In the wake of the War of Souls…

Bertram of the Order of Aesthetics, aging heir to the departed Astinus, master chronicler of Krynn, has once again sent forth his eyes and ears to gather information for his last testament to the lives of the people of Ansalon.

As the deeds of the mighty reshape the world, it is the common people Who must fight for survival in this new world. Be they elves fighting for their homeland, kender learning to live with fear, draconians building their first civilization, roving centaur bands of the deserts, or dwarves aiding their oppressed neighbors, no race or nation has been left untouched by the horrors of war.

Here is a land twisting in agony as a new world is born.

Bertrem's Guide to the War of Souls, Volume II

( Dragonlance - Bertrem's Guides, Book 3 )

Stan Brown, Mary H. Herbert,
and Don Perrin

The Last Testament of Bertrem the Aesthetic, Keeper of the Great Library of Palanthas

Throughout the long years of my life I have seen many strange sights. As the heavens above me have wheeled and turned, so too have armies marched to and fro over the face of Ansalon. Heroes have fought and died on both sides in wars. Fools and jesters have commanded nations to their destruction.

Amid all this, I have endeavored to follow the commandments of my master Astinus: to record but not to judge; to observe but not to praise or condemn.

This has been, perhaps, the hardest task of my life. My master was, above all things, passionless. I, who am less worthy of my high office, cannot claim to be so.

In my youth, I felt passions more strongly. Though I long ago suppressed any yearnings for the blandishments of the opposite sex, I freely confess in this, my last testament, that I have been tormented by a passion far more intense and consuming.

It is the passion for knowledge.

In the last days of the War of Souls, as each morning my steps led me along the well-worn path to my desk (located beneath a broad window so that I could watch the progress of the sun through the sky) I was seized with an almost uncontrollable urge to leave the Library, to leave Palanthas, and to go among the people so that I too might bear witness to the events transpiring in the world.

This urge I overcame with great difficulty, meditating in the silent hours upon the creed of Astinus that governs all the members of the Aesthetic Order. However, this morning I found it returning in all force when I opened a letter from a Knight of Solamnia, one Gerard Uth Mondar, who had actually witnessed the unimaginable events that took place in Sanction at the end of the war.

His account is extraordinary. Written in the rough style of a professional soldier, he nonetheless captures the sense of terror and beauty that must have been apparent to all those who watched as one god died and another became mortal. His letter is suffused with exhilaration over the triumph of Good over Evil, and restoring a balance to Krynn (though he does not, himself, fully understand what this means). Reading his words as they scrabbled and clawed their way across the parchment, my heart leaped and soared, and I found myself transported far beyond the things of Krynn to a realm in which gods walked and sat in judgment of the future of the world.

Returning to my chair and my desk, I sat wondering.

Amid the strife and horror of war, amid the joy and laughter of victory, has there been no room for me? Should I feel nothing, now that the gods have returned to Krynn? Now that Khellendros, the blue dragon overlord, is dead? Now that the girl Mina has departed, bearing with her the body of her One True God? And if I feel nothing when hearing of these events, have I not ceased to be human?

I do not know the answer to these questions. But as I sit here, I pour over the reports upon my desk of those Aesthetics who have wandered the face of Ansalon, observing the war, and I wonder.

In the manuscripts of Mary H. Herbert, Don Perrin, and Stan!, the world has come alive to me. They have faithfully collected accounts of Krynn during its toil and tumult. Yet in the face of their careful and articulate accounts, must I remain unmoved? At the end of my life, is there no passion that animates Bertrem, no voice that speaks that is distinctly mine and not the indifferent voice of history?

I cannot believe it is so.

Therefore I make my last testament. I have served faithfully the legacy of Astinus and the rules of the Aesthetic Order. I have observed with scrupulous effort the spirit of Gilean, god of Neutrality.

Yet to future historians of Krynn, I say this: Do not destroy all passions within yourselves. Instead, control them and use them. Let them inform your writing, not so that it becomes unbalanced and inaccurate but so that you can convey to future generations that here, in the Age of Mortals, men and women were born, lived, and died. These were not storybook heroes, the stuff of ballads and legends. They were real people, with all their emotions and imperfections. And from their lives was history made. Thus should it be recorded.

It is late afternoon, and the golden sunlight fills my room with dancing motes of dust. I have read over what I have written, and I am satisfied with it. Now I shall close my eyes and rest.

Heroes of the Lance—Everywhere!

Dear Bertrem,

As you know, I have been chronicling the society comings and goings here in Palanthas for near two decades now—barons dining with princes, parties at familial castles, who beat whom in the lists at tournament… .

All these things I have reported, to an undyingly hungry audience for this drivel. I have, of course, been happy to comply, and I've found myself much the better financially for it.

Paladine answer my prayers, wherever you are, as I surely have nothing to complain about. My life has been one of bliss. Still, there is one thing that I'd love to record for posterity's sake. I hope you'll include it in one of those guide-thingies that you do.

My problem is the Heroes of the Lance. Yes, it's been sixty-eight years since the War of the Lance, and still people claim to have seen the Heroes of the Lance. I have taken the liberty of borrowing the stories of the Lord Heralds' Guild, as they meet many more people "of the earth" as you call them, than I would. Each one makes me shake my head. Let me recount to you several of the stories that I have heard.

The first comes from a small hamlet just north of here called Varshell. It's a farming community of no more than three hundred, with an inn and a grainery to serve the farms. One of the farmers, a Bon Listellus, claimed he saw Raistlin Majere influencing one of his pigs one day early last summer.

"There I was, just a standin’ there. I had plowed the third field of the mornin’ and was standin’, givin’ the horses a rest That plow's pretty heavy and it was the first hot day that year. We was no more than a hundred feet from the pig pen when I saw some movement in that direction. I turned to see a black-robed man looking over my pigs. He carried a staff that I could recognize anywhere. You see, my pa was a great one to tell stories of the Heroes of the Lance. He had been a soldier in the Chaos War, even fought at the High Clerist's Tower! His pa before him had fought in the War of the Lance and had personally met all of the Heroes of the Lance when they had come through to Palanthas. He had been a gate guard and nobody got past him—no, sir! So, I knew the Staff of Magius when I saw it, and there's no other mage in the whole of Krynn who could carry such a staff. I yelled and started to run over. Raistlin Majere looked over his shoulder at me, then turned and ran for the treeline. I was gonna run after him just to shake his hand and thank him for destroyin’ that Chaos god and for winnin’ the War of the Lance and all. He probably don't like all the attention. Still, I was gonna run after him but the gate on the pen was apparently loose and two of the young piglets got loose before I could bar the gate. It took near ten minutes to catch them little peskers. The last one I caught was a strange sight, though. He had a stick in his mouth and was shakin’ it like a dog would. I finally grabbed him, and while I carried him back to the pen, I noticed he'd got golden eyes. Golden eyes I tell you! And the stick looked a lot like that Staff of Magius that Raistlin Majere carried. I tell you what. That pig's never gonna be bacon for no man nor beast. He's livin’ with me now, the pig that has the essence of Raistlin Majere."

Not far from Palanthas is the defensive works of the High Clerists's Tower. Many a battle has been fought there, but of note for Heroes of the Lance watchers is the fact that two of them died there. The first, a Solamnic Knight named Sturm Brightblade, died early in the War of the Lance, killed by the Dragon Highlord Kitiara uth Matar (strangely enough, the half-sister of Raistlin Majere) while defending the walls. The gatekeeper of the tower has reported seeing a ghostly figure of a large man wearing ancient armor standing on the battlements. His long, flowing moustache, the signature of a true Solamnic Knight, blows in the breeze that constantly flows through the valley. He does not say a word, and any attempts to climb the stairs to the battlements to see him have failed. He always appears when someone is watching from below, and always in the winter, at night, and usually after a fresh snow. Some claim that a bloodstain smears across the stone in the place where he fell. It is never there in the morning.

The second death of a Hero of the Lance occurred during the Dark Knight's invasion of the region, led by their evil commander Steel Brightblade (strangely enough, the son of Sturm Brightblade). Tanis Half-Elven (or, as we like to say here in Palanthas in not-so-polite company, Tanis Half-Human) was killed in the defense of the tower when a general melee broke out after the gates were compromised. He was brutally stabbed in the back to die an ignoble death at the hands of some unknown soldier. Two years ago, an engineering crew was ordered to assess the damage to the tower interior to see if it could be salvaged. The battlements are still in good shape, but the interior of the tower is a burned-out wreck in need of extensive rebuilding. Vargas Neimechek was assigned the job of assessing the main hall. On his first pass around the room, he noticed nothing out of the ordinary. On the second pass, while he started to take measurements, a figure appeared out of the shadows and gestured that he would hold the end of the bob-line for the measurement. Neimechek just assumed that it was one of the men he was not familiar with and handed him the string. The bearded man moved toward the wall indicated by Neimechek, but he stopped short by ten feet. Neimechek told the man that he needed a measurement from the wall itself, but the man refused to move. Neimechek walked up to him and took the string back. It was then that he noted the ghastly hole in his front. The figure turned and the hole in his back became apparent, too. Then, the figure faded into the room, vanishing. Neimechek ran from the room and refused to reenter the citadel. No one else has seen the figure of Tanis Half-Elven, but the spot Neimechek indicated is certainly where Tanis fell on that fateful day back in the Chaos War.

Last year saw quite a turn of events right here in the center of Palanthas. It happened during the Great Palanthas Barmaid Races, an annual event held every year in honor of the fabulous ladies that keep us all so happy. The contest consists of several extremely difficult tasks. The first is a race between ten barmaids at a time. There are ten tables, each with thirty men seated, fifteen to a side. The barmaids must serve ale from a central bar to the men at the tables and be the first to complete the whole table. Grabbing, pinching, and hugging the barmaids is allowed, although they are within their full rights to exercise any and all restraining moves or rebukes they deem worthy. One woman, a beauty with bouncy red hair came in first in all three heats of the race. She pinched back harder than she was pinched, and in one case actually hammered a man across the top of his head with a skillet that she had concealed in her apron!

The second competition has the barmaids carry a tray of six mugs of ale, three steaming meals, and a thin bottle of wine with two goblets through a grueling obstacle course. Over tables, under balanced chairs, over a polished floor slick with beer, and finally through a too-crowded inn balcony to deliver the goods to the innkeeper's table. Every one of the girls either lost the whole load, or at least lost the wine bottle on the way through the crowd. The red-head was able not only to move gracefully through the whole course, but she actually took the wine bottle and smacked an overzealous groper between the legs before returning the bottle to the tray and delivering it all.

After the competition, the Lord Mayor himself presented the medallion of "Best Barmaid in all of Palanthas." When he did so, he asked the fair maid her name. She replied "Tika Waylan Majere!" but the crowd just laughed. When the guffawing was over, the woman was gone. When the innkeepers were all asked who employed the girl, none would admit to it. To this day, no one has seen the woman in Palanthas. The strange part is that Tika Waylan Majere never served a table in Palanthas during or after the War of the Lance. It is strange that such an apparition would appear here in our fine city.

The last story is from the far-away land of Abanasinia and the town of Solace. As we all know, the Heroes of the Lance all came from this town or through this town. A tomb was erected in the town to commemorate the efforts put forward by the Heroes of the Lance to aid all the peace-loving peoples of Ansalon. A year ago, I am told, a kender was caught exiting from the restricted interior of the tomb. Luckily, a Solamnic Knight was paying his respects at the time. The kender was arrested and taken to the local holding cells of the Solace constabulary. When asked his name, he claimed he was no other than Tasslehoff Burrfoot. He had an uncanny resemblance to the kender of old, but seemed not to have aged since the Chaos War, now some thirty years ago. The Solamnic Knight remained unimpressed and had the kender jailed. Proving his point, there were two other kender in the jail that day. When asked what their names were, both were Tasslehoff Burrfoot, too. There is no sense of honor amongst the once-happy kender. It leaves us to wonder.

Finally, let me tell you the latest game that is played in all the society haunts here in Palanthas. We call it the Chain of Chaos. The idea is to attempt to establish as short of a chain between yourself (or any other person) and the onetime god Chaos. For example, my friend Irenis, her grandmother went to school with a man who served in the same military unit as Sturm Brightblade's father. He begat Sturm, and Sturm knew Raistlin, who was there when Chaos was brought down. Thus, Irenis is six chain links from the god Chaos. For me, I met Lord Gunthar at a dinner party some years ago. He was quite old, but he told me that he had met many of the Heroes of the Lance. Thus, he knew Tasslehoff Burrfoot, who was there when Chaos was defeated, making me just three chain links from the god. I'm quite proud of myself.

So you see, dear Bertrem, even us poor socialites here in Palanthas can have something to say for your fine library.

My humblest of regard,

Muriel Cargathas, Society Chronicler, Palanthas

A Journey to Schallsea

"We are here to record the facts," Brother Bertrem has always said. "Be dispassionate and observant, but do not allow yourself to get involved in the moment. Be present but uninvolved, and most of all be accurate." That's the advice he has given me before every journey I've ever begun in the name of the Great Library of Palanthas. But I have to say, as I set out on what may prove to be my final mission of discovery (times being as dangerous and unpredictable as they are) that I feel myself questioning the validity of that goal. Or perhaps it would be more accurate to say that I question whether or not this goal is humanly achievable.

The longer I wander the roads of Ansalon, the more villages and farms and military camps I visit, and (perhaps most of all) the more people I meet, the more I fear that dispassion and accuracy are uneasy partners. When it comes to history, particularly to recording events that have only recently occurred, passion is the truth, and any report that aims to provide an accurate account of the day must include the wild emotions that move men and women to action.

Brother Bertrem tells us that his master, Astinus, passionlessly recorded every historical event on Ansalon for year upon year. But Astinus was not a common man. He was longer lived than most elves and was able to know what transpired all across the world without ever leaving his study. Perhaps he had the wherewithal to drain emotions from an event and still accurately record it for the annals of posterity.

But I am not Astinus, and the more of the world I see, the more events I am personally attendant to, the more I come to believe that the deepest truth of any situation is inseparably entwined with the passions of those involved.

Of course, so far none of what I have said flies in the face of Brother Bertrem's teachings. He urges us to gather primary source material—diaries, ship's logs, letters—to provide the context and the emotions of those involved in any particular event. But there is a difference, I've observed, between the passion that people feel and the passion they commit to writing. These records do provide critical first person reports on an event, but we are fooling ourselves if we think they do not also introduce inaccuracies and, more often than not, promote the writer's private agendas.

People, at least passing honest people, are more nakedly truthful in speech than they are in writing. They say what they think, and (with the exception of particularly gifted politicians) do not have time to couch it in such a way as to color their meaning. And so I propose to collect as much of my report as possible in the form of verbal accounts, though I know that Brother Bertrem may not approve.

This is the Age of Mortals, and it strikes me that the truth about our time will best be found in a conveyance as ephemeral and fragile as mortal life itself—conversation.

The Isle of Schallsea

It is difficult to find any one thing, site, event, or object that can truly be said to represent this new Fifth Age of Krynn. Although forty years is quite a substantial time when measured against a human life, it is much less significant to elves, and practically a trice when held up against an epoch. We are still in the throes of birthing this new era, so it is perhaps impossible to determine what historians will look back on and deem "quintessential" moments or locales.

Having said that, it still seems likely that the island of Schallsea, located in the New Sea to the east of the Abanasinian peninsula, will be remembered in some fashion. Home to the Citadel of Light, the center of activity surrounding the new form of magic known as "mysticism," this small island has also served as a destination for refugees fleeing the destruction of the Chaos War, and an outpost of the Solamnic Knights. It has the distinction of being one of the few domains relatively unscathed by both the clutching claws of the Dragon Overlords (who ended their war of land acquisition before anyone laid claim to the island) and the current war being waged by the Dark Knights fighting under the banner of the mysterious entity called "the One God."

I say "relatively" for two reasons. First because just before I began my journey the world learned that the Citadel of Light itself came under direct attack from Berylinthranox the Green (the Dragon Overlord who holds Qualinesti under her sway). This was a great blow to the order of mystics, but in the end Beryl has not laid claim to the island as a whole, nor has she carried out any further aggressions against the Citadel or any other part of Schallsea.

Secondly, although the Dark Knights have made no move against the island or the Citadel, it has recently come to light that their charismatic young leader—a waif known as "Mina"—was raised in the orphanage at the Citadel of Light. Indeed, she was a particular favorite of the mystic order's First Master, Goldmoon (widely known as one of the Heroes of the Lance). How odd that a child raised by an order dedicated to peace, healing, and reverence to the departed gods would go on to cause such pain and havoc and inspire widespread worship of a heretofore unknown deity.

Whether or not future generations remember Schallsea as a place of historic import, the fact remains that it is a location to which people from every corner of Ansalon flock. They risk crossing the territories of the Dragon Overlords, the possibility of encountering hostile troops along the way (for Mina's troops seem to be everywhere at once), and the usual litany of unfortunate circumstances that befall travelers in the wild parts of our world. They risk all this and more (for in such wild times who can say what tragedies might occur at home while the pilgrims are away), just to travel to Schallsea and then on the Citadel of Light.

This is not, I must say, the most comfortable journey I've ever made on behalf of the Library. There are no cabins aboard the Silver Star, the boat that carries me to Schallsea. Indeed, there is not even a common room below decks. I and the dozen other passengers spend the days and nights camped out on the deck, trying to stay out from under the sailors' feet This is primarily a merchant vessel, and the crew is none too happy to have idle hands lying about while they go through their daily work.

I asked some of the seamen why they thought so many people undertook this pilgrimage.

Potter Stillman (Deck Hand, age 19):

Why do they come? I don't know. Maybe they want to see the world. That's what got me here. I could have stayed on Pa's farm; they always needed another hand. My brother's set to take over for Pa when his joints start aching too badly (and that's not far off). But there's so much else in the world. I want to see it all, and that's why I signed on—made my way up from cabin boy to member of the crew in less than six months! But others might not want to see so much. They have to pick their places. A little trip here, a week on the road there. It's enough for some folk. Everyone needs a little adventure now and again.

Lindal Hosskey (Navigator, age 26):

Fear. People feel trapped—trapped by circumstance, trapped by other people's expectations, or just trapped by their own fear of setting out on their own. Risk is the greatest deterrent known to mortal man. People would try all sorts of new things if they were confident that they wouldn't lose anything in the process. It's the thought that things might not work out, so they'll have nothing—that keeps most folk from ever even trying for something better. Making a trip like this, it's like striking out on your own—only with a huge safety net. If things are hard or scary, you can comfort yourself with the thought that you'll be back in your own bed before too long. But if you find something you truly love at the Citadel, or on the road, or on the sea you can decide to just stay. Someone will pick up your life back home. In troubled times like these someone will always pick up a good thing you leave behind.

Hindi Overbee (Rigger's Mate, age 33):

I'll tell you why they come—they're desperate's why. Desperate to get away from their filthy, muck rakin’ lives. Most folk hate their lives. Did you know that? They feel insignificant, like what they do means nothing—like if they shriveled up and died the world would just keep on turnin’ wi’out ’em. And y’know what? They're right. That's just how the world is. Anyway, most folks can't handle that notion. They go to the Citadel to find a miracle—to find the touch of the gods. Strange how most of 'em never prayed or nothin’ before, never touched the gods. But once they're desperate they need to feel the divine. Me? I never met a god, and now that the priests tell me I never will, well, it makes no difference to me. Whether they're walkin’ the world or up in their homes in the sky, the gods are real and they're out there—and no one can ever tell me any different. That's what I like best about working the sea. With the power of the waves, the pull of the tides, and the vicious whimsy of the weather, sailors never doubt the gods.

Rijeen Crestborne (Captain, age 41):

People want hope, and they want someone in authority to give it to them. Anyone can hope on her own, but for some reason it seems more real when a governor or a knight or a priest gives you your hope. There's a person or an institution to embody your dreams. There is no end of dreams out there. Go into any tavern and you'll hear the bards singing about them. But they're all about people who are dead or gods who have fled. People need something real on which to pin their hopes. I've seen a good many things in my years on sea and land, but one of the most beautiful, awe inspiring, and hopeful sights I've ever seen is the morning sun glinting off the walls of the Citadel of Light. A person hears a story like that, and she's got to go see it for herself.

That raised a very interesting question. Beryl's attack was said to have devastated the Citadel of Light. Rumors flew. Some claimed that not all the buildings had come under attack, that most of the Citadel still stood as beautiful as ever. Other rumors claimed that the entire complex had been razed. But one thing all the rumors agree upon: First Master Goldmoon was no longer at the Citadel. Some say she fled during the attack, others say that she is off meeting with allies of the Citadel (the Solamnic Council perhaps or members of the Legion of Steel). The most chilling rumors, though, say that Goldmoon was killed in the attack or, only marginally less devastating, that Beryl took her prisoner.

Most of these pilgrims began their journeys before Beryl's attack (or at least before news of the attack reached their ears). Surely the news must have given them pause, made them at least consider turning around and returning home. Most of my fellow passengers simply shrugged the question off, either remaining hesitant to talk to strangers or considering their motivations too personal to share with a representative of the Great Library. (Many folk do not wish their lives to become part of any historical record.) A few, though, provided me with fascinating (and amazingly varied) insights.

Katyana uth Mishakal (Solamnic Noble, age 56):

I grieve for those injured in the attack, and perhaps there is something I can do to help once I get there. Of what possible good could I be if I turned around before I even try? A quest is not something one sets aside merely because the way is difficult. Yes. Yes, I am on a quest—a personal quest. If it helps assuage your curiosity it is, as with most quests, the journey rather than the destination that is important.

Ham Greenvale (Butcher from Kalaman, age 24):

The Citadel was attacked? Was anyone hurt? That's terrible. You have to understand, news takes an awful long time to get to Nightlund. Now when did this happen again?

Zacharial Windtouched (Qualinesti Rebel, age 135):

It was news of that attack the prompted me to undertake the journey. Goldmoon and her followers have always been supportive of the Qualinesti in our fight to push Beryl and her minions from our forest. Consider my visit as continued good relations between elf and human. It pains me that my people cannot send greater aid, but our fight for freedom continues.

As the Port of Schallsea becomes discernable on the shore, I am struck by what a fascinating journey this is likely to be. Oddly, I realize, to this point I have not met one person who identifies him or herself as a native of the island.

The Port of Schallsea

The city of Schallsea has the only deep-water port on the island. All goods and the vast majority of visitors must come ashore here, making policing the traffic a relatively simple matter. The Knights of Solamnia maintain a garrison here whose chief duties are to keep the peace in the city and protect the island from unwanted visitors. Their small fortress, known as the Sentinel, stands on a ridge overlooking the city and the bay. As its name suggests, it provides a sense of protection, of having someone powerful and attentive always on guard on the town's behalf.

The Sentinel is too far away to serve as the base of daily operations, though. For this purpose, the Knights maintain a small headquarters along the waterfront. Called simply the Knights' House, this cottage looks no different than the surrounding homes and businesses. Built of wood, with a large bay window overlooking the port, the Knights' House never has fewer than a half-dozen Solamnics on duty at any time. Two of them come out to greet each arriving ship, inspect the cargo, and interview any disembarking travelers.

As the Silver Star pulled alongside one of the two docks, I noted three Knights waiting on the pier. A tall man with close-cropped red hair stood next to a slight woman with sun-bleached hair pulled back into an elaborate braid. The man wore a heavy breastplate emblazoned with the symbol of the Solamnic Order of the Rose; he stood at attention with his hands to his sides. The woman wore no armor, rather she was dressed in the robes of a priestess of Kiri-Jolith. Her manner was much more relaxed, and she waved jovially to Captain Crestborne as the ship dropped anchor. Behind these two and a dozen or so steps closer to shore stood a woman with flowing dark hair. Wearing full Solamnic plate armor, she held her helmet under one arm and stood at relative ease, but it was clear she was paying close attention to everything going on around her.

When the crew lowered the gangplank, the first two came aboard while the woman in the armor stayed on the dock.

The tall man introduced himself as Sir Gideon Parsyffel, a Knight of the Rose. His associate was Lady Harmony Regent, an honorary Knight of the Crown and spiritual advisor to the Knights stationed at the Sentinel.

Sir Parsyffel gathered the members of the crew and had them lead him into the hold so that he could inspect the cargo. Meanwhile, Lady Regent spoke to the passengers about the amenities, dangers, and most of all the laws of Schallsea. She was quite practiced at this speech, and she conveyed the important information quickly before her audience's attention wandered to the activities in the town. It was all very standard (particularly to one who has traveled as much as I)—the same admonitions and regulations one is likely to hear at the gate of any city under Solamnic rule.

There was one difference, though. Lady Regent urged each and every one of us to pray—not to any particular god, indeed not necessarily to a god at all (since we are all quite well aware that the only god answering prayers these days is the Dark Knight's patron).

"Prayer is a gift," she said. "A gift from you to every other soul struggling through the world around you. Even if your prayers are completely selfish and practical (though I urge you to be more charitable in your prayers), prayers have a positive influence on your own mind and soul—a boon you carry to all your interactions."

I was curious about whether or not she makes the same admonition to all the travelers she greets, and if so what difference she thought she was making.

Harmony Regent (Priestess of Kiri-Jolith, age 25):

These are hard times. People have lost hope. More importantly, people have lost faith. It really doesn't take much to believe, but people can be so stubborn—they want to see proof that their prayers are heard. And not just once. Show them a sign and they'll pray for a fortnight, perhaps two—show them a miracle and they might even pray for an entire turn of the seasons. But sooner rather than later their commitment will wane and they'll begin demanding proof again.

The world would be such a better place if people would simply pray for themselves instead of doing it for a god.

A strange thing for a priestess to say? Perhaps. But we are all children of the gods, even if our parents have retired to a foreign shore. We each carry their power within our hearts—we just have to remember to rely on that power when times get tough.

Just then Sir Parsyffel returned, having given the cargo and crew leave to go ashore. Overhearing our conversation, he rolled his eyes and walked away. Excusing myself from Lady Regent, I managed to catch the young Knight before he reached the gangplank.

Sir Gideon Parsyffel (Solamnic Knight, age 22):

Don't get me wrong. I believe in the gods and in prayer and all that, but Lady Regent is a priestess of Kiri-Jolith. It isn't right that she spout this nonsense of godless prayer. If you ask me, that's what's wrong with people these days—they want to feel like the gods are out there watching over them, but they don't want to feel beholden to them. They want protection without giving any commitment in return. It can't be that way. Anything of value has an associated price, and the price of divine salvation is fealty. You must give yourself to your god in order to receive any blessings.

That's what's wrong with those healers up at the Citadel—they've abandoned their gods. All this "magic of the heart" nonsense is just a way of saying that people don't need the gods. Just the opposite is true. We need them now more than ever.

I've heard lots of folk whine about the gods having left, but I almost never hear of anyone praying for them to come back. Maybe the gods left in order to teach us to appreciate them more, and once enough faith has returned to the world they will, too. If that's the case, then we'll never see them again at the rate we're going.

And the only person on all of Krynn who seems to have faith anymore is that scrawny turncoat, Mina. Yes, I said turncoat. We know the truth about her. How she was raised at the Citadel of Light—one of Goldmoon's favorites, they say. What does that tell you about the "power of the heart"?

I wanted to ask Sir Parsyffel more about his thoughts, but the dark-haired woman on the dock called him away. He made the briefest of apologies and marched quickly to her side. After a short conversation he saluted, then went back to the Knights' House. But the woman remained on the dock. In fact, she turned her attention to me.

I suddenly remembered all the times that Brother Bertrem warned us against getting too deeply involved in the events we chronicled. Clearly, I was no longer just another pilgrim—I was someone that this Solamnic Knight felt the need to interrogate.

She met me at the bottom of the gangplank and introduced herself as Lady Camilla Weoledge, commander of the Solamnic forces on Schallsea Island. Although she was neither particularly tall nor physically imposing, Lady Weoledge certainly had the demeanor for command. That practiced casual air I'd noticed earlier resurfaced—she was trying to put me at ease. But I could tell that this was more than a friendly conversation to welcome me to the island. If I gave the wrong answers to her apparently innocuous questions I would probably find myself spending the night in a cell.

As it turned out, it was my conversations with her knights that attracted her attention. She saw me engage both Regent and Parsyffel, and found my studied casual air similar enough to her own to be suspicious. (This was the first time I ever noticed any similarity between my work and that of the Solamnic Knights.) She wanted to know the details of our conversations. For my part, I cooperated completely—after all, I intended to commit the conversations into the historical record, why refuse to share them with an interested party (especially when my future was potentially at stake)?

She seemed pleased with my answers, but a little disturbed by what her Knights had said.

Camilla Weoledge (Commander of the Solamnic forces on Schallsea, age 47):

Before the Chaos War my father used to warn us "idle hands fire Takhisis' forge." He said it was important to stay involved doing good work, because when you do nothing things fall apart. I've taken that tack with the soldiers under my command—made sure that they always have duties that keep them busy doing good work, but I fear it is not enough.

You see, during wartime any work you give a soldier that is not directly combating the enemy seems like a waste of effort. Soldiers want to fight. That's what they do. That's why they chose this life. The war—the enemy—is the most important thing to them. And if they can't fight the enemy, then they're going to spend all their time thinking about the enemy—and that's dangerous.

An enemy on the battlefield can be overcome. An enemy in the mind always gets another chance—and always learns from past mistakes. Before too long, the enemy in the mind becomes nearly unbeatable—omnipotent, if you will. And that term is particularly appropriate now, what with the whole "One God" thing.

The Solamnic orders are built on worshipping the gods—the true gods—wherever they maybe. We haven't had much trouble about that these past thirty-five years. We kept to our rituals, kept on praying, kept on invoking the names of gods who no longer answered, and it was comforting. It gave us ties to our past, and an ordered view of the world. Paladine ruled above all, whether he talked to us or not.

But now things are different. The One God has changed everything. Oh yes, I believe in this god. It's real all right. I've heard of miracles, and I've seen things I never thought I would, like knights who had devoted decades of their lives to service lay aside their armor (and principles) and refuse to fight the enemy—occasionally even join the enemy. Why? Because they have a god who is still part of the world.

I certainly can understand their position. Paladine, Mishakal, and Kiri-Jolith may live in our hearts, but the One God restores severed arms, smites opposing forces, and raises the Dark Knights' leader from the dead. How can mere mortals fight that?

We fight with our hearts.

Lady Weoledge was then distracted by a call from the Knights' House—some piece of business that Sir Parsyffel had for her. She asked if I was planning to go up to the Citadel. When I told her that was the object of my journey, she smiled. She herself would be heading there with the group pilgrims leaving in the morning. I'm not sure which of us more relished the chance to continue this conversation.

The Cozy Hearth

The town of Schallsea (there isn't a definition loose enough to allow this community to qualify as a city) is much like any other settlement on the edge of a frontier. Its goods and services cater more to the people who visit than to those who actually live here. Nearly a quarter of the shops are outfitters or merchants selling equipment to pilgrims.

Oddly, though, there are very few inns or hostels. In fact, the majority of pilgrims stay at a hostel comfortingly called the Cozy Hearth. The attraction is neither the sleeping arrangements (which I can attest to being adequate) nor the food (which is a bit too elven for my tastes). The reason most visitors choose to stay at the Cozy Hearth is that accommodations are free.

Iryl Songbrook (Proprietor of the Cozy Hearth, age 178):

We are not a charity, but we ask that our visitors pay only what money they can afford. It would be reprehensible to gouge the last steel coins from a traveler on a pilgrimage—and absolutely soulless to turn away those who have nothing. Most of our patrons leave donations upon their departure, and many of them are quite generous.

Still, the Cozy Hearth never would have lasted this long without philanthropic aid. In fact, I cannot count the number of times I would have had to board up the doors (at least temporarily) if not for the support of Shen Korras. He's a traveling merchant who has been more generous than I have any right to deserve. What's more, he asks nothing in return. I consider him a partner more than a benefactor. I've offered to rename the inn to anything he liked, but he just smiles and says that "Cozy Hearth" truly fits the place.

He continues to make no demands, saying that he makes more than enough money off his other endeavors. He considers this his way to give back to the people who have been good to him. I don't think there's anyone else on the mainland who has made the trek to the Citadel more often than Shen Korras. I know of no better proof that First Master Goldmoon's teachings are a positive influence than to see what ardent support they garner from a man who spent the first half of his life ruthlessly gathering wealth for wealth's sake.

Sadly, though, Shen Korras has been missing since the night of the great storm. So much changed that night. At first we didn't recognize that it was also the last time anyone saw or heard from our benefactor. It is my deepest hope that he has merely been waylaid by the troubles afflicting Ansalon, and that no harm has befallen him.

In the intervening months, the citizens of Schallsea have volunteered money, goods, and services whenever the hostel found itself in need. It has truly become an extension of the community, providing aid and succor to all visitors.

In the corner I saw a group of pilgrims I recognized from the Silver Star. Time on the sea together had obviously forged at least the beginnings of friendship, as they all intended to trek up to the Citadel together starting early in the morning. I was surprised to see Captain Crestborne in the group as well.

Rijeen Crestborne (Captain of the Silver Star, age 41):

I have business at the Citadel—a matter of cargo to be delivered. Besides, with the way the world is going these days, I need to see the sunrise reflected on those domes one more time.

Overhearing this, a group two tables over decided to join us. They had just returned from the Citadel of Light and hope to sail back to the mainland as soon as possible. They looked tired. I knew that the hike up to the Citadel took two days, but I'd always heard that it was fairly untaxing—along relatively flat, smooth countryside. These people looked as if they'd come back from climbing a mountain.

They were an interesting group, traveling here from all across Ansalon. (Like our group they seemed to have come together aboard the ship that brought them to Schallsea.) Although they all agreed that their journey was physically and emotionally draining, they could not reach accord as to whether it had been a positive or negative experience.

Dillon Sweetfall (Innkeeper from Solanthas, age 21):

Save yourselves five days of exhaustion—stay here. Get back on the ship that brought you and go home. I've never seen anything more disappointing in my life. I'm not sure what it was like before the Green attacked, but now it's just another ruin celebrating a life that's no longer here. It's like the shrines to the three moons—I don't understand why they haven't all been torn down. There's only one moon. Get over your memories and live in the world of today.

The Citadel is just another site dedicated to gods who don't listen. In fact, it's worse. This is a place dedicated to teaching the "new magic," but even that isn't working anymore.

There's nothing worthwhile there. Nothing.

Anta Satchon (Farmer from the Estwilde, age 30):

It's such a sad sight—the ruined domes, the burned hedge maze—I wanted to cry the whole time I was there. It was wonderful. I've never felt so in touch with my heart. I don't know what Dillon is going on about. You could feel the magic everywhere. People caring about one another, setting aside personal concerns to help whoever needed it most. I almost didn't come back, but my family needs me, and harvest time is just ahead.

I'm definitely a different person than I was before this journey. The Citadel of Light must have been the most beautiful place ever. I gave those people every coin I could spare to help them rebuild. I want to come back here in a few years. I want to bring my children, and I hope that we'll be able to see the Citadel in all its glory.

The most interesting report came from a dwarf woman who, despite her exhaustion, seemed to beam with exuberance.

Riva Coppermill (Merchant based in Hylo, age 27):

I have no words to tell you what this trip meant to me. To see that place and know it is where she spent so much of her life. I did cry, especially when I saw the orphans. They're still there, you know. Still being raised, even without Goldmoon. She was raised there, you know. No, not Goldmoon—Mina! She was raised at the Citadel. That's where she studied and first felt the calling of the One God.

Oh, it was a stirring moment to sit where she must have sat. To see the shrines to the old gods broken by the power of the One God, as all the old memorials must be broken. The One God is here. The One God cares about the people of Krynn. We must give up our old ways, like a child giving up toys in order to learn the tools of adulthood.

The woman's joyous revelry was broken when she noticed all the other pilgrims around glaring at her with undisguised hatred. Some shouted at her, calling her "bitch" and "traitor" and more colorful invectives. They surrounded her, clenching their fists and their teeth, wondering aloud what they should do to show her the light. Some wanted to beat her, others to hang her, but most just wanted to chase her from the hostel.

"Go sleep in the gutter!" said a very demure woman who, to this point, had not uttered three words all evening. "My husband and three sons have all been killed fighting the armies of your 'One God'!"

Before anyone could act on any of their thoughts, Iryl Songbrook stepped up on her bar and whistled for attention. In her hands she held an unsheathed long sword.

Iryl Songbrook (Proprietor of the Cozy Hearth, age 178):

That will be all, ladies and gentleman. Everyone calm down, sit down, and stop talking about things you can't agree on. Leave the dwarf alone, and mind your own business.

No, don't thank me, Miss Coppermill. I will defend your right to stay here because this is a safe haven for all pilgrims, no matter how deluded or offensive they might be. That's the deal I've struck with my partner, and that's the way it will be. However, I will thank you not to proselytize any more.

I don't care what miracles you've seen. We all know there are gods out there. We also know that not every god is worthy of worship—at least we all ought to know that. Throughout history there have been evil gods, and throughout history most right-thinking people have refused to worship them, not because these gods were fakes or less powerful than other gods, but because worshiping them was wrong.

Think about that. Is this One God worthy of your devotion just because he can perform miracles? What miracles has he performed? And what has he done to make our lives better?

Riva Coppermill decided to find other accommodations for the night.

The outburst begun by her expression of devotion reminded us all of one thing: there is a war being waged. Even if soldiers never threaten the streets of our hometowns, even if dragons never assault a place sacred in our lives, the battle for victory is being waged in our very hearts and minds. Unlike all wars in the past, this one is not about acquiring land and killing enemy soldiers. This war is about faith. This is a war for the souls of every living person—perhaps every person who ever lived—on Ansalon, and there is no clear way for us to win this war. There is only a very easy way for us to lose it.

The War Memorial

No one had much to say the next morning as we donned our gear and prepared for the journey to the Citadel. It seemed to me that we were all still thinking about the events last night. Even the best report spoke of a site that was in ruins, a conclave in shambles. What solace could pilgrims possibly find there?

Lady Weoledge stood waiting for us as we left the Cozy Hearth. She'd been up for hours, apparently, and seemed in fine spirits for a long day's hike.

Camilla Weoledge (Commander of the Solamnic forces on Schallsea, age 47):

It will take a minimum of two days to get up to the Citadel. I'll tell you the truth, I've been there a hundred times or more, and for my steel, walking along the Silver Way is the best part. It's not so much the countryside, as the trip itself—the act of walking, of knowing that every step has a definite and soon-to-be-attained goal. It's liberating. It's a heady feeling to know that everything you do in a day, every step and breath are meaningful. It makes you think about how many steps and breaths we waste in our trip through life. I always feel uniquely focused after a trip to the Citadel. I get hack and immediately work on whatever tasks I left unfinished before my trip. It's amazing. Nothing makes me more efficient at my duties than taking a few days off to walk north.

That seemed to lighten everyone's mood, and we set out smiling and whistling songs of the road. Oddly enough, though we were in fine spirits, no one seemed much interested in talking. We each wandered with our own thoughts for companionship—and that was more than comfort enough.

About three hours into the journey we came across a well-trod path leading inland. Lady Weoledge explained that this was the path to the War Memorial, a monument erected in memory of every life ever lost in combat. Visiting the memorial, she said, would add a day to our pilgrimage, but she recommended the experience highly.

Without a word we left the Silver Way and hiked off toward the memorial. The way was not nearly as flat and easy as before. We were walking through the heart of the Barren Hills. In fact, we walked more than halfway across the width of Schallsea Island, but not a soul among us doubted that this was a worthwhile diversion.

After a few hours, just when the up- and downhill path left Ham Greenvale so winded that we thought it might be best to stop for a while, we crested a ridge to find a tremendous four-sided obelisk standing in our path.

The War Memorial was cut from a single piece of oddly blue crystal (the same substance used to build the Citadel, Lady Weoledge informed us). The sunlight danced both across and beneath its surface. It was oddly simple in design, almost like an ornate signpost in the middle of the wilderness. All four sides of the base bore inscriptions, and although each side was written in a different language, they all said the same thing:

IN MEMORY OF BATTLES FOUGHT
AND LOVES ABSENT,
MAY WE NEVER FORGET
THAT WHICH IS DEARER.

For a long time we were all silent. The War Memorial was so plain, the inscription so simple. I daresay we were all shocked at how moving we found it.

Of course, we were even more shocked to find a stranger standing in our midst. He was dressed in the manner of the native Schallsea barbarian tribe who call themselves the Wemitowuk, but his features clearly marked him as being at least partially of Solamnic lineage. Lady Weoledge introduced the man as Mirenhu. He was, she said, the Citadel's representative among the Wemitowuk.

Mirenhu frowned at her but said nothing.

The tribe, she explained, spoke very little. In fact, they considered being long-winded to be a sin. Mirenhu left his studies at the Citadel to live with the Wemitowuk because he'd come to appreciate the advantages of silence, and he was just about the only "civilized" person ever to be adopted by the tribe. He understands the local customs better than any non-barbarian.

At this point Katyana uth Mishakal asked if Mirenhu could explain something. She pointed to the ground surrounding the War Memorial. It was littered with wilted flowers, and all manner of gifts left by previous visitors. Lady Weoledge told us that it was customary for visitors to leave gifts honoring friends and family whose lives had been lost in war time. The Solamnic woman said she quite understood the principle. What she questioned was the presence of Nerakan items.

Sure enough, scattered here and there were daggers and other items bearing the emblem of the Knights of Neraka, figurines honoring gods such as Sargonas, and even the helmet from a suit of Dark Knight armor.

Mirenhu (Recluse, age 36):

The Nerakans are no less dead than the Solamnics.

Katyana uth Mishakal (Solamnic Noble, age 56):

What difference does that make? There would be peace if not for them. They're the ones who started this war, and the war before that, and the one before that too. They have no love of peace. The Dark Knights are evil through and through, every last one of them. They have no right to be represented here.

Mirenhu (Recluse, age 36):

Only the gods can judge the things mortals do. Do you know whose soul receives divine acceptance? All we can do is mourn those who are lost.

Zacharial Windtouched (Qualinesti Rebel, age 135):

I've seen a great deal of change in my lifetime. The gods were lost to us when I was born. I saw them return and then withdraw once again. Since I came of age I've fought against soldiers wearing that armor in the name of chromatic dragons, a goddess of evil, and now a country that wants nothing less than to crush all of Ansalon beneath its boots. I know that the Dark Knights are evil, and it sickens me to see them desecrating this site dedicated to peace.

Mirenhu (Recluse, age 36):

This memorial was built for everyone. If you cannot accept that, then you are the one who is unwelcome here.

Without uttering another word, Mirenhu turned his back on the assembled pilgrims and walked off into the hills. If not for Lady Weoledge's presence, I'm certain that someone would have tried to stop the man.

For myself, I believe I understand the point Mirenhu was trying to make. Although wars may be started and fought for reasons ranging from petty to noble, the act of war itself is indiscriminate. The good die just as easily as the wicked. Although history will judge some of warriors well and others harshly, they all deserve the simple dignity of a memorial to mark the utter futility of their passing.

Having said that, though, I must also say that Mirenhu makes a singularly awful diplomat. If he is the best point of contact between the "civilized" communities and the Wemitowuk, I'm surprised we don't already have more lost souls to be remembered at the War Memorial.

The War Memorial at Night

By this point the sun hung just above the waters of the New Sea, and the sky began to turn breathtaking shades of orange, red, and yellow. The group decided it would be best for us to camp at the War Memorial for the night and resume our trek in the morning. The decision was by no means unanimous. In particular, Katyana and Zacharial wished to leave. Their confrontation with Mirenhu had left them in sour moods, and they wished to be as far from the obelisk they now perceived as an offensive eyesore as possible. There were others in our band who agreed, though I think more out of fear that the Wemitowuk would take offense at our presence and send a war party to settle the earlier dispute.

Lady Weoledge assured us all that no matter how brusque the Wemitowuk customs were, the tribe was peace loving. She also claimed that we had yet to really experience the War Memorial. This met with a series of incredulous replies. After all, several people said, how much time does it take to "experience" a tower of rock?

Camilla Weoledge (Commander of the Solamnic forces on Schallsea, age 47):

If this was just a simple "tower of rock," I would not have led you half a day's walk off course to see it. There are places enough to honor the dead in the Citadel of Light. This spot is special—special in the way that god-touched sites are, except that no god ever dedicated this spot. It was wholly consecrated by the efforts, sweat, and dedication of mortals. Shen Korras spent years of his life—and a far from insubstantial amount of his wealth—making this a reality. All the laborers, sculptors, and rock shapers who helped lug the stone out here did so from the goodness of their hearts. Their work, their vision and belief in the meaning of this memorial has made it a holy place. You can feel it if you stay here a while. You can sense the real power that simple folk can generate when they work toward a worthy goal.

Besides, I'm staying. Although there aren't any especially dangerous animals roaming these hills, it is easy to wander off the trail in the dark. We wouldn't know you were lost until we reached the Citadel and found that you'd not arrived before us. Even if we turned around immediately, it would be at least four days before we could begin to search for you.

No. Best to spend the night here, I think.

Several people grumbled, but no one disagreed with Lady Weoledge (who had a very self-satisfied smirk on her face). She then urged us all to climb the hill just above the memorial to watch the sunset.

That the sight was beautiful there was no doubt, but several of our party wondered aloud what was so special. It was very much like the sunset from the cliffs of Ergoth, or the shore of the Estwilde. As the red, swollen sun sank below the horizon, though, the light reflected off the sea at the perfect angle to shine focused crimson rays directly onto the War Memorial.

Without any warning the obelisk's pale blue surface exploded with color. Reds and blues and purples rolled gracefully in wavelike patterns while bursts of yellow, orange, and green flared here and there. What's more, when we looked closer, the effect seemed to be taking place inside the War Memorial as well. The deeper we peered into the crystal, the more complex and beautiful the lattice of colors became.

As the sun dropped lower the colors only intensified. Until, as the last rays of the day faded, the obelisk released its colors into the air like ghostly fireworks. A pale blue sphere rolled over me, followed by a shower of pink explosions, and finally a rising tide that shifted from lavender to deep purple before my eyes, then faded into the blue of a natural dusk.

We were speechless.

But an even greater shock came mere moments later when Katyana uth Mishakal shrieked that there were Dark Knights seated on the hill below us.

We rose as one—all save Lady Weoledge who still sat with a knowing grin on her face—and peered below. The Solamnic noblewoman was right. On the grass just beneath the War Memorial a group of a dozen or so Dark Knights sat looking off to where the sun had just been. They were dressed in full armor, were all holding weapons of various descriptions, and looked as though they had recently been in a terrific battle. Their wounds were bandaged but clearly fresh. Panic welled in our chests when Captain Crestborne pointed farther down the hill toward a group of Solamnic knights in the same repose and state of health.

Could they have been battling here in the hills and simply stopped to enjoy one final sunset? Why hadn't we heard them? And more importantly, why hadn't Lady Weoledge rushed off to aid her Solamnic brothers?

As the night grew darker and we looked more closely we noticed other parties—a group of Qué-Shu tribesmen, a family of farmers from Abanasinia, even a group of draconian shock troops. They all sat watching the spot where the sun had set, as though there was still more to see.

Camilla Weoledge (Commander of the Solamnic forces on Schallsea, age 47):

Those are ghosts. Ghosts of people who died in war—some in battle, others slaughtered by invading troops, still others in squalid prison camps. They are the people to whom this memorial is dedicated—every single one of them felt its call. That's what Mirenhu was trying to tell you. Innocent victim or marauding invader, they all died in battle. Some battles were for just causes, others less so, but the victims don't care.

I've been here dozens of times, and I've never seen the same faces twice among these ghostly tourists.

It wasn't always so peaceful. Until recently, the War Memorial was haunted by the ghost of a Dragonarmy highlord who died in these hills during the War of the Lance. But the ghost of Highlord Kartilann has not been seen since the night of the Great Storm. No one knows for sure why she came in the first place, so we certainly have no idea why she left. But since her departure other ghosts have come here every night at dusk. They watch the sun set, then wander around and seemingly talk to one another—and occasionally to living visitors.

I think they're just glad for the company.

We didn't light a fire that night. In fact many of us forgot to eat. We simply sat on that hill, the stars twinkling above, watching the ghosts stare off toward the horizon.

As Lady Weoledge described, some of the ghosts got up and walked over to visit their neighbors. Elf and human ghosts embraced in genuine affection that is all too rarely achieved among living members of those races. Draconian ghosts gladly shared their circles with kender and dwarf spirits. Even Dark Knight and Solamnic ghosts met in brotherhood, clasping wrists and saluting one another with true honor and respect.

The surprise of the evening, though, was when a ghost dressed in Nerakan regalia approached our group and walked directly up to Katyana uth Mishakal. She looked up with a mixture of fear and expectation in her eyes. The night was not particularly chilly, but she shivered visibly. When the Knight removed his helmet she sobbed aloud.

Several members of our troupe moved toward the noblewoman. Thinking that the ghost threatened her, they wanted to chase the spirit away. Lady Weoledge interceded, explaining that the ghosts could do no harm to the living. What's more, they were particularly skittish apparitions that scattered into fog when they met with confrontation.

