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father. Why didn’t you save me then?”
     
    Al-Aaron raised a stick, pressing one end of it into the still - burning cloth, setting glowing embers of it rising upon the air. His wounded arm d iminished against him.
     
    “You weren’t ready.”
     
     
     
    ***   
     
     
     
    Al-Mariam waited. 
     
    The needle passed unwavering , held in the Mother’s hand. The thin white cloth took up the dappled sunlight of the small white room into a fire all its own. 
     
    “I know it’s been long, my dear,” the Mother said. “You’ve already surrendered so much. But the time hasn’t come for this.”
     
    The Mother’s voice flowed as did her hands, working threads of blue, green and gold. Her words were gentle, strong and deliberate. There was no mistake within them and Al-Mariam knew that, despite their closeness to each other, the Mother would brook no argument from one who had requested her counsel. But this time she would at least try.
     
    “But, he’s my brother,” she said, the words coming out more rushed than she’d planned. 
     
    The Mother’s needle passed through the cloth once more, her thin lips unmoved. 
     
    “I know I’m ready,” Al-Mariam persisted.
     
    “Then you know little, and less even than I’d thought.” The Mother set her cloth down, letting the needle rest on it. “You forget that it’s not your place to decide this. You’ve only just taken your oath and already you would so willingly cast it aside.”
     
    Al-Mariam bit her lip as she stared at the ground. She drew her hands deep within the shadow of her robes. She listened to the remembered screams of the dying. The pitiful cry of little Michalas resounding above them all, as he was torn from her arms while the hands of the soldiers groped her. Above the sordid and jeering faces, she suffered most at the sight of the banner of the Servian Lord, Ras Dumas, tossing upon the gray sky.
     
    Her voice trembled as she spoke. “I can’t abandon him.”
     
    “No, my child,” the Mother said. “But your love won’t save him. Neither will your wrath against the one who took him, or even against the ones who defiled you. Be wary of what you call truth. There is only one, and it is patient and good. There are no others. Be wary of letting your passions rule you.”
     
    “Than what would you have me do? I know Ras Dumas let him live. I know that for some foul reason he kept him for his own. I won’t abandon my brother just because the tower of Ras Dumas has fallen silent.”
     
    “But you must. The loss of Dumas and the other Servian Lords is no small thing. The Dragon has reclaimed its servants, and we were caught unaware. I do not care for this veil which has passed over us.”
     
    “It’s not Dumas that I care for!”
     
    “And that is why you must be wary,” the Mother said. “Our fate is tied to that of the Fallen Ones, just as they are bound by prophecy to us. It may be the only thing that saves us. Don’t let your desire hide this from you.”
     
    “What of Al-Aaron?  Does he not seek his own heart first?”
     
    “The path upon which Al-Aaron has placed himself is a perilous one.”
     
    “But you believe him.”
     
    “No. But I believe in the spirit of Rua which works through him. His path can’t be bent. It’s a truth, I fear, for which he will suffer terribly. No. Do not be jealous of the child. I think you should pity him instead, for he’ll need it in the darker days to come.”
     
     
     
    ***
     
     
     
    The burning motes drifted for a time before they fell.
     
    Al-Aaron removed the charred stave from the dying coals as he watched Chaelus step away beneath the outstretched bower of the twisted oak.
     
    The cold breath of Malius’ spirit settled against his ear.
     
    “You nearly failed me, child,” Malius said.
     
    “I’m…sorry,” Al-Aaron whispered.
     
    “Don’t bother me with your sorrow. You were prideful and arrogant, and you nearly cost me my son because of