"Most men would need a century to justify one hour of their life." In a stone keep in Gath Moran, Hefthon sits and scribbles-histories, ramblings, songs. His immortal blood stirs in his ancient veins. He longs for risk, to hazard the life that comes so cheaply. In Elisidor, in his fortress Ord?il, Belisari sits and combs black dye into his hair, plasters pale cream on wrinkling skin. His time dwindles. He dreads risk, to hazard his numbered...