She demonstrated by approaching a small band of draconian ghosts, drawing her sword, and striking a threatening posture. The entire group melted into a frosty mist and blew away on the wind.

Clearly, whoever the ghost standing over Katyana was, she did not wish him to be gone. She gazed mesmerized into his spectral eyes, and tried to gently touch a horrific wound in the center of his chest. But both man and wound were completely ephemeral—and her hand passed through without even rustling the fabric of his dress tunic.

They seemed to be talking. At least, we could see both Katyana's and the Knight's lips moving, but none of us could hear a sound. And so they stayed late into the night, long after the rest of us unrolled our blankets and drifted off to sleep under that starry sky.

The Silver Way

We rose with the sun to find Katyana still sitting up and gazing off to the western horizon. As we packed our bundles, and the last ebon tendrils of night receded from the morning light, a single tear rolled down the noblewoman's cheek.

Katyana uth Mishakal (Solamnic Noble, age 56):

I hated him. His name was Vinkal Keenedge, and he was one of the men who enslaved Palanthas. Oh, it's a golden chain with which they've shackled our city, but make no mistake, our freedom has been taken away.

But Vinkal… he was different. He cared. He cared about the city. He cared about me. It didn't make him a good man. I know he arrested some of the staunchest opponents of the Dark Knight regime—peaceful opponents, who worked to return freedom and (more importantly) hope to the people. Most of those men and women have never been seen or heard from again. I can only guess that Vinkal was at least partially responsible for their deaths. He never thought of what he was doing as wrong. In his mind he represented the ruling authority, and the people he arrested were trying to bring down the government. Vinkal never questioned whether or not the governor he served was good or evil. Lord Kinsaid was the governor, and that's all he needed to know.

He was a member of the occupation force I would have done anything to see driven from my home. Our minds were as opposed as two people's can be, but he was not an evil man. In truth he was a friend. Paladine forgive me, now I know that he was a far better friend than I ever guessed during his life.

I thought I came to Schallsea to mourn the death of my comrades from the resistance movement. So many of them have died in the fight for freedom. But I suppose I really am here to honor everyone who has died.

The more I see of war, the more I think there really are very few villains. The leaders, the people who could make peace but decide not to, those are the villains. The soldiers are pawns who have no say as to which side of the conflict they're born into.

That barbarian yesterday was right—no matter whom we serve in life, death comes for us all. And it is always just as tragic.

The hike back through the Barren Hills seemed less taxing than the day before. We remained the quietest group of travelers I've ever been among. Between each individual's reasons for making the journey and the extraordinary experiences we shared the previous night, there certainly was enough for us to think about, but it struck me as odd.

From time to time I bent my pace to move alongside one of the other pilgrims. I would eventually venture an innocuous comment such as "certainly is quiet" or "have you ever seen anything like this?" On most of my journeys small talk like that is usually enough to get folks to open up and share their thoughts. Here, though, they garnered at most a guttural affirmation, and more often just an appreciative nod.

At first I found this singularly annoying. However, I soon came to realize that this was a phenomenon worth recording. After all, in almost every other situation people take comfort in one another's voices (and often even in the sound of their own voices). People talk because it makes everyone feel more at ease. For some reason, here on the Silver Way, silence is a more pleasant sound.

In general, people (particularly humans) will do almost anything to avoid thinking about the greater issues of existence. They build lives that keep them busy with the details of day-to-day survival. They engage in rumor mongering, idle chatter, and flights of imagination rather than discuss issues of philosophical or ideological nature. They seek distraction rather than cultivate meditative skills.

But here on the Isle of Schallsea, on the road to the Citadel of Light, they find comfort plumbing the depths of their souls. While this makes it difficult to gather particular information about their lives, it does reveal that somewhere in all of us lurks a scholar, a philosopher, and a soul that wants to search for answers.

As the day began to wane and thoughts of camping for the night (and more immediately, putting food in our bellies) began to distract us, tongues loosened a bit.

Ham Greenvale (Butcher from Kalaman, age 24):

I don't know what I expected to find here—maybe enlightenment, whatever that is. But I definitely didn't expect to spend the whole time thinking about my life. I figured I'd learn all kinds of things I never heard of. I mean, why should I have to come all this way to realize that I like what I already have?

Rijeen Crestborne (Captain of the Silver Star, age 41):

Were we being particularly quiet? I can't say as I noticed. It really didn't seem that different than a few days sailing.

Being on the sea can make a person feel small. The strength of the waves, the power of the wind—it all works to show you that you're really only a very small part of the world. And not a very significant one, at that.

The strange thing is, people who spend their lives aboard ships generally have a very strong sense of who they are, and a confidence that many landlubbers never gain. When you're faced with so many things that are bigger and stronger than you, you either learn to value who and what you are inside, or the ocean crushes you completely. And the only way to cultivate that kind of inner strength is to spend a lot of time looking into your own heart.

Zacharial Windtouched (Qualinesti Rebel, age 135):

In Qualinesti, even under Berylinthranox's rule, we place quite a high emphasis on self-awareness. Have you ever seen our gardens? Visitors prize them for their beauty, but we prize them for their intimacy. A garden is more than a hobby to the Qualinesti—it is an extension of the self. It is the shape and color of the soul. Some people grow their gardens to seem wild and uncontrolled to match the unfettered strains of their hearts. Others grow precise, orderly gardens that mirror the structure and control within their spirits. Woodshapers take this a step further, making our homes and cities expressions of our hopes and dreams.

The odd thing is that here—so far from my garden, my home, and everything I usually use to define my life—I've found the garden inside my heart. In the past I have always felt out of sorts whenever I left Qualinesti. But now I realize that although I make my home there, although I've shaped my house and garden to be reflections of my inner voice, my soul is not really any less without them.

We fight Beryl to protect our homes. We cling to our possessions because they represent not only our history, but also our sense of who and what we are. But the truth is that these things do not define us. If we are ever to beat the Green, we must be willing to sacrifice our homes, our past, perhaps even our future and rely on the beauty in the gardens within our hearts.

It is interesting to note how close these pilgrims have become after only a few days traveling together. Even if you add in the time spent onboard the Silver Star, they have been acquainted less than a fortnight. Yet here they sit, talking more personally and honestly than they do with their closest friends back home.

I believe that Lady Weoledge was not engaging in any hyperbole when she said that the journey is the most important part of a visit to the Citadel of Light. However, one might note that she is not one of the people opening up her heart to the others. Is that because she has come to always express her thoughts openly, and so has nothing more to add at these fireside chats? Or is it that even self-discovery becomes commonplace when one engages in it too often—that the journey becomes focused so much on the self that there is no room or reason left for sharing it with companions?

The Citadel of Light

As we set out on the third day of our march, Lady Weoledge assured us we would reach the Citadel of Light in time for the midday meal. The Citadel Mystics take most of their meals together in the Grand Hall, she said. At least they did before Beryl's attack. Lady Weoledge admitted that she hadn't been back since shortly after the Green's forces ransacked the facility, so she couldn't swear that there remained a Grand Hall in which to eat.

Now, as the pilgrims grew nervous the closer they got to their goal, they were less interested in silent contemplation and more willing to talk. But even this turned out to be of little use to this historical record, as they mostly engaged in asking questions for which no one could possibly have answers.

"Do you suppose the hedge maze will still be standing?" "You don't think the dragons destroyed the Silver Stair, do you?"

"Will they let me see Goldmoon's quarters? I hear she was always willing to meet guests, so they ought to let me at least see where she lived, right?"

And so it was with great relief that we crested a final low hill to see the Citadel of Light sitting before us on a slightly raised patch of ground—something cartographers would certainly call a plateau, but which really didn't seem significant enough for the title. Nine domes set in a ring—or rather what was left of the domes.

As near as we could tell, no more than four of them remained whole. The others had structural damage that was visible even this far away—gaping holes in the dome walls, or sections that had crumbled in on the upper floors. Two of the domes seemed to have collapsed completely. Rising from the center of the complex, a single wisp of a tower glinted in the midday sun as it rose as far as the eye could see. The fabled Silver Stairs remained intact.

Ham Greenvale (Butcher from Kalaman, age 24):

They're even more beautiful than I thought. Look at how the sun lights them up. I don't know whether I want to stand here staring like a barbarian in Palanthas, or throw down my bags and rush up there like a kid on his birthday. Can you just imagine how beautiful they were before?

Rijeen Crestborne (Captain of the Silver Star, age 41):

Shattered beauty. Like human hearts, treasures like this can never be restored to their original state once they've been broken. This is yet another atrocity for which Berylinthranox must pay. Only her blood will settle this bill.

Everyone had something to say—everyone except Lady Weoledge. As inconspicuously as I could, I moved to her side and asked about her feelings at this sight.

Camilla Weoledge (Commander of the Solamnic forces on Schallsea, age 47):

You're asking the wrong woman. You forget I've seen the Citadel before. I saw it during its construction, I saw it at the height of its grandeur, and I was here the night the Green attacked. None of this is new to me.

You want to know what I'm thinking? I'm thinking that no matter what physical changes come across this valley, it always feels the same. Go ahead. Close your eyes. Let the sounds on the wind bring images to your mind. That's something the First Master taught me. Let your ears guide your sight, and your eyes will see straight to the heart of things. Listen… what do you see?

Laughter, right? And the sound of men and women working. Hard work—farming, digging, mending broken walls. Children, too. Everywhere there's the sound of children—sometimes even of adults acting like children.

Do not let the broken buildings fool you. The Citadel is a place of joy—even in the midst of all this destruction.

As we drew closer we could make out the shapes of individual persons moving amid the domes. Most of them wore blue robes, but others the same plain work clothing you will find in any rural community. Those who noted our approach took time from their tasks to wave to us. Although it was still much too far to see, I am convinced that every single one of them smiled.

The Order of Mystics

The Citadel's entrance leads directly into the largest of the domes. Known as the Grand Lyceum, this structure is about a third again bigger than any of the other buildings. That is, it used to be bigger. While it still covers the same flat acreage as it ever did, the top three floors have collapsed, leaving jagged crystal shards instead of a smooth dome on top.

Baloff Heyth (Citadel Mystic, age 32):

The Grand Lyceum was actually always open at the top. The upper floors were home to both the First Master, may Mishakal watch over her, and the silver dragon Mirror, who guarded us since the time of the Dragon Purge. Sadly we know not the fate of either. Mirror disappeared the night of the Great Storm, and we all know that Goldmoon is out in the world doing the will of the gods.

Yes, we do still give devotion to the gods. The First Master's favorite lesson is that with faith all things are possible. The gods left the world once before, she taught us, and they would have returned sooner if the hearts of mortals weren't so fickle. Instead of maintaining faith and praying for a miracle, we chose to abandon the old ways—to turn our backs on the gods rather than inviting them into our hearts. And so the world suffered an age of despair.

This may be the Age of Mortals, but that doesn't mean there is no place for the gods.

Baloff was dressed in the Citadel's standard blue robes. His face was covered in a wild tangle of hair and beard. Although his words and tone were clearly meant to be reassuring and welcoming, he gave off an air of despair and gloom that was practically palpable. Here was the flip side of the description Lady Weoledge gave of the Citadel. Baloff was clearly a man who devoted himself to his faith, to maintaining the form and function of his life—but doubt and despair held sway in his heart.

Still, he did an admirable job of going through the motions. Our group was shown into the Hall of Audience in a smaller dome to the left of the Grand Lyceum. This dome remained completely intact, though Baloff confessed that there were hairline cracks in the upper reaches that they were taking care to shore up.

The hall was a bustle of activity—people carrying in great pots of hot stew from an outdoor cooking pit. The tradition of a group midday meal continued despite the difficulties. We were led to a table and seated with a dozen or so mystics. They were generally of good cheer, the kind created by spending one's days building—in this case, rebuilding—something of value.

Randa Crawford (Citadel Aspirant, age 29):

I came to the Citadel to learn to harness the power of my heart. I always had a way with animals—and ghosts. Yeah, I see ghosts. Some people think that's funny, some think it's strange, some just think it's ookie. Anyway, I can see ghosts but I can't talk to them. I wanted to learn to talk to them. There are so many around these days. More and more all the time. I guess that's what happens in a war.

Well, I guess my timing just isn't good, because I got here about a week before all those dragons attacked, and there hasn't really been any time to study.

I feel plenty helpful, though. I've been helping to take care of the animals, and helping the spirtiualists find certain ghosts when they're looking for them. Like I said, there are a lot of them around these days, and it's harder to keep track of them than you might guess.

Mac Wellfinder (Citadel Guardian, age 43):

The First Master used to tell me that many people in this world try to avoid their fates. They run away or hide from exactly the thing they are meant to do. They push it away. I guess you might say I'm one of those people.

I spent half my life in the military, either as a sell-sword or as a drill sergeant. I came to the Citadel because I was tired of the regimentation, of taking orders, but mostly of the killing. I thought those feelings meant I had to give up everything I knew and start a new life. But I guess it wasn't meant to be. I didn't have much talent for magic (from the heart or otherwise) and reasons for me to keep using my sword popped up all the time.

If it wasn't rowdy visitors, it was marauding gnolls. And then the dragons attacked. I guess Goldmoon was right—when you're meant to do something, all the hiding and wishing in the world won't change it.

I'm spending most of my time these days leading the Guardians. There haven't been any other attacks, but if there are we'll by the gods be ready. I only wish the First Master was here to see me.

Sooth Finewine (Citadel Healer, age 34):

We're a strong community. Don't let the broken buildings fool you; we're here to stay. As much as we love and miss the First Master, her departure has pulled the Citadel together at a time when it was threatened on all sides. The magic of the heart had grown weak these past years. The conflicts across the mainland caused us to be called on to act as emissaries and mediators, and prevented us from performing our true calling—to tend to the common person's spiritual well-being, and remind the world that the gods—the true gods—still love us all. We let ourselves get caught up in the world and forgot to tend to our own spiritual needs.

Well, now our world has been shaken, and it does my heart good to see how we've rallied around our faith.

How odd that these mystics, the very people to whom pilgrims flock, the supposed bearers of the answers we are all searching for so desperately, are susceptible to the same doubts and weakness of commitment as the rest of the world.

The Domes

As the meal broke up each of the pilgrims found one or another of the mystics offering to show him or her around, to help find whatever answers there are to be uncovered in the Citadel's rubble. Baloff Heyth returned to show me around. As it turns out, he tried to join the Order of Aesthetics before deciding that Goldmoon's order was more to his temperament.

Baloff Heyth (Citadel Mystic, age 32):

I thought the Great Library was the place for me. All the answers were there. You just needed to look in the right volume. But that's not the way it really is. The truth is that all those books have are a bunch of teeny tiny facts that define the world in terms of absolute moments.

On this particular date, at levendy-twelve o'clock, so-and-so said precisely "thus and such."

No matter how true that is, it really doesn't tell you anything about the moment. It's like trying to describe how a peach pie tastes by reciting the recipe then drawing a picture of the crust. You can be as accurate as you like, but you'll never pass along the experience of tasting it yourself.

Not that I'm trying to put down the Order. I'm sure it's just what some folks need, and it certainly is good to have a precise historical record to draw on. But I wanted answers, not puzzle pieces.

Of all the things I thought might come out of this trip, the beginnings of an inter-disciplinary feud was not even on the list. However, I practiced the patience and detachment that Brother Bertrem has tried so hard to make second nature to me, and pressed on.

I asked Baloff to show me the damage to the various lyceums. It was even more extensive than I'd first surmised. Besides the Grand Lyceum, six other domes were rendered at least partially uninhabitable—and the Meditation Lyceum had collapsed entirely. Every dome showed some signs of damage—burns, acid scars, or spider-web patterned cracks that left one uncertain as to the wisdom of walking near the building, let alone entering it.

Baloff Heyth (Citadel Mystic, age 32):

I suppose you see all this and think, "What a mess! I wonder why those mystics don't just pack up and leave?" Don't deny it. I can see it in your eyes.

Well, I'll let you in on a little secret—we know how bad the damage is, but we don't care. You see, the buildings aren't what keep us here. Whether the domes stand or fall is irrelevant. That we stay here to take part in the process, that's what's important.

The gods work in mysterious ways. Sometimes they allow their own edifices to be torn down just so that the faithful can build them up again. Or build new ones entirely. Maybe the best lesson we can learn from this is to stay away from ostentatious shows of devotion, that the simplest celebrations are best. Or maybe it's that the grander your castle, the more your enemies will want to burn it to the ground.

Our devotion goes on, and so we stay here as a show of our faith.

Faith

That word comes up a lot at the Citadel of Light. Perhaps the most misunderstood thing about the Order of Mystics is their continued service to the gods. Goldmoon was, after all, the first new priestess of Mishakal. Should it be so strange that she would continue to teach devotion to the goddess even after Mishakal has departed from our world?

As people of faith the mystics might well be expected to deal well with the loss of their homes. But the question yet remained how they would cope with an assault on the instruments through which they measured their faith.

The Hedge Maze

The hedge maze at the center of the Citadel of Light has been the subject of much discussion. By all reports it is made of completely natural flora. Indeed, I can report that in appearance, scent, and texture what was left of the hedge was indistinguishable from those we passed by on our journey from the Port of Schallsea. However the nature of the maze lies at the heart of either the greatest mystery or the greatest hoax of our time.

Every person who wished to join the Order of Mystics had to navigate the maze and climb the silver stairs found at its center. Purportedly, though the plants themselves were completely mundane, the maze itself was magical. It is said that the pathways shifted even as an Aspirant wandered through the maze, and finding the center was not a matter of learning the maze's aisles but rather of mastering your emotions and your fear. Of course, with a conclave full of spellcasters who can read your thoughts, play tricks on your mind, change shape, and bend animals and plants to their will, achieving such an effect would be child's play.

The mystics, however, claim that although they seeded the maze with obstacles keyed to a particular Aspirant's fears, they were never the ones responsible for the shifting nature of the maze itself.

Baloff Heyth (Citadel Mystic, age 32):

I not only went through the test myself—three times, I might add—I also helped oversee several dozen other Aspirants' attempts, and most of them went through the ritual at least twice. I tell you, as Mishakal is my witness, I had no part in shifting the course of the maze, and to the best of my knowledge neither did any of the other Mystics.

You're skeptical. But, of course, being an Aesthetic, how could you not be? Here, let me introduce you to someone who might change your mind.

Baloff walked me toward what was left of the hedge maze. Being of such special significance to the Mystics, Beryl ordered her minions to focus attacks on the maze once she learned her assault was in vain (intelligence reports claim she came seeking both First Master Goldmoon and the visiting head of the new Academy of Sorcery, Palin Majere). Dragonfire burned it down to nearly the root, but the hedge maze was recovering quickly.

Under the tender ministrations of the Citadel's animists, new branches already sprouted a full two inches tall. The seedlings marked out a series of walls that would eventually recreate the hedge maze.

In the midst of the sprouts stood a particularly frenetic gnome. He wore a jacket made of soft leather—a jacket, obviously cut for a human, making it more of an overcoat to this fellow. The hem hung just around his ankles, and he wore the sleeves balled up to his elbows. He had not one but three pairs of spectacles—one with small square lenses as thick as a man's thumb, another with larger circular lenses thinner than a blade of grass, and the final pair better called goggles and shaded the color of the sea before a storm. But the most impressive thing about these spectacles was that none of them perched on the bridge of his nose—all of them sat atop his head.

The gnome gesticulated wildly and shouted phrases I'd previously only heard coming from the mouths of drunken Ergothian sailors.

"Enough is enough!" he said. "I like fun as much as the next gnome, but this is my lifequest you're mucking with here!"

Baloff tapped the fellow gently on the shoulder and introduced us. He then asked the gnome his "expert opinion" about the maze's supernatural properties.

Conundrum (Horticultural Engineer from Mt. Nevermind, age 54):

Poppycock! This maze is no more supernatural than my self-sharpening charcoal crayon is. Say, you wouldn't happen to have a pencil, would you? My crayon has been acting up lately. Anyway, the hedge maze is completely mundane. Do you think I would waste a perfectly good lifequest trying to map a maze that's never the same twice? Certainly not! After months of having my efforts thwarted by jolly jokesters who found it funny to move my marking implements from one side of a wall to another, I finally have the hedge maze right where I want it. At this height I can get a bird's eye view of every alley and cul-de-sac. I can commit them all to paper and publish my findings.

But my rivals are jealous. They've taken to switching out my rulers overnight, replacing them with instruments calibrated to a different scale. How else can you explain this? What do you mean "what?"? This! Look here! This wall I measured precisely yesterday. My map indicates that it's supposed to meet this other wall exactly fifty paces from the maze's entrance but it's really only thirty-five paces. Here let me show you. No. Never mind. Take my word for it. Someone has switched rulers on me. But I will not be denied. From now on I sleep with all my instruments safely tucked inside my nightshirt!

I must admit that Baloffs ploy almost worked. Faced with that barrage of paranoid delusion, I was almost ready to admit that the maze was indeed supernatural. Of course, at that point in order to get away from the gnome I would probably have also sworn that I was Kith Kanan come back to lead the elves to victory over their oppressors.

The Silver Stair

From the center of the quickly regrowing hedge maze, indeed, from the very center of Citadel complex itself, a delicate spiral staircase rose from the ground and stretched toward the heavens. We'd seen these stairs as we first entered the valley—it had seemed like a wisp of silver string tying the plateau to the sky above. But up close this was a much more solid structure.

Made entirely from silver, these stairs made a perfect match for the domes (or how the domes must have looked before the dragon attack). The Mystics, it seemed, had succeeded in crafting a perfectly complimentary, perfectly symmetrical companion focal point to their compound. But in truth, the staircase stood in this spot since long before there was a Citadel of Light. In the days before the Chaos War, the Silver Stairs were visible only when our lost moon Solinari was full and riding high in the sky. Since the beginning of the Age of Mortals, though, it has become plainly visible all the time.

Tomes found in the Great Library refer to these stairs as a "celestial ladder" and map the locations of several similar structures in other parts of Ansalon. Many of the other celestial ladders, however, have been destroyed—mostly by the hands of mortals fighting over or around these hallowed sites. Truth be told, we are uncertain whether or not this is the last of its kind on Krynn.

According to folklore, these stairs originally provided access to the realm of the gods, allowing mortals to communicate with and even visit the Court of Paladine. Since the retirement of the gods, though, it simply is a by all accounts infinite staircase leading up as high as anyone has ever dared to walk. The Mystics claim that those who climb high enough are given visions to help them decide the course of their lives. Goldmoon, despite the fact that she climbed hoping to find a way to bring back the gods, received a vision that led her to found the Citadel. Others say they have received glimpses of their futures, images of events transpiring many miles away, visits from the spirits of long-dead relatives and friends, and occasionally snippets of the past that hold keys to unlocking present dilemmas.

As a historian, I cannot confirm these events. In fact, at Baloffs urging I ascended the Silver Stair myself. Although the view after climbing for half an hour was incredible—I could look down on the whole Citadel, peer far out to sea, and even trace the Silver Way back all the way to the Port of Schallsea (which was almost unrecognizably small on the horizon)—I cannot claim to have had any sort of spiritual visitation.

Baloff Heyth (Citadel Mystic, age 32):

The Silver Stair has grown unpredictable this past year—much like the magic of the heart. However, it may just be that you needed to climb further. I know of several people who spoke of spending days on the Stair, carefully sleeping on one of the steps, their eyes even with the stars in the eastern sky.

Spiritual guidance is not easily found, and skeptics usually experience exactly the nothing they were expecting. You must be willing to commit yourself completely to the journey before you can hope to reach the end.

In truth, I heard from other Citadel residents, no one has received a vision since the night of the Great Storm. Interestingly, though, that does not prevent both the Mystics and visitors from all across Ansalon from making the ascension anyway. Although none of them come down with any spiritual guidance, many do claim to feel as though their burdens have been lifted, or at least lightened.

Sooth Finewine (Citadel Healer, age 34):

I ascend the Silver Stair every month on the night of the new moon if the skies are clear. The stars are so bright, and the world is so quiet. I wrap myself in my warmest clothing and climb until it's so cold that my breath comes out as a cloud that swirls around my head. I talk to the stars or to myself—or sometimes I pretend that the First Master is there listening to me. Although no one answers me, and I never receive a vision anymore, in the morning I awake refreshed. And the chill of the wind feels like a kiss on my cheek.

Just as I was thinking how informative it would be to get the perspective of someone who is not a member of the Citadel, I spied Captain Crestborne standing with her foot on the very first silver step. She had her hiking pack slung over her shoulder and a small stick clutched in her right hand. She looked up the spiral with a determined glint in her eye.

Rijeen Crestborne (Captain of the Silver Star, age 41):

Yes, I'm going to climb the stairs. I made a promise, you see. I promised my niece, Gerti, that one day I would take her here and we would climb the stairs together. My sister told her that when I went to sea that I sailed from one edge of the world to the other. Gerti desperately wanted to look out and see all of the world's ends so that she would always know where it was I was going.

[Here Captain Crestborne paused for a very long time as she visibly fought back tears.]

She said that one day she would he my navigator, and we'd sail to the ends of the world together. Every day she'd go down to the river and throw sticks in so she could pretend they were the Silver Star carrying her toward some far away port.

We still don't know how she fell into the river. All we know is her body was found a few miles downstream, a stick—this stick—clutched tight in her hand. Her Silver Star did not carry her safely enough.

[Again, she paused to collect herself]

Gerti will never sail with me, but I will show her where the horizon meets the sky. I'll show her where to sail her ship so that we can always be together.

We stood there for a few moments without saying a word. Then Captain Crestborne pulled her traveling hood over her head and started up the Silver Stair. Baloff and I watched as she climbed. We watched for a very long time, and when the tiny speck that was all we could see of Rijeen Crestborne disappeared into the billows of a cloud that momentarily enveloped the stairs, we turned and walked silently back toward the domes.

The Orphanage

Before Berylinthranox's attack there was more than enough space at the Citadel of Light to house the Mystics and provide at least semi-private accommodations for the scores of pilgrims who were visiting at any particular time. However, the complete collapse of several domes, as well as the loss of the top few floors of those that remained, strains the level of comfort Mystics' are able to give their visitors. I was presented with two options—staying the night in the cell that Baloff shared with five other Mystics, or volunteering to help at the complex's orphanage in exchange for a cot in the common sleeping room.

For the sake of this report I wanted to capture as broad a range of experiences as possible. Plus, by my estimation I was more likely to get a good night's rest in a room full of orphans than with Baloff who, while excellent waking company, I judged likely to be a heavy snorer.

In living memory Ansalon has always faced the problem of war, depredation, and the relative frailty of mortal life leaving a good deal of children wandering the world bereft of parents or guardians. One of the first goals the First Master assigned to her newly formed Citadel of Light was to provide shelter, food, and most of all guidance to the orphans of Ansalon. No matter who the child was, what race, country, or situation he or she came from, the Citadel would take him or her in. As a result, the complex was soon fairly overrun by urchins, waifs, and ragamuffins of every description. However, with patience greater I'm sure than even Brother Bertrem must show with novice Aesthetics, the Mystics have built for these family-less children not only a shelter, but a home.

Originally taking up a whole floor of the Grand Lyceum, the severe damage to that structure forced the orphanage to he moved. In fact, since there was no longer any single space in the Citadel large enough to house nearly one hundred orphans, the children had to he split into three groups and relocated to different buildings.

Allika Oliveblossom (Citadel Aspirant, age 17):

The move was quite traumatic for many of the children. They have trouble, understandably, trusting that the things and people they love will not be taken away from them. We try to make them feel that the other orphans and those of us who are their guardians make up a new, larger family—that no matter what happens nothing will ever take us all away. Having to split the group like this has strained the trust, particularly in the youngest of our little brothers and sisters.

Allika was hardly more than a child herself. An orphan raised here in the Citadel of Light, she said that she has only vague memories of her parents, and isn't even sure of her exact age. Her estimation of seventeen seems correct. When dealing with her charges, who are all less than ten years old, she seemed quite adult. However, standing next to the other guardians she looked like a child playing at being a grown-up.

Still, by any measure she was an excellent surrogate parent. She carried herself with dignity and poise, and always treated her charges with respect (something that some of the older adults had trouble doing). The children seemed to adore her, and when she told them it was time for bed there was as little whining and stalling as one can imagine from a group of youngsters who would clearly rather play for a few hours more.

Every child got tucked into bed individually and received as much attention from Allika and the others as he or she needed. My help was requested in this process, and although I have never taken care of a child in my life, I gladly began moving from cot to cot tucking blankets in, fluffing pillows, and kissing foreheads as requested.

Some of the children were curious about me. They asked who I was and why I was there. Every time I answered by saying, "I am a student, just like you, and I'm here to learn about life here at the Citadel." They were more than happy to help with my research.

Bengold (Orphan from Hylo, age 8):

This is lots better than living on your own. I got a lot of friends, and the food is good. I used to go three days without food sometimes (unless you count thrown out apple cores).

I feel sorry for kids that don't have all this. I know a lot of my friends back in Hylo would have liked this. But back there people'd just disappear. You see 'em in the street one day, and then you each go find somewhere to sleep, and they never show up again. I guess a bunch of 'em died. But I keep hoping one or two will end up here. I think they'd like it a lot.

Mara (Orphan from Solan thus, age 6):

I like it here. It's scary sometimes. Sometimes I don't know what's going to happen. But Allika always gives me hugs and makes me feel better, even if I'm still scared. Dragons are scary. And they make really loud noise, like this—[exceptionally loud shriek]. And they shoot stuff out of their mouths like fire and lightning and rocks and shoes—well—maybe not shoes, but all that other stuff, I think.

Skid-Knee (Orphan from Port Balifor, age 9):

The dragons were bad, but not as bad as back in Port Balifor. We used to get attacked by Malys all the time. She'd fly over and everyone would just fall down shaking. My dad used to say that was called "dragon fear," and that it was a good thing. It kept you from doing something dumb like trying to fight a dragon. But I don't know. A lot of people died 'cuz they were too scared to run. They'd just stand there as Malys flew over and breathed fire on 'em. That's what happened to my dad.

The dragons here aren't half as bad as Malys. For the first thing, they only came that one time. And I think Goldmoon scared 'em away for good. For another thing, they weren't half as big. And they just flew over. None of 'em even landed or anything. They didn't stomp any buildings. I think they must have been baby dragons because even their dragon fear wasn't very strong—at least not compared to Malys. Anyway, when I grow up I want to kill 'em. I want to kill all the dragons. That way they'll never kill anyone's dad again.

Haras (Orphan from Kalaman, age 5):

Allika says there are good dragons, too. Just like there are good people and bad people. She says we should teach people—and dragons—how to be nice. That if we work hard at it, we can make a diff'rence for our friends. We can help them not be bad. We can make them want to be good, and stay here, not run off and do bad things. She says we should pray to Mishakal every day, and never forget that she loves us… just like our parents do. Just 'cuz our parents are gone doesn't mean they don't love us. They didn't want to leave. And I wish they didn't have to. But they did, just like Mishakal. But no one can ever take their place. And no one can ever take Mishakal's place, no matter how much some people say it's true.

Was this young child just rambling as she drifted off to sleep? Or was she actually expressing concerns about Mina and her worship of the One God? Mina did, after all, grow up here at the Citadel orphanage. She had no less a mentor than First Master Goldmoon herself, yet she has gone on to lead a marauding army of Dark Knights and found a new religion that is finding more and more followers wherever it is introduced.

Have the adults running the orphanage begun to take extra measures to indoctrinate the children into worship of Mishakal and the old gods? Are they worried that another Mina could be growing in their very midsts?

Allika Oliveblossom (Citadel Aspirant, age 17):

The children have always been taught to revere Mishakal. I know I was. In fact, I know Mina was, too—she just never seemed to be listening.

She would play with Goldmoon—brush her hair, tell her stories, listen to anything the First Master had to say—but she always heard another voice, too. At night she would lay awake and talk to someone who wasn't there. I know it always worried our guardians. Mina was such a lonely child. She never knew her parents, yet she always seemed to pine for someone or something that had been taken from her. I think she never felt like Mishakal was real—like the blessed mother actually cared for her as an individual.

We're not trying to indoctrinate the children. We just want them to know and believe that they are loved in a way that transcends all worldly troubles. If Mina had believed that, the world might be a better place today.

It was only then that it struck me that this young woman was one of Mina's playmates as a child—that the two of them are almost exactly the same age. They grew up together, were taught the same lessons by the same mentors, and yet one of them turned out to be a truly gifted nurturer, while the other leads an army that is even now trying to subjugate all of Ansalon. And the general, in fact, was the child who received the closest attention from the First Master.

What could one learn about Mina by studying Allika?

Mothers And Daughters

Curious, I asked as many of my hosts as possible about Allika's early years, her relationship with Goldmoon and Mina, and what it was they thought was the difference between the two young women.

To my great surprise, the otherwise completely open, sharing, emotionally accessible Mystics all but flat out refused to talk about Mina.

Baloff Heyth (Citadel Mystic, age 32):

You have to understand, Mina did worse than abandon the teachings we gave her. She broke the First Master's heart. That is the transgression we cannot forgive.

In a community built on faith and mutual support, turning one's back on the gift of the matriarch's special love and attention would be a sin, but there seems to be more than that in these people's silence. They don't really despise Mina, or fear her, or even vilify her. In fact, what they do most is ignore her. It is as though they're afraid to examine that part of their history too closely.

Several people suggest that this is simply a habit developed out of courtesy to First Master Goldmoon. "She loved that child," they say. "It broke her heart whenever her name was mentioned, so we avoid talking about her whenever possible."

Not everyone agrees with this assessment, however.

Camilla Weoledge (Commander of the Solamnic forces on Schallsea, age 47):

Mina's departure broke Goldmoon's heart; be sure of that. But the reason stems from how the girl left, rather than the fact that she chose to go. Goldmoon never begrudged Mina her right to seek her place in the world, and she certainly never flinched at the mention of the girl's name. I used to visit with the First Master regularly, and one of the first subjects she always inquired after was whether or not any of the ships brought word of Mina.

No, I think that the Mystics are more afraid that Goldmoon would have been supportive of Mina's departure, if only the girl had talked about it ahead of time. Wherever she is, I doubt the First Master is at all pleased with the way things turned out, but I believe with all my heart that she would have encouraged her ward to follow the dictates of her heart. And no matter if Mina brings Ansalon to its knees, Goldmoon will still love her unconditionally. How could a mother not?

Mother? Was that really the relationship Goldmoon and Mina shared? The historical record made it clear that they were clearly teacher and student. The other Mystics proved that was more correctly defined as mistress and apprentice, or regent and heir-apparent. But if the relationship really was familial, then that changed the entire dynamic, not only for interpreting the past, but also for gauging what to expect should the two women ever come into direct conflict during the ongoing hostilities.

What's more, it begged the further question of how Mina's peers felt about her—and about Goldmoon. Was Mina perceived as a "teacher's pet" or did they consider her an ungrateful sister? Indeed, did the others perceive Goldmoon as a mother figure at all?

Allika Oliveblossom (Citadel Aspirant, age 17):

Do I see Goldmoon as my mother? No. If anything I see the First Master as a grandmother or, now that her youth has been restored, an aunt. I was very young when my mother died, no more than two years old, but I have a very clear memory of her kissing me and crying as she used her own body to protect me from falling debris. I have always returned to her image in times of difficulty. I bring her face to mind and try to imagine what she would have done in my place. I hope to one day master the sphere of Spiritualism and speak with her. On that day, I want her to be proud of me.

Mina is another story. She has no memory of her parents. The First Master is the only mother she has ever known, and the elders say that Mina seemed to fill the void left in Goldmoon's heart by the death of her own daughter years earlier. Before you ask, no, I was never jealous of this special bond between the two. And as far as I know, none of the other children were either. We were never made to feel that we were less important. We all got individual attention from the First Master, she loved us all equally. But Mina needed extra support, extra love. And one of the highest precepts we have here at the Citadel is to never withhold something that another soul needs.

Mina wanted nothing more than to please the First Master. But the most basic tenets of her teachings—that the gods are with us always, and through them all things are possible—were beyond her grasp… beyond any of our grasps. The First Master had absolute, certain, first hand knowledge of this—she actually had been touched by the gods. While we always believed her, believed in her teachings, none of us ever had—could ever have—the certainty that Goldmoon does. She did her best to teach us, but there are some lessons that cannot be learned through any way other than experience.

I think Mina felt like she was letting Goldmoon down, that because she herself could . not feel the things the First Master did at a young age, she was a disappointment. At night, she would sometimes speak to the sky—talk the way I always imagined Goldmoon did to Mishakal. I thought she was trying to force a connection to be forged, but perhaps she really was communicating with this "One God" she now worships. Maybe Goldmoon did such a good job of teaching Mina that she made it possible for her to speak to a god that no one else could hear.

Camilla Weoledge (Commander of the Solamnic forces on Schallsea, age 47) [responding to Allika's comments above]:

I don't think that Goldmoon had anything to do with it. She raised the girl the best way she knew how. At some point, a person becomes responsible for his or her own actions, and as much as it pains the rest of the family, there is nothing they can do about it.

Indeed. The historical record, in fact, notes that Lady Weoledge's own brother proved that by deserting his post and position in the very Order she now serves.

Baloff Heyth (Citadel Mystic, age 32):

We are all overlooking one possibility. Perhaps the One God really is the way to salvation for the people of Ansalon, and we are simply fighting out of attachment to our former beliefs. What if Mina is right?

Allika Oliveblossom (Citadel Aspirant, age 17):

It is a mistake, I believe, to think you can understand why a person makes the decisions she does when it comes to family and religion. The only thing of which I'm certain is that Mina is doing what her heart tells her is correct. That is one lesson I know Goldmoon taught her.

Mere quotes cannot express how painful those last two statements were to the individuals making them. They believe wholeheartedly in the vision of the world taught to them by the First Master. But one of the most basic beliefs in that worldview is always to be mindful of one's own fallibility. And even Goldmoon is, after all, only human.

Journey's End

After three days on the road and two days at the Citadel of Light, I must confess to a personal feeling of uncertainty. I'd experienced moments of enlightenment and seen every person in my retinue confront (and overcome) a personal tragedy or deep-seated doubt. I met the residents of the Citadel who, though they faced the waning of their magical abilities, the disappearance of their leader, and the shocking revelation that the Knights of Neraka are now led by a young woman they themselves raised, continue to have hope for the future. In fact, everyone at the Citadel, visitors and Mystics alike, seemed filled with hope.

It was this hope that caused my uncertainty. Not one concrete reason existed to explain that feeling of hope. Indeed, there seemed to be every reason to feel at least a little hopeless. Yet there it was, in all our hearts—hope.

I pondered all this as we gathered in the ruins of the Grand Hall (another shattered dream that ought to have deflated the moment, yet didn't) preparing to start the hike back to the Port of Schallsea. Lady Weoledge pulled me aside.

Camilla Weoledge (Commander of the Solamnic forces on Schallsea, age 47):

I think perhaps you will find more answers on the journey back—and more quotes for your report as well. For some reason, people are much more talkative on the trip home. It's probably something to do with wanting to share what they've learned. The thing is, we each learn something intensely personal, and it is very difficult to share such things. I think we must each he content with our little piece of enlightenment.

Now, are we ready to go? Who's missing?

The absent party, it turned out, was Captain Crestborne. Under normal circumstances, Lady Weoledge would have brought the missing person to the attention of the Mystics and then headed off without him or her. After all, many people have come to the Citadel of Light for a three-day visit only to end up staying for the better part of a lifetime. But without Captain Crestborne there was no reason for the rest of the pilgrims to leave. We were all planning to sail off Schallsea on the Silver Star, but the ship would not be leaving without her captain.

We were about to split into search parties when we heard the captain's voice coming from the direction of the hedge maze. She leaped over what once were (and eventually would again be) the walls of the maze, sprinting in our direction. At first we thought she was afraid we might be leaving without her, but as she drew closer we discovered the true reason for her agitation.

Rijeen Crestborne (Captain of the Silver Star, age 41):

I had a vision! I fell asleep while I was on the Silver Stair and dreamed that Gerti, my niece, came to sit beside me. I know, that hardly seems unusual given my reasons for going up there, but listen to my dream.

Gerti sat beside me and told me that as much as the world had changed when I was a little girl, it would change even more in the coming days. She took the stick from my hand—you know, the stick that was her toy version of the Silver Star—and told me I must guard my ship closely. Like hers it is only made of wood, and the coming changes could shatter stone. Then she whispered in my ear and handed the stick back to me, but it was no longer a piece of wood. She handed me this. Do any of you recognize it?

Captain Crestborne held out an arrangement of colorful stones mortared together in a pleasing pattern—what appeared to be a small piece of a much larger mosaic. Zacharial gasped.

Zacharial Windtouched (Qualinesti Rebel, age 135):

Th-that is from Qualinost. It is a section of the mosaic from the ceiling of the Tower of the Sun!

Rijeen Crestborne (Captain of the Silver Star, age 41):

Then the vision is true. For she told me that Berylinthranox had attacked the city of Qualinost. There was a great battle, she said, indeed a historic one. For Beryl was opposed not only by the Qualinesti rebels and guards loyal to Speaker Gilthas, but also by the Dark Knights assigned to rule the elf homeland in the dragon's name. Three sides that previously could not agree on whether or not the sky was blue came together to stand as one against the Green—and they won!

[A great cheer arose and several Mystics ran off to spread the word]

But the news is not all good.

She told me that in her death throes Beryl destroyed the Tower of the Sun on which together stood the Qualinesti Queen Mother and the leader of the Dark Knights. Lauranalanthalasa is dead.

[Silence descended]

And although the vast majority of the populace managed to escape through tunnels built with the help of the dwarves of Thorbardin, those same tunnels weakened the ground on which sat the city. Under the crushing weight of the bloated dragon corpse they collapsed, and took the banks of the White Rage River with them.

Qualinost is completely ruined. And the spot on which it stood is now a lake—a lake of death.

We stood there dumb for a while. No one had even the inkling of what to begin to say. The Green Overlord was dead—but at what price?

Mere moments earlier we were commenting on the sense of hope that pervaded our group. Now we were numbed by the overwhelming sense of loss. Most numb of all was Zacharial Windtouched. He'd left Qualinost only a week earlier, coming to the Citadel to offer the support of his Speaker and his people to the Mystics here. Now, as he prepared to return, came the news that he had nowhere to return to.

Katyana uth Mishakal (Solamnic Noble, age 56):

This is indeed a terrible day. The Golden General has fallen! This news will not be taken well by the populace of Palanthas—we loved her as dearly as if she where our own native daughter. But the news of her great courage and the defeat of Beryl may be enough to rally all freedom-loving people. Now we will finally take arms up against the Dark Knight usurpers who have stolen Palanthas and stand poised to crush all the free lands of Ansalon. We will join together with the Qualinesti, and together we will make certain that the Queen Mother's sacrifice is not in vain!

Camilla Weoledge (Commander of the Solamnic forces on Schallsea, age 47):

I will draft a letter to the Knights' Council and send my most trustworthy Knight to deliver it to Solanthus. In this hour of danger we must all stand together and mete out justice for those who have given their lives and homes in the service of us all. All the overlords will fall now. This will be a rallying point. You'll see!

Baloff Heyth (Citadel Mystic, age 32):

War? Is that all you can think about is another war? We haven't even finished the one that's ravaging the world now and you want to start another one with the great dragons? For Mishakal's sake, we don't even know that what this woman's saying is true. I don't mean to impugn your word, Captain, but no one has received a vision in months. Now you come down from there with a story and a piece of broken pottery and we're all supposed to jump up and march off to war?

A great many others were shouting a great many more things. All of them filled with anger, and if the truth be known, not a small amount of fear. Qualinost was one of the jewels of Ansalon, with a long and rich history. If it could be wiped from the earth in a single day, was there anything that could truly be called "safe"?

Only one person remained calm—Zacharial.

Zacharial Windtouched (Qualinesti Rebel, age 135):

Thank you, my new friends. Thank you for your support, but the truth is that today is a great day. I do not know what tomorrow will bring, nor the day after that. But I can tell you with the utmost certainty that these events can only lead to the eventual destruction of all our enemies. The overlord Beryl has fallen. Though the Qualinesti people may be homeless, we still are free and willing to fight to keep that freedom. Together we will win back Ansalon. I have faith.

At that moment I understood why we had all been—and now once again were—filled with such hope. Hope is what people lack when they come to the Citadel of Light, and it is what they take home with them after their journey is done. But the true miracle of the Mystics is their faith.

Hope can be bolstered or shattered depending on the winds of fortune, but faith is unwavering and stands up to all opposition.

The Citadel of Light was built in honor of the true gods, and on the belief that faith in their power was enough to see us through anything. The gods have been gone for nearly forty years now. And a new god seems to have arisen in the east. But through it all, faith has kept the Citadel strong. Whether their domes stand or fall, whether their First Master ever returns to them or not, the faith inherent in the Order of Mystics will insure that the Citadel of Light will survive. And in surviving it will continue to inspire hope in us all.

The Insurrection That Never Was

If there is one thing I have learned on my various journeys on behalf of the Great Library, it is that you never know when or where inspiration will strike. Yes, I said "inspiration"—a historian is more comparable to a bard or an artist than one might think. You spend your life creating permanent records of the things that strike you as important. The main difference, I suppose, is that other artists capture things like love and courage in songs or pictures. Historians, on the other hand, capture truth and perspective in long tomes that no one really likes to read. Well, except other historians.

But the fact remains that whether you're an artist or a historian, you wander the world looking for the right subject to immortalize. Sometimes you know what you're looking for. A bard might go to the site of an impending battle knowing there likely will be many acts of bravery to write songs about. A historian might go to an important religious site—like, the Citadel of Light—knowing that it hosted some of the most important people and events of recent memory.

On the other hand, you never know what will happen to you along the way. The bard might be accosted on the road by bandits, only to have his purse, and possibly his life, saved by a mysterious stranger (as was the case in the writing of the popular Ballad of the Legionnaire of Bressel Wood). The historian might meet a stranger on his voyage back from a historical site—a stranger whose very look encourages others to talk about events that otherwise would have remained secret.

This last possibility was, in fact, the case during my return from Schallsea Island. By the time we boarded the Silver Star, all the pilgrims and I felt quite close. Sleeping out on the deck, we shared stories more freely than we had on our voyage to the island. We talked of our lives, revealed what we learned on the pilgrimage to the Citadel, and debated about everything from politics to religion. A favorite subject, though, was assessing new passengers whenever one boarded the ship.

The Silver Star, you see, was what Captain Crestborne called a "working vessel," which meant that although she left Schallsea bound for Palanthas, it was not a direct voyage. We put in at most of the medium-sized ports along the New Sea and the western Solamnic coast. Each time the crew unloaded some portion of the goods in the hold while the captain negotiated an acceptable price with the local merchants. As often as not, she would then go into the town for a few hours and come back leading a series of wagons bearing some new cargo to fill the hold. Since she and the crew always seemed to have steel to spend in the local taverns, I can only surmise that Captain Crestborne had quite a keen mind for business.

As I said, sometimes the ship took on more than just cargo. New passengers occasionally joined us on the deck. Most of them were glad to join the circle of pilgrims, happy for some comfort on an otherwise luxury-free voyage. There was one passenger in particular, though, who wanted nothing to do with our group.

He boarded at a tiny, nameless town on the edge of the New Swamp and stayed on the ship only for the short trip north to Haligoth in southern Throt. He was an elf—tall, strong, and haughty—from the court of Silvanesti (if not, then a thief who stole every bit of his gear from the Tower of the Stars). When pressed, he introduced himself as Samar, and then he would not share a dozen more words with any of us during his entire voyage. He simply stood at the bow, one hand on the sprit, the other on his horse's mane, staring toward the approaching shore as though he could will the ship to arrive more quickly.

The other pilgrims burst into wild suppositions about the elf’s background and what business took him to the north. The Silvanesti only recently dropped the magical shield that had separated them from the rest of Ansalon. Perhaps Samar was simply going out to gather news from the world.

"That is a man on a mission," Katyana uth Mishakal said with utter certainty. "He has a duty to fulfill, and one I suspect he does not entirely relish or even believe in."

We all looked at her in surprise.

Katyana blushed.

"Well, that's how he looks to me," she said sheepishly, then wandered off to the aft railing.

As I said earlier, being a historian is very much like being a bard. Sometimes you simply get a sense that there is a worthwhile, perhaps even important, story behind a simple statement. In this case, Katyana's assessment and subsequent embarrassment told me that she might have something more to say.

I followed her to the rail and stood beside her for a while simply watching the southern shore grow smaller on the horizon. After a few minutes Katyana smiled at me. It was an apologetic look, the kind one might give when revealing to someone that he is the butt of a practical joke. For my part, I kept as straight a face as I could manage.

"You are quite a judge of character," I said.

"Learning to read people is a most important survival skill when you're part of a revolutionary movement."

I looked at the senator quizzically.

"You don't believe me?" she asked.

I shrugged—a gesture that Brother Bertrem greatly discourages among the Order of Aesthetics. I, however, have found that people respond well to this motion. It indicates that they know more than you do and gives them a feeling of control over the conversation (which in turn often leads them to divulge more than they originally intended).

