...Closing his eyes, Kelber cradled his father's head against his shoulder. He could not bear to look again on that strong face, that crushed skull that had held all the knowledge of Maygor lands, all the memories of a gentle wife, three fine sons and a blossoming daughter. Could not look again into the gray eyes, filigreed with scarlet, staring toward the erupting firehill.

Overwhelming grief followed shock. It laid leaden hands on Kelber's heart, weighted his soul. He took hold of the broad square hands that had guided his when he was learning to draw a bow, laid his cheek against the face that had come alight at his excellence in academics, strained to hear once more the deep voice shouting instructions on horsemanship.

Gone. The hand was limp, the face growing cold, the voice stilled. All the strength, encouragement, comfort, love-everything that had made Maygor the gentle, decent man he was-gone in an instant of red hate spewed by a firehill. Kelber pulled his father's body tighter against his chest and wept. While tears tracked his cheeks, mounting sorrow fanned the fires of rage within him until they burned as hot as the flames that leapt from Vol Dorend.