Epilogue

Alazrian knelt at the edge of the pond, staring at his watery reflection. He had laid aside his fishing pole because he hadn't caught a single trout, and because he was fascinated by the face looking back at him. A small distance away, Praxtin-Tar was kneeling near a tree, facing far-off Falindar and praying softly.

The warlord prayed four times a day, and his time in Talistan hadn't eroded his devotion.

Since returning to Talistan a month ago, Alazrian and Praxtin-Tar had learned much about each other. Like Alazrian, Praxtin-Tar was alone now, for Crinion and the other warriors had returned to Lucel-Lor. Even Rook had been freed and had been given a horse to ride south, far from his vicious master. Now Praxtin-Tar was in self-imposed exile, left to explore the strange Empire and to protect his charge, the newly named regent of Talistan.

Curiously, Alazrian had grown to like Praxtin-Tar, and Praxtin-Tar himself had slowly begun to thaw. Also, Alazrian was learning the Triin language. His frequent bondings with the warlord had allowed him to absorb more than just thoughts—he had knowledge now, and was soaking it up at a furious rate. No longer did he need to touch Praxtin-Tar to hold a conversation. Alazrian's powers were expanding, and he knew it. Were it not such a beautiful day, he might even have been alarmed.

But Alazrian was in too good a mood to worry. Biagio had declared him regent, and though the emperor himself had declined to come to Talistan, he had promised Alazrian assistance. For now, that satisfied Alazrian. He was content to have Biagio's threatening shadow as a tool, and the fear of it had kept Talistan together. So far, no one had opposed his ascension as regent, and he doubted anyone would.

Praxtin-Tar finished his prayers and went to Alazrian, regarding him inquisitively.

"What are you doing?" he asked in Triin.

"Looking at my reflection." Alazrian smiled. "I think I look more Triin as I get older. Do you think so?"

"I have not known you long."

"No," said Alazrian. "But I am Triin, aren't I?"

"At least half so, yes."

"Praxtin-Tar?"

"Yes?"

"Are you happy here? I mean, are you finding what you're looking for?"

The question vexed the warlord. He said with a sigh, "Why do you ask such things? You are impertinent."

Alazrian glanced up from the pond. "Dyana Vantran told me that I may not have any answers until I'm older. She told me that I shouldn't question my powers, but that I should accept them and wait for life to tell me my purpose."

"Kalak's wife is a wise woman."

"And you? When will you have your answers, do you think?"

The warlord's face stirred with a smile. "I am here because I am waiting for you to find your answers," he said. "Then, perhaps, I will have my own."

"That was very evasive, Praxtin-Tar," joked Alazrian. "And not very helpful."

He gazed back down at his fair-haired reflection. Once, he had made a promise to his mother, to discover the purpose of his strange gifts. So far, he had no answers. But he was still young, and Dyana Vantran's advice seemed sound. Someday, he was sure, he would learn the truth.

Until then, he would enjoy the journey.

THE END