"I have lived in Palanthas all my adult life," I answered. "I know you both by sight and reputation, Senator uth Mishakal. You are a woman who speaks plainly and honestly. I must admit, though, for all my sources of information, I have never heard of any organized resistance movement in Palanthas."

She smiled again.

"So am I lying or delusional?"

"Neither," I assured her. "I recognized the ghost to whom you spoke—Vinkal Keenedge. He was Lord Kinsaid's personal assistant. I had the honor of interviewing him on several occasions. I was told he left Palanthas to assume a post in Jelek, but the bolt that protruded from his chest had the markings of a fletcher of my acquaintance—it was made in Palanthas. Clearly there is more going on than meets even the ever-vigilant eyes that tend the Great Library."

Katyana laughed.

"Self-mockery isn't something you Aesthetics are known for."

Now it was my turn to laugh.

"Brother Bertrem often finds my behavior… challenging."

"I'm sure he does," she replied. "But in public I'm sure he commends you as a fine representative of your Order. He wants the outside world to perceive his cadre of scholars to be uniformly erudite and polite. It is very similar with the Dark Knights. Although they recognize there is opposition to their regime, they do not wish the world at large to know about it. They try to stamp it out in the dark of night and do everything in their power to prevent news—or even rumors—of their efforts from reaching the commoners."

I dropped my eyes from the horizon and gazed at the wake the Silver Star made plowing through the waves.

"So" I asked, "how did you, a senator—one of the people the Dark Knights would most want to keep unaware of their detractors—come to be a member of the resistance movement?"

Katyana laughed again.

"As with most important things in life," she said, "it happened quite by accident."

This is the tale Katyana told me.

Coming of Age

There are two ways to grow up in Palanthas—rich or poor. That's true anywhere, but it's doubly true in Palanthas. In other parts of Ansalon, the wealthy and destitute are separated by physical distance as well as social strata. I've visited the rustic parts of Solamnia, traveled to Ergoth, and been a diplomatic representative to Nordmaar; I've seen not only how the other half lives, but also all the various ways that my half lives.

In other regions the "good" and "bad" parts of a town might as well be different cities entirely. The commoners have no idea what life is like for their lords. Most of them never set foot inside the gates of a castle or mansion. They never see the grounds or even the way the servants dress. The nobles, on the other hand, are so far removed that they have no idea of the living conditions with which the poor must contend. They never have to see the ramshackle homes or smell the squalor.

Palanthas, on the other hand, is much too small for such physical divisions. Nestled in the small fertile plain between the Vingaard Mountains and Branchala Bay, the various rich and poor quarters of town sit right atop one another. It is impossible to be unaware of the advantages (or disadvantages) fate has handed you. This makes Palanthas both more egalitarian—for no one, no matter how privileged, can lock herself in an isolated tower of luxury—and more stratified. The rich and poor become quite adept at simply ignoring one another.

Although I grew up in a mansion on Nobles' Hill, I could look down into the Trade Exchange from my bedroom window, and many evenings our tastefully appointed drawing room was unbearable because of the smell wafting up from the fishing wharf. Growing up, my friends were both politicians' children and homeless orphans who'd found shelter in one or another of the local gardens (although only the former were ever invited into the house to play). As I grew closer to womanhood, though, I socialized more with the daughters of other noble families, and I saw less and less of the poorer girls (although they still lived less than a stone's throw away).

My father, Neltan uth Mishakal, was a member of the Palanthan Senate, and it is not mere daughterly love to say that he was among the best of his generation. His portrait hangs to this day in the entry hall to the Lord's Palace. The plaque beneath it reads, "Truth maybe absolute, but it must never be used as an excuse to not do the right thing"—a quote from one of his most famous speeches.

He was one of the strong voices that guided our city through the long and difficult Summer of Chaos. When it seemed as though the world was ending, my father made sure that the senate dealt with the issues that could not afford to be ignored. Sewage was not allowed to back up in the nearly bone-dry underground sewer system, drinking water was rationed sanely and fairly (based on population rather than income level), and he arranged for the Lady Crysania to speak to the people every day from the pulpit on the Lord's Palace.

After the defeat of Chaos, my father ought to have been awarded a medal. Instead, his world fell apart. I was just coming of age at the time—in a stage of my life where I looked to my father for guidance and support. He had none to offer. His hands were full trying ensure that I would still have a city to call home.

The Knights of Takhisis had taken control of Palanthas in the latter days of the war and, with the help of the great blue dragon Skie, managed to retain it. Now, in a world suddenly bereft of gods, the greatest city on the continent was ruled by the forces of evil. One of their first acts was to disband the Palanthan Senate.

My father and several other senators went to the Lord Knight, Sir Elstone Kinsaid, to plead daily for the restoration of the senate and the return of law to the city. Some days he came home spiritually beaten, other days physically beaten, but he never failed to go back the next morning.

After a fortnight of this, he thought he might be making headway. He told me that Sir Kinsaid seemed to value Palanthas's position as the major trading port on Ansalon. That was why the Dark Knights had wanted it in the first place. It did neither their political agenda nor their reputation any good if the city fell to pieces under their rule.

One morning my father came to me at breakfast He was escorted by a Knight dressed in black armor, a skull-shaped helmet covering his face, and the emblem of the Dark Queen emblazoned proudly on his chest. My father kissed me on the cheek and said he was being called to a meeting at the Knight's House, Sir Kinsaid's personal residence. "They mean to restore the senate, Katy," he told me with an infectious grin. He believed the Lord Knight, and I believed my father. We were both fools.

My father did not return home that night—or the next.

Against the tear-filled wishes of my mother, I took a carriage to the Knight's House. Unlike most of the other mansions on Nobles' Hill, it had no wall or gate. Instead, a cadre of Dark Knights stood guard outside the main entrance and steadfastly refused me entry. So I waited.

I sat in my carriage all day and night. In the morning I told the driver to walk back to our home, but I remained in the carriage in front of Sir Kinsaid's residence. Another full day I waited—and another night. And on the morning of the third day I was awakened by the Lord Knight himself opening the door to my carriage.

"Courage must run in your family," he said. "Let us hope you have more sense than your father."

"Where is he?" I demanded.

Sir Kinsaid chuckled.

"Why, he is exactly where he ought to be—working for the good of the people of Palanthas." There was a menacing undertone that chilled his words. "Have you not heard? I ordered the senate restored. Your father is, I'm certain, hard at work on the business of the city."

I leaped from the carriage. Weak and slightly delirious from more than a day without food or drink, I still managed to sprint to the heart of town, through Central Plaza, and into the Lord's Palace. I walked breathlessly up to the senate's chamber. White candles burned in sconces on either side of the entrance (the traditional signal that the senate was in session), and although two Dark Knights guarded the doors, they did not prevent me from entering.

The Palanthan Senate stood empty. Not a single man or woman sat at the great cherrywood table. No one banged the gavel at the podium on the far side of the room. Motes of dust danced in the sunlight that streamed through the windows looking out on Central Plaza.

"Well, I see I was wrong."

Sir Kinsaid stood in the doorway. Next to but slightly behind him stood Xavier uth Nostran, Lord of Palanthas. Lord Xavier had not been seen much since the Dark Knights arrived. In truth, we all had feared that Sir Kinsaid had him put to death.

"The senators, it seems, have shirked their duty," Kinsaid continued. "I gave them the chance to resume their work, to restore order to Palanthas and get the business flowing again. All they wanted to do was argue about how to incite a revolution. Such backward thinking men and women. Well, they're off discussing the matter in a ‘committee’ now—a closed door affair, I'm afraid—leaving no one to run the city."

I glared at the Lord Knight. The smug smile on his face caused my stomach to reel, but I would not give him the satisfaction of seeing me give in to the fear and nausea he inspired. Behind Kinsaid, Lord Xavier stood with slumped shoulders—a defeated man.

"You may not believe this, young Lady uth Mishakal, but I want nothing more than for the city of Palanthas to resume its rightful place as the premiere trading port in Ansalon. But that cannot be done with a City Senate whose sole focus is to foment insurrection."

He crossed the room with a series of long, powerful strides. Lord Xavier began to follow, but one glance back over Sir Kinsaid's shoulder froze the Lord of Palanthas in the doorway.

Kinsaid stood over me. He was a tall, powerfully built man with steel gray eyes and a jaw of leveled granite.

"I need a senate filled with people who will work for the people not against me," he said. "I am certain that the current senators will remain in their committee until either order is restored to Palanthas or I am unseated. And I have no plans to go anywhere."

He hissed the last sentence under his breath, his eyes locked on mine.

"You come from a greatly respected family, Katyana. May I call you Katyana?" he asked. I did not reply. "Your father was the heart of the senate."

"Is," I corrected.

Sir Kinsaid chuckled.

"Is the heart of the old senate," he said. "I need someone to form a new senate before the entire city of Palanthas slips into chaos."

Now it was my turn to laugh.

"You overestimate my family's influence, if you think I have the clout to arrange such a thing. And you underestimate the people of this city if you believe they will simply accept whatever puppet leaders you parade around for their entertainment." I gazed unsympathetically in Lord Xavier's direction. "The ‘old senate,’ as you call it, will remain the only senate until the senators themselves step down."

"Or pass away," he growled.

I nodded.

"Or pass away," I agreed. "But I suspect you will have a difficult time finding people willing to accept positions on a senate whose members too often meet with untimely ends."

Sir Kinsaid said nothing.

"I know not what others will do," I said as I shouldered past the Lord Knight (not an easy task, I assure you). "But I pledge my support to the rightful City Senate, and hope that their ‘closed-door committee’ concludes as quickly as possible. The city of Palanthas cannot survive without their guidance."

As I stopped to curtsey to Lord Xavier, certain that I had won the verbal joust, Sir Kinsaid called back.

"If Palanthas slips into anarchy, I will certainly lose a good deal of prestige with my commander," he said. "What will you lose?"

Lord Xavier and I locked eyes. For the first time I could see the pain behind his diplomatic mask. He was not a weak old man who assented to the whims of the Dark Knights. He was a lord who cared for his people more than for his own dignity.

What would I lose if Sir Kinsaid allowed the city to tear itself apart?

Everything.

But I would not assist him in destroying everything my father stood for.

I set my jaw, focused my eyes in such a determined manner that Lord Xavier seemed more frightened of me than of Sir Kinsaid, and I left the senate chamber.

Admittedly, I do not recall much of the remainder of that day. I walked through the city for a while, and eventually returned home where I consoled my mother, wandered our gardens, and remained lost in thought. I do not have any clear recollections until that evening when I was attending a dinner party in honor of our neighbors' twentieth wedding anniversary.

Since my father was "indisposed," I accompanied my mother to the affair.

Looking around the room, I noticed that although the members of the City Senate were not in attendance, the heads of many powerful merchant families were. And so were my peers—the next generation of Palanthan nobles.

Traditionally we would just be beginning to assist our parents, uncles, aunts, and in some cases grandparents in their jobs of governing the Jewel of Solamnia. We'd take a few years to learn, then begin to build public personas and constituencies for ourselves. The goal being to be prepared to step into the light of public office a year or two before our predecessors decided to retire.

Tradition be damned, I decided. Palanthas needed leaders now.

I remember energy returning to my limbs as I listened to an Ergothian merchant complain about how his ship was sitting in the harbor unable to be emptied because the harbor master was waiting on a tax ruling from the senate. I felt color rise in my cheeks as I heard the high priest of Branchala tell a group of my friends that he was unable to hold services because a troupe of kender had taken up residence in his church, and the Knights of Takhisis had no interest in policing the Old Temple District.

"Without the Senate we are lost," said a middle-aged woman whom I'd seen at many parties, but never actually met.

"No!" I said loudly enough to stop all conversations in the room. "Without the Senate we must rely on one another."

I flushed bright red and expected to be scolded to mind my tongue. But instead all eyes and ears turned my way.

"We are in a difficult time," I heard myself saying. To tell the truth, I had no idea what I wanted to tell these people. "Perhaps the most difficult time in the history of our city. We are caught between two equally unpalatable options. None of us want to help the Dark Knights solidify their hold on Palanthas, but we surely do not want to see our fair city ruined, perhaps irreparably, through neglect."

A spreading murmur of agreement gave me the courage to continue.

"Of course, if we simply make things right—if we help Sir Kinsaid build his new senate—then we cede what little autonomy we have left. However, if we work together, if we use mutual trust instead of municipal bureaucracy to get the necessary tasks done, then we will gain the upper hand. We will hold the jewel that the Dark Knights want, and we will have the power to snatch it away!"

Building The Gilded Cage

The physical force of the crowd's approval actually staggered me. But even more staggering was the way that everyone on Nobles' Hill began to come to me to settle disputes, lead discussions, and organize various interlinked activities. In the following weeks our home was abuzz with activity the way it had been during particularly contentious debates in the senate. Only instead of my father holding court, it was me trying desperately to keep from looking like a little girl who was in way over her head.

To this day I'm not sure whether I fooled them into thinking I was as self-assured and visionary as my father had been, or if they needed a leader so badly that they simply used me as a rallying point despite my shortcomings. After all, no one else wanted to take the lead. If things went bad, the Dark Knights would surely have my head on a pike.

But things did not go bad. In fact, they went extraordinarily well.

Over the course of the next six weeks I helped the various city guilds (everything from fishermen to dock workers to scribes) reach self-policing agreements that allowed the local and visiting merchants to get back to business. I also helped the leaders of the old City Watch organize into smaller neighborhood patrols to help restore the peace. Through it all I gained allies in every quarter of Palanthas. If there was one person who could pull the entire intricate ball of string apart, it was me.

Then I paid another visit to the Knight's House.

This time, a Knight officer was actually waiting for me when my carriage pulled up. I no longer needed to sit outside for two days and nights in order to get Sir Kinsaid's attention.

The officer had close-cropped, dusty blonde hair, piercing green eyes, and a sharp, angular face with dimples in his cheeks and his chin. His smile was as broad as it was insincere—a trait I learned to recognize early in my life as a senator's daughter. He looked young for such an important posting, but the Dark Knights always rewarded ambition. This man clearly had that—and charm as well.

"Lady uth Mishakal," he said with an almost courtly bow. "I am Sir Vinkal Keenedge, the Lord Knight's new chief of staff. Sir Kinsaid bids me welcome you to his home and inquire as to what he owes the pleasure of your visit."

I brushed past Sir Keenedge without saying a word and strode confidently through the front door. Before Sir Keenedge could catch me, I burst into Sir Kinsaid's study.

The look on the man's face must have frozen more than one opponent on the battlefield. His hp twitched in a sneer of hate. His eyes narrowed and focused on me, as though I was the only thing on Paladine's green world that he could see. His shoulders raised and tensed so tightly that I would have sworn the metal of his armor buckled as he flexed.

This, however, was not a battlefield—at least, not the kind on which Sir Kinsaid was best trained.

"Before you threaten to have me killed or imprisoned or tortured or whatever it is you've done to my father and the other senators," I said calmly (though I owed at least some of my courage to the heavy wooden desk separating us), "you would do well to listen to what I have to say."

My matter of fact tone must have disarmed him, because the Lord Knight dropped his menacing glare. Kinsaid raised his chin and turned his head to appraise me from the corner of one eye.

"Very few prisoners gain their freedom when their solicitors insult the magistrate," he growled.

"Yes, well, I am not here to plead for anyone's release, Sir Kinsaid." This seemed to interest him. "For all I know, my father and the other senators are nearly two months dead. Even if they are not, you control their fate. I, on the other hand, control your fate. Shall we see which is more valuable?"

To say that the Lord Knight burst into laughter would be a drastic understatement. He practically fell over himself in a fit of guffawing that brought Vinkal Keenedge and several other men running to his side, and I don't blame them. The effect was similar to one I once saw a wizard of the White Robes create with a spell cast on a particularly belligerent merchant. However, Sir Kinsaid regained his composure soon enough.

"What do you have that could possibly be of such importance to me?"

I smiled and paused before answering.

"The city of Palanthas."

Again he burst into raucous laughter.

"Go home, little girl," he said. "The city of Palanthas is mine to do with as I will."

I nodded sagely.

"Yes, the city is yours," I agreed. "Your Knights patrol the streets. No one comes or goes without your leave. But no one works without my leave."

Suddenly, Sir Kinsaid was interested again.

"Did you think the merchants and laborers and shop owners of the city overcame their fears and disputes by themselves?" I asked. "You're too savvy a commander to think this many people could organize without some sort of leadership."

"B-but you turned away from the chance to lead your people," he stammered.

"I turned away," I said, "from the chance to be your puppet on a new City Senate."

He blinked many times in rapid succession. Clearly the difference was lost on him.

"If I had done all this from the pulpit you offered, you would still hold all the cards, Sir Kinsaid," I explained. "The city was in turmoil and you had something I wanted—my father. Now the city is running smoothly, and your superiors must be very happy with the job you're doing. As it turns out, I hold the key to that continued prosperity."

The Lord Knight still looked confused.

"But if you fight me," he said, "the city will be plunged into anarchy again."

"No," I said. "Before the city was in anarchy. However, now that the various factions have reached understandings, we can carefully regulate or even stop business and essential services in entire portions of the city but still provide for the needs of individuals. We can stop all trade except for food and other necessities. We can impose impromptu levees on merchants who do not participate in our activities."

"You're talking about racketeering. You've become a crime lord!"

I laughed lightly, just the way a sixteen-year-old girl should. My greatest advantages lay in the Lord Knight continuing to think of me as a petulant teenager rather than as a highly organized political opponent.

"I'm talking about neighbors banding together to protect themselves when their government has been taken hostage. I am not my father. I may have put this coalition together, but I cannot make it last. Only the City Senate has any hope of doing that."

The snarl returned to Sir Kinsaid's lips.

"Now we both have something the other wants, Lord Knight," I said. "I know I cannot force you to leave Palanthas. But you most assuredly cannot force me to keep it running. Perhaps a truce really is in both our best interests?"

Without another word, and without sparing even a glance at Sir Kinsaid, I marched from the room, past Sir Keenedge and the other stunned Dark Knights, and into my carriage. On the way home my nerves finally caught up with me and I started to gasp uncontrollably. I simply couldn't get enough air into my lungs.

What had I done? Had I just broken the will of the Dark Knight regime or signed my own arrest—and possibly death—warrant?

Word quickly got around about what I'd done. Our home was soon swamped with nobles and merchants and even a few commoners wanting to congratulate me for having the courage to do what everyone else wanted to.

But silence fell, and the house abruptly emptied when a servant came in saying that the Lord Xavier's carriage was approaching our property, escorted by a Dark Knight officer in full battle dress.

I stood alone in our great foyer, having insisted that my mother supervise and calm the servants in the kitchen. The Lord of Palanthas's carriage pulled into view and stopped directly in front of our door, but no one emerged. The Dark Knight reined in his horse so that he blocked the direct line between the carriage and me. He said nothing, just sat there with his black armor glinting in the sun. I stood my ground for a few moments, but finally my curiosity got the better of me and I approached.

The Dark Knight continued to do nothing, neither opening the door nor impeding me from pushing past and doing so myself. Inside the carriage, his body frailer than I'd ever seen it, sat my father. His hair had been shorn off, probably with the edge of a none-too-sharp sword, and he wore exactly the clothes he had the morning I'd last seen him—except now they were horribly ragged and smelled like low tide at Blue Crab Pier. Tears streamed down his face.

"Welcome home, father."

As the servants rushed out to help my father into the house, the Dark Knight raised the visor on his skull-shaped mask. It was Vinkal Keenedge.

"The Lord Knight sends his thanks for resolving these contentious matters," he said. It really was more of a pronouncement, I wasn't even sure he saw me.

I ignored Sir Keenedge and turned to follow my father.

"You are a courageous woman, Katyana uth Mishakal," he said. He no longer sounded like an officer reading an order to his men. His voice had softened, and he sounded like a man, an ordinary man. "You've done what no one else I know has ever done—you've gotten the better of Elstone Kinsaid. I salute your family, and your victory."

My victory was more than just personal.

Although the City Senate had not officially disbanded, the next day Lord Xavier presided over an official re-dedication of the body's chambers in the Lord's Palace. All the missing senators were there, and my father banged the gavel to call the Senate to order.

Things, however, were not the same.

Sir Kinsaid's torture had not broken my father's will, but his body never fully recovered. The same was true for all the senators. And many of their heirs were unwilling to return to supporting roles—after a taste of the intoxication that comes from having real power, they wanted to drink more deeply.

More importantly, the Lord Knight and I had come to something of an understanding. The City Senate would look after the business of running Palanthas if Sir Kinsaid and his men would protect the people—all the people. Revolution would be left in the hands of the people (which really is where it belongs). I have never seen or read about a revolution instigated from within the ranks of power that truly succeeded in changing anything. The ruling regime stands to lose too much to get involved in something truly revolutionary. All they are interested in doing is shuffling around the details of power so that they get more and their opponents get less.

My father and his colleagues could not work with the Dark Knights. How could they? These were the very same people who had imprisoned and tortured them. But for the good of Palanthas and all her citizens, the Senate had to work with the Lord Knight.

One by one the old senators retired. The last one to step down was Neltan uth Mishakal—my father. When he did I found myself unanimously elected to take his seat on the City Senate.

I'm not certain whether my father was more proud of me for finding ways to work for the betterment of the city and her residents, or ashamed of me for dealing in a civilized manner with the people who stole his life away. Most of my time was filled in negotiations with Vinkal Keenedge (if invective-filled mutual accusations of deception and acts of bad faith can be called "negotiating"). The Dark Knight who escorted my father home from prison was now assigned to be the liaison between the City Senate and the Lord Knight. I spent more hours per day with Sir Keenedge than I did with my father.

I do know, though, that I did a good job representing the citizens of Palanthas.

Life in the city returned to almost the way that it had been before the Dark Knights invaded. Certainly the laws were a little more restrictive, and their enforcement a little more draconian (if you'll pardon the pun), but Sir Kinsaid spoke the truth when he said he was most interested in maintaining Palanthas as the greatest trade port in all of Ansalon.

Merchants were still allowed to come and go through both the port and the Knight's High Road across the Vingaard Mountains. The Palanthan Trade Exchange continued to be the best place in the world to find just about anything. Traditional holidays were celebrated in their traditional ways, although Sir Kinsaid often found ways to insinuate the Dark Knights into the proceedings (an attempt—not particularly successful—to humanize them and make them seem part of Palanthan traditions).

On Nobles' Hill, the differences were almost imperceptible. As long as the money continued to flow in and there was no regulation preventing the innumerable parties, coteries, dinners, and other social functions the well-off so adore, most of my neighbors and relations seemed to care very little about whether the Knights who stood guard on the city walls wore light or dark armor.

There were, of course, still people who wanted nothing in the world more than the removal of the Dark Knight regime—my father, as an example. They continued to remind us that our city was named after Paladine, the lord of the departed gods, and sworn enemy of Takhisis (the goddess to whom these Dark Knights dedicated their lives).

"No good will come of this," my father would say whenever I mentioned any of the work the Senate did with representatives of the Lord Knight. "You can't trust those Dark Knights. The only thing you can count on is that you never know what they'll do next."

How much happier would I he today if I'd heeded those words? How much death and sadness could I have prevented?

Life Underground

Between the annals of the senate, the unnaturally long memories of gossip-mongers, and a series of very public contracts, treaties, and speeches, this would seem to be the most closely and accurately documented period of my life. I held my seat on the City Senate for thirty years, and became one of the most familiar names in the largest city in Ansalon. I officiated at innumerable weddings, ate enough state dinners to feed every refugee displaced by the Dark Knights' land-grabbing campaign, and made certain that in every way possible I was as untarnished a public servant as ever crossed the threshold of the senate chambers.

But I was living a lie.

As a senator, my job was to work for the betterment of Palanthas and all her citizens. I'd seen that throughout my youth. No one worked more tirelessly for the people of this city than my father; nothing short of perfection was ever good enough. Whenever I compared my work to his, it left me feeling like I was still a ten-year-old girl struggling to live up to her parents' expectations. I felt like a painter who had a picture in his head that he could never transfer accurately to the canvas.

"Your father is a dreamer, Katyana," Sir Keenedge said to me one evening while we sat comparing the port's tariff collection records to the Lord Knight's expenditures on municipal upkeep. All the other senators had gone home to their families, hut I had an idea that less money was being put back into the community than our agreement with the Dark Knight regime demanded. Actually, the idea came from my father; he told me where to look for irregularities in the report. How he knew about them I could not guess, but they were there, and I was going to keep our Dark Knight liaison working on the matter until I was satisfied.

"My father is an idealist!" I snapped. Vinkal Keenedge and I made a good team. We spent so many hours working together that he sometimes seemed like my best friend in the world. It was easy to forget, looking over a piece of legislation and into his green eyes, that he stood for everything I opposed.

"He cannot even begin to admit the possibility," Vinkal said, "that Sir Kinsaid's leadership has had positive effects on the city."

"Positive effects?" I said. "Such as imposing martial law and a curfew? Seizing buildings in every quarter of the city and putting their owners into the street with only the clothes on their backs? Requiring permits to move between the various quarters of the city? Taking men, women, and children into custody without a shred of evidence and ‘interrogating’ them for a fortnight at a time?"

"Like increasing the amount of trade through the port by more than a third," he retorted. "Like reducing the amount of crime in the Trade Exchange, and increasing the number of citizens who pay their taxes on time."

"My father is a patriot," I said. "He would not trade the city's freedom for a few hundred extra steel coins in the municipal coffers."

"Your father is living in the past," he shot back, "He cannot accept that Sir Kinsaid is the lawful leader of Palanthas, and that the days of the Solamnics are gone. He is a stubborn old man who cannot stomach the notion that our generation is doing his job better than he ever did."

"What he cannot stomach," I said, "is the fact that Palanthas's Lord Knight wears the emblem of the Queen of Lies."

Sir Keenedge looked at me, eyes filled with curiosity and wounded pride.

"So do I," he said.

I glared back at him.

"I know."

I stood so quickly that my chair tumbled to the floor behind me. Without saying another word to Vinkal Keenedge, or even sparing him a single glance, I marched from the room and climbed into my waiting carriage.

I arrived home to find my father sitting in his chair before the den fireplace, his body wrapped in a wool blanket. By this time he was quite literally half the man he used to be—old age stooped his shoulders, and he'd lost a considerable amount of weight. But his eyes were still as sharp and piercing as ever they'd been.

"You've been crying," he said as soon as I walked through the door.

Had I?

I touched my cheeks. They were indeed wet with tears.

"The wind was brisk," I said dismissively.

"Where have you been till this hour?" he asked.

"Following up on your suspicion," I answered. "Sir Keenedge and I were going over the Lord Knight's report. The discrepancy was right where you said it would be. Vinkal will bring the matter to Sir Kinsaid's attention tomorrow."

"I worry about you," he said. "You know, Katyana, even I took time out from my work for friends and family. You spend all your time jousting with that Vinkal fellow. Who will look after you when I am gone?"

"I will have the people of Palanthas," I said with a bigger grin than I truly felt like showing. "Besides, you will be around for a good many years to come."

It was then that I noticed how violently my father was shivering. The early spring air was certainly chilly, but not actually frigid. Eyeing him carefully, I stepped to his side.

"Are you well father?" I asked. "Do you have a fever? You're sweating and—"

He cringed and moaned when I laid a hand on his shoulder, and I could feel that the blanket was wet with a warm fluid—blood! His blood!

"Father! Where are you hurt? What happened?"

He pushed my hand from his shoulder and stood. The blanket fell to the floor revealing a small, but deep, gash across his left shoulder and chest. For some reason he was not in his customary nightshirt, but rather wore coveralls of the deepest black.

"What happened was that while you were off negotiating with that jackal, I was out gathering more information."

"You went out?"

"Someone has to," he snapped. "You're too busy following the crumbs the Dark Knights are laying for you to see what they're doing to our city."

He swayed on his feet. The loss of blood must have been greater than either of us imagined.

"They're skimming tax money to pay for an extensive search of the sewers," he said woozily. "They want to find… to find—"

I shrieked as my father fell to the floor in a heap.

Four men leaped from hiding places around the room. They all wore dark clothing identical to what my father had on. One man laid my father flat on the floor while another produced bandages and herbs from a black pouch. A third man gathered me in his arms and placed his hand across my mouth, and the fourth moved to the window to be certain that no one was coming in response to my cry.

"We're friends of Lord uth Mishakal's," the man grappling me whispered. "He was with us spying on a meeting between Lord Kinsaid and a visitor from Jelek when a guard discovered us. Your father threw himself on the man to prevent him from raising an alarm. We managed to dispatch the guard, but not before he stabbed Lord uth Mishakal."

I could feel his grip shift, so I kicked and struggled until I nearly faced him. The man was tall; as he clasped me in his arms my feet dangled a good way off the floor. A black mask covered most of his face, but I could see his eyes. They were a cold, icy blue, and a long, wicked scar ran from his forehead across his right eye and down his cheek. I wasn't sure whether or not he could see from the eye anymore, but it suddenly shifted from focusing on me. My captor seemed to be peering past my ear toward where my father lay.

He looked so pale in the firelight. And he wasn't moving at all.

"The wound was not particularly deep," he said perhaps to reassure himself more than me. "He should be fine. Your father is a strong man. Perhaps the bravest I've ever known."

As it turned out, he was absolutely correct. My father was on his feet in a matter of minutes, and the men disappeared as suddenly and unexpectedly as they'd arrived. I led father up to his bed and after a good night's sleep, plus a particularly hearty breakfast, he once again seemed to be the picture of health—except for a barely noticeable stiffness when he moved his right shoulder. I'm certain he was in a great deal of pain, but he never let anyone know.

Every time I changed the dressing and checked the stitches for signs of infection I found myself wondering how many of his little daily aches and pains were actually the results of similar late-night forays. I still had no idea who those men were, or why he was working with them. For his part, though, my father showed no inclination to talk about them.

"I'm a public servant," I said, somewhat petulantly now that I think about it. "How would it look for my father to be caught skulking around with who-knows-who spying on the Lord Knight? Do you know what would happen if you were found? Do you want me to lose my seat on the senate?"

He turned on me with blood in his eyes.

"Never," he growled, "never use your title as a reason to turn a blind eye to the truth. I know all the excuses. ‘I can't do good for the city if I'm not in the senate.’ Well, tell me, what good can you do if you don't know what's really happening? If you spend every waking hour playing at politics then the only people you're representing are the politicians."

"And all the investigations I've been leading?" I demanded. "All the irregularities I've been uncovering? Are those just 'playing at polities'?"

"No. Those are the real issues of the day."

"And where did I get those, father?" I put my hands on my hips and stood toe to toe with him. "Where did those come from?"

"From the Brothers of Freedom."

I laughed.

"There is no such thing! It's a myth, and one that we would do well to discourage. There is no secret cabal of rebels… listening… at—" I was too stunned to finish my sentence. "How long, father?"

"Have I been opposing the Dark Knights? Since before you were born!"

"How long have you been sneaking about like a thief in the night? How long have you been living a double life?"

He gave me the most level, honest look in his repertoire.

"Since the day the Dark Knights released me from captivity."

For a moment I had no idea what to say. I had too many questions.

"How did you meet these people?" I said at last. "Was it while you were imprisoned?"

My father laughed.

"I've known these men for years," he said. "They're nearly as much my family as you are."

"But they're cutthroats and thieves," I said. "You—you were a great man, a gentleman, a senator. How could you spend your time with people like that?"

"Katyana," he said, slipping into his lecturing voice, "one of the most important things you can do as a senator is get to know some of the ‘wrong people.’ They're the only ones who can tell you what's really happening while you're busy making speeches."

"S-so all the information you've been giving me—all the insight into the Lord Knight's machinations—that came from espionage and not your years of experience?"

He laughed again, this time more warmly.

"The ‘espionage’ is what I learned in all my years of experience," he said. "And if I read my senators right, you're about to start learning it, too."

Although I admit I was completely shocked to learn of this side of my father's past (not to mention his present), I have to admit it made sense. He had always been considered a man of the people, a reputation I desired but thus far had been unable to develop. It really never struck me that if I wanted to represent (let alone be liked by) the common people, I'd have to spend a good deal of time with them.

I had completely lost sight of the very thing that brought me to this point in the first place—my connections to all the various quarters of Palanthan culture. It's funny how success can often squeeze out of your life the very people who made your career possible. I got to my position by having close relationships with the merchants, workers, guilds, and nobles of Palanthas, and yet in the last few years, I'd spent almost no time with anyone other than my fellow senators and the representatives of the Dark Knight regime. In an effort to do the most for the people of my city, I had completely isolated myself from them.

And so I began to attend neighborhood meetings, presided at weddings, hosted dinners, and generally made myself more of a presence in people's lives. I discovered that not everything I thought was important actually mattered to the average citizen. For instance, I pressed the Lord Knight to approve a measure that allowed each and every citizen the right to leave the city for up to half a year to travel or visit relatives. As it turned out, the only people to whom that was important were the merchants (who really didn't have any trouble getting into or out of Palanthas as long as they kept their trade routes running).

On the other hand, I also learned of issues that never would have occurred to me on my own. For example, the curfew imposed on the city—which forbade anyone from leaving their homes between midnight and dawn—was a terrible inconvenience on the dock workers and fishing boat captains. Both those professions traditionally required one to have materials and personnel in place before sunrise. Under the existing curfew, many families and companies were having difficult times making enough money to support themselves. And it was easy enough to get Sir Kinsaid to agree to begin issuing licenses (for a minor fee) that allowed people in those lines of work to travel from home to work in the pre-dawn hours.

Although my newfound rapport with the people improved both my standing among the general populace and my effectiveness in the City Senate, the best thing about it was the look of pride that beamed on my father's face. I was no longer just his daughter, I was someone he could admire.

Of course, not everyone thought this was a change for the better.

"You are working for their good," Sir Keenedge said to me one night. We had been working on a reform to the curfew laws, but I had to leave in order to attend a festival in the New City. "You shouldn't have to run out to their sides to explain what you're doing. You shouldn't have to squander so much time quelling the fears and holding the hands of people who do not understand the way politics works. They should trust you to represent them in the best way possible."

I smiled at him.

"There's a funny thing about building trust," I said. "It's not like constructing a house. You don't wind up with something permanent. It's more like making a chalk drawing on the Central Plaza. The hustle and bustle of daily life will scuff it up. If you don't take a little time every day to work on it and keep it clear and complete, pretty soon it will all be worn away."

The Insurrection That Never Was

It's funny how time slips by. The six weeks that my father was held captive seemed like an eternity. But even looking back on all my time in the senate, I still feel like I've only just begun. Before I knew it, though, invitations began to arrive for parties celebrating the thirtieth-fifth anniversary of my entry into public service.

Thirty-five years?

I could scarcely believe it. And what did I have to show for a lifetime in the senate? The Dark Knights were still in charge of Palanthas, although I daresay that I had some small part in making that a more palatable state of affairs than anyone might have predicted. The people still lived without many of the basic freedoms that had been Palanthas's birthright for centuries before the Chaos War, but this seemed less and less an issue as new generations, who had never tasted these freedoms, came of age. My relationship with Sir Keenedge had grown to the point where we hardly ever came to direct confrontation anymore. We knew one another well enough that we could quickly draft mutually acceptable compromises to even the most contentious issues. But the most poignant measure of time's passage was etched on my father's face.

The only thing, it seemed, that hadn't changed at all was the city of Palanthas herself. As my carriage pulled up to the Central Plaza, the spring breeze carried exactly the same scent that fueled my imagination as a little girl lying awake at night in my father's house. The smell was a mixture of meats roasting in hearths, produce and flowers for sale in the Trade Exchange, and sea air wafting in off the bay. It was the essence of Palanthas—many things from many places all wrapped up in one unique, ever-changing package. The smell made me both reminisce about the way things had been and ponder the hopes I had for making the future as bright as possible.

As I walked into the banquet hall in the Lord's Palace, I felt the same odd mix of nostalgia and anticipation. My colleagues from the senate were scattered here and there throughout the room, as were friends from my childhood. There were also constituents from every layer of Palanthan society. (However, in all honesty I must say that the representatives from the least-well-off quarters were, in fact, either serving drinks or playing music so the rich folk could dance.) The only person I didn't see was my father.

I moved through the crowd shaking hands, accepting congratulations and compliments, arranging meetings (there were always meetings to be arranged), and promising dances to old friends—but all the while I scanned the room for my father. Everyone I asked assured me that they'd seen him earlier (usually from a distance), but no one could pinpoint him in the room at that particular moment.

Panic welled in my heart. Where was he?

Then I caught the most fleeting glimpse of an all too familiar stoop-shouldered, gray-haired man slipping through the servants' entrance. I made some halfhearted excuse to the group I was pretending to listen to, and moved quickly toward the kitchen.

Inside I found my father speaking in hushed tones to three of the waiters. One of them, a tall man with a long scar running down across his right eye, seemed particularly unhappy to see me. They were gathered in a corner, huddled over a large bundle wrapped in burlap. The tall man said something to my father then turned away from me.

"Katyana!" father said, a huge grin bursting across his face. I recognized this expression. It was the one he reserved for people he didn't really have time for, but who were too important to simply ignore. He had never used it with me before. Turning his back on the other men, he took my arm and guided me back toward the hall. "What are you doing in here? You are the guest of honor! Let me handle the little details. You go out and bask in your long overdue adulation."

I returned one of my professional gazes that I'd never before leveled at my father—the one I cast on people who are obviously lying to me. It is my warning that they have a single opportunity to amend their stories before I call them bold-faced liars. Father was shrewd enough to understand its meaning and pulled me aside.

"Please, daughter," he whispered, "I am trying to deal quietly with a matter that will not wait. The last thing I want is for you to get involved, particularly on this night."

He seemed sincere, but for some reason I did not trust this answer. The size and shape of the burlap bundle seemed familiar, and so did the tall man with the scar.

"Who is that man?" I asked, allowing myself to be led back to the party. I was more likely to get answers from father if I let him feel he was in charge of the situation.

"An old friend of mine," he said dismissively. "The poor fellow is down on his luck and has come asking for assistance. I didn't want to make a fuss in the hall, so…"

"That night you were wounded!" I said. "He was one of the men who was with you that night I found you in your study!"

Father stopped just shy of the swinging doors. The chatter of conversation and the sound of dancing warned us to keep our voices low.

"Yes," he said. "That is one of the lieutenants in the Brothers of Freedom. And unless you want a curious guest to wander in here and see you conspiring with him, you'd best get back to your party."

He ushered us both back into the main room. As luck would have it, Vinkal Keenedge was passing by just at that moment.

"Madame Senator," he said with a bow. "You seem flushed. I hope the excitement of the occasion isn't too much for you."

"Not at all," I said. "I am quite well, thank you. I simply want to—"

"Dance," my father said. "She hasn't had a dance all night, Sir Keenedge, and she was asking me for the honor. However, I have so much to do to prepare for Sir Kinsaid's presentation that I've had to decline."

"Sir Kinsaid's what?" I asked. The Lord Knight generally avoided all social occasions for which his presence was not strictly required. And while tonight was very important to me, it was not exactly an affair of state.

Vinkal looked as befuddled as I felt.

"I convinced Sir Kinsaid," he said, eyeing my father suspiciously, "that your years of service to the city and her people deserved official recognition. He is planning to award you the Nerakan Medal of Honor. But that was supposed to be a secret. Only he and I—"

My father laughed.

"Well, someone had to organize the staff so that there was enough wine for the Lord Knight's toast. Sadly, a daughter's protectiveness over her old father let the kender out of the bag. You will act surprised, won't you, Katyana?"

I nodded mutely.

Vinkal did not look completely convinced, but thankfully he turned his attention from my father to me.

"All the qualities that make you a great senator also make you someone it is awfully difficult to surprise—even in a good way," Vinkal said. "I am honored to he here to salute you, and would he even more honored to have your first dance."

Several excuses ran through my head, but I discarded them all. Though I wished to pursue the matter further with my father, I had no choice but to share at least one dance with Sir Keenedge. To do otherwise would surely rouse his suspicions.

Father smiled and disappeared back into the kitchen.

As a politician, it was part of my job to attend formal gatherings on a regular basis. The noble society of Palanthas being what it is, these often included dancing. I've circled dance floors with some of the most (and least) graceful gentlemen in all of Ansalon, but no one in all my experience danced quite the way Sir Keenedge did. His hand on my back was so sure and confident, but also gentle and comforting. My hand fit snugly in his palm. And we moved in perfect rhythm—not just with the music, but with one another.

My old nemesis had, somewhere along the line, become something of a friend—a contentious, pig-headed friend who held all the wrong opinions and placed value in the wrong things in life—but a friend nonetheless. I daresay he would have exactly the same things to say about me, which is comforting in an odd way.

Despite myself, and despite the matter with my father, I found myself completely caught up in the dance. One song turned into two, which turned into three and four and more until I eventually lost count. As we continued, more and more couples left the dance floor in favor of standing around the periphery to watch us. Soon we had the floor all to ourselves. Being the guest of honor, I was naturally expected to be one of the hot topics of conversation, but this dance with Sir Keenedge was becoming practically gossip-worthy.

Then, as we stopped to applaud the musicians between pieces, I spied a figure moving in the balcony. It was one of the waiters, which struck me as odd since the party was contained to the room's main floor. When the man turned around, though, I noticed that he had his collar turned up to hide his face. All I could see was his mussed hair and his eyes, the right one split by a long, nasty scar.

I gasped and tried to move off the floor, but Vinkal caught me by the hand, and just as the music began again, twirled me gracefully back into his arms. The crowd oooed and ahhhed, convinced that we had done this on purpose.

"I must go," I said through a forced smile, not wanting to alarm Vinkal or any of our onlookers. "Something has come up."

"You mean the man on the balcony?" Sir Keenedge asked.

I did not reply.

"Your father is very clever to send you to distract me," he said. "He is quite adept at determining an opponent's weakness. But I cannot allow this plan of his to come off."

"Y-you know of his plan?" I stammered. After all, even I didn't really know what was going on.

"As I said, your father is quite clever," Vinkal said. "But he is not quite as clever as he thinks. I've let a great many of his organization's improprieties go unpunished, but this time he plans to go too far."

"W-what? His organization? Do you mean to say that—"

"I am the leader of the Brothers of Freedom." My father had appeared at our side from out of nowhere. The burlap sack slung by a strap over his shoulder, not nearly as full as it was before. "How long have you known, Keenedge?"

"It's true?" I hissed, afraid that others might overhear.

"I knew since the day you were released from imprisonment," Vinkal said, twirling me into my father's arms. The crowd applauded again. "Who else could do this? Who else could command the respect of all the necessary people?"

"Then why allow me to go on this long?" father asked. He made a single turn around the floor with me, then released one hand and twirled me out so that Sir Keenedge would have to catch that hand. "Why did you not have me arrested years ago? You knew I was funneling information to the senate."

Vinkal caught my free arm, and suddenly I was standing in the middle—one hand held by my father, the other by the Dark Knight. Both of them looked at me, bowed, then turned to face one another.

The crowd erupted in applause.

"I wanted you to get information to the senate!" Vinkal said. "It was the only way to get the changes made that Palanthas needed to survive. Sir Kinsaid was never going to budge an inch from his military standard. And if the city was to prosper he needed to have his stance tempered."

"Then you agree that Palanthas would be better off with Kinsaid gone!"

Vinkal looked exasperated.

"Of course, you old fool!" he said. "Anyone can see that the man can barely tell the difference between sacking a town and governing it."

"Then why not join us?" father urged. "Why not help us get him out of the Knight's House?"

Vinkal stepped toe to toe with my father. Although once the two would have been equal in height, old age stooped father so much that his eyes now fell even with the knight's chin.

"Because right or wrong, Sir Elstone Kinsaid is Lord Knight of Palanthas," Sir Keenedge said insistently. "He is the lawful authority here, and I will not be party to an act of treason."

"B-but for years you've looked the other way," I said, "and let me use stolen information against Sir Kinsaid."

"The truth knows no allegiance," Vinkal said. "It merely is."

I stared at him uncomprehending.

"You were using the information to change the system from within," he said. "You might have wanted to see Sir Kinsaid gone, but you worked with him to make the city better. And in the process you've softened his stances on many issues and made him a better ruler."

"But not good enough," father growled.

Vinkal looked at him and seemed lost in thought for a moment.

"Perhaps," he said finally. "But that is not for you to decide. A government works only as long as its laws are followed."

"The laws were never written to be applied to the chief of an invading force!"

The Knight rolled his eyes.

"Your senate is still in power, as is the same Lord of Palanthas since before our arrival. We may have added some new regulations, but all of your old laws are still in place. And nowhere in those laws does it state that an unfit Lord Knight should be assassinated."

I gasped.

"Assassinated? Father, is this true? Are you considering such an action?"

He did not answer. Indeed, he did not take his eyes off Vinkal.

"He's done more than consider it, Katyana," Vinkal said. "He has planned it. I thought it was just a wild rumor, but seeing that man on the balcony I now know it for a certainty. Your father plans to have Sir Kinsaid assassinated here—tonight!"

We stood there, a tiny triangle of tension in the middle of an ocean of celebratory joy. For what seemed like minutes no one uttered a word.

"There are Dark Knights throughout the palace," father finally said. "More are due to arrive any second. All you have to do is call out. You can have us arrested for no reason at all."

Vinkal did nothing.

"But if you do, you'll have to explain how and why you came by this information. In fact, you'll have to reveal everything. And that will bring repercussions down on more than just our heads."

They both looked at me with the same emotion welling up in their eyes.

Love.

"On the other hand, if you do nothing we will succeed or fail by our own hands. And either you will be rid of us, or we all will be rid of Kinsaid."

Sir Keenedge glared at my father.

"If you fail," he said, "some of your guilt will be cast upon your daughter."

They spoke as though I wasn't even there.

"Well, if that bothers you," my father said chuckling, "then you'd better hope we succeed. Or find a way to shield her from the repercussions. But you'd better think of something quickly."

The music stopped. Across the floor the main doors flew open as Sir Elstone Kinsaid entered the room.

Suddenly several things seemed to happen all at exactly the same instant, though my brain knows they really happened in very short sequence.

My father knelt down and reached into the burlap sack at his feet. He grasped something and withdrew it quickly.

Vinkal pointed to the balcony above and shouted, "Assassin!"

Sir Kinsaid whirled and looked up just as the scar-eyed man stood from where he crouched and revealed a loaded crossbow, which he then leveled at the Lord Knight's chest.

Father pulled an identical crossbow from the sack and aimed between Sir Kinsaid's shoulder blades.

Vinkal grabbed the crossbow from my father's hands and shoved him hard in the chest. This sent my father sprawling into me, knocking us both into other onlookers and then onto the floor.

The scar-eyed man pulled his trigger, launching the bolt.

Sir Kinsaid stood frozen in his footsteps.

Vinkal leaped in front of his commander and fired his crossbow at the scar-eyed man.

Two sickeningly meaty thuds echoed in the banquet hall. Actually, I'm not certain this happened. The air was filled with screams and shouts and wailing, so it seems impossible that the sound of a crossbow bolt striking a person would be audible, let alone echo. But that's how I remember it—two distinct sounds of impact.

I also remember the scar-eyed man teetering on the edge of the balcony with a shaft of wood protruding from his unscarred eye. He stood there for a moment, then plunged over the railing and fell dead to the floor.

I don't remember Vinkal Keenedge falling. Perhaps this is because he dived in front of Sir Kinsaid. Be that as it may, he certainly never rose again.

Vinkal lay on the floor at the Lord Knight's feet, the assassin's bolt meant for Kinsaid stuck deeply in his breast. His arms moved in little circles, and he seemed to be trying to raise his head. But from the chest down he was already still as the grave.

I ran to him, knelt by his side, and took hold of his hand. On his other side, Sir Kinsaid did exactly the same thing.

"Vinkal, my trusted aide, you have served me well," the Lord Knight said without so much as a hint of true emotion. "You have saved my life and slain the assassin. Now quickly, tell me who else was involved."

The fallen knight gasped three times trying to focus enough to deliver a final message. Vinkal's neck twitched with the supreme effort necessary to hold his head level.

"H-h-he… acted… alone."

The Lord Knight released Vinkal's hand and stood up. He barked orders for his Knights to search for possible accomplices.

Vinkal Keenedge tried to rise to follow these orders, but he no longer even had the strength to hold up his head.

I grabbed his other hand and held them both clasped in my own. Looking down into his clouding eyes I smiled sadly.

"Why?" I asked.

"F-for love," he said. "Of Palanthas… and h-her citizens. But one… more than… the others."

I bent my mouth to his, but there was no life remaining to return my kiss.

On The Horizon

Katyana did not speak much over the next few weeks, at least not in my presence. I don't know whether she was embarrassed about her tale, or simply had said everything there was to say. We would stand together at the railing every night at dusk and silently share the sun set. No matter how late the pilgrims stayed up talking, Katyana always got up to stand at the opposite rail in hopes of seeing the sunrise. But the weather along the Solamnian coast is tricky at that time of year. Every morning the sea was covered in thick fog as far as the eye could see. Although it was possible to watch the fog change shades from dark gray to gossamer white, Katyana was never actually able to see the bright rays of the sun creep over the horizon. Still, she stood at that rail every morning. When the sun finally burned through the fog to reveal itself almost halfway through its morning arc, only then did she leave the rail and, without saying a word, curl up against a mast to take a midday nap.

