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circular room scattered with various artifacts of curious origin and purpose. Targor halted before a small, battered, circular table in the center of the room. Upon the table lay a short, thick, gray rod of stone that would fit in the palm of the hand. The stone appeared somehow warped, as though melted and left to cool in its present form, its irregular shape emanating an intensity that caused a mental nausea, as though its center projected an immoral radiation that mutated the soul. Vague yet powerful impressions rose within Korel's mind.
    Targor's voice rose, "This is an artifact from the recent dawn of the Toresten age. It was brought to me by a refugee, a servant of the royal house who had heard my name and sought me out. I have brought you here to look upon it."
    As Korel gazed upon the stone, images and impressions flashed upon his mind. He saw the seat of Westoreth, a battle within a palace, a mighty king upon a mighty throne, the pitch of battle within the walls of the palace, and the rise of a dark warrior, Toresten (Westoreth's present monarch), consumed with ambition as he pressed against he who placed his feet upon the footstool. As the battle grew sore, Toresten, in his throes against the king, touched the wall of the throne room unwittingly, and at his touch the spot became red-hot as lava, with liquid rock falling in drops upon the floor. These drops coalesced, rolled some few inches, and cooled to form a short but thick rod of stone. Later, as Toresten ascended the throne in new-age triumph, a small handmaiden, unseen, retrieved the cooled rod and ran upon hidden ways seeking Targor.
    The vision began again, more slowly and in greater detail. More impressions pressed upon Korel: a king in exile under the mountain, the strength of Toresten grown powerful, but a power lent him by something stronger and darker, the fear of an exile's wrath and a hunt for an exile's demise. And in this hunt Korel felt Thoren in the vanguard of many fighting men, Thoren with the gift, the same Thoren he had fought in the courtyard only a few years before. But here Thoren was young and fought against the exile because of the exile's own accursed gift, a gift similar to but different from his own.
    As Korel continued to gaze upon the rod, a silent intensity seemed to burst forth invisibly and touch upon his mind. Impressions began to sharpen and images began to merge, creating a pattern of thought.
    In the early days of King Valyrea, Thoren called the king his brother as they were brothers in both flesh and mind, akin not only in blood but spirit also. But eventually, occasions arose where the miraculous would happen—the boy whose broken body was made new, the aged man of war whose mortal wounds loitered on death's brink until his final farewell to family and friends could be uttered. These events revolved ever nearer to the king, and Thoren knew in his heart that Valyrea had the gift of the Necor, whose people had been banished for their gift of death— both the wielding of it and the mastery of its coming. And though the Necor had used this gift sparingly, a fear of the gift's power and of its effects (particularly regarding those of the Necor whose practiced mastery was greatest, the gift taking a bit of life from the practitioner himself) caused the Necor to be shunned, their banishment now old and complete. Whether they yet lived or had been erased entirely from the slate of earth's history, few knew. But there were myths of a place far to the north where men could never die, but ever aged and aged until they were but living fossil.
    Thoren's love for his brother was great, and he kept the knowledge of the gift close to his heart. Thoren's son also loved the king, and he, Thoren, and Valyrea met oft in private council, each guarding and defending the secrets of the others. Yet there were those of the king's court whose suspicions had grown regarding the gift of the Necor, causing a dissension, born of fear, to grow among some