glanced at Janthis. The smile had left his face, and in his hands the sun-ball shrank to a red glow. Danarion looked back at the Worldmaker, who still smiled, but something had grown in his eyes, a coolness, a hint of mockery. Of course we belong to him, Danarion thought, puzzled. What does he mean? Then a desolation swept over him. He wanted to reach out his arms and wail, but he did not know why. The Worldmaker raised his arms, and it seemed to Danarion that the light that blazed from his fingers flickered with black tongues for a moment.
    â€œYou belong to me. You and your worlds are mine!” the Worldmaker said again, and Danarion realized that he was no longer speaking to them at all. Janthis had not moved. His eyes were on his sun-ball, where the light struggled to burst out. I do not understand, Danarion thought, love and bewilderment churning in him. I do not understand …
    A door opened, and Janthis came to them, sun-ball in hand, gliding quickly over the floor. Danarion returned to his present with a jerk. I still do not understand, he thought. I wish that I had not allowed that memory. Sometimes I fancy that I am becoming resigned to the loss of him, but it is not true. I ache for him.
    Janthis reached the foot of the Worldmaker’s chair and sat down, placing the dead sun-ball on the table before him, smiling at the three of them.
    â€œWhere is Ghakazian?” he asked.
    â€œUp here!” Ghakazian’s voice floated to them, and they looked up. He was perched on the sill of one of the windows high under the dome, and as they watched, he jumped lightly, spread his wings, and came to rest behind his chair. “I have been watching you all,” he remarked. “Not a word said, and the silence and stillness so deep. If we must council, then let us do so quickly. Danar in the spring is a wonder none should miss.”
    â€œWe are so few now,” Sholia said quietly. “Only five of us left. We have not been watchful enough.”
    â€œHe hates us more than he did the others,” Janthis said abruptly. “We are the products of his first delight in making. Our devotion to him was absolute, and we knew him well. He has glutted himself quickly on the rest of the universe despite our efforts to impede him but has saved us until the last to be savored at leisure. Firor was less of a prize