One night she finally broke her silence.

It was a sultry night. Not even a hint of a breeze rippled the loose sails. The Silver Star was moving on a strong current, though. The bow split the ocean, making a soft thrum that helped us drift off to sleep despite the beastly weather.

I awoke from a nightmare about returning to Palanthas only to find that the Dark Knights had closed down the Great Library and imprisoned all my brother Aesthetics. My tunic was soaked through with sweat, but it was impossible to say whether the dream or the weather was to blame.

Certain that I was not going to fall back to sleep, I walked to the bow. The deep blue of night was already sprinkled here and there with purple and pink as the dawn approached. There wasn't a bank of fog to be seen, and Katyana stood in her usual spot waiting for the sun to creep over the horizon.

Not wanting to disturb her, I hung back by the anchor winch and watched—both the sky and the senator.

"It's all right," she said. "We began this journey at this rail. We might as well end it here, too."

Captain Crestborne had informed us that we would arrive in Palanthas some time before midday.

"Actually," I said, "we last talked at the aft rail."

"Fitting," she said chuckling. "Stand in the rear to talk about the past Gaze to the front to contemplate the future."

"The sun will be up any moment now."

She smiled and hung her head.

"Do you suppose it will help me see things any more clearly?"

"There's something I still don't understand," I said. "With an entire room full of witnesses, and one of the Lord Knights highest ranking officers lying dead in the Lord's Palace, how is it that no one knows about this failed insurrection?"

Katyana uth Mishakal laughed more mirthfully than she had in all the while I'd known and traveled with her.

"Plenty of people know about it, my bookish Mend," she said, continuing to chuckle. "In fact, I'd say that nearly everyone of importance in Palanthas knows about it. That incident serves many purposes. It inspires the Dark Knight officers to know that Sir Kinsaid can command such loyalty. It motivates the rank and file Knights to live up to the example Sir Keenedge set by laying down his life for his commander. It bolsters the nobles' belief that working within the system is the only way to affect real change. It gives hope to the rebels that they might one day actually succeed in their attempts to overthrow the Dark Knights. But mostly it teaches us all that every person has the opportunity to change the world for better or worse—you just need the courage and conviction to stand for what you believe is right."

I shook my head.

"As pretty as those thoughts are," I said, "it is not possible that this tale is so well known. If it were, surely someone from the Great Library would have heard of it by now."

Katyana laughed even harder.

"There's no need for the Aesthetics to dig out this information," she said. "Your master was at the party."

"Brother Bertrem was there?" I asked, stupified.

"Yes," she said. "In fact he gave me a gift—my fifty most famous speeches transcribed into a tome. He said, ‘At certain junctures in your life it is important to look back and remember what you have said and stood for in the past, then determine whether to renew your devotion to your life's work or begin making amends for your youthful mistakes.’ That is the one book I brought with me on this pilgrimage."

She pulled from her pack a leather-bound folio. The title page read simply, Katyana uth Mishakal, Daughter of Palanthas, and handwritten on the bottom of the page was a note from my master.

Senator uth Mishakal,
The truth is only important if you understand its meaning.
Bertrem of the Order of Aesthetics

"But," I stammered, "if he was there, why didn't he record the events?"

"Perhaps he knew the truth of the events but did not understand their meaning."

I thought for a moment. I had several important questions to pose to Brother Bertrem when I returned to the Library. Then I looked ahead and saw the white spires of Palanthas on the horizon.

"I am sorry, Senator," I said, "but it appears my presence has distracted you from your goal. The sun has risen while we talked."

She smiled.

"Indeed. Sometimes what is right in front of you becomes the hardest thing to see." Katyana sighed. "I have been on this pilgrimage for nearly a year now. I wonder what surprises Lord Kinsaid has for me upon my return."

"Perhaps the withdrawal of his forces from Palanthas," I said.

"Even I am not that much of a dreamer!"

"Look!" I cried, this time waking the others. They all gathered at the railing around us.

We were only half an hour or so away from the docks, even without a wind. The city of Palanthas filled our view, nestled snugly among the peaks of the Vingaard Mountains. It was still too early for most of the citizens to be up and about, but there was a discernable bustle of activity all over town.

Peering more closely, it became obvious that the commotion was a contingent of hundreds of Dark Knights falling into formation on the Central Plaza, then marching double file up the Knight's High Road out of the city.

"Is that all of them?" a sailor asked.

"No," I answered. "But it could be as much as one-third of their number (based on how many were stationed here a year ago)."

"Perhaps they are marching to the Tower of the High Clerist," Captain Crestborne offered. "It could be that the Solamnics are finally planning to retake the city."

"Or maybe they're going to Neraka," said a merchant who got onboard at the Silver Star's last port of call. "I hear tell that Mina is preparing some special ceremony for all her troops."

"Don't be stupid," another merchant called. "Everyone knows Mina's been in Sanction for the last fortnight."

"I think they're heading to Silvanesti to kill the elves once and for all."

"No they're going to Kalaman. It's the only major city they don't already control."

"That's not true," Katyana uth Mishakal said. "As of this moment they no longer control Palanthas—not completely anyway. A well-organized group could certainly give them trouble, and maybe worse. Perhaps it is time for the senate—or at least this senator—to take a stronger role in shaping the city's destiny."

River Supply of Silvanost

This is the journal of Talon Leader Ornok Varnos, Transport Officer to General Dogah, (Commander of the Silvanost Garrison. I am keeping this journal as a testament to my son, Ornos. He, thankfully, is far away from this Chaos pit we currently hold. If we are overrun, and if someone finds this, please give it to my son so that he will know we died with honor and valor.

I am starting this journal some five days into the operation, but I want to fill in some of the background to our river resupply problems. I have numbered the days from the start of the operation.

3rd day of Sirrimont

I was called before General Dogah today, just before lunch. His headquarters occupies the building known to the elves as the House Protector. My headquarters is some thirty miles away, at the southern tip of the island that Silvanost sits on. Thankfully, I have access to horses, and the main road runs directly from my headquarters in the Southern Watch Tower to the edge of the city, and then into the center of the city. I took a troop of my best men and issued them lances. With armor and shield, we near-galloped the entire way from the Fallon Forest to the city. Not once but twice we felt the swift breeze of arrows brushing past us. Two of my men were hit, but neither suffered injury; our armor deflected the arrows. No elf would dare show himself on the road and offer battle. They are too cowardly for that. They hide in the trees and plink arrows at us. Were they true soldiers, we could have fought them. There is no honor here, and so we run our horses hard.

Before, when we were attacked, we stopped and offered battle. Once we ceased moving, we apparently became better targets. More men died with arrows with no more than a flash of movement or a hint of pale skin from our enemy. None would close and do battle. Our archers were the first to fall. They were no match for these hiding elves, yet at least we could have fought back. They humiliate us with every aggressive act. They fear us, obviously. They refuse to show themselves and fight. They shoot at us from the shadows, and we die. As a Knight, I was not prepared for this.

When Mina, the Lord of the Night, Commander of the forces of the Dark Knights, moved into Silvanesti, I was with her. I was with the force that Mina sang to sleep, only to awake inside the shield. I witnessed the fall of the shield by Mina's hand, and I was there when the city of Silvanost bowed on knee to receive her as their conqueror. The elves were in disarray, and resistance was futile. Mina ruled with an iron fist, and they feared us.

Over a month ago, Mina left with the bulk of the army. General Dogah stayed to command, and I was promoted to take Talon Leader Banakess's position when he failed to return from the city one night. Now I command the transport effort, and I control the wagon train. Banakess had done a marvelous job moving supplies from our northern supply base at Pashin, some one hundred and seventy miles north, outside of Silvanost. The cattle herds of Pashin are huge, and they have no problem maintaining a large enough meat supply to keep us fed. Food was barged down the Thon-Thalas River and distributed from our supply headquarters in the city itself.

Since Mina left, the elves have grown bolder. Our soldiers die in the night. Our patrols are ravaged in the forest. These elves are like the Grey Mouser cats of my homeland. They are seen only for a moment, long enough for them to loose an arrow, and then they are gone. The Grey Mousers are illusive. I think these elves are even more so.

I made it to the city in under three hours, and our horses were exhausted. The city itself is relatively safe during the day. Our garrison is strong enough that no threat goes without punishment. The night is a different manner, but I arrived before the noon hour. Inside the perimeter, we watered the horses and I left my men to get some food and recuperate. No one had been hurt, and that was a blessing from the One God.

General Dogah summoned me and the commander of one of the blue dragon flights. Neither of us had met the other, so neither of us knew why we had been summoned. We met in front of the headquarters building. He was a tall man, over six feet four inches. He had a short, sharp moustache and a dashing smile. Fliers are often like the dashing knights of old, like the legend of Steel Brightblade. He introduced himself as Val Trimal. I saluted as my new rank still fell below that of his, and yet he just smiled and shook my hand.

We went in together, and were shown to the audience chamber. General Dogah stood in front of a large map that had been pinned to the wooden wall.

"You see this?" he said, pointing to the red X's all over the map. "These are the locations of attacks on my troops and patrols in the past week. He pointed to the Thon-Thalas River north of Silvanost. "See this mass of red X's? They are all attacks on our supply barges."

I had been aware of the supply problems under Talon Leader Banakess, but I had no idea that the situation was this bad. My job had been to ensure that once supplies arrived, they were distributed to the troops who needed them. Banakess was personally responsible for the actual transport of barges down the river. It had not occurred to me that I was in charge of this phase of resupply. I had always assumed that it was the Transport Officer in Pashin that was responsible. Apparently I was wrong.

The General outlined the problems that we were having. Only one out of every two barges actually made it from Pashin. The others all were attacked and burned to the waterline. Their crews had all died, with a few notable exceptions. One officer, a Porthon Dalad, the General told us, had survived three boats going down under him, and he still managed to kill several of the elf attackers.

It became clear to both Trimal and myself that we were to fix the problem and maintain supply into Silvanost.

"Lord Mina has promised us aid and support, but we must make do until then," the General said. He also told us that a large flotilla of barges was scheduled to leave Pashin in five days. I was to be aboard and Trimal was to provide assistance.

Our orders were clear. Trimal and I were dismissed and we crossed the wide avenue to the large mess tent set up there. Both of us ate and got to know each other. Trimal was to provide aerial assistance to the barges as they moved down the river, and then returned back up it. I was to devise better barge defenses to deter attack or at least fend off attack should it come. We were both sure it would come.

4th day of Sirrimont

We stayed the night in Silvanost in temporary quarters in a building called the Temple of Solinari. I felt no fear being in a temple dedicated to magic, as the gods had left us and only the One God remains. The old gods hold no sway over me. My men and the Knight Officers that flew the blue dragons got a game of dice going. The fliers could never have seen it coming. My troops were no less than fifty steel richer in the morning. My men are very good at what they do. I am always amazed by the dichotomy of a soldier of the Dark Knights referring to his senior officer in respectful tones and with every regard to his station and honors, yet totally willing and able to bilk the poor officer for all his money. The fliers were a good bunch, and smiled when they vowed revenge or at least payback. It was not long in coming.

My men were divided amongst the six fliers, and we were all taken to the docks area to the north of the city. The blue dragons were huge, and I am not ashamed to admit that they scared me greatly. It was my first time ever encountering a dragon up close. I nearly dropped my weapon when the one I was to mount actually talked to me! It asked who I was, and I responded as if ordered from Mina herself. Trimal reassured his mount that this was simply a transport mission to Pashin. We climbed on top—all four of us plus Trimal. The rest of my men mounted the five other dragons, along with their riders. Without warning, the dragon stood and extended its wings. In another second, we were airborne. I nearly lost my breakfast.

My breakfast did not survive. Val Trimal leaned forward in his saddle and spoke low to the dragon so that we could not hear. He sat back and suddenly the dragon dived for the ground. I remember myself screaming as the ground loomed toward me. I willed myself to stop. I can remember thinking that the awful noise coming from my mouth should stop immediately, yet nothing happened. We lurched back up into the sky mere moments before smashing into the ground. It was then that I lost my breakfast, I am afraid. The maneuver was repeated two more times before the grinning riders pulled back on the reins and had the dragons fly straight and level. Looking to my men, I am sure that every one of them lost their breakfast as I had done. Trimal and his men had won their revenge.

It took only two and a half hours to reach Pashin. I have never experienced anything like it before. I had dreamed of flying before, and after the horrifying antics of early in the flight, I truly found it to be an amazing experience. The ground rushed by below us at breakneck speeds, and the Thon-Thalas glistened as we flew past. I will never forget this day.

We arrived at the supply laager of the military compound just south of the city of Pashin. Supplies were piled in stacks everywhere, and a large cattle enclosure was filled with over a hundred head. There were thirty wagons lined up beside the large barn structure. An officer Knight gave orders to several of the wagon team leaders as they prepared to take their loads to the docks, some five miles to the west, on the banks of the Thon-Thalas.

Trimal offered to fly us to the docks, but I decided to make camp here and prepare the supplies necessary as ordered by General Dogah.

I will remember flying for all my days. It was truly a magical experience.

6th day of Sirrimont

We have been all over the barges, and I have to say, I don't see how we are to get them, intact and with cargo, all the way to Silvanost. These craft do not inspire me with confidence. Fully loaded, their gunwales sit no more than a foot above the water line. Any chop at all and we will take on water. The supplies onboard are the only source of cover for our men. If we are attacked from both sides at once, there is nowhere to seek cover at all.

The first change I made was to increase the bailing buckets from two per barge to twenty. If we must bail water, everyone must lend a hand. These barges are too heavily laden to allow time for us to bail slowly. That, and if there is any threat of fire, we will want to be smothering flames with as many buckets as possible.

A soldier in my command, Danik, came to me around noon and asked to speak to me. He had an idea. I am not one to listen to idle talk from the troops, but I had once been at his rank, and I was no idiot. I decided to listen. His idea was to take several of the small bolt-throwers that were sitting in the armory and mount them to the front of the barges. It would give us the ability to fight back, and the bolts could certainly kill. I thought it a great plan, except that there was no room on the barges, nor any more weight allowance. Danik suggested that we leave the two mules off of each barge. The mules were used to drag the barges back up-stream but were of little use going downstream. He quickly berated himself for being stupid, for not thinking of the return trip. I stopped him. The return trip was not the issue. There would be no return trip if there was no successful first trip. I decided to go with his plan, and placed him in charge.

8th day of Sirrimont

The barges were ready. I had issued bows to all of my men and the barge crew. I knew that they weren't much use, and the men only had basic skills with them, but it was good for morale. If you can fight back, you feel better, or so I felt. Each barge had a small bolt-throwing engine attached to a post in the fore of the barge, allowing for it to be used to either side. I placed a hundred bolts with each.

The trip was supposed to take two days without incident. I had no idea whether it would take us two or twenty. Val Trimal came to me just before we shoved off. He gave me a series of arm signals to use to communicate with him when he flew over. If we were progressing smoothly, I was simply to wave. If we had seen the enemy but they had not engaged us, I was to point. If we were under attack, I was to loose fire arrows into the forest on the side harboring the enemy. The smoke could be seen above the trees and he could respond quickly. I thought his ideas were quite clever.

We started down the river at a slow rate. We had fifty miles to cover to reach the elven city of Sithelnost We hoped it would be relatively safe, as the forest did not begin until after Sithelnost The city marked the point where Silvenesti met the river. Beyond that we were in hostile territory.

The barge crews were well experienced in their skills, which actually surprised me. With the problems we had experienced with attacks, I thought that we would have suffered greater barge crew casualties. According to the master of my barge, many of the crews and soldiers were picked up out of the water, but the barges had been destroyed.

Several times throughout the day a flight of Trimal's dragons flew low over the barges. They came in fast, and shot over the boats at great speed. I waved as was the signal, and the men picked up on it and waved with me. It felt good to have such power watching over us. Trimal had organized his dragons into two flights of three. Each flight flew independently from the other, hut only one at a time. No doubt one was resting while the other flew its patrols, then they exchanged.

It was three hours to sunset when Sithelnost came into view. We rounded a right bend in the river and off to our right we could see the huge half-tree, half-buildings so typical of elven construction. Many of the buildings looked like their Silvanost counterparts, but there were several that were unique. We could not see the bases of the buildings, but farther inland, above the treeline, we could see many tips of tower spires. They were white with brightly covered conical roofs. In the low sun, the towers looked to be reaching for the heavens, with an orange sky as a backdrop. It would have been beautiful were it not for the feeling of impending doom that descended upon us. We knew that this meant the beginning of true danger. No harm had come to us out in the open, but now that we were entering the land of the elves, we knew the danger.

As we passed in front of the Sithelnost docks, the men took their bows in hand and the three men crewing each of the bolt throwers stood ready. From this point forward, they would have their weapons cocked and a bolt ready to fire. The docks were deserted. I had heard that the entire city was deserted too, but with the elves finding their courage of late, they might have retaken the city without us being the wiser. I would not have explored that city without a regiment or two, and even then I would have jumped at the slightest shadow.

We traveled another two hours as the sun began to slide into the western horizon. An hour before sundown, the river was cast in shadow and the darkness made the trees impenetrable. Above, we could see the blue sky and knew that at least the dragonriders had good vision. We were effectively in the dark.

The first arrows struck the sides of the barges. The sound startled us. We had been ready for an attack all day, and now that it was upon us, it still took us by surprise. The arrows came from the right bank. The men moved to the left side of the barge, using the cargo as cover and looked for targets. "There!" I heard shouted a few times, and a few arrows were loosed into the wood line. Many more returned. The barges continued their way down the river without a problem. The river was straight here and the barge crew did not have to man the steering poles.

I prepared an arrow with pitch and cloth, and fired it into the trees. It stuck into a tree trunk and began to burn. We moved past the point as the current carried us down-stream. I looked back to see that the fire had been put out. No smoke rose.

I had placed my best men on the bolt throwers, with instructions not to loose unless there was a target worth hitting. So far, none had fired, until an elf suddenly appeared out from behind a tree. He knelt, aimed his bow, and loosed. A steersman on my barge was hit in the arm. He tumbled to the floor of the barge clutching his arm. One of my men bent to help him. The loud thrum of the bolt throwers on two of the barges indicated that we were firing back. I looked to the wounded man, and when I returned my attention to the wood line, the elf was just retreating out of site, but he dragged one of his legs. I broke into a smile.

The elves loosed no more, but the deep purple sky indicated that we had been under attack for nearly an hour. The battle, if it could be called that, had been fought over nearly five miles. We were moving dangerously close to the left bank, but the steersmen were able to go back to guiding the barges, and we again moved down the center of the river.

Within fifteen minutes, the world was black. The darkness was nearly impenetrable, with huge trees growing near the water's edge on both sides of the river, and the lone moon had yet to rise. The steersmen placed a man with a pole on either side of the barge. Each held it out and down, dragging the tip in the water as we moved. Should we stray close to a side, the steersman could correct. There was no seeing the river.

We had heard that the elves could see in the dark, and I for one believed it. An hour into the night, I heard a scream and a splash. One of my men was dead in the blackest pitch of night, I couldn't tell who, and I was afraid to find out. I didn't want to give away our position for fear of bringing on further attack. We glided silently on down the river.

Normally, I would have ordered the convoy of barges to stop for the night and post pickets to guard us, but my orders made it clear that we must hurry. Still, I do not believe that we could have survived the night had we stopped.

9th day of Sirrimont

The moon finally rose. Its silvery glow gave us the only light, illuminating our path. For two hours, nothing happened, and that was almost worse than being under attack. It is difficult to remain tense all the time.

I had been musing over our inability to call our dragonrider friends to aid us in our last running battle. I was angry that we had not seen the dragons since the battle, but it occurred to me that I would have had no way of knowing whether a dragon was flying over at all, unless the moon caught it in its light. While the moon was still below the horizon, I would not have seen a dragon if it had landed on the other end of the barge.

The calm that I was used to was slowly sinking back into my soul. I was beginning to feel a little more comfortable, and the thought occurred to me that we actually might survive this ordeal after all. The One God punished me for my arrogance. Out of the left corner of my eye, I thought I saw movement—or the reflection of movement—from the tree line. In fact, I was right. It was not the elves but their reflection in the water that gave away their presence.

"Prepare for attack! Elves to the left!" I yelled.

Men in all of the barges scrambled to get their weapons cocked and themselves behind cover. Hundreds of elves poured out from the treeline and fired at us. The air was thick with arrows, but I must confess I did not see much of them. My head was down, and quite where it should have been if I wanted to survive. Thousands of arrows stuck from the side of the barge and from the cargo. I cocked my bow and fired it into the enemy ranks with no thought to aiming. My men did the same, but the bolt thrower crews all took refuge on the floor of the barge, covering themselves with whatever they could find. I could not blame them. To stand and attempt to crew their weapons would have been suicide.

I smelled something burning. Directly above me, the tarp on the cargo caught fire. I dropped my bow and grabbed for the bucket near my feet. I threw water on the still-small fire. Two more bucket-loads and the fire was out. The hail of fire was growing weaker as we moved down the river. A rock outcropping interrupted the beach on the shore. Elves were moving into the forest and coming back to the beach to continue the attack.

I ordered my bolt thrower crew to return fire now that the rain of arrows had lessened. When I did so, I could see the third boat was completely engulfed with fire. I yelled to the fourth barge to move in beside the third to douse the flames and use it as cover. I did not think that they had heard me, hut they moved in regardless. The fifth and sixth barges picked up the survivors.

It occurred to me that the light from the third barge's fire was illuminating the elves in the trees. "Aim before you fire!" I ordered, and immediately several of the elves went down from our bolt and arrow fire. I yelled to the second barge to pass on that we want the burning barge to continue with us. Do not cut it loose. The word was passed.

We rounded a right turn, and ahead a large sandy bar stuck out into the river. We could see it only because of the burning barge. It was covered in elves, and they were armed for hand-to-hand fighting. As we crossed past the bar, we would be close enough for the elves to jump onto our barges. This surely was the end.

The black sky erupted with lightning. Sheets of electricity jagged and danced across the sky, and explosions erupted up and down the length of the tree line. My eyes were dazzled, leaving blue blotches in my vision, but when we crossed in front of the sand bar, there were no elves ready to board us. Lightning faded behind us as we continued our inexorable journey down this accursed river.

I ordered that we continue to drag the burning barge with us. My barge's steersman complained it would give away our position on the river, and I simply shrugged. The elves could surely see in the dark. They saw us all the way up to this point, so there was no use in hiding. At least it marked our position for the dragons, and it made it so that we could fight back. I felt confident in my decision.

As the sky turned from black to a slightly lighter shade of gray the smoldering barge sank and we rounded a right bend in the river. We had survived the night. With any luck, we would he in Silvanost, behind our own defenses, before darkness fell again.

An hour later, we had still not been attacked, and the sky was light. We could make out the trees without the aid of a fire, and our confidence rose. It was almost midday before we had any hint of trouble again. It was more than a hint.

As we rounded yet another bend in the winding river of doom, we could see a line drawn across the water. It was as if our eyes were playing a trick on us. Someone had taken a black brash and painted a line across the river. Suddenly, my eyes clicked into focus and I realized what it was.

"A chain!" I yelled. It was anchored into the trees on either side of the river, and in the middle the cord was buoyed by a log. It was low enough to block our barges and hang us up. Surely there were elves aplenty to go with this trap. I was not disappointed.

Just as our barge nosed into the log with the chain, stopping us, elves poured from the treeline on both sides. We could not take cover, and our backs were exposed no matter what we did. I ordered the men to fire as fast as they could. We were no more than an hour from Silvanost, or so I guessed. I had expected to arrive just past midday. Soon, our own patrols would be able to assist We were still too far to expect aid. They would never know that we died so close to our destination.

To my men's credit, many elves fell from our fire. In the first ten minutes, though, over half of my men were down, and three more barges were piled up against the chain. Our only chance was to clear the chain, but both banks were swarming with elves. Whether it was luck or fate kicking us in the teeth again, my own barge caught on fire. This time, we could not stop to fight the flames. Still, I hoped the smoke would draw help from the skies.

Indeed it did. All six of Val Trimal's dragons came swooping in. Lightning explosions blasted the right bank. I could see Trimal's plan. He meant to clear one side before dealing with the other. We were still dead if we could not clear the chain, and my barge was getting very hot.

I dived overboard and began to swim to the right bank. I lost my bow, but my sword and dirk still hung from my belt. It wasn't a far swim, and I hit bottom farther out than I had expected. I stood and began to run through the water as it pulled and tugged at my aching legs. Burning trees and explosions continued to blur my vision and rock the ground. I pulled my sword as I cleared the water, just in time to meet a charging elf. I parried his blow, and he sailed past me into the water. I ignored him and moved forward. I had to cut the chain to save my men.

The sun blotted out from the sky, then a massive thud sent me reeling into the sand. I rolled over to see a huge blue dragon had landed right beside me and was blasting elves from the trees. Val Trimal swung down from his saddle, dashing as ever.

"Come on, old fellow!" he yelled.

I couldn't believe my ears, but I did what he said. We ran up the beach to the trees and then into the brush. Ten feet in we found the massive tree that the chain was anchored to.

"Stand back!" he yelled, pushing me back with his shield arm. His sword swung high, then came down and split the chain as if it were made of vine. He turned back to me and smiled. "Been in the family for generations. Damned fine blade!"

I smiled back and nodded. I hadn't seen a live elf at all. We dashed back through the trees and Trimal remounted his dragon. They leaped into the air and the battle continued for them.

For me, the battle was over. My barge was moving forward, as were the others. Men were putting out the flames. I dived back into the water and swam for the barges. It didn't matter to me which barge I was on, but I wanted to be on one of them when my command sailed into Silvanost. I boarded the fourth barge, and that was the last we saw of the elves for this journey.

Silvanost swam into view less than an hour later, and we docked without fan fair. We unloaded immediately, and I was glad to see that only the covering tarps had burned on my barge, and the underlying cargo survived.

After sundown, I was again summoned to General Dogah's headquarters. As before, Val Trimal was there too. The General brought us in and sat us down. He shook his head approvingly.

"We may be losing this war, but we can at least survive until help arrives. You will see my thanks very soon for your fine work. Mina has promised me help very soon. Maybe we will survive yet."

12th day of Sirrimont

I returned back to my Transport headquarters at the south of the island. Today, I received a message with a scroll. It was my promotion. General Dogah had been a man of his word. I looked up to see a huge ship sailing up the Thon-Thalas River from the south. It was followed by another, then another. It could only mean one thing: Mina was a woman of her word, too.

A Legionnaire's Journal

Silver Claw, High Elder
Headquarters, Legion of Steel
Solace

I am forwarding a copy of a field report sent to me by Legionnaire Kelena Athelen during the second week of Phoenix of last year. She has been serving the Legion in the foothills of the eastern Kharolis Mountains for the past two years and knows the area well. Most of her facts have been corroborated by several other members of the Legion and by a family of Qualinesti elves.

As you may remember, Legionnaire Athelen has been a part of the Legion since its founding and is the last original member still active. Therefore I feel she is uniquely qualified to identify the dragon she encountered on her mission.

I felt you should be informed of the contents of her report for the historical and sentimental value to the Legion.

With regards,

Centurian Heald Bi'Tar

Commanding, Plains of Dust

Field Journal — Kelena Athelen

H'rarmont, third week

Frost last night. The mild weather of autumn is failing at last here. The snows are creeping down the mountains like a white tide and even the deep valleys are no longer protection from the hitter cold. Ravenwing, one of our scouts, warns that the snow will fall here any day, and by the end of the month the passes out of the mountains will be difficult if not impassable. That is too little time, but we will have to do what we can until then.

The refugee camp is tucked into a small, tree-clad valley three days ride north of Hopeful and four days ride south of Thorbardin. There is wood, water, and shelter here. We have built a few huts and some lean-tos for the horses. There is little else to be found here. After the arrival of the green dragon Beryl and the spread of her territory over the Kharolis Mountains, most of the inhabitants fled. Only two nomadic tribes remain in this area. One of the tribes has given us priceless service and advice. The other ignores us. We don't believe they are helping the enemy—they seem to be aloof to any outsider—so we merely keep a watch on them and leave them alone.

Three more refugees were brought in yesterday by Badger and his hunters, bringing our total to seven here in the camp. We now have four adult males of various ages, two adult females, and a young boy. The three new ones are suffering from hunger, deprivation, and exhaustion. The boy is in the worst shape, having received an arrow wound during an escape from a Dark Knight patrol. I fear the wound is festering, but the elves are treating it themselves, and I suspect rest and some decent food will do more good for him than any of our medicines.

We have received word from Ravenclaw that another group of elves is on the way from Cooper's Creek. With some luck they will arrive soon and we can move them all out in one group before the snow flies.

21st day of H'rarmont

Even though the gods have left our world, I thank them with all my heart for the death of that menace, Beryl. But, O ye stars above, what a heartrending disaster she has left behind.

The new group of elves was brought in tonight by one of our operatives. There are five of them, the last remnants of a group that fled the destruction of Qualinost. Rarely have I seen people in such dreadful shape. According to their leader, a young man named Marilik, they stayed as a unit in the area and fought the invading army of mercenaries and Knights of Neraka until most of their number were dead. They slowly worked their way east, hoping in time to find the main body of the Qualinesti elves. They were not aware that the largest group of survivors crossed the Plains of Dust three months ago to reach Silvanesti. Most of the elves we've found and helped move on were aware of the exodus, but this group had been hiding and fighting their way out since Beryl fell and had no notion where their countrymen had gone.

I have spoken some time with these survivors, and I realize we shall have to give them some time to recover before we can move them to a safe camp in Duntollik. Once there, they can decide whether to move on to Silvanesti or stay close to their homeland.

24th day of H'rarmont

A light snow fell last night in our valley. The cold blows in from the southern glaciers and collects in the passes and high peaks. The aspen and birch have dropped their leaves and stand as a stark reminder that winter is swiftly approaching. I have called in our scouts and trackers. It is time to pull out before we are trapped.

The elves tell me they are stronger and will be able to travel. Perhaps we can build some litters or a wagon for the weakest ones. That will mean we will have to find more horses, but I will ask Badger. He has a knack for finding equipment and supplies for us that I can only wonder at. I do not ask where he collects his gifts to us, and so far he has not told us.

25th day of H'rarmont

Badger rode in this morning to tell us he has found another group of elves. There are four, he says, in such bad shape they can no longer travel without aid. He found them in a valley north of here, not far from Prexi's Pasture.

I have talked to Talith, my second-in-command, and we have decided to go after them. Since there are only seven of us, three will stay with the elves in camp and four will take the horses and some supplies to bring the refugees back. We will have to hurry. Now we not only have the weather to worry about, we also have more sick elves. I will have to talk to Badger and Ravenclaw today about horses and litters. I have instructed Talith to break down all but the vital shelters in the camp and prepare the elves to leave as soon as possible.

I know we are doing all we can, yet I have some disquiet I cannot explain. I know the season grows late. I know the area to the west of us is crawling with mercenaries, Dark Knights, and bandits looking for spoils. I know the elves are as ready to leave as we are… but there is something else. Some small thing is worrying me. Have I forgotten something? Is there something I've missed? That is one danger of being my age—a forgetful and sometimes anxious mind. I just hope I can figure out what it is before I find myself embarrassed.

NOTE: The daily journal ends here and was later completed as a mission report.

The weather changed during the night from clear skies to clouds, light rain, and patches of fog in the lower valleys. The upper peaks were lost in an impenetrable mass of cloud and blowing snow. While it was miserable to ride in, the mist and rain was to our advantage, for it hid our movements from any possible observation. Korteth, Faliana, Tomark, and I saddled our horses before what passed for sunrise. We packed a few supplies and, leading our few extra mounts, we left our camp and struck north to find the elves.

Badger went with us to be our scout. He knew every trail, animal path, and secret way on this side of the Kharolis Mountains. With an unerring sense, he guided us through the rugged foothills toward the last known location of the refugees. The distance was perhaps twenty miles, he said, and should have only taken four or five hours. Unfortunately, the combination of the weather and the rough trails slowed us down, and it was dark before we reached the region where the elves were supposed to be.

We talked about searching for them, but the clouds had settled low over the mountains, making hunting almost impossible, and the rain was turning to sleet. Badger's infallible sense of the country seemed to fail him, and he encouraged us to make camp. Since we could not find any natural shelter close by and we feared to camp under the trees when the ice was building on the branches, we made a rough camp in an open meadow beside a stream that tumbled down from the high range. Badger helped us raise our crude shelters and build a fire under a lean-to. We knew it would be a long, miserable night, but he promised we would find the elves in the morning and be back at our base camp by sunset. I hoped he was right. The cold was increasing, and very soon the sleet would turn to snow.

Badger. A good man. We trusted him. He had been a guide for us many times. He had never given us reason to suspect him of anything beyond a tendency to take things that did not belong to him and a fondness for the local liquor. He was no worse than a kender and considerably more helpful. His fellow tribesmen had vouched for him.

And yet, sometime during the night, Badger slipped out of our camp. In the darkness he had told us was too dangerous, he made his way to a rendezvous place and met with a man of his acquaintance. What was said there I do not know, nor what price Badger was offered to betray us. All I do know is he returned at dawn out of the bone-chilling mist and slit the throat of our guard, Korteth. Before we were aware of what was happening, more than a dozen well armed Knights of Neraka (two talons) charged into our camp and took the remaining three of us prisoner before we could raise a weapon.

We tried to fight, but in the cold light of dawn against overwhelming forces we did not fare well. They did not kill us outright. Battered and bruised, we were subdued and forced to kneel in the half-frozen mud. One Knight renewed our fire and fed it until a full blaze lit the scene with yellow light.

The talon leader came to stand before us. A sickening look of satisfaction sat on his features. He was a younger man, obviously not one of the original survivors of the Chaos War. His armor was worn but well cared for and it gleamed in the firelight. Over it he wore a long, fur-lined cloak that he flipped back over his right shoulder.

"Legionnaires," he spat. "Traitorous lot of worthless, interfering busybodies. Why do you bother to risk your insignificant lives to save those even more worthless muckgrubbing elves? Their days are numbered no matter how many you think you save."

None of us said a word. What was there to say? He snapped an order to another Knight who brought Badger before us. "Is she among them?" he demanded, although I guessed from his tone that he already knew the answer.

The tribesman refused to look at us. His dark eyes shifted everywhere but toward us and the faces of the Knights around us. He stood hunched in his leathers and furs, his mouth pulled tightly shut, and he merely nodded. The talon leader's dark eyes raked over us and settled on me.

"The last Deserter has been found," he said. The look on his face was darker than the storm clouds over the mountains.

I closed my eyes and tried to stop the trembling in my body. I was cold, wet, bruised, and afraid. Of the four young Knights who deserted from the then Knights of Takhisis with Sara Dunstan and helped her form the Legion of Steel, I was the last one still alive. My friends and companions had all died in the service to their new order, one of them in torment in the dungeon of a Dark Knight stronghold. The Knights of Takhisis—later the Knights of Neraka—never forgave our treason. I knew I could hardly expect a quick or merciful death in their hands.

Beside me, Tomark stirred angrily. "How did you know?" I heard him say, and I realized he was talking to Badger. "None of us have ever told you."

Curiosity opened my eyes. He was right. How could one of the local tribesmen know who I was?

The Dark Knight answered for him. "Her description is known throughout the order. General Abrena put a heavy price on her head. So I ask around. You never know when you might be lucky."

"General Abrena is dead," I pointed out, "and Lord Targonne is not known for his generous hand. He might not be so eager to pay out a thirty-year bounty."

The man shrugged. "Lord Targonne is dead, too. Killed a few months ago and no real loss. Not that it matters. The Adjudicators will deal with you. And when they are through, Her dark majesty, Takhisis, will judge your soul."

I could not help but laugh at that. "Takhisis! She is gone with the rest of the gods—and no real loss."

He did not like my mockery, but instead of arguing a strange look came over his face. He leaned over me and hissed, "Do not be too sure of that." He smiled then, a ferocious contemptuous sneer, before he turned on his heel and stalked away from us, snapping orders to his men. He did not forget the tribesman. "Badger," he demanded. "Come with me. I need you to show me on the map where that camp of theirs is. We will catch the rest of them tonight."

In that moment of confusion between the commander's abrupt departure and his given orders, the men around us relaxed their vigilance. Badger, with one blank look at us, started to walk after the talon leader.

Tomark, young, agile, and burning with angry zeal, wrenched his arms out of his captor's grip and scrambled to his feet. With the fury of a cornered stag, he yanked a hidden blade out of his boot and leaped on Badger. He managed to plunge his knife into Badger's throat twice before the Knights' swords cut him down.

Furious, the talon leader returned and glared at the two bodies at his feet. Badger was not quite dead yet. One hand reached out feebly for help as the other one tried to stop the fatal flow of blood from his slashed neck. He stared wildly up at the Knights gathered around him. No one moved to help.

I watched him, too, until his struggles weakened to trembling and he died in a steaming puddle of his own blood. Perhaps I should have been moved by his death, but my heart was too full of grief for Tomark and Korteth. They had been good companions and loyal Legionnaires. I glanced at Faliana and saw tears in her eyes.

"Fool," snarled the Dark Knight. I didn't know if he referred to Badger or Tomark, or perhaps both. Then he clarified his meaning by drawing his sword and with both hands clamped around its grip, he swung it in a powerful arch into the neck of the Knight who had been holding Tomark. The man's head dropped to the icy ground in front of us before his body toppled forward. The silence in the camp became so complete I could hear the wind roaring through the distant pines.

"Scum they may be," the commander said to his men, "but they are still fighters. Do not take your eyes off them. We still need these two."

With Badger and our two men dead, the location of the secret camp and the elves' hiding place existed in only two other convenient minds—mine and Faliana's. I decided not to indulge in any silly statements—"You'll never get me to talk" or "We'll never tell"—because I honestly did not know how long we could hold onto our secrets. The Dark Knights' methods of interrogation were horrendous, and once they gained their information, they rarely left their prisoners alive.

Faliana knew that, too, and she looked at me with frightened eyes.

The talon leader wasted no time. He grabbed Faliana by her thick blond hair and wrenched her to her feet. "Search this one. Make certain she is not carrying a weapon. We will take her with us."

Three Knights laid a hold of my companion and dragged her toward the horses. She struggled fiercely but there was little she could do against three men.

The talon leader watched the look on my face and laughed. "You have thwarted us for over thirty years, Deserter. Now you will pay the hangman." He glared down at me, his hawkish face pinched red in the cold morning wind. "Have you nothing to say?"

Half a dozen replies from coolly polite to bitterly sarcastic ran through my thoughts, yet I said nothing. What was there to say? He was right—for the moment at least—and I would not give him the satisfaction of acknowledging it.

Stay alive. Stay alert. Situations changed and opportunities sometimes came when least looked for. Because of Sara, I had lived by this creed for thirty years, and it had never failed me. Never give up, she had told us, until the body could no longer sustain the soul.

So I looked up at the talon leader's hateful gaze and simply smiled.

His gloved hand swung round and backhanded me across the face. Pain erupted in my right eye and nose. I fell sideways into the mud and tasted blood.

"Knight Censorian, Subcommander Altrius's wing is still north of here at Rendezvous Crossing. Take two men and escort this woman to him with my compliments. Ask him to hold her until my return."

The man saluted hastily and called out the names of two men. Together, they hound my hands and hauled me to my feet. By now I was wet, filthy with half-frozen mud, bloody, and very cold. I had no cloak and they gave me no time to get it as they dragged me to the tethered horses. I caught a glimpse of Faliana, trussed like a dead deer and draped over a blanketed horse, before my captors treated me in the same manner. They threw a blanket over one of our spare horses, tossed me over its back, and tied my hands and feet together under its belly. It was miserably uncomfortable, but at least the horse was warm.

The sleet had turned to snow. While they were dealing with me, the rest of the talon put out the fire and mounted their horses. They took the rest of our mounts with them and left the four bodies in the blowing snow. Without a word, they kicked their horses into a trot and rode south across the meadow toward the valley twenty miles south where the rest of my Legionnaires and the sad group of refugee elves waited for us to return. I had no doubts that by the time they reached the area, they would have tortured the information out of Faliana and would know where to look for the camp. My heart despaired to see them go.

Rendezvous Crossing

I suspected they were taking me about fifteen miles north and east of the meadow where we had been captured. It was a crossroads for two fairly important roads, one leading from the mountains to the villages of western Duntollik and one coming from the dwarves' underground city of Thorbardin. The news that an entire wing of Knights of Neraka under a subcommander held the crossroads was not good. Since Beryl's death a few months ago, and the arrival of the news of Thunder's disappearance, the Dark Knights and their mercenaries had been encroaching farther and farther over the eastern side of the Kharolis Mountains, driving the tattered remnants of the elven nation before them. To the east, news from the Plains of Dust had become very sparse. We didn't know what was happening out there, or if there was anyone left to stop the Dark Knights' advance.

There certainly didn't seem to be anyone close by to stop these Knights. The talon was long gone into the wind and snow and rugged foothills, taking Faliana with them. My escort struck north and rode steadily through the day without thought for their animals or me. The rest of that day I do not remember well. It is a blur of increasing pain and cold. The horse that carried me kept me alive with its body warmth, but it could not help my feet. I feared frostbite would take my toes and possibly both feet by nightfall if I was not allowed some respite from that position. The snow continued to fall in capricious, whirling showers. The clouds, pregnant with more snow, sagged lower down the peaks and into the high valleys, pushing the wind before them.

By late afternoon I could take no more; I had to move. I had to get some circulation back into my feet. I had to answer a very pressing call of nature.

The Knights did not acknowledge my pleas at first. I reminded them that their horses needed a rest, too, and that it had been a long time since they had eaten. Still they ignored me. When I finally resorted to begging, and suggested that a wet horse blanket was not an easy thing to wash in the winter, they grudgingly reined their horses over to a sheltered copse of fir trees and cut me lose.

Without their help, I slid off the horse and landed in an undignified heap in the snow. My legs were numb from the feet to the knees and would not hear my weight. Frightened of what I would find if I took off my boots, I crawled to a tangled clump of vines and bushes in hopes of a little privacy. The Knights made jeering remarks, but they made no move to stop me. It was obvious I was not going to try running away. One of them did follow me at a short distance and kept his hand on his sword while I struggled in the bushes to find some relief. The others tied the horses to a tree and decided they might as well have a bite to eat.

Laughing and talking among themselves, they chopped some wood from a dead tree close by and laid a fire. Because of the noise the Knights were making, I did not hear the other sound until it was nearly upon us. I felt rather than heard a steady pounding noise that gently shook the branches around me and vibrated through the frozen ground. I crouched lower in my skimpy shelter. Anything big enough to make that kind of sound could not be good.

All too quickly the sound became louder, shaking the trees around us. The horses raised their heads and neighed in fear. Even the Knights noticed and paused in their noisy labors. They looked out of the trees into the shifting walls of falling snow. New sounds became apparent, a gasping, wheezing noise as if something was having trouble breathing, and the soft, almost leathery creak of—

Oh, gods.

The dragonfear hit us all at the same time—a gut wrenching, blinding wave of terror. In the midst of our fear, something very large and very blue crashed out of the storm and into the midst of the trees.

"Where is she?" bellowed a huge voice. "Where is that bitch? I want her now!"

The big blue did not wait for an answer, but snatched one of the horses in his jaws. Two of the others, plunging in panic, snapped their leads and galloped off into the snow. The fourth horse tried to escape, hut the dragon dropped his dead prey and clamped his jaws around the head of the last horse. It screamed once before its neck snapped, and it crashed to the ground beside the first animal.

The Knights shook themselves out of their stupor. They yelled angrily at the dragon. He was a blue, after all, the traditional ally of all Dark Knights. He should not be killing their mounts and threatening them.

But this dragon did not seem to know that—or he didn't care. His tail whipped around and slammed one Knight into a tree so hard that the man's skull cracked open against the wood and his armor bent around the trunk.

The other two drew their swords. I peeped out of the bushes. Two men against a healthy blue dragon was hardly a decent fight. The blue would win. But this dragon was twisted among the trunks of the tall firs, and even if he could have gotten himself airborne, it was obvious to all that he could not fly. One of his wings was bent at an odd angle and its thin, leathery vanes were torn. Half-healed scars marred his neck and shoulder, and his color seemed faded even in the half-light of the stormy afternoon. He looked emaciated, too.

"Tell me where she is," he repeated. "I have to find her."

The two Dark Knights shifted warily behind the tree trunks until they were on either side of the dragon.

"Find who?" a Knight asked. "Perhaps we can help you."

I saw the dragon lift his head among the branches and take a deep breath, and I ducked down into the snow and brush. One of the Knights tried to dive into a deadfall of old trees, but the dragon breathed a searing bolt that cracked like lightning into the dead trees and caught the man just as he hit the ground. Fire leaped up among the tangled branches and danced around the man's body, which lay smoking on the blackened ground.

The last Knight did not wait around to see if he could reason with the blue. Bent low, he dashed away from the clearing among the firs. The dragon saw him, and with a roar of anger he spat another bolt of lightning at the fleeing man. The bolt missed, striking a large tree instead. Muttering loudly, the blue charged after him, and both disappeared into the snow and trees. A moment later I heard a scream, and I knew the third Knight would not make it to report to Subcommander Altius. That, at least, was a blessing.

But what would the dragon do about me? I was certain he would return for the two dead horses. The blue looked too hungry to let a meal like that go by. Would he kill me just because I was there? He certainly acted irrational enough to do that, even though I was no threat. Nor could I make a run for it. The dragon was strong enough to run down a healthy man, and I could not even stand.

Perhaps if I stayed down in the brush he would not see me. He would eat his meal and go on his way without realizing I was there. If I could stay still that long without freezing to death. I heard him coming back through the trees, and I hunkered down into the snow. My body shook with cold and tension while I listened.

When I heard him reach the dead horses, I peered through the brush and saw him snatch one horse from the ground. I was right about one thing; he was ravenous. He tore the horse to pieces, splattering blood and bits all over the white snow and swallowing the pieces whole—bones, hooves, hide, and all. As soon as the first horse was gone, he started to eat the second one, pausing only to pull off the cumbersome saddle.

I watched him for a while in mingled disgust and awe, and after a short time something about that dragon began to look familiar. My curiosity was piqued. This beast was a skinny, hungry, vicious, unpredictable blue, yet some nagging memory told me I had seen him somewhere before. I looked past his recent wounds and his thin appearance and tried to imagine how he might look beneath the guise of ill health. I noted his wedge-shaped head, the spiny frill around his neck, his thick mane and the thick, stubby tail. Old scars crisscrossed his back and shoulders beneath the new wounds, and one foreleg had the telltale lump of a bone broken and reset many years before. The last traces of dragonfear vanished.

The feeling of familiarity grew stronger. A broken leg, scars on his back… I studied him again, feeling an inexplicable pleasure. His color. If he had been healthy, his color would have been brighter, deeper, a rich shade of—

"Cobalt?" I didn't mean to shout it, but my voice rang through the clearing.

A snort blew from the dragon's nostrils in a jet of steam. A horse leg still clutched in his claws, he twisted around to face the direction of my voice. He couldn't see me yet, and until I knew he recognized me, I was not going to show myself.

"Who knows my name?" he bellowed.

I was stunned. "Cobalt, it's me, Kelena. Sara's friend. Remember?"

He snorted again, totally unconvinced. "Sara is dead. Kelena is dead. They're all dead. I have seen them." He snapped the words, sparking each one in anger.

I listened to his words and felt his emotions reach deep into my memories for images I had not dredged up in years—Sara, blonde and slim and strong as a bullwhip. She had been a mentor, a mother, and a friend to me. Even twenty-three years after her death, I missed her deeply. When she talked Marika, Saunder, Argathon, and me into leaving the Knights of Takhisis and joining her new Legion, I never imagined the influence she would have on my life.

Yet the love and respect I felt for her, I knew, was shallow compared to the feelings of this great beast. He, too, had once been allied to the Knights of Takhisis and in the service to the dark goddess. He had lost his rider and nearly his life. After the Chaos War, Sara found him alone and on the point of death. She nursed him back to health and in his mind filled in the void left by the death of his rider and the departure of his goddess. He never left her side until the day she was laid to rest in the Legion graveyard in Solace, then without a word to anyone, he left Solace and vanished. During the past twenty-three years I had heard no word of him. Until now.

"I am not dead, Cobalt," I called. "I still survive."

He growled and hunched his shoulders to unfurl his wings. Unfortunately the effect was spoiled by the ruined wing that hung like a limp rag.

"Show yourself then, woman. Let me see you."

I hesitated. Blues are not the most trustworthy dragons, even when they are in the best of moods. This one was famished and crippled, and although he had stayed loyal to Sara, he merely tolerated the rest of us.

"Cobalt, I am Kelena. Sara saved my life several times. Do you remember the village at the crossroads? The alley in Haven? You were not in the city, but I told you about that. Sara disarmed a minotaur and broke her collar bone."

An irritated grumbling sound came from the clearing.

