Prologue
’Ware the wielder of the blue forged blade.
The Heir comes with fire and the sword
To bring destruction to all that our God holds holy.
Terin Berinath will gather the chosen
And call to war the unbelievers.
The child born when three moons are two,
Who can but with the eye be seen,
Who walks in the realm of shadows,
Is the one who will tear down all that the faithful have built.
The Priest of Arnitath focused on the symbol drawn on the bottom of the prophecy scroll—a harp with a quill and a key crossed behind it—and committed it to memory. The mark of Terin Berinath, the Heir of Jeragoth. He rolled up the scroll and bowed deeply to his superior. “Excellency, I am prepared for my task. My will is Arnitath’s.”
“As it should be,” Warder Meterius replied. “There is no will but his.” He raised his right hand, palm outward, toward the Priest. “Receive your guardian and go forward to begin your task. Prepare yourself well, for they will send Novadi to stop you.”
“I will Excellency.”
