Prologue

Ped walked at the back. He tugged at the back of Rastas' cloak, but the burly man gave him no answer. The wizard and the two others they were following, wary of pursuit, slipped into an alley but Rastas went straight after them. They didn't see him. There were other people passing in the street now, but Ped paid them no heed. They never looked at him--why should he look at them? Instead Ped looked round the corner. The wizard was talking to someone he didn't know, and Rastas was nowhere to be seen. They must have interrupted some sort of secret meeting.

The stranger gestured wildly, waving his hands in the air and the wizard turned to leave. Only then did Ped see Rastas, who was lying on the cobblestones in a pool of blood. He wasn't moving.

The wizard left, and Ped ran, clutching the thing he had taken from the wizard's belt. They wouldn't catch him--they couldn't, but he felt like he would keep running forever. It was always the ones he ran with who fell behind.

Far away in the night a man stood alone in a pool of lamplight. An observer--and there was one--would be able to tell at a glance that he was a member of the Asgran well-dressed elite. He wore an elegant half-jacket over a plain shirt, and his buttons were ornamented with silver tracings. His collar came up high over the back of his neck and was decorated with strands of silverwork that wound over and about one another.

What was he doing out here all alone, the child mused. Didn't he know he could meet a bad end in this part of town, coming here like this without a guard?

From under the door behind him there drifted lively and stately strains of music and and the rhythmic clatter of many people dancing. A party. Windows in the same building showed cracks of light, but the shutters were closed. Surely, in the morning, many people would know about the high entertainment and revelry of that night but for now the identities of the party-goers would have to remain a mystery.

Not so this man, however. His name was Fairfield and he was here to meet someone. This someone had stood up the young lord Fairfield, and the young lord was becoming worried. Perhaps someone had discovered his plan or there was a traitor among his collaborators.

After some length of time the child watching from the other building closed his eyes and slept. A few minutes later Fairfield blew out his lantern and departed into the night.

Ferland Bryon fell through silver skies. Glorious light surrounded him on all sides. In the distance he could see faint wisps of cloud and the occasional speck that was an island. Far away below him and to his left there was a gray streak which marked some kind of boundary. All he carried was a small backpack containing a few small items and a heavy iron staff covered in faintly etched runes. A faint wind whipped his hair and lifted his gray cloak like a flag. He had been falling for three days and hadn't seen another living being since the first.

The wind shifted. He was nearing his destination. He struggled free of his backpack and allowed it to fall freely with him while he dug through its contents. Eventually he produced a spyglass and recovered the pack before it could drift too far away. He surveyed the area of silver sky beneath him with the spyglass and delicately adjusted his direction while he slowed his descent.

Worlds away in Asgra a thousand people starved and another thousand untied their fishing boats at daybreak and sailed out over the sea. Galleys rowed by hundreds of slaves sped across the still water carrying important messages or troops. Bankers mourned the failure of the last colonization project. Bakers waited for the next shipment of grain.

Byron tumbled onto the flat surface of a tiny piece of land. There were no obvious exits but nearby another man was rising from meditation. The stranger wore matte black robes, and about his short but muscular body was draped a long piece of heavy chain studded with metal spines His most striking feature was a piece of heavy white linen tied about his head, covering his eyes. It was thick enough to render him entirely sightless. Bryon kept his distance.

The stranger spoke first. "You have brought it?"

"Your employer has deposited my payment at the agreed location." Byron took a small wooden box from his pack and held it out for blind man, who took it without inclining his head. Byron watched him intently. "A pity you cannot see the open space, the brilliance of this place."

"You mistake me. I see the currents, the colours. This domain is a moving palette, a painting that constantly flows in circuits and ribbons. I can almost not move for fear of disturbing the forms which press in on us."

The blind artist opened the box and ran his fingers over the contents. "It is genuine," he said. "May I ask, we both know that your reward is nothing compared what you have given me. Why did you agree to this?"

"I have my reasons. It is time for some things to come to light." As Bryon turned away he fingered his staff, which glowed brightly. Then he was gone. A few minutes later when the spell was complete the blind man stepped back into his own world. The place of their meeting showed no sign that anything had passed. Years were nothingness in the void.