"Cobalt, I am not dead. Please let me come in to the fire."

"Kelena," he snarled, rolling my name around with his tongue. "If you are Kelena, tell me what happened in Solanthus."

Solanthus? His question threw me. The last news we received from Solanthus was so monumental that it had lodged in our minds and eclipsed all else.

"Solanthus has been captured by the Dark Knights. Our cell was almost obliterated, and the garrison of the Knights of Solamnia was routed. The new Lord of the Night used the souls of the dead to attack the city."

A howl of fury shattered the snow-filled quiet and terrified me with its intensity. Fearing I had guessed wrong, I raced back in my memory through any images of Solanthus I could remember. Then I found it: a single night in a cellar in Solanthus shortly after we formed the cell in that city. How could I have forgotten that night?

Over the echoes of the dragon's bellow, I shouted with my own anger, "Saunder declared his love for me, and I promised Sara I would name our first daughter after her."

A silence fell, grim and stark. I thought for a moment Cobalt hadn't heard me, then I heard him say in a more normal tone, "What happened?"

I sighed. Time had eased the pain only a little. "The next day Saunder went to a prearranged meeting with some new recruits instead of Sara. They were betrayed by a Dark Knight and ambushed. Saunder was killed. I never had a daughter."

I sensed something large and heavy burst through the trees in front of me and suddenly the dragon glowered down into my hiding place. A bloody forefoot snatched my wet tunic and plucked me out of the snow. His powerful claws wrapped around my torso.

Cobalt held me up to his face and eyed me with a malevolent stare. I looked deep into his glittering eye and did not blink.

"What is going on?" he said fiercely. "What are you doing among these brigands? Where is Sara?"

I felt the cold creep deeper into my hones. The glitter I saw in his eyes looked brittle and sharp as if his thoughts were scraps of mica ready to flake and crack at any pressure.

"Cobalt, put me down," I said gently. "Let me sit near the fire. I will tell you everything I can."

A thought, a hope, began to intrude into my despair. As sick and unstable as this dragon seemed to be, he was still the only ally I had.

He dropped me as abruptly as he had snatched me up. My legs, still numb with cold, held me upright for all of a heartbeat then collapsed under my weight. I fell back into the snow and lay panting. Gods, how was I going to get back to the camp like this?

He peered down at me. "What is wrong?"

"I can't walk. I think my feet are frozen. Those men you killed were Knights of Neraka, not brigands. They captured me and were taking me to a wing unit north of here."

"I know who they were," he grumbled. He picked me up again, carried me to the clearing and deposited me on a log near the fire the three Knights had built before he had arrived. I looked dismayed at the thin wisp of smoke that was left. During Cobalt's attack on the horses, the little fire had been stepped on, and now it existed merely as a flattened, black spot in the trampled snow.

Cobalt settled down on the bloody snow nearby and began to chew on a horse leg. He made no effort to help me but watched my every move.

Balancing on my hands and knees, I crawled over to the deadfall where the dead Knight lay charred among the decaying ruins of several trees. Cobalt's lighting attack had started several small fires in the damp piles of branches and needles, and although most of them had been smothered by the falling snow, two tiny flames still survived. Using a piece of the dead man's armor, I carried a hit of flame hack to the firepit already waiting, and I carefully encouraged it into a campfire big enough to ward off the snow, dry my clothes, and bring some heat back to my shivering body. I huddled as close as I could without burning myself and felt the warmth of the fire flow like a benediction over my chilled skin. I also found the man's helm was crafted out of a good stout iron. After pulling out the padding, I filled it with snow and propped it near the flames to heat some water.

The exercise brought some blood back to my numb legs and started a painful tingling from my knees down into my ankles. Only my feet remained stubbornly numb. I knew then I would have to take my boots off and do what I could to save them.

"What is happening?" Cobalt suddenly demanded. He tossed the bones of the leg aside and glowered at me.

"Where have you been?" I countered. I did not look at him but concentrated on unwrapping the oilskin from around my boots.

"Sara no longer needed me. I left."

"Did you ever stop to think that we needed you? You could have been a true asset to Sara's cause."

"It was Sara's cause, not mine."

"Oh, I see. Her legacy is unimportant. Then your cause must be to run away every time you no longer have a human to serve you."

Even with my back to him, I felt his glare bore into my back. I hoped I hadn't pushed him too hard. In his mood, he might have taken serious objection to my remarks, but I couldn't help myself. Sara had once told me that Cobalt needed a good swift kick in the hindquarters sometimes. I just wished my boots were bigger.

"Oh, yes," he muttered. "I remember you. You're the one with the razor tongue."

I turned around then and met his brooding gaze. "We missed her too, Cobalt. But none of us left. We carried out her wishes and made her cause successful. Where did you go?"

The blue looked out into the snow to a distance only he could see. "To the most desolate place I could find. I thought in a few hundred years I could get over her."

"It's hardly been a few hundred years. What happened? You look like you've been through a war."

His lip curled up over his long front teeth. "Something woke me up just in time to fight off some frost wights who found my cave."

I shivered at the name. Frost wights, those ghastly creatures of Chaos, sometimes roamed the southern Plains of Dust. If they had found Cobalt deep in hibernation, he would not have survived. As it was, he was lucky to have escaped with a tattered wing and some lacerations. By now my boots were unwrapped, so I carefully unlaced them and pulled them off one by one.

"What woke you up?" I asked, setting my footwear close to the fire to dry.

"Sara."

My mouth fell open and I jerked around to stare at him. "What? She's dead."

"I am aware of that," he replied stiffly. "Yet she came to me and told me to wake up. She told me there was danger, and she asked me to help."

I was flabbergasted. "This must have been a dream."

"It was no dream. She was there beside me. Her soul has not left. Something is wrong. I thought perhaps she was waiting for me, but she said none of the souls have left this world since the War of Chaos. Something is holding them back." He rose to his feet and paced around the clearing, agitated and angry. His words came out faster and more frantic. "That is why I must know what is going on. I feel strange. I cannot use my magic without being besieged by hordes of spirits. I hear a voice in my head that I have not heard in years. I must find Sara. She is in danger! Where is she?"

I staggered upright and balanced precariously on my unfeeling feet. "Cobalt, calm down," I said, holding my hand out to him. "I'll tell you everything I can. Perhaps some of my news will make sense to you. We can help each other."

"I don't need help," he said with the petulance of a two-year old. "I just need to find Sara."

I swallowed my impatience and said as calmly as I could, "When did you wake up? Have you seen her since then?"

He circled around the clearing a few more times before he finally sat back down and decided to answer me. "She came to my cave about twenty days ago. I have not seen her since. She is gone."

"So you have been asleep down here for over twenty years?" I said, sitting back down on the log.

"Yes," he growled.

"You've certainly missed a great deal." I stared down at the white, unresponsive flesh of my feet. Time was swiftly passing while I sat here in a snowstorm and chatted to an unbalanced dragon. The shadows, such as they were, were growing longer. Daylight was almost over. While we talked, the Dark Knights were drawing closer to our camp and the unsuspecting elves. I could only hope that the storm would slow them down, that our sentries were staying alert, and that Faliana would misdirect them for as long as she was able. Feeble hopes, I know, but they were all I had. Now a dragon, wounded and confused though he was, had come to my aid. Somehow, I was determined to convince him to help me.

Carefully I began to rub my ankles, instep, and toes and soaked them in the warm melted snow water. I told him everything I knew about the events in the world in the past twenty-three years—the increasing power of the dragon overlords, the Dragon Purge, the rise of the new magical order and its recent failure, the growth of the Legion and the Knights of Neraka. I told about the four of us who left the Knights of Takhisis and what our fates had been. Finally, I explained as best I could the strange events of the past five months, including the deaths of several of the dragon overlords, and why I was here in the mountains so far from Solace.

"We haven't heard much news here. Most of what we get comes from Duntollik and what's left of Qualinesti. The last we heard, this Mina's army was marching toward Sanction. I don't think Lord Bight's defenders will hold on against her."

Cobalt was quiet for a long time. His earlier desperation had calmed into a pensive silence as he digested all my news. I took this for a good sign. Another good sign was the return of intense pain in my feet. Only my toes remained cold and dead.

"You said earlier that she used the spirits of the dead to defeat the defenders of Solanthus," Cobalt said after a time. "Does she have some power over them?"

"Who, Mina? I don't know. What about the spirits you said harassed you when you tried to use magic? Could you see them?"

He nodded. "Briefly. They looked like elves and Dark Knights and men-at-arms. In truth that only happened once when I first awoke. It unnerved me so much I have not tried magic again. I have seen no spirits since then either."

"Perhaps they are gone?" I suggested.

"Perhaps they have gone to Sanction. Maybe they, too, are answering her call."

"Mina's?" I asked, my thoughts centered on sticking my right foot in the helmet again without tipping it over.

"Takhisis," he hissed.

I was so surprised I nearly fell off the log. The Dark Queen?

"But she can't," I sputtered. "She's gone. She left with all the gods."

An image of the talon leader and his mention of Takhisis suddenly surfaced in my thoughts, and I groaned. He must have known.

Cobalt lumbered to his feet and whipped his tail around so hard it cracked the trunk of a large tree. "Well, she is back. Somehow. I don't know. I hear her voice call me. She is calling all chromatic dragons to her side. North and east of here… somewhere. Probably Sanction, if you are right. There the souls of the dead are summoned, too. There I will find Sara. I know it! That bitch has her trapped."

I almost lost him at that moment. He bellowed with rage and stamped around the trees.

"Cobalt, don't leave! Not yet! Please, listen."

I lurched to my feet and staggered toward him, intending to cut him off. Instead I tripped over a small branch, came down hard on my frostbitten foot, and with a cry of pain fell flat on my face in front of the distracted dragon. Visions of the blue's taloned foot coming down on my head flashed through my mind. I threw my arms up over my head—for all the good that would do—and cringed into the torn-up ground.

I heard a thrashing noise, a pounding close to my head, and a word spoken sharply in the ancient tongue of the dragons. Something tugged hard on the sleeve of my heavy tunic, pinning my arm to the ground. I peered out from under my elbow and saw Cobalt's talons inches away from my face. One claw had caught the fabric of my sleeve when he slammed to a halt.

"Fool!" he snorted in exasperation. "Is that the way the Legion teaches you to stop a moving dragon?"

"Sara taught us to be creative," I replied from under my arm.

He lifted his foot, releasing my arm, and I rolled out of his way. Every joint in my body ached; every muscle protested. I stifled a groan. I was too old for this.

I had hoped my antics had stopped him, but to my dismay he stepped over me and continued out of the clearing. Cursing under my breath, I got to my feet and struggled across the snowy ground after him.

"Cobalt! For Sara's sake, please stop a minute and listen to me!" I cried. "You are the only one who can help me now. I was captured this morning with another Legionnaire. She knows the location of one of our secret camps. The Dark Knights will certainly torture it out of her. If they do, they will attack the camp and slaughter everyone. They are already moving that direction."

I caught up with him out in the open. He was staring across the meadow. I don't know why he hadn't kept going. The light was dying, and the storm showed no sign of easing, but even to a normal-sized dragon like Cobalt, the storm was merely an inconvenience.

"Go back, Kelena," he said, his eyes far away. "You have a fire and water. You'll be fine here until someone finds you. I am going to Sanction."

"Fine!" I yelled at him. "Go to Sanction! But before you go, there are other Legionnaires that need your help. Sara told you to help, didn't she?"

"She meant help her."

"Is that what she said? That you had to come help her?" I made my way around in front of him again and crossed my arms. I wanted to pull his head down to mine and make him listen to me, but I couldn't reach it.

"Yes—" lie hesitated a moment too long. "No. I guess… she… said something like there's danger, get up, go help."

" ‘Have the courage to do right,’ " I said. "Those were her words. ‘Know yourself.’ Yes, you are a blue dragon, but you forswore Takhisis thirty years ago to follow the founder of a new order. Remember her wisdom! ‘The difference between heroism and villainy lies in how strongly self-interest guides your actions.’ "

He glared down at me. "It is not villainy to want to help her. She is trapped here."

"No, it is not." I met his gaze with eyes like mirrors. "But you know her well enough to know she would want you to help us first. Everyone deserves justice, remember? ‘Justice must seek to heal wounds as vigorously as it seeks to bring vengeance.’ "

"You don't need to quote The Legacy to me. I was there when she told it to all of you." He lapsed into silence.

I said nothing but continued to look up at him and hope fervently Sara's influence on him would be strong enough to alter the tendencies of a blue dragon's blood. At least for a short while. After we saved the camp, if he wanted to go to Sanction to fight Takhisis for Sara's soul, I would happily go with him.

Maybe he saw that resolution in my face, or maybe my pleas had reached him. Whatever the reason, he plucked me out of the snow again, carried me back to the fire, and sat me on the log.

"Finish doing whatever it is you are doing and we will go."

Relieved beyond description, I took him at his word. I rewarmed my feet and washed the mud, blood, and ice from my torn skin. The body of the Knight who had slammed into the tree gave up a serviceable linen shirt, which I tore into strips and wrapped around my feet and ankles. I also took his black cloak, a dagger, and the small packet of food he had tied to his belt. The rest of his remains I dragged over to lie beside his comrade.

I assumed most of the supplies had disappeared with the horses, until I thought to look at the contents of the saddlebags on the saddle Cobalt had not eaten. In those I found more food, a small flask of something that smelled like blackberry brandy, a flint and steel, and a blanket—all of them treasures when you are lost in the snow.

Cobalt, meanwhile, paced back and forth and grumbled under his breath.

At last I pulled my boots back over my feet. Or at least I tried. My feet were swelling, and I was finally forced to slit the lacings, pull on the boots, and fasten them with more strips from the linen shirt. I then wrapped the blanket around me, put on the cloak, kicked out the fire, threw the saddlebags over my shoulder, and tried to take a masterful stride across the clearing. I know now it is very difficult to walk when you have to limp with both feet. The closest thing to a masterful stride I could achieve was a hobble.

"You will have to ride," Cobalt said. "I am in a hurry."

I hadn't wanted to ask such a favor, but I was very grateful that he offered. Since he could not fly, I did not really need a harness. Instead, I laid the sheepskin saddle pad from the dead Knight's saddle across the blue's back and climbed into place. He was thin. The scars of his battle with the frost wights looked gray and unhealthy in the fading light, yet he was so warm! I felt as if I were sitting on top of a huge bed warmer.

"Follow the foothills south until you see the mountain headland that looks like a table. A small river runs out of a meadow there."

He nodded once and trotted into the meadow. Dragons are neither built for or inclined to long-distance, cross-country running. They have wings; they prefer to fly. I wondered how Cobalt would decide to move once we came into the open. To my surprise, he broke into a kind of jog that was both smooth and surprisingly rapid. He could cover the ground three times as fast as any horse.

Satisfied and relieved, I relaxed on his back and put my trust in his determination to get the job done. I dozed and did not even notice when the night fell down around us.

28th day of H'rarmont

There is little to report about our journey south on the trail of the Dark Knights. I honestly remember only a few hazy details of falling snow and the few times Cobalt woke me to ask questions about our way. He had traveled north from his den in the southern plains, but he had been trying to avoid detection and had stayed in the more desolate hills to the east. Only hunger and desperation had brought him into the foothills in search of food.

It was close to midnight when we passed the small meadow and the stream where my party had been ambushed. Three hours later, Cobalt paused in the darkness. The snow had dwindled to fitful showers that whipped by us on the strong winds from the south.

I jolted out of my doze and sat up. "Are we there?" I asked quietly.

He didn't answer at first. His head swayed back and forth, and his nostrils flared as if he were scooping large drafts of air into his lungs. Without warning he veered to the left and plunged through a deep drift of snow. On the other side, he came to a grove of pine growing on the crown of a small rise. He stopped beside one tall pine and tilted his head to look up.

At first I couldn't see what he was looking at, then the snowfall paused and a wind gust darted among the trees. I saw something long and pale hanging from a lower branch like some kind of fruit.

"Was your captured Legionnaire a woman with blonde hair?" Cobalt inquired.

I said several things my mother had never taught me. Cobalt carefully bit through the rope that tied Faliana to the tree and lowered her body to the ground. Most of her clothing had been removed, and she had been suspended by her wrists and left to freeze to death. Her corpse was already stiff with cold and frosted with tiny icicles and a dusting of snow.

"She has been dead for hours," I murmured. Young Faliana had been a good friend and Legionnaire. She had deserved better than this slow and lonely death.

"Even if we had left immediately, we could not have made it here in time to save her," Cobalt pointed out.

"I know," I said, although I was surprised that he would point it out in an attempt to make me feel better.

"Of course, if she is already dead, then the Dark Knights know where the camp is."

"Probably so." I looked at her one more time and told Cobalt, "Wrap her in this blanket and leave her."

The disadvantage of being a Legionnaire is we don't often have the luxury of being buried in a grave. He did as I asked, and we left Faliana to her cold resting place. I was awake now, and the fear and urgency I had felt earlier came back twofold. We were close to the little valley where the camp lay, and now that I had seen Faliana and knew the truth, I worried for the rest of my people.

"The table rock should be to the right," I told Cobalt. "You will cross a broad, open field, climb a high ridge, and the valley will be on the other side."

He did as I said, and soon we were moving down the ridge into a narrow valley, hardly larger than a glen, which snaked its way deep into the mountains.

Cobalt inhaled deeply. "Horses have been this way. Men, too. I do not smell your elves." He snorted when he banged his wounded wing on an outcropping hidden in the dark and snow. "I wish I could fly over this."

So did I, but I was not tactless enough to say so. A crippled dragon condemned to stay on the ground is a dragon in constant danger for his life. Unless there was some way to repair his wing, Cobalt's existence would likely be miserable and short.

He made his way into the valley and immediately found he would have to slow down. The valley had steep, deep sides and a rugged floor where a shallow stream bounced over rockfalls, gravel banks, and boulders. In those tight quarters, his large bulk was not an advantage. It took us nearly as long as a horse would need to cover the five miles over the rugged terrain to the camp hidden in a grove of trees.

The added time gave me an opportunity to think. Since we had not reached or passed the Knights of Neraka, I could only assume they had already found the camp. Instead of charging in to attack a troop of men in the open as I had hoped, we would have to defeat them in a confining, unforgiving rock-walled pen. I also realized that we could not conceal the sounds of a fifty-foot dragon clambering over slippery rocks and squeezing past trees and outcroppings. If the Dark Knights were still there, we would have to take them by surprise.

When I look back on that morning now, I think perhaps I should have voiced some of those thoughts to Cobalt. His mind was on one thing and one thing only: to get this done so he could go to Sanction to free Sara. Tactics were hardly a priority.

It was nearly dawn when I recognized the landmarks that preceded the bend in the valley where our camp was located. Looking past Cobalt's neck I saw the familiar outcropping where we usually stationed a guard and the clump of birch that helped hide the camp from view. Just beyond them was a bend and a bulge where the river had washed around a huge point of rock. Behind the bend and still out of sight, I saw the flickering of fire.

"There's your guard," Cobalt jabbed his head toward a body lying face down on the fringe of ice by the water's edge. He stopped and stared at the reflection of fire glowing on the rock face ahead. I felt him shift his weight from foot to foot. His breathing came faster and faster. His tail began to lash the snow and vegetation around him.

"I hate Dark Knights," he snarled. "These are not like the Knights of Lord Ariakan's day. These are disreputable and dishonorable. They do not follow the code. They are no better than their sneaking, conniving goddess. First she leaves us and then she comes back and turns our own dead into her slaves. Sara is out there! And Vincit, my first rider. Saunder, too. Did you realize that? Marika and Argathon. And dragons that I knew before the War. They are still trapped in this world. It is not right!" His voice grew louder with every word as the pent up venom in his battered mind came spilling out.

I listened to this vitriolic outburst and threw away any hope I had of a carefully planned attack. All I could do was duck low over his neck, dig my fingers into his mane, and hang on for the outburst that I could feel coming. My heart started racing. I felt queasy in the pit of my stomach.

"Stay there," a voice called from the birch grove. "Who are you, and what do you want?"

Cobalt's answer was a blistering bolt of lightning that lit the narrow canyon with a flash of brilliant light and exploded in the trees. He lunged forward into the shallow water and barged around the bend in the river, showering water and fragments of ice in all directions.

With my heart in my throat, I looked for the camp in the trees and any sign of my people. The lurid glow of several large fires lit the scene for me and in the ghastly yellow light I saw the huts we had built were burning. Several bodies lay in the snow. A single Dark Knight stood silhouetted by the light of the fires. Half-turned, he was watching down the river to see what was coming.

Although I could not see the look on his face in the flickering light and falling snow, I saw him hesitate then turn in the anticipation of getting himself out of there. The sight of an angry blue dragon was hardly something he expected.

Cobalt pounced.

"Don't kill him!" I screamed.

The dragon altered his landing slightly so instead of flattening the man into the frozen ground, he slammed him into the snow and delicately pinned him under several tons of angry muscle, bone, and scale.

"Where are the other Knights?" I yelled down at the trapped Knight.

"I'll never tell!" the man shouted back.

I rolled my eyes. Some Knights have no imagination. "Step on him, Cobalt. We'll find them ourselves."

The Dark Knight shrieked, "No! The elves fled when we got here. Knight Officer Torrain went after them. Up the canyon."

Cobalt, in his determination to hurry after the elves, stepped on the man anyway. I felt a momentary pang and then forgot it. Blues are unpredictable, after all. I had other worries.

The path of the canyon came to my mind like a map laid out before me. The canyon wound its difficult way farther up into the mountains for another two or three miles, then the walls dwindled to mere slopes and the river vanished into the underground bed from which it springs. From there the path wound up into the high pastures that were now buried under new snow.

But while Cobalt sniffed and stamped around the empty camp, another dreadful thought occurred to me. My Legionnaires knew the paths up there, and Ravenclaw's warriors would know the dangers, but what if the elves were alone? They were fleeing in the dark, in the snow, into a region unfamiliar to them with two talons of mounted, bloodthirsty Knights driving them on. Did the talon leader know what lay ahead? If he caught them in the open would he have them slaughtered on the spot or would he continue to drive them out of the canyon and out on to the rock face that sheered off into a deep precipice? In the wind and driving snow, they would not realize their danger until it was too late.

"Cobalt, go up the canyon," I begged.

"Right," he grumbled. "More snow and ice and rock."

"More horses, too," I reminded him. He had been too hungry for too long to travel as much he had and only be satisfied with two animals.

He took my reminder to heart and moved purposefully back to the river. I saw tracks in the snow on the bank that confirmed the dead Knight's news. A large number of horses had come this way.

Because of his size and the rough terrain of the canyon, Cobalt was forced to stay in the riverbed. Hopping, scrambling, and twisting, he clambered his way up while I clung to his back like a flea and prayed I wouldn't fall off in the icy darkness. I am not certain he would have known I was gone. The river grew smaller and shallower; the walls of the canyon gradually fell away to treeclad slopes. Cobalt was able to move faster now, and he plunged on.

All at once, the river came to an end. The riverbed dropped out of sight into the mountain's heart, and the valley became nothing more than a broad cut between two steep slopes. Up there away from the shelter of the canyon walls, the storm howled down the slopes, whipping the snow into tiny icy particles that struck exposed skin like a frozen snowstorm. The wind howled and roared around us. Any hoofprints or signs of the elves had been scoured from the frozen earth and rock.

I pulled my hood tighter around my face. "To the right," I yelled at Cobalt over the tumult of the wind. "There is a low ridge that drops off in a sheer cliff face. Go that way."

Ducking his big head against the wind, the blue moved in the direction I indicated. Suddenly his ears swiveled forward. His eyes took on an odd glow that I could see like dim coals in the darkness.

"Takhisis, you vindictive bitch," he snarled.

I straightened. "What? What is it?"

"She's out there."

"Who? The goddess?" I could hear something, too, somewhere out there in the treacherous night, but it sounded like distant shouts and screams. "Cobalt, listen. It's the refugees. The Dark Knights have caught up with them. They need our help."

He did not appear to hear me. He jogged faster. His neck frill stood out straight and rigid; a sound of fury rumbled deep in his gut.

Oh, no, I thought. Not again.

More words came tumbling out rough and raw with a grief he had kept trapped in his soul for more than twenty years. "I served you and followed your laws, but you let my rider die! You abandoned our cause. Now you enslave my friend."

I listened hard to catch what he was hearing, but all I could pick up was the voice of the storm and sounds of conflict. Gods above, I thought, what if he truly was hearing the voice of the evil Queen? If she had returned to Krynn, had the other gods also come back?

My faith had faltered the past three decades, I admit. It is hard to keep one's belief strong when the gods you worshipped are no longer there to listen. Nevertheless, that night I prayed with all my heart and soul that there was another god out there to hear me. Someone, anyone who would take pity on this blue dragon and help him out of whatever madness gripped his mind… and help a small party of beleaguered elves if there was time.

The faraway sounds had become louder now and more distinct: the clash of weapons, shouts, and the neigh of horses. They were near the cliffs as I had feared, but they had stopped and were fighting their attackers. A seed of hope took root for I thought I recognized the war cry of my friend Ravenclaw and possibly the voice of Talith shouting an oath. That could explain why the group had turned to fight when they could not lose the Dark Knights on the mountain.

Out of habit, my heels drummed the dragon's sides as though I sat astride my horse. Except for the dagger at my belt, I had no weapons. All I had was Cobalt, whose mind seemed to be in another dimension. But perhaps that would be enough.

"Lightning, Cobalt, we need lightning!" I yelled at him.

He responded with all the fury of a warrior flying to exact vengeance. His power exploded in a triple-forked bolt of lightning that streaked through the snow-filled sky in brilliant white incandescence and burst the night with a shattering roar of thunder.

In that flash of light I saw dark figures clustered in scattered groups across the bare rock of the ridge top. Most of them were on foot, but a few still had their horses. Everyone stopped in amazement at the lightning that seared over their heads. The darkness snapped hack and someone wailed in terror, "A dragon—a blue! We're lost!"

Cobalt belched another bolt of lightning, and this time I recognized the Knights in black cloaks, leather, and armor. I thought I saw Ravenclaw and one of his warriors, an elf, and Talith before Cobalt charged into their midst. His momentum carried him past them to the edge of the cliff before he skidded to a halt, sending a huge swath of snow, rocks, and ice over the rim. He swung around and charged the nearest group of Dark Knights. Unfortunately, he forgot I was on his back without a harness, and when he skewed around I slid helplessly off his back and landed hard in a heap of snow.

Several minutes passed before I regained my breath and decided if all of my bones were still intact. Meanwhile, screaming and shouting filled the air, mingling with the roar of the dragon and the wail of the wind. I heard the voice of the Dark Knight officer shout orders to his men. They were trying to form an attack against the blue.

Then I heard another voice close by speak softly from the shelter of a snowdrift. This voice was familiar and very welcome.

I pushed myself to a sitting position and called, "Talith!"

Two figures, my second-in-command and the elf, Marilik, crept out of the darkness and found me. Talith was overjoyed. They had all been told I and my three comrades were dead.

"Where did that dragon come from?" Talith asked in frightened amazement. "Why is he fighting the Knights?"

"That's Cobalt."

Even the elf recognized the name and stared in wonder at the dragon.

I asked the next question. "What is Ravenclaw doing here?"

Talith shivered in the cold. He looked exhausted. "He and his men came into camp just before the Dark Knights arrived. They warned us in time to get us out. But the Knights followed right on our heels. We were hoping to give them the slip up here." He gave a dry humorless laugh. "Didn't work."

I understood his frustration and anger. "Get your people together. Bring the wounded. Get everyone over here and out of the way."

Both men obeyed. Talith found Ravenclaw badly wounded and carried the warrior back to me. Others came on their own, recognizing the wisdom of leaving the battle to the dragon. I smiled in gratitude to see Tressa, one of the Legionnaires who had stayed behind, and at least three of Ravenclaw's warriors. Of the elves, about half were missing.

During all the uproar and confusion I had not taken time to see what Cobalt was doing. He had barged into the fight in a fury at an opponent only he could see and hear. I had the feeling the Dark Knights were only convenient, physical things to vent his anger upon. I could not help but fear he might leave in the middle of things if his mind led him into other visions.

Fortunately for us, he was fighting as the warrior I knew him to be. He had already unhorsed all but the talon leader and killed at least a half-dozen Knights that I could see in the darkness. The rest circled him warily and did not seem inclined to rush him. I think they would have taken to their heels into the night if their officer hadn't forced them to stay. Somehow he managed to control his fear and maintain control of his men.

Talith and I had a hurried conference after which we started to move people back. With the help of the tribesmen, the others carried Ravenclaw and two wounded elves back off the cliff and away from the Dark Knights. In small groups they faded into the blowing snow to make their way back to the valley and its meager shelter. Talith urged me to go too, but I waited for Cobalt. He had come this far with me. I would not leave him now.

Talith did not leave either. He hunkered down by my side, and we watched Cobalt kill the Knights one by one. A few managed to draw the dragon's blood with their swords, and one man pierced him with a spear. Another hacked at his injured wing until the blue squealed with rage, caught the man, and tore him in two. Dragon and Knights fought round and round on the slippery top of the cliff until the snow was trampled with blood, dirt, ice, and debris. Only the Knight Officer seemed to hold back from directly confronting the dragon. He stayed back on his frightened horse and watched Cobalt like a predator sizing up his next meal. I wondered what the man was up to.

While I watched Cobalt, I was also watching the ground around us on the slim chance that any of the missing members of our party had been overlooked. I was particularly looking for the young boy who had not been with the others when they crept away from the clifftop. Leaning against the snowdrift, I raised my head higher and higher to see what was happening.

For the first time I noticed the sky was somewhat lighter. Far to the east beyond the great desert the sun was rising to bring dawn to a troubled world. The thought cheered me a little. It had been a dark and frightful night, but now light was coming with the start of a new day.

Perhaps that spark of optimism sharpened my focus, or maybe it was the changing light, because I saw something in a depression of snow I hadn't noticed before, something human-shaped and dressed in shades that even in the weak light I could tell were not black. It seemed to be moving slightly.

I gripped Talith's hand and pointed. He nodded. The remnants of the Dark Knights were thoroughly distracted at that moment, and since the body was not far from us we decided to take a chance and check on it. I did not want to leave anyone alive behind if I could help it. We crawled over the drift and through the snow toward it.

The figure in the snow must have heard us, for it lifted its head and looked blearily toward us. A thrill of pleasure warmed me. It was the young elf.

Talith and I almost reached him when we heard a shout of fury. I looked up and saw the Knight Officer riding down on us. To this day I do not know why he left his men to Cobalt and came after us. Maybe he hoped to take us as hostages and force Cobalt to stop. Maybe his anger got the better of his sense and he came after us because we were an easy kill. Maybe he recognized me and was furious that I had escaped. Maybe he was just confused. Whatever his motives, there was no mistaking his intent. He raised his hand, his fingers pointed toward us, and a sudden understanding exploded in my mind. This man was a Knight of the Skull, a sorcerer trained in the uglier side of the new magic.

However, that magic had been failing for the past few years. Anyone who could wield it before had discovered they could no longer use it with any reliability. To my knowledge no one had learned why. I remembered Cobalt complaining to me that his magic spells had gone awry when the spirits of the dead swarmed over him. If only this Knight would have the same difficulty.

But I could hardly count on it. Someone else was closer. "Cobalt!" I screamed.

The Knight's horse charged toward us, its breath streaming from its nostrils. I saw the man's hands glow with energy.

Talith and I tumbled over the elf lad and curled our bodies over him.

From my position I could not see the Knight bearing down on us, but I could see Cobalt. I saw his head snap up in full attention, his neck frill and his ears stiffly alert.

"Sara!" he bellowed. His bulky body whipped around on the snowy ground, and with a huge leap he sprang after the Dark Knight. Two surviving Knights on foot were left staring in astonishment.

"Sara!" Cobalt roared again. "Wait!"

The Knight's black horse went berserk. Bucking and plunging, it threw its rider and careened off into the storm.

The Dark Knight sprang to his feet, drew his sword, and with commendable courage, turned to face the charging dragon.

Cobalt did not slow down. He snatched the Knight in his jaws, spread his one good wing, and ran off the edge of the cliff. His great body arched into the wind, then tumbled. The flying snow and gray cloud engulfed him.

I don't how long I stared stupidly at the cliff's edge, thinking he would reappear. I knew better, but I hoped.

"Where is he? Where'd he go?" Talith cried. "Why doesn't he come back?"

I pushed myself to my feet and tottered toward the rim of the rocks. Talith came up beside me and held me steady. We both looked over the edge. Neither of us saw anything of the blue dragon.

"He couldn't fly," I said. "His wing was badly injured."

Through the blur of tears in my eyes, I saw Talith's face crumple in grief.

"But I didn't hear the sound of his body hit the rocks." he asked, his voice full of sadness. "Are you sure he couldn't have survived that fall?"

I listened for any sound of life below. I hadn't heard a crash either, but the storm was loud around us and the base of the cliff was more than two hundred feet below. Even if Cobalt survived his fall and lay injured on the rocks I wasn't sure how we could get down there to help him. If he was still alive and somewhere down the mountain, he could make his own way out.

"I don't know," I said.

Talith paused and then asked, "Why did he call Sara's name?"

I lifted my eyes and stared out into the clouds, the snow, and the dim light of morning. Sara had come to him before, Cobalt had said. Had she come again this morning? Had he truly seen her, or had he confused my voice for hers? I don't know. I will never know—until I am able to join her one day. Maybe then I will see the big blue again and will be able to thank him.

In the meanwhile, we still had our people to worry about. When I looked, the two Dark Knights had gone, and I had a feeling we had seen the last of them. They were the only survivors of two full talons, and they still had to make their way back through the storm to their unit nearly forty miles away. After this night I wished them no luck.

Because my feet were still without feeling, Talith left me with the elf boy and trekked back to the head of the valley. He found the surviving elves, the tribesmen, and Tressa. He also found two of the Knights' horses, shivering and terrified and glad for human comfort. While he brought one horse back for us, one of the warriors took the other and rode to his tribe's winter village for help. By noon we were all safe in the village. The elf boy survived. My friend, Ravenclaw, did not. We lost four Legionnaires, six elves, and Cobalt.

At my request, the tribesmen sent a scouting party up the mountainside to try to find Cobalt's body. They returned after only two days with news that the ravine into which Cobalt fell had been blocked by an avalanche. There would be no way into that area until summer. If Cobalt is there, I wish him peace and a long sleep. I hope he found Sara.

End of Report.

Signed by

Kelena Athelen

Post Script to the High Elder

My Lord, I felt you should know that after the safe arrival of the Legionnaires and their charges to Duntollik, elf healers were forced to amputate most of Kelena Athelen's toes due to gangrene caused by severe frostbite. They were able to save her feet, in part due to the excellent care given her by the Quanlar tribesmen before her return to the plains. She has accepted retirement from fieldwork and is recovering in Duntollik. She has asked me to request that she be allowed to return to Solace and work in the Legion headquarters. If I may be so bold, sir, you would be a fool to refuse her.

Yours in honor,

Centurion Heald Bi'Tar

Excerpts from the Personal Journal of Aldreth Mayger, Knight of the Lily

I thought I hated the desert—those barren wastes, the endless miles of rock and sand, the hot sun, the dry air, the lack of anything to look at during long rides, the red color that makes the eyes ache, the sand flies, the jackals that howl at night, the perpetual taste of dust in the mouth, the scarcity of water and trees. All of it was worth an intense dislike. I thought I hated it… until I spent these past five days in Sable's swamp. Now all I want to do is get back to the dry, unchanging desert. Even the elves' miserable forest is better than this.

As usual, my present location was not my choice. Until five days ago I had a nice dry bed and guard duty behind stout walls, even if they were elven walls. We had been in Silvanost for about two weeks and were finally starting to make ourselves at home when my commander picked me out of the ranks and ordered me to go on a scouting mission. "Undercover," he said. "Alone." I could hardly complain to his face, but I seriously doubted the intelligence of this mission. I was to go, disguised as an escaped slave from Sable's swamp, to Mem-Ban, see what I could learn about the activities of the Legion of Steel, and gather any information of the Missing City and the dragon, Iyesta. Nothing had been heard of the brass for some time, and our commander was concerned that she might suddenly appear and attack our forces out of sympathy for the elves.

I personally thought the dragon probably had enough to do without worrying about the elves, but I could only salute and prepare to go.

To make my disguise and my story more authentic, my commander ordered that I be taken to Shalost by road and then to the Thon-Rishas River. I was to travel upriver until it left the Silvanesti Forest and lost its way in the swamp a little south of the Trueheart Mines, and from there I was to make my way south to the village of Mem-Ban. This is indeed far from a direct route, but the commander insisted on secrecy.

Five days ago the patrol of Knights left me in the swamp. Since then I have been struggling to stay alive. Gods, this place is horrendous! I have seen mosquitoes the size of seagulls, toads that look like cowflops, vicious little snakes that rear out of the undergrowth and hiss at you. Fortunately, I have not been bitten, but they are such offensive looking creatures that I suspect they are deadly venomous.

One of the worst things about the swamp is the oppressiveness of the dank, rank surroundings. The land is wet, the air is wet, and the foliage is wet. Many times I have been forced to wade through water as deep as my waist. The trees are so close together that there is very little wind and only a pale, sickly light in the height of the day. At night, the swamp is villainously black and alive with so many things that creep and crawl and hop and make horrible rackets that I climb a tree and try to sleep in the branches. I haven't had much sleep.

So far I have not been able to find a trail. I just keep going and hope I am heading in a southerly direction. My commander's plan to have me look filthy, haggard, and starving by the time I reach the edge of the swamp is working all too well. I have had to carry a little water and food with me because most things in this fiendish place are dangerous, poisonous, venomous, or deadly, and I have not dared forage. My food was soaked the first day and now is not fit to eat. I must find shelter soon or my mission will vanish into the mire of the swamp.

Takhisis be praised (wherever you are), I have found the road. Late yesterday afternoon, I saw the gleam of sunlight through the hanging vines and dense trees, and I staggered toward it. I burst out of the trees into blessed light and found the King's Road—the same blasted road I started on in Silvanost! The King's Road starts in Silvanost, runs through the Silvanesti Forest, bisects the southernmost tip of Sable's swamp, and crosses the eastern third of the Plains of Dust. According to my commander, the Qualinesti elves used that road to reach Silvanesti. What a wrench that must have been to those dratted elves, to cross the hot desert only to discover their cousins were exiles, too, and we had control of the city. I wish I had been there to see their faces.

Needless to say, I was overjoyed to find the road. I knew then I was only a day or so away from the village. I decided to stay on the road for a few hours and walk west before I struck south again into the tail end of the swamp. Unfortunately, I began to feel feverish that evening. I crawled into a tree to get some rest. By morning I was a shaking, delirious wreck, a victim of some miasmic swamp fever. I surely would have died if it hadn't been for Grassweaver.

Grassweaver was a man of middle age whose leg had been crippled in a battle years before the mystics perfected their magic of the heart and brought their healing skills to the Plains. His own shaman had done his best, but the warrior's leg was too badly damaged to heal properly. Somehow he managed to keep it, but it forced him to walk with a limp and to look for other work in the village. He became a skilled basket weaver, and on that particular day he had walked to the road to find a certain kind of grass that turned pale blue when it dried. He used this to add depth to his designs.

Instead of the grass, he found me wandering lost in my feverish delusions. He laid me down, gave me a drink, and set off to find someone else to help him move me. By luck he met another man walking along the road. (I suspect now that the man Grassweaver met is a Legionnaire who came to bring the tribesmen news from City of Morning Dew.) Together, the two men carried me along a path I would never have found myself to the village of Mem-Ban. I had made it at last. I just didn't know it at the time.

By the time I recovered, I well and truly looked the part of an escaped slave who had spent the better part of six or seven days (I was a bit vague on that part) in the swamp. The people in the village took me at my word and rejoiced for my escape. They are for the most part barbarians, members of the small Bandari tribe who have given up many of their nomadic ways and eke out a living from the lands around their village.

The lands surrounding Mem-Ban are an interesting mix of swamp, plains, and forest. The village itself sits in the verge of the swamp. The area is still quite damp, mucky, and heavily wooded with willow, cypress, and scrub oak. Dark pools of water he everywhere. But it is more liveable than the deep swamp, and the Bandari have managed to find a place among the reeds and mosquitoes.

The Silvanesti Forest lies to the east of the village, and now that Mina has brought down the shield, the forest is open to the villagers. I was surprised to learn, however, that the barbarians want no part of the elves' domain. They will not go near the edge of the forest where the shield used to be. Only the elf refugees occasionally go into the woods to look for medicinal herbs, flowers, or plants they know, and sometimes to look for missing friends or family members. They are terrified of our forces, though, and do not go into the forest willingly.

To the west and south sits the Plains of Dust, that big dust bowl where Iyesta dwells. The swamp ends fairly quickly and is sucked up by the thirsty grasslands. One moment you are walking through scrub and mud, the next you are stepping out into open grassy savannah, and the grasslands soon give way to true desert. The tribe does much of its hunting on the plains and along the verge, and they keep many of their herds of goats and cattle out on the grass.

The people of the tribe are pleasant for the most part, yet very defensive of their territory. They willingly accept guests and are very hospitable, but they do not encourage anyone outside of the tribe to linger long in the village. There are some exceptions to this rule. I have seen perhaps two dozen elves here—refugees from both realms. I know now most of the elves have marched north. However, some of the older and younger ones stayed behind and sought refuge in the village. The tribesmen tolerate them because they know the elves need help and will not stay for long.

There are also some outsiders—traders, shepherds, some barbarians, and the like. I believe, though, that some of these are Legionnaires. Because I am an "escaped slave," I have been able to talk to some of these people about the Trueheart Mines and the Legion's operatives who help slaves escape. There is a whole network of guides and spies who help people flee Sable's foul swamp. After spending six days in that horrible place, I can't help but have a grudging respect for anyone—even a Legionnaire—who would willing go in there to help someone.

I am learning a great deal about the Legionnaires in this area. They gather information from many sources and pass it on to their leaders in Missing City, the City of Morning Dew, several settlements north of here, and Duntollik. They have operatives in Sable's swamp, in Silvanesti, in Iyesta's realm, in Thunder's realm, in Duntollik, and as far west as Tarsis. Their spy network is impressive, but so far I have not been able to get any names or specific locations. Those that I suspect are Legionnaires here are very careful about what they say.

They have also been very careful about what they say concerning Iyesta and the Missing City. Apparently something has happened there, but they will not tell me what. I am not certain they know themselves, which I find quite extraordinary. According to the tribespeople I have talked to, including Grassweaver, Iyesta has not been seen in long while. A very few scouts who have made it as far as the hills near Mirage say the city is still standing, but they do not know what is happening there. There is no sign of the centaurs and the militia who guard the city, no messengers have left, and anyone who goes into the city does not return. It is a puzzle.

I wonder if I should go down there myself and take a look around. It was not part of my orders, though. Perhaps it is time to return to Silvanost and make my report. I have been here for ten days, and even Grassweaver is making noises about my departure. If all is well with my unit, maybe my commander will allow me to go to Missing City for a brief survey. I find myself liking this undercover work. If a lousy Legionnaire can do it, so can I.

Grassweaver and his friend from the road have offered to take me back to the King's Road so I can continue my journey. I told them I wanted to go to Missing City and find a ship there to take me home, hut they vehemently dissuaded me from that. Instead they suggested I take the road west to the river and follow that to Duntollik. From there I should he able to catch a caravan going to the sea. Since I didn't want to tell them I was ultimately going to Silvanost, I readily agreed.

The villagers said their goodbyes and helped me pack the few items I would need for my journey. They were all very kind. Grassweaver says we will leave in the morning.

Note on bottom of last page used:

Isn't it just like a Dark Knight to carry around his personal journal? It wasn't even coded. Too bad the lad met up with one those snakes he so disliked. Saved us the trouble of killing him.

—G.

This journal was turned over the Legion commander at Mem-Ban and eventually sent on to the Legion Headquarters at Solace.

The Building of Teyr

A package arrived early last year from the city of Teyr. I had not had it on any of my maps, hut rumor had it that this city is now the home of the dreaded draconians. With much trepidation, I opened the large package to find that it contained a multitude of writings and essays, and a letter.

Here is the text of the letter:

To Librarian, Library of Palanthas

Draconians are no longer the storm troops of Takhisis. We are a living, breathing race. We live, die, and reproduce as do other races, and we deserve to be recognized as such. Included in this packet are the first writings from the City of Teyr. We wish to be included in the great writings of the other races of Ansalon.

Kang, Governor of Teyr

This is the first of the essays included in the packet. I find it quite intriguing.

Bertrem

I am Cresel, File Leader and Senior Surveyor, Support Squadron, First Draconian Engineer Regiment. I work for Fulkth, the Squadron Commander and Chief Engineer for the regiment. I and the Survey Troop have been at the forefront of the construction of Teyr. Nothing gets built before the Survey Troop says where it goes, and I'm the Senior Surveyor. Squadron Commander Fulkth insisted that I write this document as a record of our early days in this city. We were continually frustrated by the reasons behind many of the building plans for the ancient city of Thoral Des. Had we possessed documents to refer to, or even diagrams, maps, or plans for the city or its buildings, our job would have been much easier. Fulkth said we should learn from other's mistakes, even if they were dwarves who lived some four hundred years ago.

This document tells what little we've learned about the dwarves who lived here and more about what we've done since we've arrived.

Teyr began as a ruin—not just a bad jumble of ideas and theories, but an actual ruin. The small, upstart dwarven city of Thoral Des existed for hundreds of years before the Cataclysm. It was a satellite community to Thoradin, the main dwarven stronghold in the east. The Thane of Thoradin set out to control the ogres in Blöde, and to do so he needed a sustainable fortress in the region. The construction of the surface buildings of Thoral Des was completed in 208 PC, and the community functioned under the watchful eye of the Kingpriest of Istar for fifty years without incident.

The first of the underground works was begun shortly after the Temple of Istar was completed. The residents of Thoral Des knew only because a shift in attitude from their eastern neighbors occurred shortly after. Those who did not bow a knee to the edicts of Istar soon were considered enemies of Istar, and it was clear that no dwarf was of the bowing of knee type. The settlement designed to defend against the ogres of Blöde now found itself with a hostile enemy from the opposite direction.

The construction of the Hall of the Thane was completed just before the Kingpriest of Istar placed a trade embargo on the community. His military forces ensured that no trade took place with Thoral Des, including trade between Thoral Des and Thoradin.

The Hall of the Thane was a huge chamber, over a hundred yards across, sunk deep into the bedrock below the City Thane's Palace aboveground. It served as the beginning of a construction effort to translate the city from a collection of buildings aboveground to an underground paradise, much like Thoradin or Thorbardin, far to the west.

The need to improve the city's defenses constantly hampered construction. Due to the military threat of the forces of Istar, as well as the constant possibility of an attack by ogres, the walls were permanently manned and the height and width of the wall constantly improved. Towers were erected, then improved to massive stone structures to command the approaches and corners of the city walls. Still, the Thane of Thoral Des insisted that work continue on the Hall of the Thane underground. Perhaps he had a premonition of what was to come. Nevertheless, he felt that the future of the city was as an underground complex. No dwarven stronghold thus built had ever fallen to an enemy, and the Thane would see to it that his city was no different.

The Hall of the Thane was the starting point for four main corridors—more like underground highways, which ran according to the points of the compass. They would serve as the basis of travel, connecting portions of the underground city. The east and north tunnels were completed to a distance of two thousand yards each, with several side chambers built in to allow workers to store materials and tools and places to rest and prepare food.

It had always been intended that the Hall of the Thane would be rebuilt at the heart of the underground city once that level had been finished. In fact, it was originally envisioned that there would be four layers for the underground city, with the bottom being the most secure and thus the seat of government for the city. Here the Hall of the Thane would be rebuilt, relegating the original chamber to the entry-point from the surface to the rest of the city.

Many scholars place the end of Thoral Des at 0 PC, with the Cataclysm. Our research, however, shows that it ended some ten years before. Evidence abounds of a mass attack by what is believed to have been the forces of Istar. The surface buildings suffered much damage from siege bombardment, and the walls were breached in two places. All of the towers suffered massive hits from stone-throwing artillery. Only one remained standing (and is currently the only complete building in Teyr to date from the original city).

Evidence of discarded tools and weapons shows that fighting occurred throughout the city and down into the Hall of the Thane below. A last stand seems to have been made in the east tunnel entrance. Some have speculated that the women and children were hurriedly moved into the east tunnel in hopes that a spirited defense at the tunnel entrance would save them. There is no evidence of any fighting beyond the entrance, so either the defense held and the occupants later left, or the fighting ended badly for the defenders and the women and children were led to the surface to meet their grim future as either slaves in Istar or dead. The evidence will not yield up such details, I'm afraid.

The Cataclysm did some damage to the remaining walls and surface structures of Thoral Des but almost none to the chambers below. The structural evidence shows tales of a massive earthquake sometime around 0 PC, coinciding perfectly with the Cataclysm.

