The thick iron chains were uncomfortably heavy. Beneath the manacles, sores festered that the creature could not scratch. He did his best to ignore the pain and concentrated instead on the cries of the gulls circling overhead. With each breath, he pulled as much fresh air as possible into his lungs. The air was crisp, almost brittle, on this late fall morning, and it was laced with the scent of sea bass that had been caught a number of hours ago and was now threatening to spoil. It carried with it a worse and all-too-familiar odor-the stench of his captors. The creature growled softly and gritted his teeth as a whip struck his back.

"Move!" A grim-faced sea barbarian cracked the whip again. "Faster, you stinking beast!" There were other words that were more vicious-sounding, an unending stream of expletives that the barbarian thought the creature could not understand and that he rattled off for his own pleasure. "You're the slowest of the lot! Move!"

The creature called himself R'vagho, and had stated his name repeatedly to his captors. They thought the word was only a growl.

Another lash.

Reluctantly he sped up his pace, chains clanking sonorously above the snap of the billowing sails. Bow to stern and back again, across a deck that had become deeply scarred by the chains dragging over it, the walk was achingly brief and monotonous, but it was far better than staying forever in the stuffy, urine-reeking hold. It gave the creature some semblance of exercise so his muscles would not atrophy-and so he could fetch a better price.

Thirty-odd creatures rested in the belly of the cog currently called The Hope of Kothas. The ship had changed its name twice since it had taken the creatures on as cargo, and it had flown a dozen different flags. All of that subterfuge was lost on the beasts.

The creatures were to be sold as slave labor for an inland mining company within the week in a port called Goodbay. R'vagho had never heard of Goodbay, or of Abanasinia, the country in which it rested. He only knew that they were heading south. The rising and setting sun told him that much.

At one point there had been more than a hundred and fifty of the beasts crammed into the hold. Most had been sold in small ports to the north, along with chests containing relics from the Blood Sea, always at night, when the palms of sentries were filled with enough steel coins so they would look the other way. The barbarians' merchant captain, whose face was always hidden by a voluminous hood, had an accomplished sorcerer under his command. The sorcerer, also obscured by his expensive, billowy clothes, kept the creatures in line and waggled his fingers to magically put to sleep any on the docks who might object to the slaving operation.

"Move!"

The walk ended all too quickly, and the creature was returned to the hold. Another captive was taken up top, then another. R'vagho and his fellows passed the day in the close darkness of the ship's belly as they always did-eating the barbarians' scant leftovers, listening to the timbers creak softly, and trying to remember just how long they had been gone from their home.

Sleep came with difficulty, as usual, and the creatures were rudely roused from it. R'vagho felt the ship lurch wildly. He stood, only to be driven to the hold's floor as the cog rose and fell with what must have been an especially large wave. His breath was knocked from him as one of his fellows stumbled into him, then the pair scrabbled to their feet. Another bucking motion, and the creature was tossed against the hold's side, his head striking the rough timbers. He grabbed at his stomach in a pointless attempt to keep it from giving up his meager dinner.

A storm. They'd been through several during the trip. Some had been worse than others, but this felt like an especially bad one. The creature clung to a beam and tried to shut out the growling complaints of his fellows. He picked through the noises, trying to sort out what was going on above.

The timbers were groaning, as they always did during strong winds. The sound was different this time, not the gentle, almost soothing sound he had come to consider pleasant. If the timbers were living things, the creature would have believed these were groans of pain. Straining his ears, he heard the faint snap of the sails, but this, too, was different. He heard the crash of waves across the deck, the fearful bellows of the barbarians, the creak of the masts-louder than in the previous storms, if R'vagho's memory served him.

The wind whistled shrilly, and the sound grew to a keening wail as the minutes passed and the others in the hold finally grew quiet and listened to the sounds of the storm. A rumbling started, at first soft, like the growling of an empty stomach, then within the space of a few breaths becoming so thunderous it fairly overpowered their senses. It brought lightning with it, the cracks sharp and frightening. The ship rocked with an ever more frantic pace, wildly rising and falling and lurching unpredictably from side to side.

R'vagho barely made out the voice of the captain. He was shouting orders, panic clearly evident in his voice. Feet pounded across the deck, though amid the crescendo of the storm, the footfalls sounded faint.

The largest of those in the hold, a tall, hulking brute, was making his way to the ladder that led up to the hatch. The brute's thick chains thudded dully against the rungs as he climbed.

