Abarrach, the Realm of stone. Here, on a barren  world of underground caverns built around a core of  molten lava, the lesser races -- humans, elves,  and dwarves -- seem to have all died off. Here, too,  what may well be the last remnants of the once  powerful Sartan still struggle to survive. For Haplo  and Alfred -- enemies by heritage, traveling  companions by necessity -- Abarrach may reveal more than  either dares to discover about the history of  Sartan... and the future of all their descendants. Abarrach, the Realm of stone. Here, on a barren world of underground caverns built around a core of molten lava, the lesser races -- humans, elves, and dwarves -- seem to have all died off. Here, too, what may well be the last remnants of the once powerful Sartan still struggle to survive. For Haplo and Alfred -- enemies by heritage, traveling companions by necessity -- Abarrach may reveal more than either dares to discover about the history of Sartan... and the future of all their descendants. Abarrach, the Realm of stone. Here, on a barren world of underground caverns built around a core of molten lava, the lesser races -- humans, elves, and dwarves -- seem to have all died off. Here, too, what may well be the last remnants of the once powerful Sartan still struggle to survive. For Haplo and Alfred -- enemies by heritage, traveling companions by necessity -- Abarrach may reveal more than either dares to discover about the history of Sartan... and the future of all their descendants. Abarrach, the Realm of stone. Here, on a barren world of underground caverns built around a core of molten lava, the lesser races -- humans, elves, and dwarves -- seem to have all died off. Here, too, what may well be the last remnants of the once powerful Sartan still struggle to survive. For Haplo and Alfred -- enemies by heritage, traveling companions by necessity -- Abarrach may reveal more than either dares to discover about the history of Sartan... and the future of all their descendants. Margaret Weis and Tracy Hickman published their first novel in the Dragonlance Chronicles series, Dragons of Autumn Twilight, in 1984. More than thirty-five years later, they have collaborated on more than thirty novels together in many different fantasy worlds. Hickman is currently working with his son, Curtis Hickman, for The VOID, creating stories and designs for whole-body, fully immersive VR experience. Weis teaches the competitive dog racing sport flyball. She and Hickman are working on future novels in this series. CHAPTER 1     KAIRN TELEST, ABARRACH       “FATHER, WE HAVE NO CHOICE. YESTERDAY, ANOTHER child died. The day before, his grandmother. The cold grows more bitter, every day. Yet,” his son pauses, “I’m not certain it is the cold, so much, as the darkness, Father. The cold is killing their bodies, but it is the darkness that is killing their spirit. Baltazar is right. We must leave now, while we still have strength enough to make the journey.”   Standing outside in the dark hallway, I listen, observe, and wait for the king’s reply.   But the old man does not immediately respond. He sits on a throne of gold, decorated with diamonds large as a man’s fist, raised up on a dais overlooking a huge hall made of polished marble. He can see very little of the hall. Most of it is lost in shadow. A gas lamp, sputtering and hissing on the floor at his feet, gives off only a dim and feeble light.   Shivering, the old king hunches his shoulders deeper into the fur robes he has piled over and around him. He slides himself nearer the front edge of the throne, nearer the gas lamp, although he knows he will extract no warmth from the flickering flame. I believe it is the comfort of the light he seeks. His son is right. The darkness is killing us.   “Once there was a time,” the old king says, “when the lights in the palace burned all night long. We danced all night long. We’d grow too hot, with the dancing, and we’d run outside the palace walls, run out into the streets beneath the cavern ceiling where it was cool, and we’d throw ourselves into the soft grass and laugh and laugh.” He paused. “Your mother loved to dance.”   “Yes, Father, I remember.” His son’s voice is soft and patient.   Edmund knows his father is not rambling. He knows the king has made a decision, the only one he can make. He knows that his father is now saying good-bye.   “The orchestra was over there.” The old king lifts a gnarled finger, points to a corner of the hall shrouded in deep darkness. “They’d play all during the sleep-half of the cycle, drinking parfruit wine to keep the fire in their blood. Of course, they all got drunk. By the end of the cycle, half of them weren’t playing the same music as the other half. But that didn’t matter to us. It only made us laugh more. We laughed a lot, then.”   The old man hums to himself, a melody of his youth. I have been standing in the shadows of the hall, all this time, watching the scene through