All this, of course, is speculation based on the research I have been able to glean from the diggings and investigations that we have done. The dwarves of Thoradin ceased to exist when the Cataclysm hit. Of that, there is little doubt Regardless, no dwarf would share documents or stories of what is known of Thoral Des with draconians. Thus, we have only the raw evidence to go by. I think, however, that the draconian accounts may be more accurate, knowing the habit people have of inflating the heroic deeds of their ancestors. We draconians have a slight advantage there, in that we are all of the first generation of our kind. No draconians ever came before us.

When we followed Commander Rang and Commander Slith over the rise to the west and first surveyed the ruins of Thoral Des, the desolation of the place was apparent. The possibilities of the place were not quite so apparent, but the one feature that stood out was that we could defend this city. The dwarves had picked good, defensible ground.

Commander Rang decided to change the name of the city from Thoral Des to Teyr. It was a Hill Dwarf word that meant "future" or "has a future." The Hill Dwarves we used to live near used the word to describe something that had promise. "Teyr Thankardas!" meant "this tankard of spirits has a future!" We heard that a lot from the Hill Dwarves. We all agree—the word does fit, and after all, it was a dwarf city. It should have a dwarf name.

We camped outside the city for the first month. Each day we were assigned a different section of the ruins to explore. We made detailed maps of what we found. It was my section that found the entrance to the winding staircase leading down beneath the large administration building in the center of the city. Rubble covered much of the first floor, but we found a staircase to the basement, and there we found a series of massive stone walls. It took a lot of moving of stone and large timber beams to reveal a thick wooden doorway that had been smashed open. From the looks of it, a battering ram had been used until the latch and hinges had given way. It took two days of mapping just to get the dimensions of the chamber below and the side tunnels. I have been back many times since, and every time I learn something new down there. A detailed map of the four levels planned for the underground city was carved into a large granite section on the wall. It probably served as a testament to the future vision of what they were building. Today, it is an invaluable resource to us as to what the original builders were thinking and how they were planning on doing it. This underground beginning had been their future. Perhaps someday it will be ours too.

The first task was to make the city walls defendable again. Much of the western face of the wall had been demolished in the siege that preceded the attack on the city. Hundreds of "pockmarks" from thrown boulders or from the heads of battering rams dot the walls and towers. Slith's Perch (the name now given to the only intact tower) showed some signs of battle damage, but not to the extent that other towers had. It stands at the far northeast corner of the city walls and survived no doubt because it was the farthest from the fighting.

The debris from combat, along with four hundred years of decay, deposited more than two feet of dirt, dust, and building material onto all of the surfaces. To find the original street level, we had to dig. Luckily, two complete Infantry Regiments with elements from five more had come with us and now fell under Commander Kang's banner. No one, not even Engineers, can dig like the infantry. Many of us suspect that the dark clerics and mages that created us from dragon eggs added a touch of magic to make infantry draconians the masters of digging. It matters not if the draconian is baaz, sivak, kapak, or bozak; if he's an infantry draconian, he digs.

After only the first week, the road bed behind the west wall had been dug clean, and the steps and landings on the wall itself were cleared of debris. Once the stonework was revealed, it became obvious that it was of dwarf design. The workmanship is exquisite. The gatehouse was completely ruined and had fallen in, with bits of wood everwhere. The wood was no doubt all that remained of the original doors. No piece bigger than a draco's arm survived. It took nearly two weeks to remove the stone and debris from the site of the gatehouse. Once it was gone, a new gatehouse had to be constructed.

Panet, the plans officer under Fulkth, used the designs of a Dragon Army field fortification (not seen for some fifty years) as a basis for a bastion to serve as a gatehouse. Commander Kang himself got involved in the plans. He said that no building would be as important as the gatehouse. Seeing the amount of damage that the dwarven version had taken, and the motivation of the attackers to do all that damage, I am convinced the Commander is correct.

Construction on the gatehouse was the first new stone construction in the city of Teyr. The building was to be four stories tall, with the doors to stand two stories tall, and defenses above that for another two, with a walkway above that. The walls, where they survived intact, stood two stories tall.

To give the construction engineers a guide to what height they should build, we repaired the walls around the gatehouse first. A curtain wall was erected on the outside of the gatehouse construction area, so that there would be no gap in the defenses as we built the new gatehouse. It was a discarded stone and earthen berm that circled the area around the construction, and butted against the original walls on either side of the gatehouse.

When we were alone—just us as the Engineer Regiment—before we met up with the rest of the regiments in Maranta's Fortress, we had to do all the jobs. We defended ourselves, fed ourselves, washed ourselves, took care of our equipment and did all those things that a self-contained society has to do. Now, many of those things are taken care of for us. First we lodged in tents outside the walls, but later we moved into barracks inside. Food growing, hunting, and preparation was all taken care of by the Ninth Infantry. At first we thought that these dracos from "up north" (they had served in the taking of Nordmaar in the War of the Lance) would be hopeless, but it turns out they learned to use spices like the humans in Nordmaar. We were all very impressed the first time an infantry company came back from a hunt and Commander Kang ordered a feast to "Bless the City." Our mouths howled from the spice, but the taste was incredible. There had been talk of rotating other units through the food duties, but after that feast, the Ninth Infantry had the job for life.

It made our job of doing the hard engineering work easier. We could concentrate all of our talents and all of our numbers on the job at hand and know that we would be fed, housed, and defended.

At first, we made restoring the city wall to two stories a priority. Without it, we were no better than cattle on a field. We were easily slaughtered should a force of cavalry come across us. With a wall, a strong stone wall at that, we would be a tough nut to crack indeed. We used any materials at hand, including the dirt and debris from digging down to roadway level, to raise the portions of the wall that had either collapsed from the ravages of time or ancient combat. We left one section of the wall down, right on the southwest corner. It served as our gate until the gatehouse was finished.

The next priority was the towers. Each corner had a tower with there three others at strategic bends in the wall. When all seven towers were manned, every approach could be seen and covered with bow and ballista fire. The army of Istar must have had a tough time of it in the beginning. Once those towers fell, though, it was only a matter of time.

We had the same approach. We would rebuild the seven towers and man them with archers and capable siege engines. The problem was that if it failed as a system for the dwarves, it could fail as a system for us. An attacker could do the same thing: destroy our towers and then destroy us. According to Commander Kang, the towers were an important part of our defense, but we should have more than just the towers. The dwarves were fighting for their lives. We had our whole race to think about. As high as the dwarves may have thought their stakes, ours were considerably higher.

The walls had to be repaired all around the city, and the debris and decay of four hundred years had to be removed from the ground to get to the street level of the ancient city. Digging continued for sixteen hours a day, with emphasis on the curtain road that ran adjacent to the outer city walls. Once it was finished, the inner streets were dug out, and ruined buildings were dismantled and the site cleaned. We used much of the dirt and stone to rebuild and reinforce the outer wall. Once this was completed, the rest of the dirt was hand-carted out of the city to a small dry ravine just outside the walls. The ravine was to become Lookout Hill by the time we had completed the excavation of the city.

The dirt and debris used to shore up the outer walls was replaced with proper stonework after the initial months. Still, the city wall remained the top priority for Commander Kang's building efforts. The wall had many staircases built in and guard stations added. These stations were stone "huts" that could keep a sentry warm and dry but still afford him a good view of the area he was to defend. He would still have to walk the wall, but he could take a break from time to time to refresh himself. The walkway itself was paved with smaller stones to be easier on the draconian feet. Also added was a crenellation wall tall enough to protect a draconian. The original crenellations were designed with dwarves in mind, and that made for safe draconian knees but not much else.

Commander Kang came up with the "onion" motif for the defense of the city. First, we have the outer wall. Then, we would build a bastion with its own curtain wall in the center of the city. When the commander first came up with the plan, we had no idea that there was a subterranean chamber with huge corridors off of it. Once we found them, the plan was changed to move the bastion over the site of the original Thane's Palace and thus directly over the entrance to the lower chamber. Thus, Commander Kang's onion had gained another layer. First the city walls, then the walls of the bastion, then the bastion itself, and finally the chamber below. As time moved on, the onion would develop more layers, both above and below ground.

One of the major engineering problems we faced right from the start was size. Dwarves are half our size. That made any single-story building completely useless to us. Luckily, the dwarves of Thoral Des thought in a grandiose manner. They built their structures large, no doubt to reflect their own self-importance! Any of the two-story structures that survived could have the floor of the second story removed, making it suitable for draconians. It was simply a matter of building a bigger doorway and raising the windows to eye-level. It took work, but the work was far easier than rebuilding all the structures from the ground up. Just a little under half of the original buildings in the city survived. Of those, a quarter were single-story dwellings. They weren't demolished but dismantled. It is unclear how many wooden buildings were in the city when it was attacked, but there is evidence of a massive fire either during or after the battle. No wooden structures survived.

Raw materials were not initially a problem for us, but they would be as time moved on. At first, we took the stone blocks already used by the ancient dwarves. We simply reused them for new buildings and new construction on the wall. Wood was plentiful. A forest stood less than a mile from the western wall, and much of it was hardwood from very large trees. The second Battalion of the Sixteenth Infantry (all that remained of the Sixteenth Infantry, in fact) was tasked with cutting timber. At first, they made quite a mess of the job, but it didn't take them long to learn their new trade, and now they are masters of providing wood in any form needed. In fact, they designed and built their own sawmill with very minimal input from the engineers. It was a matter of pride for them, and they did a splendid job. The large creek that runs through the forest now provides power to the saw blades that cut the massive tree trunks into planks. Apparently, several of the sivaks in the battalion had been seconded to Lord Ariakus's private estate to work in his lumber mill due to their size. They were smart enough to learn the trade and layout of the mill well enough to duplicate this fifty years later.

The quarry the dwarves had originally used stood two miles away, down the main road toward the south. It had been quite deep but had flooded sometime in the past and now formed a very unnatural-looking square lake. It would be of no use to us. Two hundred yards farther on, though, the ground had a good outcropping of stone where our two stonemasons thought they could start a quarry.

When we first investigated the underground cavern below the Thane's Palace, we ignored several of the side rooms off the northern corridor. They were low, even for dwarf standards, and looked as if they had been used as storage areas. We had to crawl on our bellies to get into the chambers, and they turned out to be exactly as we suspected. They held tools. To us, it was a gold mine! Draconians as a race have very little experience with stone work. We understand the concept from the engineering point of view, but we don't have a history of practical experience. These tools at least helped us start the process of learning.

With the dwarven tools, or copies made to better fit a draconian's hand, we were able to learn to cut stone from the land and smooth it to fit it where we needed it. We mimicked the size of the blocks from the original dwarven examples that we had. At first, the two stone masons (so called because they were the only two construction engineers in our regiment to have done any building with stone, and that was back in the construction of Neraka days) were able to cut ten blocks of stone per day. Even doing that caused much waste of stone from around the blocks. Two months into the project, though, and with a new staff of twenty able-bodied baaz recruits, the quarry was turning out sixty blocks a day, and capacity was still growing. The main problem, once the cutting was perfected, was moving the blocks to the city.

The obvious answer was to use teams of oxen pulling low carts. The problem wasn't the carts, but the oxen. No oxen roamed the surrounding hills. It was decidedly inconvenient for a new city. The problem went all the way up to Commander Slith. He decided it was best to trade for the oxen. Fifty miles to the east was the small human town of Barvun. Commander Slith led a small group of other sivaks (originally from the Queen's Own, but now working directly for Commander Kang). Taking the form of dead humans, they were able to buy twenty head of oxen in Barvun and move them west before the murdered humans were noticed. Unknown to Slith at the time, one of the oxen was a female. Humans call it a "cow." Also unknown to Slith at the time was that oxen are castrated males. After a period of frustrating breeding attempts, Commander Slith elected to try the same method to acquire a bull and several more cows. Thus, the future of cattle in the Teyr region was assured.

With the acquisition of the oxen, the movement of stone from the quarry became a routine matter. The strange side benefit to hauling huge stones was that every once in a while, one of the oxen died. Meat was especially good on those nights.

There was no river flowing through or near Teyr. Water would have been a problem were it not for the dwarves' uncanny knack for finding excellent wells. Many were scattered throughout the city, and several were even placed in the Hall of the Thane belowground. It is a current topic of debate among the members of the Engineering Regiment as to how the dwarves were able to build a huge cavern with attaching corridors without disturbing the water table. By all rights, the chamber and the corridors should be dank and wet, constantly dripping. If a human had excavated the structure, it would have been so, but the dwarven construction was perfectly dry. Some say it is a secret of dwarven builders, and others say it is a learned skill, and we have yet to master it. I can say that if we ever do build down here to extend what the dwarves have already built, it would be much to our benefit if we can kidnap or otherwise engage a dwarf builder or two. I see no other way to ensure that it remains dry below.

One major side effect of not having a river is that it cannot be used for transportation. We must rely solely on roads. The quality of the roads must be very high, and in that regard the dwarves who came before us have aided us immensely. Their roads are wide, hard packed, and if they are a major thoroughfare, they are inlaid with stone. They will withstand our traffic for many millennia.

The interior roads of the city were laid out in a grid. The buildings were placed according to importance, with the most important buildings in the center of the city and lesser buildings radiating outward toward the wall. On the outermost ring were living quarters for small groups of draconians.

Commander Kang envisioned two types of draconians. The first was the traditional draconian, the soldier. A strong military ensured the survival of the race, and it was what the race both knew the best and had practiced the most. It was literally in their blood. Still, there were other draconians who would act like regular citizens in other societies, like the humans or the dwarves. These draconians would be merchants, traders, tradesmen, and craftsmen. They would form the economic and social structure that the military would function within. The draconians had always been the military for someone else's society. In the Dragonarmies, the Dragon Highlord set the flavor of the army. There were no draconian Highlords. Now, Commander Kang reasoned, it was necessary to create a "civilian" class of draconian. It was not an easy transition for most.

Barracks were fine for those living the military life. Those who would live the civilian life, though, Commander Kang reasoned, would require smaller living quarters, much like the humans' houses. Small groups of draconians would live together, each from the same profession, and as females became more numerous, actual families would form and live in such living quarters.

The female draconians were another factor not dealt with before. There were only a handful when we arrived at Teyr, but very quickly several had become laden with child. After several months, the sounds of tiny draconians could be heard in the streets of Teyr. Let me stray from this essay's intent for a moment to say that the sound of a young draconian can fill an old soldier's heart like no music on Krynn.

It was decided that small dwellings would be placed by the outer city walls, barracks farther in (to avoid the problems of sneak attacks) and family dwellings with females and young to be near the center of town. After all, it is in them that we place our greatest hopes and for them that we fought all this time. Food distribution was made more complicated with the dwellings placed throughout the city, but the numbers of draconians living in Teyr made centralized food preparation untenable once everyone moved inside the walls. Four food distribution centers were erected, each capable of serving a full regiment of soldiers and an equal number of "civilian" draconians per day. Surprisingly, several restaurants have since opened. The first was opened by an enterprising bozak and his baaz friend. Together, they serve meat pies as only the Palanthans could make them. How they learned or who they learned the art from is unknown, as they consider it a trade secret and refuse to tell. Currently, they are two of the wealthiest draconians in all of Teyr.

Commander Kang insisted that regardless of profession, any young draconians would have to serve a minimum of five years in the military. The importance of instilling the young with the ethos of the draconian way of life was on most draconians' minds within the first few months of our arrival at Teyr. A special assembly of all draconians was held in the underground Hall of the Thane where Commander Kang told us of his plan. Everyone seemed very relieved with the solution.

The construction of the bastion in the center of the city was somewhat dreaded by most of the workers. General Maranta had built a bastion in the center of his fortress, and it proved to be a pedestal from which he wielded power. Commander Kang set many fears to rest when he insisted that the city's government and leadership would have its offices in the bastion, but no quarters would be allowed within. It was a place of work and a bastion of defense should the outer wall fall. It was by no means a palace, Commander Kang asserted. Underneath, the Hall of the Thane was cleaned out and designated as the meeting place for large groups. It would serve as our final battleground should the outer walls and the bastion fall. Fulkth, our Squadron Commander, personally designed some very ingenious defenses for the hall. It is hoped they will never be used, but they are functional should the need arise.

Commander Kang has talked of continuing the building of the underground city, but few take him at his word. Draconians are a surface-dwelling race. We enjoy the sunshine and the rain. In fact, our dragon blood ensures that we yearn for open space once in a while. Dwarves are built to live underground. Certainly it would be no home for a draconian. The commander insists, however, that some work should be done, so that in the case of a prolonged siege, the families could live below ground without the danger of combat in the streets above. Still, feelings are mixed on the subject It will remain to be seen if the commander moves forward with the project.

Investigation on the Affliction of Kender

Compiled by Ryndella, Master of Thorns

To Mina, Lord of the Night,

The following report was commissioned some time ago by Lord Targonne. Though unimportant to your current work for the One God, it is one that may yet prove useful in the future. A power that can affect an entire race is one worth investigating.

In the service of the One God,

Ryndella, Master of Thorns

Bertrem's Notes: This document was found in the city of Sanction on the corpse of a Knight of Neraka. My assistant has made footnotes to the text when the author has oversimplified. I find it highly interesting that the former leader of the Dark Knights commissioned an investigation into the problems of the kender nation. I am also intrigued that this author, presumably a Dark Knight, has such sympathy for the kender. After Targonne's death, we will now probably never know his true motivation.

The Origin of Kender

The kender go as far back as the Age of Dreams, if not earlier. With the absence of the Iconchronos scrolls and tomes of Astinus of Palanthas, the truth of the matter is truly impossible to confirm. Yet looking at the origin of kender is worthwhile in understanding how their basic nature might undergo such a fundamental change.

The remaining sources present several theories.

The Graygem of Gargath

While this story is known to half the children of Ansalon, this is worth noting because it was studied in detail by all apprenticing mages of High Sorcery before the Second Cataclysm. Usha Majere, "child of the Irda," presented her lost people's creation mythology, which matched the later parts of this tale (if not the beginning). Palin Majere, the master of the Order of White Robes before the Last Conclave, is known to have strongly believed this legend. Palin Majere's knowledge as nephew and heir to Raistlin Majere [While the archmage's nephew rather than his son, Palin was gifted with the Staff of Magius following his Test. Raistlin Majere was said to have counseled Palin on many important matters during the events of the Summer of Chaos.] as well as his actions during the Chaos War [It is also widely reported that Palin Majere spent some time with the incarnation of the god Reorx, who may have provided insight into the origin of gnomes, dwarves, and kender.] lend credence to his statements.

The story of the Graygem ties into the other diminutive races of Krynn—the gnomes and dwarves (as well as the degenerate gully dwarves). There is also speculation that these races might be manipulated through magic or cultural change as well.

The popular version of the origin of the Graygem tells that Hiddukel, god of greed, tricked Chislev, nature god, into approaching Reorx with the idea of forging the stone. Other sources, again corroborated by Palin Majere, indicate that it was Morgion, god of disease and decay, who influenced the Forge-god into infusing the very essence of Chaos into the Graygem. Reorx then set the stone in the heart of Lunitari—the now-absent red moon.

Reorx, god of the Forge, credited in many fables as the creator of the world, looked among the firstborn races of Krynn to find mortals who would work in his service and learn the great crafts through which they might build in their world. The elves were not suited, content as they were to live in their forests and watch the centuries drift by. The ogres, who were not industrious and preferred to live off of the labors of others, were also ignored by the forge-god. Humans were difficult to understand and had such varying personalities, goals, motivations, and dreams that at first Reorx was not at all convinced that any would be suitable to his service.

At last the god chose one-eighth of mankind to serve him. He filled their dreams with the craft he could teach them, and they built ships on the ocean, sailing toward the smoldering red star that for them flashed with the blows of the Forger's hammer. In some faraway land [This land is speculated to be far to the east, but with the absence of Astinus's original histories it is impossible to identify.], the chosen people of Reorx (called the Smiths in some texts) learned mighty crafts in the service of their god, and their devotion was pure. Human hearts will drift, however, and after several generations the chosen servants began to sin against their god.

Men who were raised to create and invent for the glory of Reorx began taking pride in their achievements and pursued their works for their own glory. Reorx, angered by the perversion of his dream, cursed these men. [Gnomes take exception to the idea that their entire racial background is a curse by their creator. Instead they believe that, over time, the god shaped them into the ideal tinkers and inventors as a reward for their dedicated work and service.] The race was forever changed, both in body and mind. Small in stature, large in intellect, and obsessed with technology in all its forms, the new race became known as gnomes.

The gnomes had already devoted many generations to their strange devices, and under the direction of their high priest they created an amazing invention. Accounts vary on the purpose of the device. Some claim it was a device for traveling through the Great Void, while others claim it would tunnel through the depths of the earth, but all agreed that the Great Invention was missing a primary source of power. Reorx, though forever hurt by his chosen people's mistakes, decided to grant the gnomes knowledge of the Graygem—the energy of Chaos being the perfect power source for whatever invention stood incomplete.

One gnome was inspired and created a mechanical ladder that extended itself. Blessed by Reorx, the device worked, and the gnome was able to climb to Lunitari itself and snatch the Graygem for his people. The power of Chaos could be contained, but it could not be controlled. The Graygem escaped its gnome captors and sailed across the sea.

As the Graygem sailed across Krynn, magical eddies of Chaos swept across the land. [There is some speculation among sorcerers that the magical energies of Chaos are the true "fuel" for their spells. This would explain why the practice of sorcery was unheard of for thousands of years (during the period in which the Graygem was trapped), yet re-emerged after the Chaos War—when the magical energies were permanently released from the Gem (and from Chaos himself).] The flora and fauna of the world were re-shaped and re-formed, the structured order of creation forever changed. Some of the new creatures died of their own deformities, while others thrived with altered bodies and innate magical powers.

The gnomes constructed ships of wildly varying design and set sail after their prize, their obsessive natures convincing them that its energies would power all of their greatest inventions. Reorx kept the Graygem in their dreams, and no matter which direction the gem fled, the gnomes sailed behind. Decades passed, the gem evading its pursuers.

Eventually the gem roamed into the realm of Gargath, a prince who was powerfully skilled in magic and was blessed by the god Zivilyn. With the foreknowledge granted him by his patron god, the wizard trapped the Graygem in a tower, so that its light would illuminate his entire castle.

Two armies of gnomes (who had been following the gem for generations) joined forces to claim their prize, one faction convinced the Graygem represented limitless wealth, another curious about the gem and its workings. They demanded the gem from Lord Gargath, who refused. The War of the Graygem ensued.

The gnomes had a comical series of failed inventions and terrible casualties, but their race's endless optimism refused to let them admit defeat against Gargath's superior forces. Their final invention managed to break through Gargath's outer wall (though it was by accident rather than design). The gnomes flooded the courtyard, steam-powered weapons of war in hand. At that moment, the gray light of the gem suddenly flooded the area shining somehow brighter than the sun.

In this moment, the race of kender was born, as were the dwarves. The gnomes greedy for the wealth the gem offered became stout and their greed magnified, becoming the dwarves of Krynn. The gnomes curious about the gem became slim, child-like, and their traits exaggerated. This group became the first kender.

Elvish Origin

Some time after the War of the Lance, when the kender Tasslehoff Burrfoot became a hero in popular tales, scholars in Palanthas began presenting an alternate theory to explain the origin of kender.

The passage of the Graygem is a documented fact, one confirmed by the legends and histories of many nations. The changes to the land, the beasts, and the plants of Krynn were so profound that no race or culture survived without some reference to it in history or folklore. The scholars believe that the passage of the Graygem is true, however they discount the theory that kender are in any way related to the gnomes or dwarves.

Gnomes and dwarves, the theory tells, are industrious races driven to work hard throughout their lives. They are physically stout and the men grow beards. Kender have short attention spans, rarely perform any sort of labor, and have the pointed ears of elves.

These scholars were quick to point out that kender, like elves, love nature and often dwell in woodland settings. The theory also calls attention to the first historically recorded kender: Balif, close friend of Silvanos. [Silvanos was founder of the elven nation of Silvanesti and considered by many to be the father of the civilized world.] Some even go so far as to claim that Balif was a Silvanesti elf, one who founded the (kender) nation of Balifor.

Upon consideration of the evidence, it appears far more likely that the version presented in the Graygem of Gargath legend is the most accurate. While kender possess a few physical similarities with the elves, in mind and temperament they are far more like gnomes and dwarves—both races that are given to manic behavior and various obsessions. Elves, by contrast, are a race that live by moderation. A kender's need to acquire exciting objects is matched by a dwarfs need to forge metal or a gnome's desire to invent. These facts, combined with the lack of historical support, render this theory an interesting scholarly exercise but little more.

The elf-origin theory was politely entertained for some time after the War of the Lance but has since become a virtually dead subject for serious scholarly circles. The events of the Chaos War made much of the Graygem story all too real to the people having to survive in this new age. The Aesthetics of the Library of Palanthas have expunged all passages presenting this theory, as they directly contradict the lost histories of Astinus.

Kender Creation Myth

Any attempt to isolate one version of the creation myth from a kender community is an exercise in futility. Non-afflicted kender are difficult to find (at least when one is actually seeking them out), and written sources confirm that creation stories vary from community to community (indeed, kender to kender).

What is genuinely accepted among kender is that they were created by the god Reorx, who is dwarflike in appearance, an inventor like the gnomes, and "borrows" things from others as kender are known to do. One version of the story has Reorx "borrowing" various items from the other gods and creating the world of Krynn and all its people.

Kender are generally entertained by all of the various creation myths (as long as the stories stay exciting and do not last too long). Afflicted kender have no interest in such tales and do not seem to appreciate being asked about them. An attempt to interview one such kender [According to margin-notes on the original document, the kender's name was Kriskel Leatherknot, who rejected his kender name in favor of "Kris."] earned the author only an icy glare. It seems that most afflicted kender do not speak of the gods, or those who do spit on the ground and only speak the name of the departed gods as a curse.

"True Kender"

There is a danger in applying over-generalizations to a people, even small folk such as the kender. Stereotypes can lead to underestimation, and history has proven that it is not wise to underestimate a kender. Even still, there are certain characteristics that all "true" kender seem to possess in common.

Kender are inherently curious by nature. A closed door begs to be opened, a mystery demands to be solved, and an interesting item screams for closer inspection—to the kender mind, at any rate. While a human or dwarfs eye might be drawn to the most valuable object on the table, a kender will almost always be attracted to the prettiest or most intricate. A worthless colored rock seems infinitely more valuable in the kender world than a stack of steel coins. Curiosity leads kender to pry into other people's affairs. While this isn't a problem in a kender community, it certainly causes problems when a kender ventures out into the world—something virtually all kender do at some point in their lives, when they are struck with wanderlust. Some intense urge draws them down the road to unexplored places.

Coupled with their natural curiosity is the kender lack of fear. Kender seem immune to most fear—be it physical danger, imagined danger, or magically induced terror. Kender children are not scared of the bogeyman; they team up to search the dark woods for it. Kender can be surprised and startled, but it does not actually scare them—meaning their fast reflexes often come into play to deal with whatever danger presents itself. It is a mistake to assume that a kender's lack of fear means he will not react appropriately to danger. Adventuring kender learn self-preservation techniques (born out of experience, rather than fear). Kender are also reluctant to let their own personality traits endanger their companions. There do seem to be extraordinary instances in which kender have known the sensation of fear, but these seem to be incredible circumstances in which most kender do not survive to report their feelings. The presence of a death knight has been known to rattle a kender, and the Shoikan Grove of Palanthas once frightened them away before the disappearance of the Tower of High Sorcery. [In modern times the grove does little more than unsettle visitors, more from the memory of its previous existence as a home for the undead rather than lingering magical powers.]

The "true" kender of Ansalon all possess a youthful exuberance, an energy level that most humans leave behind at age nine yet kender manage to keep for life. Most kender go through their entire lives with high energy and childlike innocence. Even the death of close friends or tragic events only age them and sadden them slightly, and even the most "grown up" of the true kender retain their irrepressible personality after they have witnessed events that would age a human a lifetime.

Kender seem to have the most amazing ability to bother others. They are keen observers and learn quickly how to get under another's skin. Somehow each kender also gains the gift of taunting. While any school-age bully can scream crude insults at someone, kender have an instinctive gift for truly imaginative insults—infuriating remarks that leave an opponent wide-eyed and furious. A few well-placed kender taunts can incite riots or bring a ninety-year-old former cleric of Mishakal into a frothing rage.

Perhaps the best-known and least tolerated habit of true kender is their habit of "handling" the belongings of others. Any object that strikes a kender's fancy is bound to end up in his hands (or one of his pouches). Though considered a races of thieves by others, kender truly do not seem to remember acquiring the objects and seem to genuinely believe the myriad excuses [These include "I think I found it lying around," "It's a good thing I found this! You should keep better track of your belongings," or "Now how did that get in there?"] they offered for how a pilfered item ended up in the kender's possession.

History of the "Afflicted" Kender

If standard kender should not be stereotyped, it is doubly so with the afflicted kender. These are a wounded people, and each individual reacts to his or her affliction in a different way.

The great red dragon Malystryx appeared on Ansalon only two years after the Chaos War. [385 AC by the common reckoning, or the year 2 SC for those who insist on the new system sponsored by the Legion of Steel.] The beast wasted no time in causing devastation, laying claim to the region of Kendermore. The dragon's devastation was absolute, transforming the region into a volcanic desolation. Ogre attacks and the direct assault of the great wyrm herself brought doom upon Kendermore. Only through the actions of a barbarian chief and his daughters [This was, of course, Hero of the Lance Riverwind and his twin daughters Brightdawn and Moonsong. Neither Riverwind nor Brightdawn survived their quest, though Moonsong saved many kender lives and became a hero—though forever scarred by the experience.] were enough kender saved to prevent the extinction of the eastern kender population of Ansalon.

For the first time, kender knew fear as they watched their loved ones die, their villages burn, and the immense dragon descend upon their homeland with magic and dragonfire. While many fought bravely and cleverly against the ogres that served the wyrm, the defenders were wiped out. Only those who fled lived to tell the tale.

Historians and tale-spinners have called the next year [The year 386 AC (or 3 SC).] "The Render Flight." It was the year in which the scarred survivors of Kendermore crossed Ansalon to join their kindred far to the west in Hylo. It was a terrible journey in which many more kender lives were lost, families were forever divided, and they found no welcome anywhere.

The former population of Kendermore finally settled in Hylo, though scattered groups settled wherever they could, surviving but not thriving. During these next years, as their lives returned as close to normal as possible, the people of Ansalon noted a drastic change in the demeanor of many kender. A sub-culture had formed of kender who dressed, talked, and acted differently than their brethren.

Nature of the Affliction

Afflicted kender can often be identified simply by their manner of dress. "True" kender typically dress in bright and garish colors, always happy to stand out in a crowd. Afflicted kender have taken to wearing dark or earthen tones, often shifting the color of their clothes to match whatever environment they expect. They almost instinctively wish to blend in to the background and hide.

Before the Summer of Chaos a kender was also easily identified by his ridiculous number of pouches, each bulging with trinkets, toys, and knickknacks. The afflicted kender seem to prefer to travel light, with only the bare necessities. Afflicted kender do not find the simple joy in the act of collecting. They care little for the small comforts that please ordinary kender, hut seem concerned only with basic survival.

In demeanor, afflicted kender seem even further removed from their ever-smiling kin. A true kender's eyes gleam with anticipation at the promise of a new day, even when they awake (as they often do) in the local jail cell. Most kender spend their days laughing, singing trail songs, and enjoying simple pleasures as only the truly innocent can. If kender are children, then afflicted kender are bitter adults. Their mouths do not naturally form smiles, and indeed they often furrow their brows when told humorous jokes. They do not waste their time in songs or games, instead quietly pursuing their joyless labors. Afflicted kender seem to endure life rather than live it, and those who pass away do so with no hope for a better life afterward.

Afflicted kender have lost none of the grace and agility their race is famous for, though they do not carelessly "handle" the property of others. Not many afflicted kender feel a compulsion to steal, and those who do often do so for purely pragmatic reasons. There are rare afflicted kender who have succumbed to greed and use their talents for their own profit or in service to local thieves' guilds. Even more rare are the afflicted kender who seem to embrace lives of violence, renting themselves out as mercenaries or assassins. While not common, the latter are extraordinarily dangerous, for kender are strong, quick, and agile—often quite capable of striking a killing blow before the victim has any idea that he is being attacked. These tragic figures have lost their consciences and are capable of murdering without a twinge of guilt.

If true kender never know fear, afflicted kender always know it. They seem to spend their lives afraid, constantly looking over their shoulders as if being pursued. Many do not sleep well, either tossing and turning throughout the night or haunted by violent nightmares. Most afflicted kender respond to violence or dangerous situations by running and hiding, feeling no more shame than a gully dwarf. [Gully dwarves have the best-honed survival instincts of any race on the surface of Krynn. Afflicted kender seem to pick up many of the same skills (if not the same habits of hygiene and diet).] While most prefer not to fight, they always seem to have the means to defend themselves. The hoopaks and sithaks of their race have been replaced by sharpened swords and jagged knives. Some choose to hide tiny weapons in their clothes or boots in order to surprise an attacker. [Afflicted kender females are known to hide straight-pins in their clothes, which can be jabbed into the eyes of an attacker. The goal is simply to get far enough away to run and hide.]

Possible Origins of the Affliction

There are several theories about the true nature of the curse on the kender race (or indeed whether it is a curse at all). While there is no definitive proof (without interviewing the dragon Malystryx), there is evidence that will eventually prove the truth of this matter.

Cultural Change

Whether one accepts this theory or not as the root of the "curse" upon the kender, one cannot deny the powerful impact the destruction of Kendermore and the year-long Kender Flight had on the diminutive race. The kender who actually saw the great red dragon burning their homeland murdering countless kinsmen are forever changed by the event.

This theory simply states that the changes in the afflicted kender are simply cultural, brought about by the great catastrophe and attempted genocide brought by the great wyrm. The suffering the people underwent had multiple stages:

Dragonfear: These kender encountered a dragon so immense and powerful that its dragonfear overcame their natural resistance. In a short time, a huge group of kender who had never known the emotion of fear were all too aware of it.

Loss of Life: The Kendermore people were butchered, both by the ogres who served the dragon and the dragon herself. Not a single kender escaped the region without having lost a loved relative or friend. The survivors spent a great deal of time clinging to hope that their loved ones would miraculously survive and catch up to them, but this hope only prolonged their pain.

Loss of Home: While a people prone to wandering during their youth, these kender had a strong emotional connection to their homeland. Not only was their community destroyed but the sense of community that came with it. The old routines from their lives were gone, never to be restored. The familiar places which were not only known, but part of the shared heritage of their people were destroyed forever. Their flight was so quick they were not able to bring any piece of their home with them.

Exodus and Discrimination: The kender who escaped the terrible destruction of Malystryx quickly found there was no succor in human lands. While one kender was a tolerated nuisance, the huge groups traveling to Hylo were welcome nowhere. Doors were slammed in their faces, pleas for aid went unanswered, and the only welcome they received were polite requests to leave the area.

This theory needs no supernatural explanation for the great change in kender demeanor; it simply states that it is a function of the incredible suffering of the kender people. Those who survive have been scarred by their shared experiences.

That the children of afflicted kender also seem to suffer this malady is a testament that this cultural change is either permanent or at the very least long lasting. The proponents of this theory believe it will take many generations before the bloodline of Kendermore is free of its affliction. Indeed, many believe the healing necessary to "cure" these kender is impossible without the return of the gods.

The Veil Lifted

Proposed by perhaps the greatest skeptics among us, this theory is that the cheerful, optimistic nature of kender was simply a cultural myth used to fool the other races of the world. While not commonly accepted, it has been the subject of many barside debates and brought up by anti-kenderites throughout Ansalon.

Kender are simply a race of accomplished liars and thieves, say the advocates of this theory. When a kender steals a woman's diamond-crested wedding ring, then tells her, "It fell into my pouch!" or "You must have dropped it," only a fool would believe him. These theorists believe that traditional kender have been perpetuating the greatest cultural hoodwink in the history of Krynn—allowing the world to think of them as naughty children while they cheerfully rob everyone blind.

Every kender travels with a set of lockpicks, and they all learn from childhood how to loosen the drawstrings of a tied purse. They move with natural stealth and possess racial kleptomania. To think they steal out of "distracted curiosity" is foolish indeed! (The theorists are quick to explain that kender who pass up wealth for "interesting" objects are simply doing so to keep up pretenses.)

Afflicted kender are, by extension of this belief, simply kender who were punished for the terrible sins of their race. The smug cheerfulness was wiped of their faces just as Kendermore was wiped off the map. Now there is a large group of kender who do not wish to pretend anymore. Some have learned to be decent, hardworking folk, while others have embraced their natural trades of thief and assassin without the mask of hypocrisy.

It should be noted that this belief is not widespread, as the soft-hearted folk of Ansalon have a difficult time hating kender (even as they lock their valuables away when one comes to town). There is also a great sense of pity for the suffering of the kender nation, and to heap insult to their great injury just is too much for most people.

The Dragon's Curse

Some individuals who have studied the affliction of kender using the powers of sorcery and mysticism have come up with a third possible answer to the affliction riddle: the kender of Goodlund are cursed.

Several scholars, trained at the Academy of Sorcery in Solace [The Academy of Sorcery was built by Palin Majere in the year 412 AC (or 29 SC) and served as one of the most important schools of its kind. The Academy was destroyed by the Dark Knights in the year 417 AC (or 34 SC).], postulate the following:

The races of Reorx (dwarves, gnomes, and kender), twice-altered from their original stock, have a profound spiritual connection to their homelands. The dwarves of Thorbardin almost never leave, and even their "rebellious" cousins—the hill dwarves—always return to where the Kharolis mountain range is in sight. Most gnomes spend their entire lives within the catacombs of Mount Nevermind. And kender, though they are prone to wander in their youth, almost always return home (either to Hylo or Kendermore). Even those rare individuals who choose to live elsewhere seem to return home at least once in their lifetimes, renewing their connection to the land that sustains their spirit.

The basic innocence of kender, one that has survived two Cataclysms, countless wars, and immeasurable jailtime, is sustained by their internal spiritual link to their homeland. The kender of Goodlund were the first established by Balif ages before the Cataclysm. Legends say that the kender of Hylo traveled there purely by accident, and it is unknown exactly what period of adjustment they underwent before they became bonded with their new land.

The great red dragon Malystryx did more than kill thousands of kender and changed more about Goodlund than its topography; she somehow tainted the land itself. By whatever magics the great wyrm has at her disposal, she poisoned the land—and in doing so, cursed the thousands of kender who still are spiritually connected to it. If Malys were slain and the source of the taint both discovered and removed, perhaps the afflicted kender could be cured.

This theory is based upon a number of assumptions but is certainly interesting nonetheless. It explains why the children of afflicted kender seem to share the dour demeanor of their parents, and there are rumors of Hyloborn kender who lived in Kendermore during the time of Malys's attack, kender who underwent the Kender Flight who are not afflicted.

One version of this story involves "the ruins," an ancient structure often attributed to be one of the ancient Towers of High Sorcery. These theorists state that Malystryx raised the highest mountain (the "Peak of Malys") with the ruined Tower at the very top. She tainted the magic of the Tower, which is akin to poisoning a village well, tainting the surrounding groundwater. Likewise she has used the highly magical Tower as a means of funneling her magical power.

If this is the point of Malys's change to the surrounding land, then it might be possible to remove the ruined Tower like a splinter from a child's finger (a stretched analogy, to be sure, but possibly accurate). Perhaps the land would heal, just as the kender would then be free of their curse.

This theory is not widely accepted, even by scholars. Only those with extensive magical training seem inclined to believe this theory, and then one guesses that only the presence of magic in the story interests them at all—not the plight of the afflicted kender. Realists (or skeptics, depending on the listener's perspective) say it is easy to blame magic for a problem when the truth is that the kender nation suffered a catastrophe from which no spell or ruined magical tower can rescue it.

Conclusions

There are no simple answers about the affliction of the kender. If the kender themselves understand the nature of their race's change, they are not forthcoming. "True" kender seem vaguely sad and confused over the terrible changes to their cousins, while afflicted kender are sullen and silent about the issue. It is clearly something they do not wish to discuss with others.

Of the three prevalent theories, only the second—the deception of the kender—can be easily dismissed. The history of kender is too well established for this to be the truth. If a truth-spell is cast upon a kender who "acquired" an object, he will honestly believe the answer he gives is the truth. Mentalism is not able to pick up any guile or deception on the part of the traditional kender, while it is able to sense the doubt, fear, and pain of the afflicted kender.

The first theory, the cultural change due to the Kender Flight and the suffering of their race, is certainly true—at least in part. Even if other explanations are accepted, one cannot deny the impact the events of the early years after the Chaos War had on the small race. If this is ultimately the truth, then perhaps the kender's affliction will sort itself out within a few generations.

The final theory, the magical explanation, rests on shaky presumptions but is the only one to present a possible solution. It is doubtful that Malystryx cares one whit about the effect her magic has on the kender nation. Rather she is concerned for making an isolated domain from which she can rule. While the great wyrm lives, there is little possibility of investigating this theory beyond idle speculation and absolutely no opportunity to act on it.

With no ability to prove anything one way or another, the author is inclined to believe the first theory but hold out hope that the last could be partially true. If the afflicted kender are cursed, then there may be hope yet that they will have reason one day to smile again and carry pouches instead of blades.

Search for the Shadowpeople

My Good Friend Bertrem,

This is a copy of the report I made after completion of the search for the Shadowpeople of Sanction. Lutran the Elder, chief of the city council, had asked me, after the final battles, to investigate the rumor of such creatures. Apparently, he has found reference to a race of creatures living below the city, much to his and the court's astonishment. It seems totally unlikely that there could be, or ever has been, a race of intelligent peoples living beneath Sanction. I should have said "seemed." I now know a lot more than I did back then.

As the lead archaeologist at the Neraka Temple site, I can see why Lutran might have wanted my opinion. It is strange to think that the two sites are actually causally linked, but I believe now that such is the case. I am getting ahead of myself. First, read the report and then I'll tell you my news about the digs at Neraka

To Lutran the Elder,

I bid you good day, sir. As per your request, I have taken the month of Fleurgreen and conducted a survey of the intriguing catacombs your men have discovered. I believe now that they are the home of a most ancient race. Believe it or not, the tunnels and catacombs under your fine city have been home to what I believe are the fabled "shadowpeople." They are no mere children's story anymore.

We first entered the corridors and attempted to map what we could in the time allotted. It became very apparent that we would not have time. The corridors and chambers carry on and branch over a huge area. Still, we think we were able to penetrate far enough into the center of the complex to find some of the major chambers. Best of all, we found a burial chamber with hundreds of the creatures who once lived there.

To first answer the last question of your instructions, there are no living beings down there now, save the vermin that infest any dank, underground cavern. You are under no threat of attack. Only their dead remain. As to where the living shadowpeople went, I cannot say. They are not present. Whether they all died or the living somehow moved away, we simply do not know.

The shadowpeople could be described as slim apes. They actually resemble man-sized bat creatures with an apelike snout. They have a thin gliding membrane that attaches to the underside of their arms and their sides. They have large, hairy heads with flattened, upturned noses, wide flaring ears, and large eyes. Their mouths contain upper and lower fangs, marking them as a meat-eating species. Shadowpeople have claws on both their hands and feet, and their bodies are covered in a smooth fur.

There is no evidence of shadowpeople wearing clothing, except for hooded robes. These were no doubt used when the weather kept the underground passages cold, but one of my assistants suggests that they could have been used if the shadowperson wanted to move aboveground and remain hidden.

If these carcasses are, in fact, the shadowpeople, then perhaps much of what we know of myth may apply. They are said to have had no language, just grunts and chirps. Instead, they communicated via some sort of mind reading and transmission of thought. I can see no physical evidence from these carcasses, hut the mouth does not seem to he constructed to be able to use our manner of speech. That being said, nor are draconians, and they seem to communicate their foul words just fine.

From the evidence I found, it is clear that these shadowpeople have lived here for a very long time. In fact, I am beginning to suspect that their culture here actually predates the founding of the city of Sanction. There are bodies here that seem to date from the time of Huma and perhaps even before. I have no way of knowing for sure. There is some anecdotal evidence that the shadowpeople interacted with the humans of Sanction from time to time, but they picked their interactions very carefully. If the assertion that they could both read minds and transmit thoughts is true, they could have the luxury of being quite discerning in who they communicated with. Perhaps they even had a way of "removing" memories of interactions with the shadowpeople. This, of course, is completely speculation, and no evidence in these catacombs suggest any of this.

We haven't seen any gold, silver, jewels, or gems in the burial chamber at all. At first, I just chalked that up to grave robbers. No matter how hidden a burial chamber, there is always someone there before you. It is what my father said, and to this day, it has been true. True, that is, until this site. We found the stone in front of the chamber completely intact, and no other desecration of bodies has been found. We have found many pieces of art, carvings, pottery with brightly painted images, tapestries, and even stone figurines dating back before the First Dragon War, unless they are copies. Examples of this sort of figurine exist in several volumes of Art in Palanthas in the Library of Palanthas. Librarian Bertrem had shown these to me on my visit some ten years ago. He knew of my interest in such matters. Now, to hold one of these figurines is like touching the hand of an ancient being. I can almost feel the handshake back through the ages. It is a remarkable experience.

A curious thing happened when we moved one of the bodies up from the burial chamber to a waiting cart above. I had wanted to take the specimen back to my laboratory to study it more closely. It looked to have been a male who had died no more than ten years ago. Considering that I estimate that the bodies in this chamber may date as far back as a millennium or more, he was quite a find. Once we cleared the tunnel exit and entered into sunlight, we noticed that the body began to shimmer slightly. The skin began to sweat or secrete an oily substance. We loaded the body onto the wagon and were no more than two city blocks on our way when we noticed smoke coming from the wagon. We rushed back to find the body, now blackened, beginning to char. We hurried on to my laboratory and entered in. Removing the body from the sun stopped the process. I ordered the body be taken to the cellar storeroom where there would be no danger of further sun damage. I would do my work there.

Now, after a full examination, I am forced to conclude that the shadowpeople cannot stand to be in direct sunlight. In fact, to do so would have caused excruciating pain. We have all heard the stories of vampires who drink the blood of their victims and hang upside down to sleep. They, too, find sunlight deadly. I do not feel that this is the same. First, vampires are silly children's concoctions. Second, the skin of the corpse did not actually burn, but simply darkened. It looks as if the oily substance may have burned, causing the darkening, but the skin is intact. No further damage occurred. Had the body been left in the sunlight, it would have completely destroyed itself, but any conscious creature would have been more than capable of moving around, even for periods up to half an hour before being forced to seek shade and perhaps their own form of medical attention. There is no evidence to suggest that they once had clerics as we do, but even simple bandaging would have aided all but the most serious of cases.

What we think are the living areas of the catacombs suggest several interesting facts about these creatures. The shadowpeople are organized in small, close-knit families. They have hunter/gatherer members, care givers and children raisers, and they have warriors. This final class of shadowpeople surprised us the most. Perhaps this class came about during the time that Sanction was controlled by the forces of the Dark Knights. The shadowpeople seem to be loving, caring, and honest people. Thus, they would find the draconians and evil humans very much a threat. I doubt that the War of the Lance was the first time they had to fight, and it seems that they had some training to prepare for battle. It is unclear as to whether the shadowpeople fought as individuals or used some form of unit attack and defense. Nothing in our findings so far suggests the facts either way.

There is a curious chamber, apart from all the others, that looks to have been some sort of holy place. It would seem that they worshiped here, or communed with the gods. There is an artistic rendering of a large gathering of these apelike creatures, all kneeling in this room, all oriented toward one shadowperson in the center of the room. This shadowperson, in the drawing, is glowing. One of the other shadowpeople is standing among his kneeling kin and seems to be asking a question or otherwise communicating with the shadowperson in the center. The legends say that the shadowpeople could summon the "Ancient One," the embodiment of the society of shadowpeople, using their mind communication skills. Perhaps they were all able to share one mind and become a homogeneous community in a single mind. If true—and I admit that I am trying to fit legend with the very little evidence that I have found—then we may now know how the shadowpeople were able to pass on vital knowledge to further generations and how the race as a whole maintained its cultural heritage and legacy. There were no books found and no evidence of any written communication (save the art that we've found), so they must have had some method of mass communication and communicating across the barriers of time. They were certainly not mind readers of the dead. I dare to say that such a thing is patently not possible. Thus, it is my belief that this ritual of the "Ancient One"—which I believe is the subject of the art piece on the wall—is the method by which the culture's knowledge was carried forward. I truly hope that the shadowpeople are not lost to time. Such a method of passing on knowledge would maintain all the experiences of those right back to the dawn of their civilization. What stories they must have!

The tunnel complex is bounded in the northwest by the Temple of Huerzyd, the south by the Temple of Duerghast, and to the northeast by the Temple of Luerkhisis. What I do not understand is why the complex is bounded by these above-ground temples. Perhaps, if my theory is true that the shadowpeople predate the founding of Sanction and thus the temples, then the temple sites were simply also the best entry sites to the tunnels below. I admit I am guessing. We had only a month to try to understand an entire race of people. I am sure much of what I have learned will not stand the test of time and further research. I am not aware of any documents describing why the builders of the ancient temples of Huerzyd, Duerghast, and Luerkhisis put them where they did. There may have been astrological alignments, or perhaps it was the only flat ground available before we learned the art of moving large masses of dirt and rock. If I become aware of such a document, I can test several of my theories as to the placement of the tunnels.

