"Good," Szass Tam said.

Homen took a breath. "Master, if I may ask, what happened? We were winning, and then…" He waved his hand as if he didn't know how to describe the immolation that had overtaken them.

Szass Tam wasn't sure he could, either. He disliked admitting that all sorcery, including his own, was crippled. But Azhir and Homen were two of his ablest generals, and they needed to comprehend in order to give good advice and make sound decisions.

But because it would do no good and might shake their faith in him, he didn't admit that he should have known what was coming-that Yaphyll's prophecy had revealed the event, if only he'd had the wit to interpret it. The white queen had been Mystra, the black one, Shar, goddess of the night, and the assassin, Cyric, god of murder. The fall of the city, the collapse of the cavern, and the agonies of the tree referred to the ordered structures of magic crumbling into chaos.

Now that he'd had a chance to reflect, he thought he might even understand how Yaphyll's initial prediction of victory had so resoundingly failed to come true. It would have, if the world to which it pertained had endured. But Mystra's demise was a discontinuity, the birth of a new reality, where the rules were different and certainties were warped.

In touch with that terrible tomorrow, Yaphyll had seized some of the blue fire-enough to break the hold of Thakorsil's Seat and negate the power of the Death Moon Orb. Szass Tam supposed he was lucky it hadn't empowered her to do worse.

By the time he finished his abridged explanation, Azhir and Homen were gawking at him. He felt a twinge of disappointment. He understood that since they were mortal and not archmages, he could scarcely have expected them to share his own perspective, but it was still irksome to see two of his chief lieutenants looking so flummoxed and dismayed.

People, even the best of them, were such flawed and inadequate creations.

"What does this mean for all of us?" Homen asked.

"Well," Szass Tam said, "plainly, we failed to win the overwhelming victory we anticipated, and now we're facing some unexpected problems. But we took the Keep of Sorrows. That's something."

"If the ground doesn't crumble beneath it and cast it all the way down into Priador," Azhir said.

"Portions of the cliffs are still collapsing," Szass Tam said, "but I examined the granite beneath the castle. It will hold."

"That's good to know." Homen drained his silver cup. "But when I asked what this all meant, I was asking about… the whole world, I suppose. Is everybody going to die?"

Szass Tam snorted. "Of course not. Do you imagine the gods are necessary to the existence of the universe? They're not. They're simply spirits, more powerful than the imps that conjurors summon and command, but much the same otherwise. Deities have died before, goddesses of magic have died, and the cosmos survived. As it will again. As for us, we simply must weather a period of adversity."

"How do we do that?" Azhir asked.

"My thought," Szass Tam said, "is that we must garrison the Keep of Shadows. It's too valuable to abandon. It can play a vital role when we go back on the offensive."

"But you don't intend to continue attacking now," Homen said.

"No. We need to withdraw the majority of our forces back into the north, to rebuild our strength and lay new plans. But you two are the soldiers. If you care to recommend a more aggressive course, I'm willing to listen."

Azhir and Homen exchanged glances. "No, Master," the latter said. "Your idea seems the most prudent."

"Good. Then let's sort out the details."

Bareris sang a charm of healing, plucking the accompaniment on the strings of his yarting. Mirror, currently a smeared reflection of the bard, hovered silently beside him.

Aoth had been escorted to a dark tent, and sat with bandages wrapped around his eyes. He opened them from time to time and glimpsed the world for just a moment, even though a man with normal vision wouldn't have seen through the bandages or in the dark. Then sight turned against him, jabbing pain into his head, and he had no choice but to flinch away from it.

He felt a cool, tingling caress on his face, a sign that the song was trying to heal him. Bards too were reportedly having difficulty casting spells, but not as much as wizards.

Still, Aoth doubted the charm would be any more effective than the prayers of the priests who had sought to help him already, and at the end of the song, he was proven right. Another peek brought another sickening spasm, and he gritted his teeth and hissed.

"I'm sorry," Bareris said. "I don't know anything else to try."

"It's all right," Aoth said, although it was anything but. He felt a pang of resentment and struggled to quell it, for there was no reason to take out his frustrations on his friend. He could scarcely blame Bareris for failing to deliver what even accomplished clerics could not achieve.

"At least," Bareris said, "you can see through Brightwing's eyes."

"Yes, that solves everything. I just have to live the rest of my life outdoors."

"No, you have to resign yourself to being a blind man indoors, at least until your friends find a way to restore you. But outside, you'll be whole. You'll be able to fly, cast spells, and fight the same as always."

"No. I won't. It's clumsy when your sight isn't centered in your own eyes. It throws off everything in relation to your hands and body."

"In time, you'll learn-"

"Stop! Please, just stop. How are the men and the griffons?"

"The army's still in disarray, and we left much of the baggage train behind when we ran. But I made sure our company got its fair share of what food there is, and of the healers' attentions."

"Good. The Griffon Legion's yours now, what's left of it. I'm sure Nymia will proclaim you captain."

"If she does, I'll accept, but only until you're ready to resume your duties."

"That's good of you to say." Aoth opened his eyes. He'd found that, even though he knew the discomfort that would follow, the urge periodically became irresistible. An instant later, he stiffened.

Because he saw two Barerises, the figures superimposed. One-the real one, presumably-sat on a campstool, cradling his yarting in his lap. Smirking, the illusory one dangled a marionette and twitched the strings to make it dance. The puppet was thick in the torso, clad in the trappings of a griffon rider, and clutched a spear in its hand.

A throb of pain closed Aoth's eyes again, but it wasn't as overwhelming as usual. He was so shocked, so appalled, that it blunted his physical distress.

He took a deep breath. "I've told you, this blindness isn't like normal blindness."

"Yes," Bareris said.

"I'm beginning to sense that at certain moments, it may even turn into the opposite of blindness. It may reveal things that normal eyes can't see."

"Really? Well, then that's good, isn't it?"

Aoth felt a crazy impulse to laugh. "Perhaps it is, if it shows the truth. You can help me determine if it did. I was ready to desert, and you talked me out of it. Remember?"

Bareris hesitated. "Yes."

"Did you seek to persuade me as any man might try to influence another, or did you use your voice to lay an enchantment on me?"

This time Bareris sat mute for several heartbeats, a silence as damning as any confession. "I did it to save your honor," he said at last, "and because I knew you'd feel like a coward if you left."

"Liar! You did it because you wanted me, and the riders who would follow my lead, to stay and fight. For ten years, I've been your only friend. I've sought out your company when everyone else shunned your bitterness and your obsession. But you never truly felt friendship for me, did you? I was just a resource you could exploit in pursuit of your mad vendetta."