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his salvation, but his alone. And what use was that? It was because of him that they were on this journey anyway. Would that Naffinar had stayed in Lascombe! Would that Lady N’vonne had never agreed to come with them! Would that—? What if—? Why? Vancien bit his lip until it bled. If something like this could happen, what was the point?
    Tears stinging his eyes, he bent over a bloody voyoté to dig out a small traveling shovel. He would bury his friends properly if it took him until hiverra. Then, after this morose honor had been observed, he would sit and allow death to take him. The wait shouldn’t be too long, he reasoned as he mechanically scooped the first pile of desert sand. Blood covered the food rations and stained the oasis, so starvation would quickly become an option. It was a fate that a few hours ago would have been unthinkable and wrong. Now he welcomed it with grim resolve. Perhaps Kynell, who for some reason had not seen fit to stop this tragedy, would at least let him participate fully in it. The simple wish brought out a hollow laugh. Why should Kynell give him that mercy? He hadn’t done so with his brother or his father. It seemed the Prysm god wanted him to be alone in this world.
     

CHAPTER TWO
     
     
    Mid-lunos was approaching and the darkest hour was upon Keroul. It was the time when the three lunos aligned and the thrice-bright light was limited to one. The land seemed then to be submerged in shadows. A brightly painted plain became half blackness, while the valley that earlier had proudly displayed her trees to the sky now hid them in secret cavities. Where once three great lights shined upon a man, now he could move through the streets unseen.
    Such a man moved thus. With an expression so dark it cast its own shadow, he slid from blackness to blackness, looking neither to the right nor to the left. His mouth was disfigured by a perpetual sneer. His nose was sharp, along with the rest of his features. He looked skeletal, as if warm food were a foreign concept to him.
    The man soon reached his destination: a run-down tavern that glittered stubbornly against the darkness. The Shattered Lantern saw enough customers these days. Time was when the men of the town were occupied with their family and friends. Now, with the Cylini battles stealing more and more of the country’s youth, those who were left behind seemed to only have time to drink and revel in forgetfulness.
    Business was consequently booming and the owner of The Shattered Lantern was enjoying the profits. There he stood, booted feet stamping on the table with impeccably inaccurate rhythm, a strip of flavored dried meat in his right hand, and a full jug of barley wine in his left. His shirt was brightly colored enough to be gaudy and its gold-laced ridges served the lowly task of absorbing whatever liquid fell from his mouth. In short, a bright but tasteless man, content to pour his ample earnings directly into his own product.
    “Heya!” he whooped, finishing his song with a flourish of meat-stick. “And that’z how ye string a wench with words!”
    His audience, at least those who could coordinate such an effort, applauded appreciatively.
    “Thank ye, thank ye. I tell ye, tomorrow I’ll yodel for the king!”
    Amidst the laughter, a young voice called out. “Eh, I bet you will, Bokran! You’ll sing yourself right into the royal dungeons!”
    The uproar escalated as Bokran peered down imperiously from his rude perch.
    “Eh? Who sez that?” His slurred speech, however, could not be heard above the celebrants, so he opted for a firmer, louder tone. “By th’ plains of Jashimor, who sez that?!”
    The furious demand silenced his customers. Bokran, who was often a jovial fellow, was also well-known for his temper. The night air was turning bitter in preparation for the early snows and no one was inclined toward forcible ejection from the warm tavern. As one, eyes lowered.
    “Ah, I see how ‘tis!” Bokran continued,