There are hundreds of corridors with just as many chambers and grottos. The stone digging seems to have been done with simple pick and shovel. There are tool marks on the walls and floor, but no surface was cleaned to a smooth grade. We find it constantly difficult to walk, especially in the many damp areas. These are no dwarf miners. In looking at their bodies, though, I have formed a theory. It is more probable that the shadowpeople used their small winglike flaps to glide down these wide stone corridors. Their feet hit the ground only long enough to push off again and hurtle farther down their path. The corridors were more like airways to allow for gliding than they were walkways. We have seen no evidence that the shadowpeople used any form of wheeled transport, and there is certainly no way that wheeled transport would have survived for long on these corridor floors without shaking apart.

Many of the caverns were living areas for entire family groups of thirty to fifty individuals. The caverns all share certain similarities. For example, all have a fire pit in the center, and along the outer walls opposite the entrance is matted bedding. There is some stone furniture, such as tables, benches, and in several chambers a large stone chair. All circle the fire pit. It seems that the shadowpeople felt that the fire was the center of their family's survival, and they gave it much attention. These fire pits seem to have ashes that date many hundreds of years hack. The charcoal layers in the pits go down for many hundreds of layers. We have no way of knowing how far hack their history here goes. I long for the old days when we had access to wizards of High Sorcery who could look hack through the veils of time. That is all lost to us now.

One chamber is of great interest to us. We call it the armory, and it certainly seems to have been just that. We have found remnants of wooden shields and even iron and steel weapons. There is an anvil and some hammers here, too, and they are of human creation. Even the blacksmith's mark remains on both the tools and the anvil. Still, the shadowpeople must have used this equipment for something. We believe it was used to take stolen items from the human society above and fashion them into effective fighting items.

One item found is a dagger that has been modified with barbs. The gruesome weapon is broken, with only the hilt and half the blade remaining. Still, it looks to be a formidable weapon. The only way to remove the weapon once inserted into an enemy would be to rip it out with extreme strength. I can see no enemy surviving such a wound if made to the central torso. It is a ghastly weapon.

Another is a chain with blades fashioned all down the sides. A cleared section of the chain has leather straps for holding it. The chain is broken and rusted, but the concept is clear. If swung above the head, it would easily gain enough speed to penetrate even plate armor—not the plate as such, but the blades would seek out and snag in the joints. Once snagged, the pressure of the swing would give the blade enough force to seek out the flesh beneath. One of my assistants suggested that since these creatures could fly, the weapon may have also been used by holding one end in each hand, and flying over the intended victim. The blades on the chain would snag under the victim's chin, impaling the head. It is clear that the shadowpeople do not have any conventional notion of mercy in combat. Their weapons maybe crude, but they look to me, albeit a very unmartial scholar, to be brutal devices.

Finally, we found several examples of a long-poled hook. It looks to have been used as both a pinning and a cutting weapon. If an enemy were pinned with such an implement, the victim would be easy prey for any other shadowpeople. Perhaps they worked in teams, with one using the long-poled hook and another one of the aforementioned weapons. Such a combination would have ensured that anyone who ventured down into the shadowpeople's caverns and corridors would suffer a horrible fate. It certainly fits what we know of them.

Food seems to have been a limiting factor in the population of the shadowpeople. Their claws and fangs suggest that they were meat-eaters, but there are no especially large underground dwellers to be found down here. There are no telltale signs of carrion-crawlers or giant slugs, so they must have simply existed on the rodents and insects common to underground passages. We have found many normal slugs, rats, mice, snakes, lizards and even several species of toad. At first I concluded that their food supply ran out, and that is why the shadowpeople left, but there seem to be plenty of vermin down here. Still, the population must not have grown over two thousand individuals. It is difficult to say what the life span of the shadowpeople is, but my guess would be it is similar to that of a human.

The final chamber of import in our limited survey of the catacombs is what we call the Chamber of Mathematics. My assistant came up with the name in sheer frustration over what else to call it. The room is larger than all but the burial chamber. It has benches carved from stone scattered all around the room—all near the walls. The chamber is short, with the ceiling only six feet off the floor, but the walls are the most intriguing part. They are covered all the way around the chamber with some form of symbology. It is not writing, but more like pictographic imagery. There are symbols and drawings of shadowpeople bodies, with several of the internal organs drawn out. I cannot read or understand any of the drawings, but if I were to guess, it would have something to do with their mental powers of communication. Perhaps this was a learning center to teach the young in the ways of mental powers. I have no way of knowing. There is a single panel that suggests to me this theory. It shows two stick-figures with hundreds of symbols drawn around each one. Lines and arrows point to and from the body of one to the other, but none of the lines actually end in a point in the other figure. The only line that does is one that comes from the inside of the head of the first figure and ends in an arrow point inside the head of the other. I am sure there are a thousand ways to interpret this diagram, but it was the first theory that came to mind, and so far no other theory seems to fit as well.

Forgive my ramblings, my Lord Lutran, but I do not wish to hold even my own speculation back, for I understand the necessity of understanding whether there is a threat below your city. Thankfully, I can say I do not think there is. I do not know where the shadowpeople have gone or whether they will ever return. There is comfort in that the only three entrances we have found, so far, are in the three great temples above. If there are others, they are very well hidden.

Your most humble servant,

Grash Mordain the Scientist.

As you can see, my dear friend Bertrem, we were not given nearly enough time in the chambers to gain even a working understanding of the shadowpeople. I would be most interested if you were to learn of other sightings or even rumors of unexplained events that sound familiar from this treatise. It would be the culmination of a life's work to meet the people who could communicate with thought alone. I do not believe they are extinct. I do not know, however, where they went. Who knows? Perhaps they can even move vast distances with the power of their mind. I stray into the realm of fantasy, but secretly, I still wonder.

I close with a wish for your health.

I remain,

Grash Mordain.

The Urkhan

The following is an excerpt from a much larger manuscript that arrived at the Library, addressed to Bertrem. The author is listed as "Rhian of Heweton," the self-proclaimed Chronicler of the Dwarves. The manuscript is huge and gives many more details than most would want to know about the mountain dwarves and their day-to-day lives. I did think, however, that the section about the urkhan worms would be of interest to many, particularly after the important role they played in the evacuation (and destruction) of the city of Qualinost during the War of Souls.

Bertrem

I had never seen the urkhan before, nor had I ever heard of them before the events described herein. My travels were to take me within sight of the Kharolis Mountains, but certainly not to Thorbardin (or any other dwarven kingdom, for that matter). Yet fate sometimes calls to us in strange ways, and I was destined to be a human chronicler of the dwarves.

Some of you may recall my tale of just how I fell down the hole into the dwarven tunnels. Since that time I have collected the stories of many dwarves, from the noble Hylar to the mysterious Daergar, from the deep halls of Thorbardin to the rolling hills of the Neidar.

In all of these times, I have marveled at the amazing speed at which the mountain dwarves were able to carve tunnels through solid rock. Even after many investigations of dwarven construction, I did not understand the truth about their remarkable construction techniques. I, like many others, always assumed that dwarves battered the stone walls with hammers and picks, using strength, stamina, and mastery of stone to cut their way through the raw earth.

The first time I spoke of this to several dwarf friends (over a round of dwarf spirits), they roared in laughter.

"Lad," said Rolg, wiping away a laugh-induced tear into his beard, "we have tunneled beneath the earth, against solid granite, from the halls of Thorbardin to the fortress of Pax Tharkas. If we used only picks and hammers we would still be building those tunnels!"

His fellows nodded in agreement, their beards not successful in disguising their grins.

The sight of my puzzled expression sent the dwarves into another paean of laughter, pounding the stone table with their fists.

"It's the urkhan, lad!"

Understand that I have spent many years in and around dwarves, so I knew something of the creature he spoke of. "The tractor worms?"

"Of course! You've seen them in the mining tunnels?"

I nodded but was still confused. At great expense, I had paid a monk to copy An Ansalonian Bestiary by Caramon Majere and Bertrem of Palanthas.

"I thought the tractor worms were simply beasts of burden. I've seen them hauling carts filled with rocks and ore—"

"Now you don't go believin’ everything you read, do you? And don't call ’em ‘tractor worms.’ It makes me sick to my stomach! They are the most important animals we have."

The other dwarves obviously believed this was a sentiment worth drinking to, as they tilted their heads back and drained their mugs. One lurched to his feet and began gathering the empty mugs for refills.

I had been trying to keep up with the dwarves, and my head was spinning. "Rolg, I have roamed the halls and tunnels and seen dwarves chipping at the walls. Now you're telling me it's a giant worm that does all of the real work?"

I attempted to make an expression of skepticism, but in my inebriated state I must have gotten it wrong. My drinking companions snickered. I ignored them and continued.

"Just what makes these things so damn important?"

The stone wall behind Rolg seemed to be shifting, making it extremely hard to concentrate on what I was saying. My mug, now refilled, was placed back in front of me.

Rolg laughed. "You're lookin’ at me now, aren't you lad? Haven't you seen what's lighting this room?"

I looked at the strange lanterns that hung strategically around the room. I had always assumed these were mundane lanterns, fueled by oil. At Rolg's gesture, I stood and walked over to examine the lamp. The lamp was not a lamp, but rather an iron cage.

"Rolg?" I asked. "Is it the spirits, or am I looking at some kind of glowing grub?" Even as I rubbed my eyes, the image did not disappear. It appeared to be the large larvae of some insect, glowing as bright as any oil lamp.

"Aye, lad. These are the children of the urkhan!"

He gestured with pride at the iron cages that kept the room brightly lit, only flickering when the larvae twitched or crawled about their cage.

Rolg continued. "When they grow, they darken. That's when we know they are ready to feed!"

"And they eat… rock?"

He nodded enthusiastically. Though my speech was beginning to slur, I decided to drink the next round along with the dwarves. The lights and colors of the room began to swirl in my vision, and I struggled to focus on Rolg's words.

"Aye, they eat rocks. But in a moment, lad, you'll be eating the stone floor!" I could hear the dwarves roaring with laughter, but it seemed to come from a great distance.

"Ahm fine," I slurred. I felt my legs weaken, and then everything went black.

My friend Rolg was kind enough to visit my room (kindly provided by the dwarven thane as his guest) the next morning. Though my head throbbed and my stomach churned, I was determined to learn more about the tractor worms, or "urkhan" in the language of Thorbardin.

I dressed (with some assistance) and sipped cold mountain water to clear my head and renew my spirits. By mid-morning, I was feeling well enough to learn all I could about the urkhan.

"There's one dwarf in these halls who can tell you more than anyone else, lad." Rolg patted my shoulder, sending waves of pain through my temples. "But are you sure you are feelin’ up to an interview?"

"Of course," I replied with completely false bravado. "Who is this dwarf, and where can I find him?"

"It's Master Dugold, lad. I'll take you to him, but I'll warn you that he is a strange one."

I dismissed Rolg's concerns. Just how strange could a dwarf be? That question would soon answer itself.

It took hours to reach the eastern warrens, the area where Master Dugold could be found. During this time, I learned a bit more about the dwarf I was going to meet.

"He's short," Rolg informed me, "and he is of mixed parentage."

When a dwarf calls another short, that actually means something. It is also telling that while Thorbardin's high thane was a mixed breed himself, a dwarf would have the nerve to call anyone of "mixed parentage."

"There's rumors that he has bit of gnome and kender in him," Rolg said. "I hate to wag my beard with idle gossip, but it's certain that he's no normal dwarf."

As the journey continued I found myself more eager to meet this fellow. Certainly it would be an interesting encounter. We followed the warrens along the northern walls, getting as far from the dwarves' underground fields and into areas still being carved out of the living mountain.

Rolg smiled and nodded his head. "You hear that, lad?"

I shrugged.

"It's the sound they make! Here! Feel the wall."

Intrigued, I placed my hand upon the wall and felt a distinct vibration. I held it there for a moment, feeling it diminish at slightly irregular intervals.

"Fascinating. This is caused by the tractor worms?"

Rolg's eyes grew wide. "Whatever you do, don't go callin’ them tractor worms in front of Master Dugold! They are urkhan. Urk-han," he repeated, saying it slowly.

"You're pulling my beard, aren't you, Rolg?" I asked, using a Thorbardin metaphor that did not match my clean-shaven chin.

Rolg snorted. "You'll see soon enough."

The tunnel we followed was becoming strangely irregular. We rounded a smooth corner into much larger chamber. My jaw dropped.

The sight before me was astounding. An immense chamber opened up out of the tunnel from which Rolg and I entered. Lantern-cages filled with glowing larvae were hung from odd angles, apparently to light the passage without getting in the way of the excavators.

The thrumming sound that I felt earlier in the rock wall was now quite loud. The vibration traveled through the walls and the floor below me. I could feel it in my feet.

Over half a dozen worms worked in the chamber. The larger creatures were as wide as I am tall (average for a human, if you must know) and were at least twenty-five feet in length. The segmented body was covered in slime that was exuded from the creases. Except for two that seemed to be resting in the corner, the rest were strapped with bizarre harnesses. Two horns grew on the head of each creature (making it simple to determine where the head and tail were). Straps were bound to the horns, which had long leashes and were attached to other straps and rings around other segments of the worm's body. A set of reins led back to the middle of the body, where a truly bizarre basket-shaped saddle held a dwarf rider. As the worm moved about, other dwarves followed along, holding straps or jabbing the worm with metal prods.

The urkhan and dwarves working the northern edge of the chamber seemed to be the busiest, so I stepped in, careful to stay out of the way of the work crews, including dwarves hauling wheelbarrows full of smaller rocks. These were dumped near the smaller, unsaddled worms. I wanted to get a closer look at the big ones in action.

One of the larger worms was guided toward a rough section of wall. A dwarf hit the unworked section with an iron baton, then quickly got out of the way. I soon saw the reason for his haste. The worm spat a stream of clear liquid at the exact location the baton struck the wall, which began to steam, bubble, and crack. The wall broke away into rough pieces, split apart by whatever substance the worm let loose. The rider slackened the reigns a bit, and the worm bent its head toward the floor, gobbling up the small pieces of rock liberated from the wall. The smallest chunks of rock, mere crumbs to the large worm, were fed to the smaller ones after dwarves raked and shoveled them into wheelbarrows. The entire operation was lit by the baby worms, without whom the work could not have progressed as easily.

I confess that I was truly impressed, in awe of the sight of these monstrous rock-eaters. "Amazing…"I must have whispered. In my enthusiasm, I stepped closer to the creature while it was working and eating, oblivious to the dwarf rider who was waving me away. My reverie was interrupted when a sharp tug at my belt yanked me off my feet. Hands grabbed my tunic and dragged me toward the middle of the chamber.

[Bertrem's note: The following text has been slightly edited while transcribed. Master Dugold is a colorful character, and one given toward a coarse manner of speaking. As historians, we do not like to change the content of these pieces, but we have toned down the foul language of Master Dugold for the sensibilities of our more conservative readers.]

I heard a voice rather like gravel grinding under a steel boot. "Now don't go protesting, laddie. I probably just saved your life, and at least your pretty little head of hair."

Scrambling to my feet and trying to preserve my dignity, I sized up the dwarf in front of ma Dwarves with light hair are rare, but this dwarf had a badly braided beard the color of lemon. He was also short, barely coming to my waist, yet he was stout and obviously strong. One of his dark brown eyes (which contrasted strongly with his light hair and beard) pointed off to the side, and the eye that fixed on me had the wideness and intensity of the crazed.

He saw me looking him over as I dusted myself off. "So just who in the great bloody bitch's Abyss are you?" He squinted his one obedient eye at me.

Always happy to introduce myself, I told him my name and credentials. He gasped in mock astonishment. "Well, thank you very bloody much, Mr. Chronicler of the poor dwarves. At last! You have come to write a bunch of useless words on useless pieces of parchment so that useless, overtall, beardless idiots like you will read it over a cup of tarbean tea."

I was a bit taken aback at the dwarfs attitude. "Master Dugold?" I ventured.

"The same! And while other dwarves may play games with the thane's pet human, I'm impressed by hard work, not pretty words."

He turned his head, looking at a worm-rider on the east wall who had apparently stopped working and was watching our interchange.

"Tolget! If you keep your arse planted there much longer, it'll go to seed! Get back to work. Tulip gets sent back to her pen in less than half an hour!"

I had to ask. "Tulip?"

Dugold glared up at me. "Yes, Tulip is her name, and that worm is certainly worth two dwarves' weight in steel, or at least a hundred of you! All my girls work hard for their dinner and put up with a lot of nonsense. It doesn't do to mistreat an urkhan."

I glanced at the rider, who immediately began to guide Tulip back to her place at the wall.

"You said you just saved my life," I prompted.

"Well, of course, you melon-headed fool! You almost stood in the spit-zone of a urkhan—usually the last place a man with two coppers' worth of brains would stand. Perhaps your brains are only worth a cracked iron piece, but I thought I would at least give you the benefit of the doubt."

"So the spit, then, would kill me?"

"Kill you? I've never seen it hit a soft-skinned pansy like you, so quite possibly! A dwarf can take a hit and live to talk about it later, though he is not happy about it. Your bare skin feels a rather painful burning sensation, you see, and washing it off doesn't seem to help all that much. You spend at least four hours rolling around in pain. And that's not the worst!"

"Hours in agony is not the worst?" I was incredulous.

"I should think not. We had a good worker here, name of Petris, a good dwarf who knew how to wrangle an urkhan with the best of them. Now we call him ‘Baldy’ when we're feeling nice and ‘Baby-Face’ when we're not."

I rubbed my own bare chin, suddenly realizing what he meant.

"That's right!" He hooted. "Melted the beard right off of his face. The hair that didn't dissolve still fell out—off of his head, too! His fingernails dissolved as well. That was a bit painful—"

"Please, sir, let me thank you for pulling me out of harm's way."

"Don't go sir'n me, lad. I'm Dugold, Master of the Urkhan!"

He gestured for me to follow him over to the two smaller worms, who were eating the smaller rocks lumped by wheelbarrow. Dugold made some clicking noises with his tongue, and both worms stretched toward the dwarf, who lovingly petted their slime-coated bodies.

"They know me," he said proudly, wiping his hands on his filthy trousers. The worms returned to their rocky meal.

"Master Dugold, I know I am the ‘thane's pet human’ and you probably have no respect for me, but I am amazed by these creatures and would love to be able to write about them."

Dugold shook his head, so I pulled out my trump card. "Did you know that there is a human book, called the Ansalonian Bestiary, that describes the urkhan? I'm afraid it is not very accurate."

The master dwarf squinted. "And did the author of this… book—" he said the word as if it left a bad taste upon his tongue—"spend much time around the urkhan?"

"I don't believe so. He did visit Thorbardin over sixty years ago. And he was friends with a hill dwarf."

"A hill dwarf!" Dugold exploded. "What would a sniveling sun-chasing Neidar know about the urkhan? They wouldn't know the ways of the mountain even if it fell on them!" He spat on the floor to emphasize his point. He looked up at me, a shrewd expression on his face. "Very well. If you wish to set the record straight then by all means! Ask whatever is on your mind."

"Well, perhaps we can start with these—" I gestured up at the iron cages, each with a glowing larval urkhan. "How do the worms breed?"

"Now that's a mighty personal question to start off with, don't you think, lad? When's the last breeding that you've been involved in?" He glared at me sharply.

I felt myself blush and could only stammer something incomprehensible in reply.

The dwarf roared with laughter, reaching over to pound my chest. "I'm only pulling your beard, lad! It's actually quite simple. Each urkhan is both a male and a female."

I must have given him a strange look, for Dugold raised his hands defensively. "Don't look at me, lad. I'm not making this up! I suppose it might be possible for one to create babies by itself, but those kept alone don't ever produce any!"

He rubbed his hand along the back of the smaller worm, which was still eating at the piles of rock.

"When the time is right for both urkhan, they come together and twine their bodies. The ‘magic’ happens, so to speak, then each go their separate ways."

I glanced up at the light source. "How do they, um, come out?"

Dugold chuckled. "Well, lad, each worm grows a sort of cocoon on its back, which falls off. The worms pay no mind to them from that point on. We collect them and place them in the birthing chamber and keep an eye on them. The cocoon starts white but turns brown after a week. Then the babies crawl out, glowing bright as day!"

"Amazing. So you collect these for light sources?"

"Yep! No lamp oil, no magic spell, just the beginning life of our greatest workers." Dugold smiled, lavishing praise on his beloved worms. "It's a lot of work keeping things on schedule, but the urkhan breed frequently, and when one baby grows too big for her cage, we have plenty more to replace them!"

"When you say ‘frequently’…"

"Ah. Usually about once every two weeks. Each cocoon makes anywhere from one to four babies—sometimes more."

At this moment, one of the pebble-munching urkhan began to undulate. Dugold raised his hand. "Best if we stand back for a moment, lad."

Curious, I stepped back and watched. Suddenly the worm's tail began excreting a moist, dark brown substance that looked a bit like wet soil. At first I wrinkled my nose, expecting the usual smell that goes with such a process, but then I relaxed. The smell was earthy and rich, but not unpleasant.

Dugold grinned beneath his yellow beard. "See? Even their crap doesn't stink! Now you can see the source of the fine soil we use to enrich our fields."

As he spoke, a pair of dwarves in work aprons shoveled the worm excrement into another wheelbarrow and carted it down the tunnel back toward the farming warrens.

It took me a moment to return to my train of thought. "We have covered the urkhan's reproduction and digestion. Exactly how fast do they grow?"

Dugold had a ready answer. "It depends, lad, on how much they eat, how they're treated, and how big their parents were. Most reach full size in six months and begin breeding at half that. The largest I ever had was Bertha. She was a beauty—nearly forty feet long and as wide as a house!"

"How long do they live?"

"A whisker over two years, if we're lucky." He sighed. "You can tell when a worm's time is coming. Its skin becomes a shade of gray, stops making slime, and it starts to slow down. That's when I retire them, to let them live their last days in peace. But it's a good life, for both them and us. We give them a purpose, all the food they can eat, and take care of them for their entire lives. In return they give us light, help us mine for gems and metal, create soil for our crops, and allow us to tunnel through solid rock!"

I cleared my throat. "The Bestiary claims that the tractor worms are used as beasts of burden and crop-tillers."

"Tractor worms!" Dugold sputtered. "Tractor worms! By Reorx's beard and eyebrows, I thought I would never have to hear another fool call my urkhan a ‘tractor worm’ again!" He clenched his fists in anger.

"I meant no offense!" I muttered by way of apology. "That is the name by which the book lists the urkhan. It seems to have gotten much about them incorrect."

Dugold spat on the floor, growled something unintelligible, then sighed. "The urkhan are sometimes used to haul carts; it's true, lad. And we also let the young 'uns wriggle about in the fields, which is both good for the farming and for the soil, but their true purpose is here." He gestured at the work crew proudly.

"Tunneling and digging?"

"Naturally! If left on their own they would simply burrow through the rock, have a difficult time finding one another to mate, and not serve the Forger's purpose for them. Look at them." He gestured. "We've dug out this chamber in less than two days—and that's taking our time to get the measurements correct. We can tunnel as quick as you please!"

"Do they also work in the mines?"

The dwarf nodded. "They are always used for digging a main shaft or opening up an area near a vein. Use in actual mining is a bit trickier, as the best ore and gemstones seem to be the tastiest morsels to the worms, and they often eat them up before we can retrieve them. Some teams use them with ‘grabber’ dwarves to get anything valuable out of the way before they feed. This work is a bit dangerous, as you're liable to get spat on. But because it's dangerous, those brave dwarves get a share of the take and can become quite wealthy. Doesn't grow back their beards, though!" He chortled.

I watched the team at their work—getting a worm to break the rock apart in exactly the right place, making it easy for the follow-up workers to turn this into a perfect rectangular dwarven chamber.

"Master Dugold, what amazes me is your ability to train the worms to do your bidding. One does not think intelligence such as this could be found in a worm."

"Intelligence! Haw!" He laughed. "My, you're as innocent as the day your bald body was born, aren't you, boy?" He gestured at Tulip, who was devouring large jagged chunks of granite. "You could spend the rest of your life trying to teach her how to sit or fetch, but you would be wasting your time. For one thing, commands are no good since the worms have no ears. They can sense vibrations with their bodies but are deaf as a post—which is why I never yell at them. These worms don't have the brains Reorx gave a head of lettuce!"

"Then how do you control them, guide them?"

"If anything, the worms train us. These creatures are hardworking, beautiful, and stupid. So stupid that they always respond to things in exactly the same way. If I were to poke you with a stick, lad, you might flinch the first time, say ‘ow’ the second, and ran away the third. Let me do the same thing to Tulip over there and she'll react the same way once, twice, a hundred times. She probably doesn't even remember I did it two minutes before! That's what the harnesses, reins, and saddle-riders are for. If you pull on the left horn with the reins, the worm will turn toward the left—same with the right. The swatters work alongside, keeping the worm's body straight by making her feel a swat when she goes even a bit off-course."

"And the spit?" I asked.

"It must have taken our ancestors a long time to figure this one out, but if you hit a rock wall with an iron rod, the clang is like a target to the urkhan. They hawk back and spit right on target. Not bad for a worm with no eyes!"

"So your crew is the first to tunnel in and excavate a chamber or hall?"

"Aye. Surveyors come with us as we tunnel in, measuring our distance properly, then we let the biggest worms dig in to give us a good working space. As we get closer to completion, we'll substitute smaller worms to follow the measurements—" he gestured at chalk outlines along the walls—"before the shovel-and-pick boys come to finish the job."

"Isn't being the first in a bit dangerous? I mean, what about cave-ins. Don't tunnels sometimes collapse?"

Dugold nodded. "Aye, lad, it's been known to happen, but one thing about urkhan is their sensitivity to vibrations in the rock. If something's about to shake loose, they'll try to get away. When your worm gets jittery, it's time to clear the tunnel."

I started to ask another question, but Dugold raised his hand to cut me off. "Tolget! It's Tulip's nap-time. Take her back now, nice and gentle."

The rider saluted Dugold, and with a few expert twitches to Tulip's reins, he guided her back to the tunnel, forcing Dugold and myself to stand back as her slimy, massive body crawled by us.

"That's a good girl," the master dwarf said with a sigh of admiration. He looked up at me. "I think you've wasted quite enough of my time. I'm a busy dwarf, and this crew's shift ends soon! I don't have time for every silkshirt wearin’, goosequill flaunting fool who…"

Dugold walked off to supervise another worm, muttering into his beard. Rolg, who had been watching cautiously near the tunnel entrance, walked up to me.

"Is it safe now, lad? I told you he was a strange one."

We both watched as Master Dugold roared an order to his crew, then cooed soft praises upon the worm, stroking its slime-streaked segments.

"Perhaps a bit strange, Rolg," I answered, "but he makes his own kind of sense—once you get to know him."

We turned and walked back into the dark, worm-shaped tunnel.

Mirage

Dear Bertrem,

My most recent employment was as a messenger for Bemardin Caprioli, a rather well-to-do merchant currently based in Qualune with routes throughout most of southeastern Ansalon. These letters chronicle events immediately following the great storm that swept over all of Ansalon.

My report follows.

Your servant,

Brother Ramik

Corij
38 AC

To Bemardin Caprioli,

Qualune

My friend, I must write hastily. In checking my schedules, I see you are about to send several freighters to Mirage with cargos for three of our merchants. I must warn you not to do it. At least not yet. The storm that swept through the area two days ago inflicted damage on our dock and warehouses and has caused confusion in the city.

Worst of all, our overlord Iyesta, whom the common folk have named Splendor, is missing, and her militia is in a terrible state. No one can find the other metallic dragons either. They seem to have vanished into thin air. The Legion is searching for Iyesta, but they have had no luck. The Solamnics are being less than useless. Their commander was murdered during the storm—by a subordinate I have heard—and their new commander has battened down the hatches of that big, fancy fortress and refuses to come out. No one I have talked to seems to know what is going on.

I have also heard rumors of invasion, which would not surprise me. If Thunder gets wind of Splendor's disappearance, he will be into Mirage in no time. May someone preserve us from that brute! It is my hope that perhaps Iyesta and her dragons flew west to deal with Thunder once and for all. That would be a blessing to us all.

Down at the docks we are making repairs and hoping to return the harbor to normal in several days. If all goes well, I will write to you and let you know when to send your ships. In the meanwhile, be alert and be careful. If there is an invasion, I will probably not be able to get word to you.

With regards from your friend,

Jamison Tarnson

Harbormaster

To Jamison Tarnson,

Mirage

My dear friend, your letter arrived two days ago on what your captain thinks was the last boat out of Mirage. What is going on in your city? Your warnings fill me with foreboding. Iyesta's disappearance is not a good sign. I hope by the time you receive this letter, she will be back and all will be well.

We have had little news trickle into Qualune. The elves' shield is still up and strong as ever. Our little settlement outside the shield is thriving nonetheless, and the ships are going as far north as Port Balifor and as far east as the settlement at Anir's End. The storm you mentioned seems to have struck the whole the area. We suffered damage as well and several ships sunk in the harbor. Our business is almost back to normal now—except in your area it seems. We have not received any other ships from Mirage, and we are trying to hold the ships that want to sail your way until we receive more news.

One odd thing: One of our fishing vessels became lost in a fog shortly before the big storm. The captain and his crew made it back, but they swear they saw a large fleet of ships in the fog. Not the black ships of the Knights of Neraka. They didn't know what these were. No one else has spotted the fleet. If it was there at all, it has moved on. The popular belief around the public houses is that the captain and his crew had imbibed a bit too much that night and saw a pod of whales. They swear they were not drinking. Who can say? I just hope this has nothing to do with you and the problems in your city.

Send us word as soon as you can. I will be hoping for your continued well-being.

With respect,

Bernardin Caprioli

Shipmaster, Qualune

Note from the diary of Bernardin Caprioli, following a copy of the above letter:

Tarnson has not replied. I grow more and more concerned with each passing day.

Lessons of Sun and Sand

This document was apparently written by a scribe and historian originally from Haven. The full story of how he became lost in the Plains of Dust (or even the original author's name) is currently unknown. The main details of this document have been confirmed by Qualinesti elves who survived the desert crossing, so it is included here.

The elves now have many lessons to learn. This was only the first.

The first pages of this account were lost. It has been copied from the original document exactly where the first page begins.

… awoke hours later, the blazing sun beating down upon my back and the taste of sand in my mouth. It was after mid-morning, and after a moment spent collecting myself—and trying to remove sand and grit from my clothes—I searched the ground for any sign of the caravan. My "nap" on the desert floor had given the shifting sands more than enough time to hide all evidence of my betrayers’ passing.

My only remaining possession was my boot knife. My waterskin was missing, and my purse-strings had been cut, dangling awkwardly from my belt. I stood there for some time, unable to believe my situation and somehow hoping I would wake up and find myself in my own bed in Haven.

This was no bedtime dream, however. It was a living nightmare. Sometime later I began to walk in a completely random direction. It did not matter which way I went, for I knew I was a doomed man.

The terrain was one of sand and rocks. The sandy areas rippled with the occasional breeze, which was no relief and somehow intensified the heat. My tunic soon became unbearable, so I made the foolish decision to remove it and continue barebacked. Within hours my skin ached with sunburn, and as the sun began to descend I seriously wondered if I would even live to see it rise again. My body had little strength, my voice was already hoarse from screaming, and I had only the vaguest notion where I was.

As I began to contemplate death, I saw something out of the corner of my eye. I turned to see the silhouette of a rider in the distance. Rider and mount, neither moving, stood upon the top of a large dune.

Hysterical with the relief at the sight of another person, I began waving my arms, screaming with what little voice remained, and staggering toward him. Wordlessly, the rider kicked at his mount, and both turned, riding away.

With hope granted and then quickly snatched away, I shouted curses at the unnamed rider. I walked after him as quickly as my weakened legs would carry me, but I did not even make it up the dune before my strength left me. I collapsed in the sand, sobbing. My tears vanished into the dry sand.

This is the point at which I blacked out once more.

The Encampment

I felt water between my lips. Like a fish thrown onto dry land, I opened my mouth, desperate for more. My eyes were gummed together, but I managed to pry them open. Someone was gently ladling water between my lips.

Looking about, I saw I was in some kind of tent. The person assisting me was obviously a woman, for I could see her long-lashed, feminine eyes. She was covered in loose-fitting, white cloth. My body ached, and I could feel cramping in my arms, legs, and stomach.

Though my voice cracked, I attempted to speak. "Thank you," I told her, and tried to sit up. "Where am I?"

The woman cocked her head to one side and shrugged. It was obvious she did not understand me. I smiled and nodded in thanks as she assisted me. As I managed to work myself into a sitting position I could see more clearly. I had been laying on a cloth pallet spread out on the rocky floor.

Before I could study more of my surroundings, a tall figure entered the tent, dressed very much like the woman, with bands of cloth covering his head and face. He unwound them to reveal a dark-haired man with deeply tanned skin. I understood then that I had been rescued by the barbarians who make their home upon the Plains of Dust.

The man spoke, his Common excellent but his accent thick. "I must ask how one such as you made it this far into the deep desert without a mount or supplies. Are you crazed?"

"No," I replied. "I was traveling with a small caravan bound for Shrentak—"

"Into the great black bitch's realm? You are crazed." His words were harsh, but he seemed to be smiling.

I introduced myself and managed to stand.

"I am Morning-Sky," he said. "You may take shelter in our camp."

Thanking him, I watched him study my "blistered skin and critically appraise the clothes I still wore. "You chose to walk in the heat of day instead of seeking shelter and decided to hare your skin to the sun. You are as foolish as an elf!"

"An elf?" I asked. "The elves are a wise and ancient race—"

"Who know nothing of the desert and its ways!" he interrupted. "Or at least, they once did not."

I asked him what he meant by this, but he waved my question aside. "At dinner we will talk." He smiled and exited the tent, making a gesture to the woman who I can only assume was his wife.

I was given more water, then the woman handed me wool clothing much like she and Morning-Sky wore. She gestured that I should put the clothes on. I nodded, waiting for her to leave. She gestured again, and I realized that these people have little use for modesty. Blushing, I quickly changed into the loose-fitting clothes.

Afterward, the woman led me outside. The encampment was small, with barely over thirty people and only a handful of tents. At first the people seemed stoic and dour, but I saw that they were given to smile and laughter, just not to the point where it wasted precious energy. Basic survival is such a large issue for these people that they conserve energy, water, and food unconsciously, scarcely aware of it.

Dinner was prepared—a whole sheep cooked in a mudpit oven. At first the thought was repulsive, but as the final preparations were made and the dining circle gathered around the fire, the smell of the mutton was more than appetizing. The meat was cut and passed by hand.

I had never eaten meat such as this with my hands, with no plate or knife. I watched my fellows eating, and I soon overcame my apprehension and began to eat. Though simply prepared, the meat was tender and delicious, among the best I have ever tasted.

Afterward, a woman walked around the circle offering water. I asked Morning-Sky, "You spoke earlier of elves in the desert?"

The barbarian nodded. "Thousands of elves crossed the Plains west to east. Not a few died at the beginning of the journey, though our people taught them the ways of the desert. Enough to survive the crossing." He shrugged.

I was amazed. "Thousands of elves. And you assisted them? Forgive me, but I thought your people had little love for elves."

His dark eyes pierced me. "We have little enough love for any outsider." Then he smiled. "But we are not without mercy. Better to lead the elves out of our home than to fight them for it, and better to aid you out of the desert than have your bones bleached by the sand."

His matter-of-fact talk of my inevitable death made me eager to switch the subject. "What did you teach the elves, Morning-Sky?"

The barbarian looked at me sharply, then smiled. "The same thing I will teach you. Soon it will be time to begin your journey home."

Dress of the Desert

The Qualinesti were dressed in ways completely inappropriate to the desert. As the sun beat down upon them, many made the mistake (as I did) of baring their skin. This was a terrible idea for at least two reasons.

The sun is unmerciful. Bared skin will succumb to sunburn, which damages your skin, causes pain, and will lead to fever and sickness. (This was a terrible problem for the elves, a fair-skinned race that burns easily outside of the shade.) Any skin bared will be subject to hot, sand-laden winds as well as the sun's rays. The grit and sand will find its way into every available crevice.

The other side of this mistake is that bared skin allows sweat to evaporate immediately—minimizing the body's natural means of cooling down. Opened to the hot air and the sun's light the sweat will dry on one's skin almost immediately, forcing the body to make more quickly. This drains a body's internal supply of water so fast that a person does not stand a chance in the deep desert.

The desert people learned countless years ago to wear enveloping robes made of coarsely spun white wool. Though not the most comfortable clothes when first worn, their benefits are immediate and obvious. Morning-Sky told me that his tribe made many of these robes for the Qualinesti and showed them how to make equivalent clothes out of the cloth the elves had on hand.

The clothes of the desert barbarians are perfect for the environment. The white wool reflects the light of the sun instead of soaking it up (as darker clothes would). The slightly loose but enveloping robes are excellent for keeping cool during the day and warm during the frigid nights. By keeping almost every body part covered, the stinging sand and biting winds are held at bay. The robes also trap sweat inside their folds, keeping it against the skin so the wearer will gain its full cooling benefit.

This was a difficult lesson for the elves, Morning-Sky told me, but the practice was quickly adopted. Before they reached the eastern end of the desert, the elves could not easily be told from the Plainsmen.

Travel and Shelter

The sun, revered above all things by the Qualinesti (who call their king the Speaker of Suns), is one's most deadly enemy when traveling through the Plains of Dust. The temperature of the air is scalding, caused by direct sunlight, hot winds, and the heat reflected off the sand beneath one's feet.

There is no refuge in the sands or on an outcropping of rock. The sand is noticeably hotter than the sweltering air, and the rocks are hot enough to cook an egg.

The intense heat and light of the sun increase one's need for water. The elves did not realize that by traveling during the day they were shortening their chance of survival. It is best to rest in shade during the day, moving about as little as possible, in order to conserve the body's water.

The Plainspeople have developed portable yet sturdy tents that can be set up and taken down quickly. Like their clothes, the tents are effective at keeping out the heat of the day yet can provide respite from the cold as well. For these people, only the most adaptable tools and materials will do.

Travel is best done during the night and morning, when it is cool. The elves became accustomed to this, so Morning-Sky has told me, and became quite used to sleeping during the heat of the day and moving quietly at night. Doing this saved water, was easier, and undoubtedly sped their journey while saving many lives. The Plainsmen taught the elves to scout at dawn, dusk, or by moonlight. During the heat of the day the mirages can too easily obscure distance vision and steer a group in the wrong direction.

With the sparse vegetation of the Plains of Dust, it is difficult to find shelter except in the rockiest areas. Desperate travelers might find sanctuary in large areas of brush, but it is usually best to try and find large rock formations or outcroppings.

Sandstorms are terrible hazards that require immediate shelter, if possible. Great, swirling walls of sand obscure almost all vision and make it impossible to hear anything except the rushing wind. The Plainsmen have learned to detect the signs of a coming sandstorm and can have their shelters built on a moment's notice. The elves were not able to accomplish this as quickly, but they learned they could survive simply by wrapping themselves completely inside their desert robes, lying down on the desert floor, and riding out the storm.

The desert mirages are not magic but rather an illusion of a natural sort. The heated air causes a shimmering effect that distorts vision. They make objects that are a mile or more away appear to move. Natural features are obscured by this, and without knowledge of the land this can be fatal. Sometimes the effect is so intense during the heat of the day that it appears one is surrounded by a sheet of water. Elevations from this stand out as "islands." If traveling by day (something not recommended by the Plainsmen), one should get to higher elevation to scout the terrain. Sufficient height will cancel the mirage effect, allowing one to judge an object's distance more accurately.

Morning-Sky's people taught the elves that moonlit nights were the most ideal for travel. These nights are usually crystal-clear, have little or no wind, and the haze and glare of the day disappear. With excellent visibility and the still air carrying call-signals far, these were the nights that the elves made the best progress on their journey toward Silvanesti.

Unfortunately the Qualinesti had to travel during the "new moon" phase in which there was no light by which to see at night. Morning-Sky has told me that these were the most dangerous nights, as elves became lost (with valuable time spent locating the missing), and one fell into a ravine and broke his arm. Little progress was made during this time.

Touched by the Sun

Gilthas, Speaker of Suns of the Qualinesti, made an unfortunate mistake. When the elves seemed to be consuming too much water too fast, he ordered strict water rationing. This seems like a sensible decision and is certainly one I would have made in his place. Unfortunately for the elven king, he was unaware of the water needs of an elven or human body in the harsh conditions of the desert. Worse, his people were marching hard during the heat of the day in inappropriate clothing. If not found by Morning-Sky's people, they would have been done for.

I learned from the Plainsmen that a normal man laboring in the desert sun needs roughly five gallons of water each day. If given less, the person loses the ability to work effectively, and his judgment declines rapidly. With this impractical level of required water during the day, it is important to take steps to get much more efficient use of the available water supply.

Morning-Sky's people have learned harsh lessons about the relationship between the amount of activity a person is using, the heat of the air around him, and the amount of water he is drinking. The body will use sweat to keep the body at its normal temperature—unfortunately sweating away the body's precious water reserves. A man whose body stops sweating while he is exposed to the hot sun is in serious danger. The Plainsmen call this being "touched by the sun"—a condition that is certainly fatal if not dealt with immediately.

When someone is "touched by the sun" (or whose condition is rapidly getting worse), there are steps that can save one's life. An elf maid named Meyala became touched by the sun during the journey, and only the quick action of Morning-Sky's people saved her life. There are important ways to prevent this:

Watch for symptoms. The healers of the barbarian tribe say that a victim will have stopped sweating (as his body has given up its water and salt). The skin will be dry and hot, and he will have an intense headache if he is still awake to report it. The heart will thump madly in the victim's chest, and the person may act crazed or confused. The stomach may react badly as well, causing the person to vomit or heave.

An affected person must be given shade immediately. Without natural sources of shelter, the Plainsmen assisted the elves in pitching a tent to shield Meyala from the sun. Blankets were spread beneath her to prevent contact with the hot sand. Removing her from the heat-scorched wind and the burning sun was the first important step in saving her life. A victim's clothing is loosened (or removed if in a completely shaded area). The healers say to pour water directly on a victim's skin and fan him down, rubbing his arms, legs, and body. Once he wakes, the victim should be allowed to drink small amounts of water every few minutes.

The elves learned to conserve their sweat. Wearing the clothes of the desert tribes was an important first step. Another is to keep still and quiet during the day, not talking, keeping one's mouth closed, and breathing only through the nose. These steps are not pleasant but reduce one's water needs dramatically.

Morning-Sky's people taught the elves that when the water is most scarce, they should not eat. Food requires water for digestion, water that the body will then not be able to use for cooling purposes.

The Plainsmen have learned that thirst is not a reliable tool to determine someone's need for water. They have learned to take measured amounts of water at regular intervals to prevent their bodies from drying out. Rationing water is the last resort, used only in the direst situations. Morning-Sky tells me that elves died in the scorching sun with water still in their skins simply because they misjudged their body's water needs and tried to conserve. Some of these elves made the ridiculous decision to place smooth pebbles under their tongue to relieve the sensation of thirst, so they could ration their water more effectively. This turned out to be a fatal decision for some. The desert people know this is a practice only for the foolish.

One method of judging one's water needs is one that was highly difficult for the priggish elves to learn. Morning-Sky's people instructed them to check the color of their urine. A light color means one is drinking enough water; darker means the body requires more.

In addition to becoming "touched by the sun," there are other maladies that the tribal healers warn against.

The salt that anyone can taste in their own sweat comes directly from the body, which needs a certain amount to function properly. The loss of too much salt can cause cramps. At first these may seem like minor muscle aches, and so the Qualinesti elves ignored them. Unfortunately, if a person suffering from these cramps continues to exert himself, he will experience severe cramping and intense pain. Water, shade, and rest are the prescribed cures.

The healers call another condition "wind-bitten," though I am not sure why; it is caused by a lack of water. Elves who became wind-bitten began complaining of headache, then became angry or confused. Even after they received aid, they sweated profusely, became too weak to move, experienced cramps, and developed moist, clammy skin. Morning-Sky said they treated these elves with shade and sprinkled them with water while they rested.

Fruits of the Desert

In the elven homeland of Qualinesti, I am told, the elves are used to eating a variety of fruits and plants. With little inclination to eat meat, they look to the plants of the world to provide them food. This practice, unfortunately, led to terrible mistakes in the desert.

The first mistake was to assume the flesh of the tall desert cacti was edible. Some attempted to eat this raw, while others tried to cook it. Neither attempt yielded good results.

One type of cactus, a lean and long-thorned plant, proved to be mildly poisonous. The young elves who consumed this were carried on litters for much of the journey. One became so violently ill—unable to hold down water—that he died. Another consumed a smaller, fatter plant with flexible spines; he contracted dysentery yet managed to survive.

The fruit of the cacti are generally safer to consume, Morning-Sky told me, though not without some risk. The Qualinesti made the discovery of a stand of cacti, stout and purplish with fruit the color of wine. The elves tried the fruit, which was delicious and tasted very much like a tart strawberry. Pleased, they picked the plant clean and ate the delicious fruit. Within an hour, each of the fruit-eaters began experiencing hallucinations and succumbed to panic. Other elves had to chase their fellows down to keep them from running off a cliff or into a rock formation. The fruit, while delicious, has the same effect on the mind as the mushrooms from which dwarf spirits are distilled. King Gilthas was quick to forbid any more elves from eating from this plant.

Some of the elves had heard stories, as I had growing up in Haven, that large, barrel-shaped cacti could be cut open and a reservoir of fresh, drinkable water would be available. When the elves tried this, they found that indeed there was water inside these plants. They took what they could and mashed the pulp of the plant to squeeze even more out. They found that while the water was drinkable, it made some of them sick, usually to the point where they lost more water from the cactus-induced sickness than if they would have simply left the plant alone. Morning-Sky also tells me that some of the larger plants are nearly as old as some of the elves, and killing them for unsuitable water is a waste of the desert's resources.

Other Dangers

While the open desert is safe enough for walking or sitting, the ideal places for shelter are not only suitable for humans and elves, they are the homes for other creatures.

Morning-Sky warned me after my first night to shake out my boots each morning before putting them on. I quickly learned this was sound advice, because on one occasion a large, black scorpion fell out and scared me nearly out of my wits. On another I found a strange-looking rat had nested in my footwear for the night.

The elves learned these harsh lessons as well. In caves or rock formations there are certainly going to be bugs and snakes. It was a harsh lesson for elves to shake out clothes and footwear before putting them back on again—not doing so resulted in numerous scorpion and spider bites. (Most of these, Morning-Sky assured me, were not fatal—though one particular spider was deadly enough to kill an elf with one bite. The sting of several scorpions left several elves riding in litters for several days. Centipedes crawled into one elf maid's clothes and caused hysteria, if no actual damage.

Amazingly, no elves were bitten by snakes, though Morning-Sky assures me that several varieties are both aggressive and deadly. The best advice for snakes is to simply watch for them and avoid them. The Plainsmen say that most bites occur when someone steps on or attempts to handle a snake. There are two varieties that live in the Plains of Dust who do not bite their victims but rather spit in their eyes, blinding and incapacitating them.

Journey Home

I will forever be grateful to Morning-Sky and his people. Though they are a harsh people from a hard land, they have compassion for others and are willing to make friends with those in need.

After several weeks recovering from my own bad judgment in the desert, I was well enough to begin my own journey home. Morning-Sky and several from his tribe guided me for days, before finally leaving me on the trail for Duntol, outside the worst of the desert with supplies, knowledge, and experience that would assure my survival.

I bring the harsh beauty of the desert back with me, knowing that I will likely never see it again. Though I might learn to survive there, like the elves I am unsuited to remain. May they keep their beautiful land, unspoiled and untamed, for as long as the stars shine.

Letters from a Son to his Father

Dated autumn 38 AC

Somewhere on the Plains of Dust

Dear Father,

It has been three months now since you packed my hag, escorted me out of the house, and said "Write when you get work." I know you meant the best for me—you even bought passage for me on the first ship out of Haven. Therefore I am writing to let you know that I have found work.

I also want you to know that I apologize for every cruel and mean-spirited thing I ever said about centaurs. You remember the hay burner remarks, the north end of a southbound mule quips, the references to their habits and ancestry. You used to get very angry with me, and now I admit you were right to do so.

I admit, too, that at the beginning of my adventure, I planned never to write you, to see you, or to speak to you ever again. However, after two months of self-examination and on the advice of a tree, I am writing to let you know what has happened to your wayward son. If you are curious, maybe a little interested, then I hope you have forgiven me enough to read on. I don't know what you expected me to do when I left home, but I doubt it was this.