R'vagho steadied himself and made his way to the ladder. He grabbed another beam and doubled over as the bucking motion of the ship caused him to lose his balance and retch.

More of the creatures were surging around the brute on the ladder who was now slamming his fists against the door of the hold. The wood was slowly giving way, just as the previous hatch had done during an earlier unsuccessful escape attempt.

R'vagho numbly watched them. When they broke through the hatch, they would be severely beaten, as they had been following the earlier attempt. Perhaps this time the brute would be scorched by the sorcerer's horrible, tiny lightning bolts or maimed by the frightening fire-magic. Maybe the creatures would be keelhauled.

More pounding fists echoed against the hatch. Growls of encouragement came from those clinging to the ladder beneath the brute. The faint cries of the sea barbarians drifted down from the deck. Then finally the sound of wood splintering cut through the chaos. Success! The brute scrambled through the broken hatch and onto the deck. The others followed quickly up the ladder behind him.

R'vagho let out a deep breath, closed his eyes, and waited for the sound of the sorcerer's terrifying spells and the thuds of his fellows falling to the deck in fiery death throes.

Instead, all the creature heard was the howl of the storm. The wind and the thunder rose eerily louder now, the broken hatch carrying a chill gust into the hold where it echoed like a maddened ghost. The rain was coming with it, a driving sheet that spattered in a staccato rhythm against the hold's floor.

His brethren would be lashed by whips and put to sleep by the magic they all loathed or else they would be killed. Still, R'vagho was curious, and joining his fellows on deck would be better than staying down here in the foul hold.

The creature pushed away from the beam, staggering as the ship continued to pitch wildly. He fell twice before he made it to the ladder, and he clung to the rungs to steady himself before he began a slow ascent.

Despite the black sky overhead, it was somewhat lighter on deck. Dark gray clouds were intermittently illuminated by lightning. The wind was fierce. It had broken the rear mast, which lay amid torn sail and rigging and the unmoving bodies of a several barbarians. The captain ordered the mainsail to be taken down.

Men scurried here and there, tightening down everything, lashing water barrels together. The first mate tied himself to the wheel, and the sorcerer was near him, waggling his fingers and casting a spell at the ship's bow. The wind had blown back his cowl, revealing a startlingly white face and a shaven head. Lips the color of cinders were in constant motion, spilling out the phrases of the enchantment.

There was chaos everywhere. The sea was roiling like a pot of boiling soup, sending waves taller than the ship's mainmast crashing across the deck. The water was icy cold and immensely powerful, driving everyone in its path to his knees and threatening to pull the cog under the water's surface.

Through the cacophony, the creature heard a sea barbarian shout that a dragon had birthed the storm, and that the great beast would swallow any survivors.

"We'll all die!" It was the same barbarian who had whipped R'vagho that morning on deck.

"Aye, and you'll die even sooner if you don't help Gristen at the wheel!" The captain bellowed to be heard above the howling wind. The storm had revealed his dark face, which was surprisingly youthful.

R'vagho spotted the brute, who was motioning the creatures forward. A handful of sailors rushed toward them, fumbling at their waists for belaying pins and whips. The men hollered and gestured toward the hold, but the brute growled and defiantly shook his head.

No one was going back down there. Freedom was within the creatures' reach, even if it might be shortlived in this raging storm. R'vagho saw the brute raise his shaggy arms, flailing his thick chains in the face of the nearest sailor. The brute's followers were quick to copy the gesture, overcoming the barbarians before they could use their weapons.

Faintly through the rain and wind, the creature heard the snap of bones and the splash of human bodies being tossed overboard. He heard the captain shouting more orders as his crew tried to deal with the rebelling beasts and keep the ship intact.

Lightning flashed from the sky at the same time miniature bolts shot from the sorcerer's fingertips. The small bolts struck one of the creatures squarely in the chest, and he crumpled atop a barbarian he'd been trying to rend. More bolts flew into the pack, slaying another two of the rebels, and the sorcerer returned his attention to the bow.

The sails were down from the mainmast now, and the brute and another three creatures were there grabbing up lines and wrapping them around cornered barbarians. A pair of creatures picked up a water barrel and were using it as a shield against the bosun's mate. The man slashed at the barrel with his sword even as the creatures drove him back against the railing. Suddenly the ship rode a large crest and plunged downward. A wave washed across the bow, and all three were swept over the side.

