It's time to acknowledge all those who have helped me bring Seri, Karon, and Gerick to life. First and foremost, Linda, the eternally patient listener and perceptive questioner, Pete, who told me all the right things and consulted on myriad technical issues, and Andrew, who asked the magical question, "Have you written any more of that story, Mom?" Then there are the Word Weavers old and new for being my extra eyes, Markus the Fighter Guy and his henchwoman Laurey and henchman Bob for assistance with combat, and Susan and Di for additional horse lore. Much appreciation to the New York crew, as well: Lucienne Diver, Laura Anne Gilman, and Anne Sowards. And roses all around for my faithful readers all over the world, especially the Roundtable and the Warrior group. You, too, are family, and your enthusiasm and encouragement brighten every day.

J'Savan stared, unblinking, at the dark blotch moving slowly across the dune sea, out where fingers of green grass were reaching into the desert. The young Gardener stared, not so much because he was concerned or felt any urgency about his assignment to watch for Zhid stragglers; after all, no Zhid had been sighted in southern Eidolon for almost two years. But he knew that if he so much as lowered one eyelid, the utter boredom of his post was going to put him to sleep. A man could appreciate only so much of the burnt copper sun and the heady scent of moisture, and the cool storm clouds the Weather Workers sent out from the Vales ensured that the blustering wind never ceased. The reawakening desert was beauty transcendent, life reasserting itself over the dead lands of Ce Uroth. But enough was enough.

He squinted into the western brightness. The blotch was likely a wild goat or perhaps a lame gazelle—too slow and erratic for a healthy one. At worst it was a scavenger wolf. The creature disappeared behind a dune, reappeared, vanished again.