Your son,

Tancred

Haven

I remember all too clearly what it was I did that sent you into such a towering rage. Since I suspect you remember too I will not rehash those memories. Suffice it to say, you packed me out of the house and onto a ship that last day of Sirrimont. By some strange fortune it was one of the smaller freighters out of Haven, and in case you didn't notice, the ship was called Wayward Wind. It was a coastal freighter that made leisurely stops along the southern coast until it got too close to Sable's swamp for the captain's comfort. It then sailed up to Schallsea Island and home again, trading everything its crew could get their hands on. The ship made this circuit about three times a year, according to Captain Immil.

On this particular voyage we sailed down the river and south along the coast, taking the captain's own sweet time and stopping at every port town or village with a dock along the way. At every stop Captain Immil found something to buy or trade no matter how insignificant. It all got to be rather irritating. I was spending a great deal of time in my cabin, and all of that starting, stopping, waiting to start again became very annoying. After about a month of that I'd had enough, and I complained to the captain.

Unfortunately, I exhibited rather poor judgment by not checking our position before I confronted our captain. He took offense at my tone and informed me my passage was over. From then on I would have to work my way with the other sailors or he would put me ashore. Without casting a single glance at the coastline nearby, I informed him I would never work with such lowlifes.

The captain is a man much like you, Father. He dropped anchor then and there, packed my bags, and escorted me off the ship in a rowboat. He rowed me to shore and dumped me off with a small cask of water and a box of sea biscuits. That should have warned me, but I was too angry to pay attention. I shouted things at him. He ignored me and rowed back to his ship.

I fully expected him to come rowing back with apologies and embarrassment at such a tasteless joke… until I heard the rattle of the anchor chain. I saw the sails come up and billow in the breeze. Soon Wayward Wind was just a speck on the horizon, and I was alone.

If that's what you want, I thought furiously, I'll just go to the nearest village and make my own way. Some day I vowed to track down that captain and burn his ship before his eyes.

Southern coast of the New Sea

It was about then that I took note of my surroundings. I have heard you talk about your journeys and the voyages you have made to faraway places. I remember you describing some beaches where the sand was white and fine and gleamed like snow beside the blue waters. I don't think you'd bother to tell anyone about this beach. First, it barely qualified as a beach. It was Only a barren hem where the water met the land before the land rose into the hills and promptly turned into wasteland. Driftwood piled up at the high tide mark, and a few scraggly clumps of seagrass tried to grow at the base of dunes scoured by the wind. The air buzzed with the sounds of too many unpleasant little insects.

I looked around appalled. There were no houses, no huts, no village in sight. There wasn't even a shack or a shipwrecked hulk. The strip of beach and the land around it were totally empty as far as I could see.

I am not proud of what I did then. It was the reaction of the boy I used to be. Shaking my fist toward the vanished ship, I cursed and screamed imprecations, I stamped up and down the sand until I was staggering, and finally I collapsed in the sand by the pitiful mound of my belongings and sobbed. I look back on the memories of myself that afternoon and think how pathetic I must have looked. I am very grateful a certain someone did not come along at that point or she probably would have continued right by and left me to rot in my self-pity.

By evening the heat of the day was fading to be replaced by a chill wind from the sea. I realized I would have to do something, or I would soon be very cold and very hungry. I tried to start a fire with the flint and steel in my pack you thoughtfully provided. To my dismay I discovered lighting damp driftwood is not as easy as it looks. I finally curled up in my cloak with a cup of water and a sea biscuit.

I must have fallen asleep, for the next thing I knew I was sitting in a wet, cold wave that slopped over my legs and sucked greedily at my meager possessions. I had forgotten the tide. Frantically I grabbed my two bags, the water cask, and the biscuits and staggered up the beach into the dunes beyond the piles of driftwood. The area in the dunes smelled as if something had recently died there, and it was full of sand fleas, but it was dry, and I could attempt to sleep without worrying about incoming water.

The next day was no better. I dried off my belongings and sat in the sun waiting for someone to appear. Maybe I hoped a fisherman would come, or Captain Immil would change his mind and return, or some adventuresome boys would show up from the village a few miles away. But no one came. Nothing happened. All I saw was sand, waves, and the occasional shore bird. It was the most desolate strip of land I had ever seen (which at that time was not saying much). And it was so hot even the lifeless sea seemed to steam.

On the fourth day I became alarmed at the level of water in my small cask. I had been drinking the water like I expected its cask to be refilled any moment. Now I realized I might actually have to ration it. I walked back and forth along the beach for miles and all I found was more sand. There were no little creeks or handy rivers or small fresh water lakes close by, nor did I find any cottages with a well and a useful map. This land was barren. All reds and umbers and empty spaces. I climbed the small rise of hills beyond the beach and stepped into wasteland. At least it looked like wasteland to me. Just miles and miles of miles and miles. Did I mention the sand?

My heart sank at the sight of that dreadful vista. For the first time I pondered what I was going to do. It was becoming increasingly obvious I could not stay on the beach. It was so remote even smugglers did not seem to come here. Someone might appear one day by accident or design, but if I didn't find water soon, all that person would find would be my bleached bones. I did not relish that vision.

My food, too, was a problem. I didn't mind a sea biscuit once in a while with a cold beer to soften it and wash it down, but as a steady diet they left much to be desired. I tried to catch fish—and stepped on an urchin, which made my foot swell. I tried to catch the little crabs that scuttled across the beach at night—and made myself nauseous on the tiny bit of goo that came out of one uncooked crab. My pockets were empty, and even my small hip flask was dry. I had to have something soon or I would succumb.

That thought, rather than frightening me, made me angry. I cursed Captain Immil and his ship, I cursed the beach, I cursed myself, and yes, Father, I cursed you. All the years you were gone on your ship I wanted to be like you. Then you came home to stay, and all I wanted was to be everything you were not. I loathed the sea. I ignored your offers for a berth on a ship, and I disdained your stories of exploration and trade. I was not the well-known, popular sea captain who loved adventure and enjoyed the danger. I was just me, the only child spoiled by a lonely, indulgent mother. I knew I was reasonably intelligent, capable in self-defense, able to read and add sums, and capable in conversation on commerce—everything I needed to do well in Haven's merchant society. But as I looked out over that empty land, I knew little of that would help me here. The qualities I would need to survive were the ones you had in abundance. Mine had never been truly tested.

As that realization dawned, Father, I would have given anything to see one of your ships sail into view and drop anchor.

Since that didn't happen, I had to make a decision. I could stay on the beach where there was a slim hope for food and even slimmer chance of fresh water. Perhaps a storm would blow in or I could find a stream. Maybe a fishing boat or another freighter would sail by. The chances of any of that seemed remote. I hadn't seen a ship or a boat since the Wayward left, and the sky remained depressingly clear. This was the middle of autumn, when the weather was unpredictable in the New Sea and undoubtedly still quite hot in the desert.

Going inland was my other option. I knew from your stories and my studies that the area of the northern Plains where I had been abandoned was very close to Duntollik, the free realm of humans and centaurs holding to a precarious existence between the dragon realms of Berylinthranox, Onysablet, and Stenndunuus. Nomadic tribes of barbarians and occasional merchant caravans roamed over these lands. Someone somewhere had to know where to find food and water. The town of Duntol wasn't that far away. Surely I could reach that. Images of inns rose in my mind. Cool ale, good food, a bed, and human company lingered in my head like a sweet dream.

That vision finally settled my decision. As much as I feared the desolate lands, I could no longer tolerate waiting on the empty, lonely shore. I had to do something or I would go mad. I made up my mind to leave.

Once the decision was made, I decided not to waste time. I packed my cloak, the water cask, and the biscuits in one of my bags, then I strode up the scruffy hills and dunes and into the desert, heading due south toward what I hoped was Duntol.

The sun hung above the horizon like a pale copper ball. The heat shimmered in waves in the distances. The land was not covered completely with dunes as I had thought. Here and there I saw outcroppings of a reddish stone and places where the wind had scoured the earth bare over patches of rock. In scattered spots, the dust and debris of centuries had collected in pockets and formed a poor soil that supported tough scrubby trees, thorn bushes, cactus, even some sages and wire grass. The sky was clear blue and looked huge over the dry land.

I tried not to stare at the endless expanse. To a child of the city, of a land with trees and mountains, the open spaces were frightening. Instead, I concentrated on one goal as I walked: the next clump of grass, the tree a quarter of a mile away, the rock outcropping that looked like a tea kettle and so on. I listened to the crunch of my footsteps on the sand and gravel. There was little else to hear. The land was nearly silent in the heat of late afternoon.

Be sensible, I kept telling myself. This was just a different type of land. Whole tribes knew how to live on these plains. They had learned to survive. That was all I had to do. Just learn. Besides, the desert can't go on forever. Or so I thought. It's a wonder I didn't die from my own stupidity.

The first thing I learned was that I had brought too much to carry. Two bags was one too many. After only several miles, I collapsed sweating and panting in the shade of a rock outcropping and decided to wait for night. It would be easier to travel in the cool of the night, and I could take time to sort through my things and decide what to leave. Stretching out, I dozed for a while.

When I woke up, the world had changed. The fiery hot had cooled to almost freezing, and brilliant desert stars shone in the black sky. I hurried into my cloak, dumped what possessions I felt I could do without, and set forth again. I hoped the exercise would warm me. There was a glimmer of starlight to see by. A steady breeze blew from the west.

I walked through the night, trying to ignore the cold, the hunger that ate at my belly, the blisters on my feet, and the thirst. My lips dried and cracked, and my tongue felt like flannel. Nevertheless I drank my water with care and regretted my earlier liberality. By dawn I was exhausted. The month spent lolling on the ship had blunted my endurance.

I found a meager shelter in a copse of stunted trees. The trees had small silver-gray leaves and slender twisted trunks. What they didn't have was bird nests full of newly laid eggs, vines loaded with edible berries, or juicy rabbits lurking in the underbrush. I gnawed another biscuit, drank a sip of water, and tried to sleep in the sun-dappled heat. Thirst and a small but persistent type of fly finally drove me out in the evening.

It was my second night of travel, the start of my sixth day on the Plains, and all I had left was a cupful of water. I nursed my water and my aching feet through another night of walking. Whether through inattentiveness or bad luck, I saw no one and found nothing to drink or eat. Every time I climbed a hill I stared to the south, east, and west hoping to see a light, but the Plains remained frighteningly empty. Strangely empty, I thought. Where had everyone gone? I knew this area was sparsely populated, but there should have been someone out there!

I plodded on in spite of blisters the size of platters on my feet, weary muscles, and cramps that would not stop. By dawn my water was gone, and I was desperate. What should I do? Keep going in the daylight in hope of finding help? Or suffer the thirst through the day and try again in the cool of night?

I finally dropped everything but my cloak, a dagger, the traveler's pack, and the last of the sea biscuits. The water was gone and the cask was useless. What good would clean tunics do me now? Or a change of boots, or my favorite books? With only those few things, I kept going into the morning.

The heat climbed through the morning hours until by noon it felt unbearable. I dropped my cloak somewhere, but I didn't realize it until much later. The only reason I did not drop everything else was because they were attached to my belt. I knew very little but the misery in my body and the need that drove my feet on one step at a time. My sight dwindled down to a small circle around me until at last all I could see was the ground. I know I staggered several times and managed to push myself back up. My skin felt hot and dry. My heart was racing, and I felt dizzy and sick. Then I saw a dark wavery blob in the distance. I stopped, swaying where I stood, and watched it. The blob had obviously spotted me, too, and walked closer. It was so bleary I could not decide what it was. It seemed upright and very tall.

"Excuse me, Mend, do you have any water?" I tried to force the words past my swollen tongue.

The figure replied, "I am not your Mend, and I—"

I don't know what else it was going to say because the ground suddenly came closer and closer, and there it was, beside my face. I tasted dirt.

I don't think I passed out completely because I recall hearing a voice speaking in a stream of irritated words I did not understand. There was a lot of movement beside me, and suddenly water was sprinkled over my face and gently trickled into my mouth. My entire body reacted.

"Careful," someone said. "Don't drink too much."

Don't drink too much? I didn't think I would ever be able to drink too much ever again. I wanted to plunge into a lake of water and stay there the rest of my life. I wanted to drink barrels. But the voice that spoke to me had a certain authority in its tone. I took the advice.

My rescuer must have decided I would obey, for he thrust a waterskin into my hands. I sensed something large move beside me, then the voice said, "I am on an urgent errand. I must go. Keep the water. Go east toward that range of low hills then south. You will find Duntol."

"No, wait!" I croaked frantically. "Don't leave."

I forced my eyes open. I saw horse hooves, black with a vertical streak of white. My eyes traveled up long dappled gray legs to a broad chest that blended neatly into the torso of the loveliest woman I had ever seen. Her skin was tan and flawless; her long dark hair and mane hung in long braids down her back. Pale gray eyes like polished moonstones glared down at me. A centaur.

At that point I wouldn't have cared if she had been a draconian. I knew I could not make it to Duntol even with a bag of water. I was too far gone. I could see the doubt in her eyes—mixed with annoyance, impatience, and urgency.

"Please," I rasped, trying to sit up. I would have groveled at her feet if I thought it would have helped, but I had a feeling this horsewoman would respond better to a more manly style of pleading. "I was stranded on a beach north of here. I can't go any farther. Isn't there some way you could help me reach a settlement? Or a village? Or a large city?"

A slight frown teased her full mouth. She realized I was trying a slight joke. There were no large cities in this part of the Plains. But she was no mood to placate stranded travelers.

"Can you walk?" she demanded.

Rather than sit and complain about it, I staggered to my feet to show her. I made about three steps before my legs failed, and I collapsed in the sand.

She took a deep breath and sighed. "Fine. Then you will have to ride, and you will have to go with me. I do not have time to take you to Duntol."

That was fine with me. I didn't mind where she wanted to go as long as it was toward more water and maybe some food. I could only nod.

She graciously bent her long legs to the ground so I could climb onto her back without too much difficulty. Clutching the waterskin I held on as best I could while she straightened up. I only hoped I still had the strength to stay on. Turning east she moved smoothly into a canter that was the easiest gait I have ever had to ride.

You know, Father, I have always preferred horses to ships. I think the reason I never liked centaurs was merely a learned response from the tales I used to hear on the docks and in the market place. The few that I saw in the town were usually rough, barbaric-looking creatures from the Darken Wood who only came into town when they had to. To me, this centaur looked magnificent. Her horse's body was sleek, well muscled, and colored an unusual dapple-gray. A soft leather vest and a harness of some sort covered her upper body. Attached to the harness were pieces of armor form fitted to protect vulnerable parts of her body, several throwing knives, and a war club, while slung across her human back hung a short powerful-looking bow and quiver of arrows. She looked ready for a war.

As she continued her way east, I slowly sipped the water and began to feel a little more normal. I could have slept there on her back, but I was afraid if I fell off she would get disgusted and leave me where I fell. Something had agitated this centaur, and I felt truly fortunate that she had bothered to stop for me at all.

After a while my throat felt less like the bottom of a dry gully and my tongue could move without so much difficulty. "My name is Tancred," I said.

"Good for you," she replied. "What are you doing out here?"

"I told you. I was stranded on the beach. I was trying to find Duntol."

"So you're not from the Plains."

"Obviously not. I was on a ship from Haven."

"How did you become stranded? Did your ship sink?"

I licked my cracked lips. I could lie to her and tell her some fanciful tale involving pirates or dragons or something heroic, hut an intuition stopped me. She seemed too forthright and honorable to tolerate liars.

"I insulted the captain and refused to work for him, so he put me off on the first strip of sand he found."

For the first time she laughed, and even I tried to grin. "It does sound pathetic, doesn't it?"

"If you had died on that beach, it wouldn't have. At least you tried to find your way out."

"Yes, right out of the frying pan and into… what?" I asked. "Where are you going, and why are you in such a hurry?"

"My chieftain has sent me with a message for Wanderer."

I shrugged. "Who?"

"Wanderer. He was a member of the Qué-Shu. He lives here now."

My thoughts slowly churned through my fuzzy mind. Qué-Shu. Wasn't that a tribe in Abanasinia? What was he doing down here? Then the thought was gone. I was too worn down to care. With luck this Wanderer would have food and water and maybe a horse I could borrow, and I could go back to more civilized parts of the world.

I must have dozed for a while because the next thing I knew our shadows were long before us and the sun was settling into the hills behind us. The land, I saw, had become even more barren and rocky. Its predominant color was red—a rusty, dirty red that looked neither pleasant nor inviting.

"Gods, how can anyone live here?" I muttered. I didn't realize I had spoken loudly enough to be heard.

The centaur trotted up a hillside and stopped where we could look down on a vast sweep of plains. "Because the desert is what you make of it. To you it may be a huge, terrible place of fear and loneliness. To those of us who live here it is beautiful, a land of difficulties, yes, but those difficulties help keep us safe and keep us free. I would not live anywhere else."

She lifted an arm and pointed down toward a tiny scattering of lights in a cluster of round hills. Without further words, the centaur trotted down a faint path along the flank of the hill and down onto the flat plain toward the cluster of hills. The daylight had dimmed to a dusky evening. Straightening up, I looked around and noticed a single rider sitting on the top of a low ridge to our right. The figure watched as we moved closer to the camp, but another rider approached us. He stopped close enough to identify the centaur, then signaled with a sharp, high-pitched whistle. The first sentinel disappeared off the ridge. The second waited for our arrival.

I studied the guard for moment or two and decided anything they wanted to do to me I would have to accept. This man was tall, armed like a bandit, strong, and healthy. I felt like a dried-out rag once used to scrub pots. He eyed me curiously, but she said nothing. He merely gestured to the centaur and led us into the camp.

I tell you, Father, when we entered that camp I felt a rush of apprehension. What had this centaur brought me into?

Men dressed in long, light-colored voluminous robes came out to meet us. They were all like the guard I had seen—tall, swarthy-skinned, and powerful. Despite the apparent tranquility of the camp, they were well armed with their curved swords, long knives, and other barbaric weapons. I did not see any women or children—only tents, horses, and men. To me it looked like a camp of brigands.

"Katriona," one called, "since when have you adopted a rider?"

The horsewoman replied, "Since a few hours ago. He took the wrong turn to Duntol."

I leaned back on my seat to dismount, grateful she had not mentioned the stranding incident. Lifting my leg carefully over her withers, I slid off her back, landed on my feet, and promptly collapsed in the dust. Chuckling, the men and the centaur gathered around me.

"He was in bad shape when I found him," she explained.

"He's an outlander," a different, more gruff, voice said. "You shouldn't have brought him here."

Katriona stamped a hoof. "I had no time to take him elsewhere, and I wasn't going to leave him to die."

More thanks to you, I thought from my place in the dirt.

"You should have just left him some water," the same gruff voice said. "Then if he died, his death would not be your concern."

I couldn't see who was talking, but I took a strong dislike to that fellow.

"He was in no condition to walk," Katriona said.

I pushed myself over to my back to face the tribesmen around me. "I will leave," I said, my voice still harsh and strained. "I can buy food, a horse. Just help me and I will be gone."

The men laughed heartily. "Gone where, boy? There is no one out here but us."

"You could still be gone, and we won't have to help you," a stocky man said. He had large eyes that bulged in a long, narrow head and a nose as straight and slender as an axe. He was the grumbler in the group.

The centaur extended a hand to me and helped me to my feet. I leaned against her warm side thankful for her support.

Another man emerged from a tent near the fire and strode toward us. From the way the men moved out of his way, I assumed he was the leader of this band. Something in his carriage, in the way he walked, in the gleam of his dark eyes made me stand up straight and let my battered feet bear my own weight.

The horsewoman bowed her head to him. "Wanderer, I have news from my chieftain."

The tribesman nodded, but before Katriona could continue, the gruff-voiced man pushed forward. Shadows thrown from the firelight spread from the angles of his narrow face.

"What do we do with this one?" he demanded. "He has no right to be here."

"He is here by the right of our allies, the centaurs," Wanderer replied. His voice was calm edged in steel. He studied me from worn boots to unkempt red hair with eyes that were piercing and keen.

I don't know how old he was, Father, but I guess he was close to your age—mid-fifties or more. Years of living in the harsh climate of the Plains had worn his skin to leather and etched the lines of his dour expression deep into his hawklike face. He was tall—taller even then the men who rode with him—thin as a desert pine, and still strong in spite of his years. The desert had been hard on this man, yet it had honed him, worn away the excess until he was as lean and tough as the rocks around him. I won't say I liked him at first sight, but I felt an immediate respect that still remains with me to this day. What he saw in me, I still don't know.

"Bring him to my tent. The healer can look at him. I'll decide what to do when I have heard the centaur's news."

The men bowed and turned away to return to their duties. Katriona gave me a small smile and, lending me her strong arm, helped me walk to the chieftain's tent.

Since I had never been inside a plainsman's tent, I did not know what to expect. What I saw was hardly the lap of luxury, yet it looked efficient and comfortable enough. Small lamps that hung from the tent poles illuminated the tent with a warm light. Thick mats covered the floor and helped keep the shelter warm at night. Curtains of a loosely woven material were hung to separate a sleeping area, and a low table and cushions were placed near the door for guests. I assumed this was a temporary camp, so this was probably a smaller traveling tent carried on pack animals.

The entrance, while tall enough for an average man, was too small for Katriona. Wanderer had the tent flaps tied up for her, and she folded her long legs and sat down on the ground by the tent. The table and its cushions were pushed closer to her so Wanderer and several of his men could join her. A cushion was brought for me, too, and laid near the sleeping curtain where I could rest while the healer cared for me. I gratefully sat down. A young man brought plates of steaming meat from the braziers to the table and—blessed be his progeny forever—ewers of wine and water. When he offered a cup to me, I drained the vessel in one swallow and held it out for more. The man shrugged, grinned, and refilled it. I learned shortly that one should not quaff wine on a dehydrated stomach.

Another man entered and bowed to Wanderer. Kneeling beside me, he tilted his head but said nothing as he carefully removed my boots and examined my feet with his fingers. I know it was rude, but I stared at him in surprise. He was a small man, I'd guess about forty, and he had a small kestrel on his shoulder. Those minor facts were interesting in themselves, but one other thing caught my attention and held it. His eyes were milky white and obviously useless. Despite his affliction, he seemed to know exactly what he was doing. His long fingers touched and stroked my feet, locating the blisters and the wound from the urchin. He felt my limbs and touched my face and throat; he rubbed my skin between his fingers. All without a single word.

At last he laid his palm down on my chest and squatted beside me for a long while. I held still. I felt no threat from this man. On the contrary, he made me feel comforted and relaxed. I watched his face as his expression grew very thoughtful. When he was finished, he sat back on his heels, and he and his bird gazed at me for a moment or two, then he made his way over to Wanderer.

The Plainsman and his guests were occupied with their meal—food before business is a custom of the tribes—but the chief paused to listen to the healer's report. I couldn't hear what he was saying clearly; something about exposure and rest (I was all for that) and healing. Wanderer stared at the man, glanced at me, looked back at the man, then studied me again for a while, his brows lowered. Finally he nodded and went back to his meal.

I thought they were just talking about letting me stay for a day or two to rest before I had to go, so you can imagine my surprise when this tribal healer came back and said in a quiet, completely serious voice, "My chieftain has given you permission to stay with us for a time. I would like to train you in the mystic arts."

I admit that I was so surprised I laughed out loud. A mystic? Me? Was this man insane? I had never shown the least inclination toward mysticism. What in the blue blazes was he talking about?

Fortunately he did not take offense at my reaction. Sitting cross-legged beside me, he took my hand and laid it palm down against his. His bird watched me intently.

"I am a shaman and healer for my people," he said in his soft, unaggressive voice. "I know you do not believe yet. The places of your birth are still strong in your heart. You are young and lost and confused. All I ask is that you listen."

The amusement died on my lips. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see the centaur watching me. Did she know what was going on? Obviously Wanderer did, and he took it seriously enough to give me leave to stay with them, which was rather unusual. The men of the Plains were not normally so open and welcoming to strangers.

"Why?" I said, more abruptly than I intended. "I am no mystic."

The man's clouded eyes stared unblinking at my face. "Not yet. In time you can be, if that is what you desire. I am strong in the ways of the spirit. It is my talent to be able to read the strengths and weaknesses of a human soul. Your talent is like a vein of gold—buried deep, but rich and worth of the effort of finding it. So I ask you: come with us for a time. In the desert you can listen to your heart."

"How can I? Magic is failing all over Ansalon." I protested. "Even the sorcerers cannot wield it anymore. As for the mystics, their Citadel was destroyed. They were scattered, and I heard Goldmoon is dead. What is the point of learning their art now?"

He shook his head. "The magic is not failing. There are other forces at work, some I know, some I do not yet understand. But the magic of the heart is still within you."

Father, I did not know what to say to this man. In my seventeen years the only work I had ever considered—and rejected—was something in your world: a sailor, a trader, a merchant. But one month on the Wayward had shown me I was no sailor. The sea did not sing in my blood as it did in yours. Nothing else had occurred to me, and certainly not mysticism. It was a failing art, and what did I know about it?

And yet… there was something pleasant in the thought. The suggestion delved into my mind and despite my incredulity, it stayed there pricking my interest. No one had ever told me I had potential. Well, besides Mother. But honestly, it all sounded ridiculous.

The shaman lifted a finger to the kestrel's breast and gently stroked its speckled feathers. The small raptor blinked its black eyes once or twice and continued to stare at me.

"Shall I tell you what I see?" the man asked. He went on without waiting for a reply. "You are of medium height, stocky and strong. Your hair is red. Your face is well featured and freckled beneath the sunburn. You are young, seventeen or eighteen years I believe, and from your clothes and manners, you are from a city in the north. Beneath your shirt you have a silver chain around your neck with something hanging from it."

It was my turn to stare. How did he know all that? True, he could discern some of that by touch and by the accent in my speech, but how did he see my hair or the freckles or the color of the chain around my neck?

He chuckled. "I also practice the arts of animism and healing. Mysticism is not for everyone, young Tancred. It takes courage and will. I believe you have the courage. All I ask is that you stay long enough to learn if you have the will." He handed me another cup of wine. "Sleep well, boy. Tomorrow we ride for Crooked Sky."

He left me gazing at the space where he had been. Crooked Sky? The name meant nothing to me. My thoughts whirled, trudging around and around. Mysticism! I laughed. Who is he fooling? I slid deeper into the cushion and felt it mold comfortably around me. My head grew heavier. I think I drank the wine, for I could taste it on my tongue. It was delicious after six days of dust and salt and sea biscuit. The last thing I remember was hearing raised voices and wondering what all the yelling was about.

I woke the next morning to blue sky, hot sun, and a thundering headache. I can usually hold my drink, but two large cups of wine on an empty stomach and a dehydrated body can hit a person like a jug of dwarf spirits. For a long time I could not lift my head or open my eyes for fear my brain would explode. I lay still, gritting my teeth, and listened to the sounds around me. I could hear men talking, the sound of horses' hooves on sand and gravel, the squeak of harnesses and saddles, the groan of wagon wheels, and somewhere high above I heard the cry of a kestrel.

I wondered about the noise, but it took some time before I realized my body was moving in odd ways. The movement felt similar to the roll of a small freighter, and for one short moment I feared I was back on the Wayward. Then sense moved past the pain in my head, and I knew I was still in the desert. I opened my eyes—and quickly slammed them shut A groan of misery escaped my lips.

Someone close by chuckled. "The lost boy awakes."

If the speaker hadn't been my rescuer of the day before I might have picked up the closest weapon and struck the snideness from the voice. Instead I shaded my eyes from the brilliant light and slowly peeled them open. Katriona's lovely face beamed down at me from the side of a low cart.

Don't worry, Father, I know she is a centaur and there is no hope of anything beyond friendship between us, yet I can't help taking delight in her beauty. She is truly a magnificent woman and horse.

Anyway, I came to and found myself lying on top of a pile of long bundles laid on the bed of a low cart. Apparently, the men had packed their camp up around me, dumped me on top of the tents, and left their campsite at dawn. The healer's request to take me with them was still being honored.

The horsewoman shook her head. "Drink this," she ordered and handed me a waterskin. "Danian said this would help your pain."

I eyed it as if it was a snake. "Danian? The healer? He said a lot of things."

"He knows what he is talking about, Outlander. Just because he wears barbaric robes and uses a bird to see does not mean he is a fool."

Unlike me, I thought. The realization finally dawned, and I made the connection between the kestrel, the man, and his proclaimed skill in animism. Of course! The bird saw me clearly last night. I pushed myself upright and, ignoring the thumping pain in my head and the nausea in my stomach, I took the proffered skin and swallowed the drink. It tasted revolting in spite of the honey used to sweeten it.

Katriona flashed another one of her brilliant smiles at the look on my face. "We think he ages it in horse dung," she informed me.

Horse dung or no, it worked. In short order my headache settled to a mere gentle thudding, and my stomach decided it could stand a little food. My eyes finally found a focus. I was on a horse-drawn cart at the tail end of a long line of riders.

"Where are we going?" I asked. The sun was high overhead, and I could not tell which way we were traveling.

"Crooked Sky tonight. Tomorrow we will reach the Grandfather Tree. The chieftain of my tribe has called a gathering."

I listened and did not understand a word in three. "Huh?"

Katriona might have been annoyed and in a rush yesterday, but today she was in no real hurry. She indulged me in good humor and answered my questions. "Crooked Sky is an oasis east of here beside a high ridge that gives it its name. The Grandfather Tree is also called the World Tree. It is a sacred place to us and a central gathering spot for all the plainsmen and centaurs on the Plains. We have received news from the east that must be discussed, so my grandfather called a meeting."

"You said your chieftain called the gathering."

"They are the same."

"What are they going to talk about?"

"War." She nodded once and cantered away to hunt, leaving me gaping at her dust.

Crooked Sky

We reached the oasis at dusk, just in time for me to see why it is called Crooked Sky. The ridge Katriona mentioned lay to the west of the oasis a mile or so. Worn by erosion and centuries of wind, the top of the ridge was jagged like an old wood saw. The light of the setting sun glowed behind it in gold and bronze and sent beams of light shining between the ragged teeth. It was breathtakingly beautiful, until the light faded and the ridge turned black in the night. So much of the desert is like that, Father. One moment it shows you a sight more magnificent than you ever imagined, then in the blink of your eyes, the beauty is gone and there is only the rock and the desolation.

The plainsmen quickly set up camp near the tiny pool of water that made this an oasis and started their cooking fires. Guards rode out to take their positions, and the horses were fed and watered. I felt obliged to do what I could to help, and while I was not exactly welcomed with joy, the men accepted my inexperienced attempts with patience.

Their reaction to me made me reconsider my thoughts about Danian. Yes, Wanderer had accepted his word about me, but these plainsmen had also, which made me realize the shaman healer was accorded a great deal of respect. Most of these men had been ready to dump me by the wayside yesterday. Today they were willing to tolerate me. All on the word of a short, blind man who talked to birds.

Danian found me shortly after nightfall. The evening's designated cook had set me to work turning the spit that held a haunch of deer over the fire. I didn't see the healer until he tapped me on the arm and sat down beside me. His kestrel perched quietly on his shoulder. For a while we said nothing. We watched each other quietly while I turned the meat for the evening meal.

"Thank you for the drink this morning," I ventured at last.

"It helps," he replied, "if you ignore the taste."

I shifted in my seat, not knowing what else to say. A thousand questions tumbled in my head, yet I did not want to commit myself even to the point of showing curiosity. I was stuck with this band in the desert until they reached somewhere where I could leave them. What if I said I wasn't interested in Danian's offer and Wanderer did to me what my own father and Captain Immil had done? I'd be stuck again. So I kept my mouth shut and let the healer chose what to say.

He seemed to be in no hurry. He sat with his legs crossed and his head slightly tilted as if he was listening to something. After a while he nodded and began to speak in his light, calming voice. He talked about many things, about his tribe and his long-dead wife, of the desert that held him in its heart, of the first time he saved Wanderer's life, and of the patient kestrel that served him. Through his long rambling narrative I caught the thread of his life.

He is a good man, Father—steady, loyal, and infinitely patient—all those things Mother tried to find in a tutor for me. She should have looked on the Plains. He also has a depth of wisdom I find amazing.

I caught myself rapt in his words, waiting for more, wanting more. Was it his voice or his magic that caught me? Or was it simpler than that? I had been alone for so long I craved friendship and attention, and here was a man of dignity and intelligence who was interested in me. When he finished with his tale, he asked me questions about my life, and before I realized what I was doing, I spilled out the entire seventeen years of my existence. I didn't even notice when the cook came back, took the spit from my hand, and hacked the meat from the bone to be served to the men.

We talked long into the night, and when I was too exhausted to continue, the healer gave me more of his foul liquid and a blanket and bade me goodnight with a smile. I lay down by the fire and for the first time in months, I fell asleep content.

I awoke to screams.

I bolted upright in my blanket and saw the camp in chaos. Leaping forms charged in among the tents, brandishing torches and swords. They hacked at the tents and set fire to the cloth. Flames leaped up, their glow illuminating the attackers. A few of the Plainsmen staggered out of their tents to try to defend themselves.

I almost screamed in terror then, for I saw our attackers were draconians—big and scaly and hideous in the flame-lit night. One of them saw me by the dim embers of the cookfire and bounded toward me.

Father, I was frightened out of my wits. I scrambled out of my blanket and tried to find my dagger—as if that would do anything against a scimitar-wielding baaz draconian. I should have just bolted for the nearest cover.

The baaz lifted his weapon to hack me in two. He was almost on me when he staggered and clawed at his throat. An arrow protruded from his neck. Gurgling, he fell on his back and turned to stone. I stared stupidly, until I heard hoof beats behind me. Katriona cantered into the light, grabbed my arm, and hauled me onto her back. I held on for life, as she nocked and fired one arrow after another into the struggling mass of men and draconians. She never missed.

More men came out of the darkness from behind the draconians. The fight was ferocious, for the baaz were led by several larger and smarter bozaks. They led their forces in a fierce battle against the Plainsmen that lasted, what seemed to me, an eternity. At some point, Katriona ran out of arrows. Without a word, she pulled me off her back, handed me a bloodied scimitar, and galloped into the raging fight with nothing but a small round shield and another scimitar she had picked up.

I had never handled a scimitar in my life, but I knew what would happen to me if the draconians overwhelmed the Plainsmen. Screaming like a terrified maniac, I charged the nearest draconian and by some good stroke of fortune, I plunged the blade into his back between two pieces of ill-fitting armor.

The man who had been facing the draconian yelled, "Pull it out! Pull it out!"

Unfortunately I did not react fast enough. The baaz died and, like the first one, turned to stone, trapping my sword in its petrified back. It toppled over, wrenching the blade out of my hands.

The Plainsman and I looked at each other across the dead lizard. It was the complainer who had wanted to leave me behind. He curled his lip in a sneer at my stupidity and whirled to face another enemy, his sword still in his hand.

I found another scimitar and continued to fight in an inept way, but fight I did, Father. I think you would have been proud of me. When the Plainsmen killed the last draconian and paused to take measure of the battlefield, I think they were all a little surprised to see me still standing. I was pleased, too, and exhausted and exhilarated all at once. I saw with relief that Wanderer and Katriona were alive and unhurt, but when I looked for Danian I did not see him.

My heart sank. Even though I had not made up my mind about his offer, I liked him and I did not want to find him among the dead. My scimitar fell from my hand. I scrabbled over the bodies and among the ruins of the burned tents. I searched frantically until Wanderer took my arm and pointed to a place beyond the light of the torches and fires.

I found Danian in the farthest edge of the light where the darkness was almost complete. He knelt on the sand, rocking on his knees, his blind eyes full of tears. He sensed me come, I think, for his kestrel was not with him and he could not have seen me. He took my hand and pulled me down beside him.

"There are so many dead here," he murmured in a voice as hollow as a grave. "I see their souls—my friends, my enemies. They should be leaving this world, but they can't. Why can't they leave? See. There is Alai. His family should be waiting for him. He should be pleased. There is grief and terror on his face. He is being called, he says. Called by whom? Who is this who can control the spirits of the dead? Where are you going?"

His last question was a shout of pain, then he collapsed on the ground. Frightened, I picked him up and carried him into the firelight to my blanket. He lay trembling and drew in great lungfuls of air until his body slowly calmed and his eyes dried. I watched him, watched his face, as he took control of his emotions. In less time than I would have imagined, he sat up and gripped my arm with ferocious strength.

"Come help me," he ordered. "We will not allow any more to join the dead tonight."

Through what remained of the night, he helped the wounded and true to his word, he did not lose another man. I, of course, had no idea what to do beyond fetching water and wrapping bandages, but he showed me everything he did and explained his craft so that even I could understand. He explained he could not use his mystic's magic of the heart because the dead were too close. I did not know what he meant by that. It wasn't until much later that he explained that the souls of the dead stole magic from any one trying to use it. All I knew that night was that the healing he performed was bloody, painful, and messy. And I was fascinated.

Believe it or not, Father, your wayward son found something that caught his attention and took hold of his imagination like nothing else before. There were ten wounded men in the camp after the battle. Danian and I amputated an arm; cleaned, stitched, and salved numerous slashes; repaired a smashed hand; treated a head wound, and did what we could for half a dozen burns. Around us the plainsmen carried away the dead draconians, buried their own dead, and took stock of their remaining gear, and through it all I only had thought for Danian and the wounded.

When we departed from the oasis the next morning, we left twelve men behind in a mound of rocks and sand. The burned tents left scorch marks on the red earth. Instead of tents, the cart carried the worst of the wounded. I feared I might have to walk, but Wanderer came by as we were preparing to leave. He did not touch me or say anything. He simply nodded at me and handed me the reins of a horse left master-less by the attack. I knew enough about the Plainsmen and their love for their horses to know he was offering me his thanks.

Danian brought me some robes that had survived the fires to replace my own stained, bloodied clothes. Dressed in the flowing robes of a tribesman and riding a desert horse continued the change I felt within me. I was no longer the spoiled boy who had left Haven six weeks ago, but I still didn't know who I was or what I wanted to be. Did I really want to commit my life to learning Danian's ways? Or was this just a new infatuation that would fade within a few months? I didn't know, but at least I could think about letting time and my own destiny take its course.

During our journey that day I asked Katriona about the draconians. I knew there were roving bands of outlaws and brigands on the plains, and sometimes they would attack large parties of armed men. But to me, that troop seemed too large and too well organized even for draconians.

Katriona agreed. She told me more of what had been happening on the Plains of Dust this summer. By the single moon, Father, did you know any of this? I used to pay little attention to the events outside of Haven. I remembered the great storm that came through and wrecked much of the fleet that was in the harbor at the time. I knew about the green dragon's attack on the Citadel of Light and the destruction of Qualinost. Who didn't know that? But I had been stuck on the Wayward for a month and wandering in the desert since then. I had little idea what had been going on. Did you know the elves left their homeland and crossed this desert? Did you know Wanderer helped them? Katriona told me about the exodus. It sounded incredible to me. Quite a few of the elves died, but many more survived to reach Silvanesti, only to discover the shield was down the realm had been taken over by the Knights of Neraka. No one knows what the elves are going to do now, least of all the Plains tribes.

The people of the plains have their own troubles now. According to Katriona, the reason this big gathering is being called is because something is happening south of here in the realm of the brass dragon, Iyesta. No one knows what yet, but scouts have reported an army is massing in the south. Iyesta herself has not been seen in some time. The blue dragon, Thunder, is missing, too. There is no news coming out of Missing City, and scouts sent south to investigate have not returned. Roving bands of draconians and mercenaries, similar to the band who attacked us last night, are moving north and west. The centaurs, who have kin in the south, are deeply worried, so they have called a gathering of the clans and tribes. It seems Katriona was right. I have left Haven to fall right into the middle of an impending war.

The Grandfather Tree

We had only been traveling a few hours when I caught my first glimpse of the Grandfather Tree. When Katriona first mentioned it, I thought she meant a mere tree of some sort, an old cottonwood perhaps or a pine of some significance. I certainly was not prepared for the sight that caught my attention. It is not just a tree; it is an enormous tree, a vallenwood of all things. The Plains people call it Grandfather, although others call it the World Tree. It is sacred to the god Zivilyn and is held in great reverence by the local tribes and centaur clans. All that day the tree loomed larger on the horizon until by evening, when we drew up under its great boughs, it filled the sky with its enormous canopy.

As I sat on my horse and stared up the mass of branches and leaves overhead, Danian rode up beside me.

"Once some tribesmen decided to see how big the trunk was at its base, so they found some warriors to spread out their arms and link hands around the trunk. It took over a hundred grown men to finally encircle the tree."

"I never knew vallenwoods grew this big," I said in awe.

"They don't. This tree was a gift from the god. It is very old, and its roots go deep into the ground. Its branches lift toward the stars. If you are quiet and you listen, the tree may grant you a gift."

I looked at him askance. "What sort of gift?"

All I got from him was an enigmatic look.

Although there were chieftains and groups from many clans and local tribes, there was plenty of room for all under the great tree. No one lit fires under the vallenwood, for it was considered bad manners or bad luck or something to burn the wood of the tree or to disturb it with smoke. We ate a cold dinner, and that night the plainsfolk met just to socialize. They traded stories and songs and skins of wine. Once again, that food-before-business custom. Nothing was said of the attack on Wanderer's band, or the troubles to the south, or the rumors of war, or the difficulties of the elves, or the odd disappearance of the dragons. The evening was congenial and restful and allowed the representatives of each group to renew acquaintances and familiarize themselves with with who was there.

I realized, watching them, that this social evening helped set the stage for the next day. These tribes are not as barbaric as some cityfolk like to believe. Naturally my red hair was noted and treated with some humor. Although they did not like the presence of an outlander, they respected Wanderer and Danian enough to tolerate me. Apparently, Katriona also helped my cause by telling the centaurs about my willingness to fight the draconians and to help Danian after the battle. The big horsemen respect a human who can both fight and heal.

I slept soundly that night under the tree, still wondering what Danian meant by a gift. The next day, the gathering became more serious. The chieftains, shamans, and all the important leaders of the area, met under the tree. I do not know what was said, because of course I was not allowed to attend. I was there due to the generosity of an important leader, not because I was one! I spent the day grooming my new horse and taking him for a ride. He was a delightful animal, a golden sorrel, well trained and a joy to ride. Katriona joined me for a while before returning to her clan's camp to wait for her grandfather to finish the meeting.

The next day was much the same. I'm not sure what they all found to talk about, but they went on at length. I could feel the tension mounting under the great tree, and I fully expected to hear war-horns and see them all march south, but nothing happened. I began to wonder if they were waiting for something. Maybe a sign or more information or for someone to make up his mind. Katriona would tell me little, and Danian, when he came back from the meetings, simply told me to wait and keep my mind open.

Open to what? Shields and bucklers, that man could confuse a wise man.

On the third day of the gathering, a messenger rode into the camps, and I knew the waiting was over. He wore a filthy, blood-stained uniform of a Solamnic Knight, and he came in on a dusty horse exhausted from a long ride. He was immediately escorted to the meeting. Curious, I edged close to the seated groups of men to hear what was going on.

I couldn't hear it all, but I heard enough. A large army of draconians, mercenaries, and men was massing to the south. It would be moving toward Duntollik before long. No one was sure who led it. There was no mention of dragons.

A cold chill swept through me in spite of the warmth of the day. My decision had just become more complicated. Instead of a quiet period of study with a shaman mystic, I was now faced with a war in a land that was not mine.

Father, I did not know what to do. I slipped away from the meeting and walked out into the desert to think. Before I left home, there would have been no decision. I would have wanted no part of a mystic talent that required effort and courage, nor would I have considered participating in a war. Why would I want to include myself in someone else's fight? Yet, after weeks away from home I was debating all of that and more. I had nearly died out there in the desert; that can change one's perspective. Around and around in my head, my thoughts cantered like horses. Go or stay. Would the Plainsmen let me go? Would they want me to stay? Does Danian need an apprentice now, or would he prefer not to be burdened with a neophyte? What did I want to do? Could I face the terrors of battle? Could I really be a mystic? Why would I want to, if Danian was right and the spirits of the dead stole your power? Were there any gods out there who cared one way or the other? Zivilyn was the god of wisdom. Where was he when I needed him?

The sun was settling into the west when I finally came to a decision of sorts. I would go home, I thought. The Plainsmen did not need me, and I was not ready to face something thing like this. Someday, perhaps, I could come back and find Danian. You're running away, a small thought said in my head, and it spoke with your voice, Father. That's what you would have said if you had been there with me.

"I know," I said to the darkening sky. "But what can I do?"

I returned to the camp to find it in an uproar. The centaurs were leaving to gather their levies, and the tribesmen would soon follow. The Plains of Duntollik prepared for war.

I wandered into Wanderer's camp and sat in my saddle like a forlorn child while others busied themselves with their duties. No one spoke to me or told me what was going on. No one even looked at me. I soon saw that Wanderer was not planning to leave that night. He would pull out the next day. His band was going south to scout the position and numbers of the invaders.

Danian came to me at dusk. "Tomorrow, if you chose to go, you may take the horse. Ride north two days and you will find a small settlement that will help you. From there you can find your way home."

I hadn't said a word to him. Did he know already? I looked into his blind eyes.

"Do you want me to go?" I know he read all of my meanings in that simple question.

He put a hand on my shoulder and said softly, "My offer will last as long as I live. You must decide when to accept it."

I sighed and shook my head. I could not tell him yet.

I paced a great deal that evening and tried to think until the chill of the desert night drove me to my blankets. I threw myself down under the tree and tried to sleep.

The night grew very dark and intensely still. I tossed in my blankets, but sleep eluded me. The camp was too quiet. By turning my head I could see the mounds of sleeping men, the ghostly forms of tents, and the occasional movement of a sentry marking his beat in the dark. Yet I could hear nothing.

Listen, Danian had told me. Open your mind.

Open my mind to what? I asked the darkness. I rolled over onto my back and stared up at the great canopy of leaves above me. For a long while I lay motionless and merely gazed up at the tree. Time passed before I became aware of a sound. It was as deep as thunder, as soft as a lullaby, a voiceless song in the desert night. It drew me out of my blankets and into the sand and rocks beyond the Tree. A crescent moon hung above the hills. Frost glimmered on the dunes and plants. I saw my breath hang tenuous on the frosty night, but I did not feel the cold. Behind me the Tree sang to me and urged me on until I stood on a high hill overlooking the plains. Deep in the desert night the distances seemed so near. Stars blazed like jewels within my grasp. Sand melted into the black pools of the sky.

Far to the south I saw a mass of seething cloud pierced by spears of lightning. The storm grew and spread from east to west and billowed across the sky toward me, its towering clouds flaring with light. I saw streams of lightning strike the earth, and in the brilliant flashes of illumination beneath the clouds I saw two armies locked in struggle and a dragon fighting for its life. I could not see the color of the dragon. It looked gray in the light of the storm, hut it could not fly, and it fought with a fury bordering on desperation.

I turned to run, to go back to the safety of the Tree and to warn the tribesmen, when I saw something out of the corner of my eye. I hesitated. A horse, one that looked remarkably like the sorrel Wanderer had given me, galloped out of the seething battle. Its eyes rolled white with terror and blood ran down its foreleg. It raced up the hill to me and came to a sliding halt. Come. I heard the word in my head as clearly as a voice shouting by my ear. Come. They need you.

I did not hesitate. I did not ask who needed me. I knew as clearly as the voice that summoned me. I mounted the sorrel and clung to his mane as he whirled and charged down the hill and onto the plains. Behind me, the Tree fell silent.

"Tancred." A different voice this time—one alive and speaking close beside me. I opened my eyes and saw Danian sitting cross-legged beside my blanket. I looked up and saw the Tree spread out over me, its leaves turning green in the growing light of day.

"It was a dream," I said in wonder.

"It was a vision, a portent," Danian told me, "a gift from the Grandfather."

I looked at him curiously. "Did you see it? Do you know what was in the vision?"

He shook his head. "The visions are personal. I don't try to intrude."

"What do you mean by a portent? This wasn't just an image from the imagination sort of dream?"

"No." He chuckled then. "It was far more than that. If you have a strong spirit, the Grandfather will send you a vision with clues of things to come."

A sigh slipped out. I wasn't very pleased with the look of things to come, but at least I knew now what I was going to do.

And so, Father, I am writing this letter to you from under the Grandfather Tree, somewhere on the Plains of Dust. Katriona told me some centaurs of the Windwalker clan would be going north to gather their warriors. They will take my letter and pass it on to the first merchant caravan or settlement they reach. With luck, this letter will reach you before too long.

I wanted to tell you where I was and what I was going to do before I go. The Tree did not give me a portent of my own survival, but it didn't warn me that I would die either. I go with Danian into the desert and hope for the best.

Thank you, Father, for your courage and your strength that you have given me, after all, and for your determination that dragged me out the door and set me on the path of my future. Please give my love to Mother. Tell her all will be well. I have friends and a goal. What more does a man need?

Your loving son.

Back Cover

Once again, war shakes the foundations of Ansalon.

While the wise and powerful wage war, it is the common people who most bear the terror and hardships. Who will speak for them? Who will remember that they lived and died beneath the heels off the mighty?

Bertrem of the Order of Aesthetics, Keeper of the Great Library of Palanthas, has gathered his final account of those most often forgotten in the doings of conquerors and kings. This is life during the War of Souls.