Prologue
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Jarran Klis waited on the shore of the River for his son. It had been a long time, even in Death, but not long enough.
He had not wanted to see his son in the Land of the Dead for many more years, but it could not be helped. Destiny had her way with all of them, and she had few favourites. Jarran had given up on hoping that he might one day join the group of those she loved; that way was reserved for others, who were as removed from his universe as unicorns and centaurs.
In the centre of the River, there was a ripple against the current, and then Devnos appeared from the waist up, blinking around him. Jarran felt his face break into a smile, and he rushed impatiently further ahead, until his ankles were in the River.
For a moment, Devnos accepted his new existence without question, as he should—rare was the person who recognized and refused Death's gentle forgetfulness.
But then… Jarran knew the exact moment Devnos recognized everything, and the second his son stepped back, horrified. "No! No…I… No!"
Premonition crept along Jarran's skin, but he pushed it away, refusing to acknowledge the idea. "Devnos," he breathed, then called his son's name more loudly.
Devnos' head snapped up, and for a moment he wavered. "Father." So much shame, guilt and love in that word.
Jarran opened his arms, and felt the grateful tears trace the lines of his face. Until now, he had not realized how much he missed his family. "My son. Come!"
But Devnos' hesitation had left him, and his feet remained firmly in the River. "I will not," and Devnos' voice was very cold, "leave Sanar to fall victim to Prophecy."
"You can't stop it," Jarran told him, pleading with his son to understand, and to give up his futile hopes. "Sanar will play her part, and—"
"And she will hate it!" Devnos screamed back.
Jarran stepped back, startled and hurt, as if his son had punched him in the gut. "The Kavishka—"
"Of course you take his side—he's more your son than I," Devnos snapped, almost to himself. Gulping large, unnecessary breaths, Devnos paused in his tirade, dark eyes wild.
Hours later, Devnos continued, now in the voice of Jarran's teenage son explaining a mundane but necessary scene in one of his stories. "Sanar has had too many choices made for her; if the Prophecy has its way, Sanar will just lose sight of the man in the Kavishka."
"It cannot be averted."
Devnos glared, and he looked painfully like the man he had become, and not at all like the boy Jarran remembered. "She will hate him, and she will be miserable. Is that your 'missing you' gift for your favourite daughter?"
"I love my children," Jarran snapped, losing patience.
"It appears that I love them more than do you," Devnos retorted. "Perhaps because I know them, and care little for the Prophecy."
Jarran was stone-faced. "The Prophecy cannot be stopped, Devnos."
Devnos turned away. "Sanar must have a choice."
"Choices are a luxury."
Devnos didn't seem to hear Jarran's words; he made no reply as he sank deeper into the River, so that the water covered his head, and he pressed against the boundary of Death and Life.
There he lay.
Watching.
Waiting.
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Devnos Klis would wait four years.