Khanadan paced up and down the edge of the rug that lay on the floor of the small library. He was not in a particularly good mood. The task of finding the man who had threatened Hiril Alkawen had been a failure, and the young man felt the weight of defeat and chafed under it.
There was something...something tugging at the back of his mind that wouldn't let go. He had been told of the young huntress, Fairlain, who now lay in a sickbed at the top of the manor house; how she had been found battered and bloody among the stones beneath Amon Sûl, and of how someone had commited the unspeakable outrage of marking her young flesh with a hot iron. The old soldier, Lindovor, had not seen any of those that might be responsible, though they had not been alone. Unspeakable, yes...but not uncommon. With a pained expression, Khanadan shut his eyes and thought back to his early childhood.
Khand was a land of sun-scorched steppes and cruel princes, all vying for the favour of the Minul-Nâlu, the ring bearer of the god-king Tar-Mairu, the one known as Sauron to the Free Peoples of the West. Power was measured in the possession of horses and slaves, for the land itself held little value. There were few freemen, and those that made their riches by trade generally also made themselves no better than servants to the warlord princes that could either protect or destroy their caravans. There was said to be strength and power in the number of slaves that a lord held, but it was the blue magi that understood that the true power lay within the slaves themselves. This strange, old man from the West spoke words of hope to those that were enslaved, hoping to kindle their spirits to such a flame that they would rise up against their masters. Little Yôsim's parents had believed the words, and had risen up with many other slaves against the house of Amizrak, but there were many more that still bore the yoke of fear and in the bloody slaughter that followed, both the boy's parents were killed. Regretting his failed attempt, the blue wizard had taken the orphaned boy up and protected him from the avenging steel by traveling north with him 'til he could be sheltered in the White City beyond the river, where he was known only as the Khand person...Khan'adan.
The young lore master sighed and began to pace once more. It had been a long time since he had conjured the memories of that time, and in his mind he still could see a glimpse of the old warlord sitting astride his horse, surveying the carnage that had taken place at his command. And at his side sat his son Aphar, not much older than Yôsim himself, dressed in fine silks that gleamed like jewels...Suddenly it fell into place, like a missing shard that was needed to complete an ancient vase, and Khanadan knew at once who it was who set himself against them. Kneeling by the hearth, he dipped his finger into the ash, and on the stones he drew a lidless eye supported by two spears-the sigil which both his mother and father had borne in their bodies and which now lay burned into the breast of the hapless girl, Fairlain. Not the father, but the son....Aphar Amizrak, Son of the Spear and servant of Sauron.
