"Is it his imagination or does there seem to be a clearing of the stale breath blowing from below? Its breeze, somehow, suddenly comes clean without the sound of its wheezing. Without sight he can only speculate, can only wrestle with the growing fear of what might be going on about him. A restless anger gnaws at him and his hand tightens upon the blade." There is that which has slumbered deep in the heart of this world called Thrae-and for more than five thousand years, it has dreamt. Of all that was, only the barest portion has survived in the ashes of a thousand wars fought amongst the...