R'vagho was doing his best to stay on his feet, but the erratic movement of the ship was making him nauseous and dizzy. He lurched toward the capstan, sliding clumsily across the water-slick deck and falling. He managed to wrap his long arms around the base of the capstan and took a deep breath. The ship climbed again, and this time it seemed to hang suspended in the air for several heartbeats before it fell with a deafening, bone-jarring crash. A wave thundered across the deck, sending several more creatures and barbarians into the sea.

R'vagho continued to hold tight and blinked furiously, trying to get the salt water out of his eyes so he could see what was going on. When the ship crested another wave and dropped again, a barbarian who was charging toward the creature slipped and fell. His sword flew from his grasp and clattered to the deck close to R'vagho as the man was washed overboard.

The creature awkwardly wrapped his clawed fingers around the small pommel and tried to shut out the confusion around him, tried desperately to ignore the bucking of the ship. The best he could manage was to fight off the nausea. When the unsettling wave in his stomach subsided, he jammed the blade's tip into a chain link just above his ankle. The link was rusty, and although he had tried unsuccessfully in the hold to pry it apart with his hands, maybe with this blade…

The storm continued to hammer mercilessly at the deck, and the waves threatened to sweep the creature overboard, but still he concentrated on the link of chain. The tip of the blade snapped, but he continued to pry at the link with the blunted sword. R'vagho gritted his teeth as he heard a loud snap and glanced up to see what had made the noise. The railing to his right snapped free, taking more of his fellows and some of the barbarians into the swirling sea with it.

He continued to work on the link and was finally rewarded when it snapped free from the manacle. The creature took another deep breath. The air was bitter. He smelled blood mixed with the overpowering scent of the saltwater.

He turned his attention to his other ankle and began to worry at a link there. The blade snapped again, leaving several inches of steel protruding from the hilt. He tried to be more careful now. There was still enough metal left to slip into the seam of the link. His big hands worked feverishly, and he grunted with satisfaction when the chain fell away, freeing his feet. The manacles remained, but he would deal with those later-if there was a later.

R'vagho peered over his shoulder. Beyond the creatures' forms, he spotted two sea barbarians. Unarmed, it appeared they were trying to surrender. R'vagho started to work on the chains affixed to his wrists. His frenzied fellow captives killed the men.

After what seemed like an eternity, a link separated from one manacle, then from the other. He dropped the broken weapon, scooped up a length of chain, and edged away from the capstan. Feet spread wide, knees bent, he braced himself as the ship crested a wave. As the bow rocked forward, he slid across the deck, heading toward the wheel. The first mate was still there, battered by the waves and looking oddly like a broken doll. The barbarian who'd whipped him this morning stood unsteadily nearby.

R'vagho raised his lips in a snarl as he lashed the chain about like a flail. It cracked hard into the face of this morning's tormentor, breaking his cheekbone with a sickening snap and sending the man to the deck. The creature lashed out at him again and again. Blood pooled about the man's unmoving form. Another wave crashed across the deck, washing the blood and the man away.

The first mate could not flee from the creature. His waist was firmly lashed to the center of the wheel, and his right hand was tied about the king's spoke. The remainder of his crewmen could not help him. The few remaining on deck were busy trying to fend off the brute and the other creatures. The captain was nowhere to be seen, nor was there any trace of his booming voice. The sorcerer was perched on the sterncastle above and behind the wheel, somehow surefooted in this gale, hands faintly glowing, face fixed on the bowsprit, trying to use his magical powers to keep the ship afloat.

R'vagho kept a nervous eye on the sorcerer and braced himself as the ship bucked beneath a huge wave. He felt himself flying forward. His arms thrashed about wildly, and he found something to grab on to-the wheel. He held tight until the water receded, then found himself staring right into the face of the first mate. The lightning was coming even faster now. The sharp cracks of thunder that followed reminded the creature of the crack of the barbarians' whips.

The first mate's steely eyes seemed to challenge R'vagho. He winced as a bolt of lightning struck near the ship, then again as another and another shot down from the turbulent sky. His gaze drifted up from the creature's fierce visage, and his eyes widened. R'vagho turned to see what the first mate was looking at.

One of the bolts of lightning had struck the mainmast. It stood teetering, the wood wailing a final protest. It seemed to dangle like a marionette on invisible strings, then toppled toward R'vagho, the first mate, and the wheel.

