Prologue The Year of the Reborn Hero (1463 DR) YOU CANNOT PRESUME THAT THIS CREATURE IS NATURAL, IN ANY SENSE OF the word,” the dark-skinned Shadovar woman known as the Shifter told the old graybeard. “She is perversion incarnate.” The old druid Erlindir shuffled his sandal-clad feet and gave a great “harrumph!” “Incarnate, I tell you.” The Shifter tapped her finger against the old druid’s temple and ran it delicately down under his eye and across his cheek to touch his crooked nose. “So, you’re really in front of me this time,” Erlindir cackled, referring to the fact that when one addressed the Shifter, typically one was actually addressing a projected image, a phantasm, of the most elusive enchantress. “I told you that you could trust me, Birdcaller,” she replied, using a nickname she’d given him when she had met him at his grove many months before. “If I didn’t believe you, would I have come to this place?” He looked around at the dark images of the Shadowfell, his gaze settling on the twisted keep and tower before him, with its many spires and multiple—likely animated—gargoyles, all leering at him and smiling hungrily. They had just journeyed through a most unpleasant swamp, reeking of death and decay and populated by undead monstrosities. This castle was not much of an improvement. “Why, Erlindir, you