The Children of Llothora

  ~We are all at risk until that Devourer is destroyed,~ the Sky Father said as it departed, and Alchamedus' mental construct crumbled away.

  Alchamedus descended into the tower, seeking the comfort of his massive chair next to a roaring fire, a hot drink on the table beside the chair, and his favorite book waiting for him, but not even these comforts could bring him peace — the drink was bitter on his tongue, the chair firmer than he would have liked, the fire not as warm as normal. Even the book — a trashy and scandalous romance — provided no solace from his thoughts, nor from the memory of those glowing eyes.

  He was an old man. His power was fading. He might be the Arakon, but he was no longer at the height of his strength. He was no match for that thing. If he had the power of the Great Spirit of the Sharynwyn Marshes at his disposal, perhaps, but that way was closed to anyone not of Sharynwyn blood. If only his successor would appear! A new Arakon at the height of their power would stand a chance, no matter how small, of surviving an encounter with such a being.

  His mind drifted back to whatever he had sensed in Allandaral. He hadn't had the opportunity to go back and study it further. It was power, he was sure of that, but what kind of power could hold his attention like that? It wasn't Irik'or. He would have recognized that. It was familiar though, almost like...

  Like his own power. Like another Arakon was out there.

  Hope blossomed in Alchamedus' breast. If his successor had finally arrived, there was a chance. But would his successor come into their power in time to stop the Devourer?