“You’re going to change the fundamental laws of the universe?” a shocked Neskia murmured.

“Such a goal is the pinnacle of evolution, elevating an entire universe. We will be the instigators of a genesis from which our mythical gods would cower in awe. Now do you see why I don’t concern myself with the antics of Gore and his kind? I will simply wish them out of existence. And it shall be so.”

IT WAS MATTUEL who had the privilege of helping Edeard up the long winding steps to the top of the tower. Edeard wouldn’t put up with it from any of his other children, or grandchildren, or great-grandchildren, or even the great-great-grandchildren and certainly not the great-great-great-grandchildren, most of whom who were just children. And Grolral, the first of his fifth-generation offspring and one whom he adored, was only seven weeks old and really not interested in much apart from feeding and sleeping. But Mattuel was the favored son, mainly because he’d been born so much later than the others, four and a half years after Finitan’s guidance. That shouldn’t have made him any more special-and by that time none of the first seven cared about such things-but Edeard always regarded him as proof of success in living this life as he’d sworn to do. By the time the four Skylords appeared in Querencia’s skies, events across the planet weren’t going too badly this time around. Each town and most larger villages had a big park designated for the gathering of those who sought guidance. The open areas were based on the Waterwalker’s solemn advice that the Skylords didn’t really like the towers of Eyrie and used them only out of respect for the bygone race that had sculpted them in the first place. Simple and cheap, the parks prevented any economic problems and petty rivalries. That also meant nobody trekked across half the continent to the towers of Eyrie, with all the problems that entailed.

Except that today Makkathran was once again host to crowds not seen in a hundred years. The last time so many had thronged its streets was when the eight huge galleons of the flotilla had returned from their exploratory voyage circumnavigating the world. Edeard had sailed with them, enjoying the occasional bout of nostalgic sadness as they discovered the coastlines and seas he recalled from over a century before on his own private time line. This time he’d made sure the problems afflicting Querencia in the wake of the Skylords were well and truly eliminated before setting out. There were no more attempts to dominate and bind people to a cause or family or individual. The newer generations of stronger psychics were welcomed and integrated into a society whose prosperity was on a steady climb thanks to the expansion of the Eggshaper Guild and an abundance of genistars. New lands were being opened in what once had been the western wilds. Even the youngsters of Makkathran’s Grand Families were encouraged to seek their fortune amid the fresh opportunities to extend the old estates and businesses, though that process was clearly going to outlast him by some considerable period.

This day was the day when Querencia paid tribute to the Waterwalker for transforming their world to one of enlightenment and potential. Already his era was being proclaimed the planet’s golden age.

“I hope to the Lady they’re right,” he’d muttered to Kristabel as they woke together that last morning.

She’d given him a warning stare as one of their great-great-granddaughters helped comb her thin strands of white hair. “Don’t give me the Ashwell optimism now. Not today.”

Amusement and appreciation made him smile, which triggered a nasty bout of coughing deep in his chest. Two of the Novices attending him eased him forward on the bed. One proffered a steaming potion for him to inhale. He almost refused out of pure age-driven obstinacy but relented when he recalled Finitan’s last days. The sweet girls were only trying to help. He breathed the vapor down and was relieved to find the muscle quakes subsiding. “Yes, dear.”

“Ha!”

He smiled again. One of the Novices started unbuttoning his bed shirt. “I can still manage that, thank you,” he told her smartly. Of course he couldn’t, not with his hands, horrible swollen, gnarled things that they were now. The potions the doctors made him drink did nothing for his terribly arthritic joints anymore. But thankfully, his third hand remained more than capable. Finitan had remarked on something similar, he recalled.

When he blinked and looked around, everyone in the big room was staring anxiously at him. “What?” he asked.

“You drifted off there again,” Kristabel said.

“Honious! Let’s hope I last till they arrive.”

That earned him another disapproving stare from Kristabel while the Novices drew sharp nervous breaths and assured him he would. “Actually, I was thinking of Finitan, if you must know,” he told a bedroom full of too many people.

“Goodness, I can’t even remember what he looks like anymore,” Kristabel said regretfully.

“It was nearly two hundred years ago,” Edeard reminded her. “But we’ll be seeing him again soon enough.”

“Aye, that we will.”

Edeard smiled at her again, blocking out the awful indignity of their well-meaning attendants bustling around. His farsight found the rest of his family assembling in the lounges on the upper floors of the ziggurat, all of them abuzz with conflicting emotion. Contrary to expectation, their presence actually comforted him. There were so many, and all had done well-or at least hadn’t turned to the bad. That was his true measure.

Eventually he and Kristabel were dressed in their finest robes without too much assistance. He’d decided against the Waterwalker’s black cloak; at his age it would have made him look ridiculous. Besides, after eleven tenures as Mayor, he felt the robes of office were more appropriate.

Edeard managed to walk out of the bedroom to the first big lounge, but that was about as far as his muscles could manage without a decent rest. Mattuel’s third hand steadied him as he sank down into a tall straight-backed chair. He was about to throw the youngster an angry look but relented. In truth, he’d needed the support. Landing on his ass at the start of this ceremony would hardly be dignified.

“Thank you,” he said quietly. Not that Mattuel could ever be considered a youngster anymore; his own two hundredth birthday had been celebrated a few years back. Edeard couldn’t quite remember when.

One by one, the family came up to him and Kristabel for one last embrace and a few words of comfort. The tradition had grown up in the last century and a half. It was a good one, he decided. Clears the air, allows reconciliation for any too-hasty words and stupid feuds. Not that I have any. That particular harsh lesson had been learned two hundred years ago and learned well.

So now he could greet them all gladly and receive their wishes for a safe journey without any regrets. If there was sorrow, it was from seeing how his children had aged. Rolar and Wenalee, who surely would be seeking guidance themselves the next time a Skylord visited. Jiska and Natran and their huge brood of eleven children, fifty-seven grandchildren, and he didn’t know how many after that except this morning they had to be accommodated on the eighth floor and longtalk their farewells-there was simply no room on the tenth. Marilee, Analee, and Marvane, still together, and with eighteen children between them. Edeard clutched the merchant captain warmly when it was his turn. “You can still come with us if you like,” he offered with a chuckle. “I expect you could do with the respite.”

“Daddy, that’s horrible.”

“He doesn’t want a respite.”

“We treat him nicely.”

“When he’s good.”