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By John Gregory Betancourt

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It must be time to muster the men No, that was wrong. King Elnar had died a long time ago... it now seemed a lifetime past. A sour, discordant note crept into the sounds in my head; the dancing lights pulsed, bright and dark, dark and bright. I reached for the memory, found it, shuddered at the sudden chill it brought. Yes, I remembered too well... remembered how King Elnar fell at the hands of hell-creatures in Ilerium. I had seen his severed head stuck on a pole in the mud outside of Kingstown, a warning and a trap for me when I returned there unexpectedly.

I hated the place at first sight, hated the Courts of Chaos and everything like them on some deep level I could not as yet understand... and yet I had agreed to go there. Here. The Beyond. Dworkin and I would have used the Trump and gone through immediately, but Aber stopped us. "We can't slink back to Chaos like whipped dogs," he said, folding his arms stubbornly. " I demanded, half joking. " he snapped back at me. " It wasn't so much a parade as an entourage. It took us less than an hour to round up every servant in the castle, plus two dozen sturdy men-at-arms.

He'd made sure of that. Before Juniper could fall, we had used his Trump to get away. In the Courts of Chaos, blood dripped up, stones moved like sheep across the ground, and somewhere, a serpent in a tower made of bones worked dark sorceries to destroy our family. If the Beyond truly was like the Courts of Chaos, that explained the walls, which now seemed to pulsate gently as they wept their phosphoric light. Overhead, the high-beamed wooden ceiling began to flicker like candles seen through a paper lantern.

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