CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Dust staggered through a writhing mass of vision things, barely able to tell what was real from what would be, or might be, or had never been by now. He concentrated on the feel of the ground under his feet, and staggered onward.
It had seemed like such an obvious thing, to dive into the battle and cut loose the winds of fate. It had seemed like the only way to fit into what the fates wanted, when it was now so clear that the priests of his order had been trying to manipulate things in defiance of everything that was right, and holy, and sane.
“And do you still think that you are any of those things?” the voice of Angarthim Ash demanded. The man was walking along beside him now, and Dust lashed out, but the other man parried the blow and moved, lashing out so that Dust
