At which Larken sang.

Her voice, it is true, had been ruined according to all bardic standards. The wind and the scarring sand had taken from her a singular and famous gift.

Yet she made something new from that damaged instrument. From that tattered voice arose a depth of phrasing, a power of celebration and creativity thaV her clear, exalting, and sometimes mimicking voice had never owned. No, the sands never again altered or melted at her singing, nor did water rise from the desert nor storms subside. Instead, the hearts of lis shy;teners transformed. Accompanied by her harp, the new songs turned fear into faith, and sorrow into resolution and joy.

Songs of her own composing, all.

False prophecies passed for truth in Fordus's time. Now, a century later, Takhisis has returned. She stalks like a lion across Ansalon, and it is time for new prophecy-true words to stand against her in the continuing darkness.

I am no prophet, but this I write, in the ninety-seventh year since the Rending.

The half-elven child I saw in the desert, held by her mother as gracefully, as lovingly, as that mother once held the shallow drum of her calling …

That girl will be a mother as well, and a grand shy;mother, and a great-grandmother.

For Larken and Stormlight peopled my vision, and from their line, two centuries from now, a child will be born under a gilded orb, and the Namer's task will be easy that night.

Goldmoon, they will call her.

Priestess of Mishakal. She will dry the tears and commence the healing. And she will not travel alone, but gather others to her.

And their deeds will echo like the lost song in the mountains.

Hear the word of the prophet.

Vincus Uth Vaananen

Silvanesti

97A.C.