His father had chosen to act, to make a move in the game. Where would this end? Fretting about it would not help: Swiftarrow emptied his mind, becoming one with the trees, one with the mist. Leaving the world of men behind – the sound of many footsteps and soft voices – he travelled the Way, soaring across wastelands of time and space. All was one. Time was as nothing. And then they came, those he had been waiting for: Lord Fang, ghostlike in robes of white, and another man. One-handed and lean as a cat, he walked with the swagger of the Tribes, more used to the saddle: Lord Ishbal. Wrapped in heavy winter cloaks beaded with ant-sized raindrops, Lord Fang and Lord Ishbal waited beneath the bare-branched peach trees. It was raining. Swiftarrow wore no cloak, and his clothes were wet, stuck to his skin. His hair sent little rivers of rainwater down his face. It was time to move. “My dear son.” Lord Fang smiled, mocking as ever, as Swiftarrow stepped out of the mist.