The creature leapt to the port side, where the rail was still intact. His arms circled the posts just as the mast struck the deck, splintering the timbers. The creature held on as a wave surged above The Hope of Kothas and engulfed the deck, threatening to capsize the now mastless ship. As the water receded, R'vagho shook the saltwater from his eyes.

The first mate dangled lifelessly from what remained of the wheel. The wheel itself was broken, a tangled mess of spokes. Part of the mast was sticking out of a hole in the deck, and two of R'vagho's fellows were desperately hanging on to it.

The brute skirted the hole. He had somehow managed to get out of his chains, and he was stuffing swords into a belt he'd appropriated. His jowls were red with blood, and he threw back his head and howled in victory. Caught up in the blood frenzy of the slaughter, he leapt onto the sterncastle and grabbed a fistful of the sorcerer's robes. The human uttered a string of unintelligible words that somehow cut through the bedlam of the storm. Miniature red lightning bolts shot from the sorcerer's fingers and struck the brute, dropping him to his knees. The brute somehow survived the magical attack and pulled the sorcerer down with him. Clawed fingers found their way to the human's throat and squeezed with savage force.

The sorcerer was dying, and the ship seemed to shudder in response. The groan of the timbers was louder now, drowning out the sound of the wind and the driving rain. The waves continued to batter the ship, and the hole caused by the broken mainmast widened as the ship listed to port.

The brute cast the sorcerer's body from the sterncastle and howled in triumph, though his cry was a whisper amid the rush of the waves and the wind. R'vagho caught his attention and gestured toward the longboats. There were two on the starboard side that had miraculously escaped heavy damage. The brute roared and slammed his fists against his seared chest and nodded.

The creatures hurriedly gathered clothes and weapons-belaying pins, swords, daggers, and anything else that might prove useful-as they lumbered toward the longboats. Eight occupied the first longboat, which was quickly lowered into the water and was propelled away from the ship by a swelling wave. R'vagho scampered into the crowded second boat just as the brute joined him and sliced through the ropes that held it to the cog.

Wave after wave threatened to overturn the tiny longboat. There was no food left in R'vagho's stomach, but the nausea persisted and burgeoned. His head pounded in time with his heart, and he tried to occupy himself by levering a dagger into the fastenings of his manacles. Others copied him, with varying degrees of success, as the brute continued to howl in victory.

The storm broke shortly before dawn. In an impossibly short time, the sea was like blue glass, mirroring the sky and hiding the evidence of its recent fury. There was no sign of the other longboat or the crippled cog. There was no sign of anything but sky and water.

For days the creatures drifted, seeing no other ship and no other life other than an occasional seagull. Their bellies grumbling loudly for food, their skin blistering and cracking from the pitiless sun, they drank what little rain fell into the bottom of the boat and hungrily eyed the smallest among them who could put up little fight against the brute's claws. After several days of incredible suffering, they spotted land to the south. They awkwardly headed toward it, not knowing how to use the oars in concert, but they lost sight of the shore as darkness fell. In the morning, they spotted land again-closer, but still miles away, and the current seemed to be sweeping them beyond it. The brute stood on the narrow longboat seat and stared longingly at the land. He growled softly, then dived over the side and started swimming toward the distant land. One by one, the other creatures followed.

Swimming such a distance was a daunting task at best, but it was made worse by the chill fall air and the cold water. It took them the better part of a day-those who survived-to reach land. The sun was starting to set by the time they pulled themselves up onto the beach. The sand was coarse, and the air that coursed over their tired, aching bodies nipped cruelly at them. Trees beckoned several yards away, green pines and maples that sported a riot of color made more intense by the last of the sun's rays.

The brute crawled toward the pines, nose quivering in search of food, legs moving sluggishly and begging for rest. The others trailed behind him, their limbs like lead from the cold water and the long swim. They plodded slowly but relentlessly, deeper into the forested grove. As they traveled, the woods darkened around them with the gathering shadows of twilight. The mature trees cut the brunt of the wind and hid all trace of the accursed sea. The brute leaned against a thick trunk and grunted as he caught his breath. His nose continued to quiver, bringing a myriad of scents to him-the headiness of the loam, a trace of game. He took another deep breath and gestured with a shaggy arm, staggering forward, the rest of the creatures shuffling after him.

The stars were out by the time they neared a clearing, and he motioned for them to stop. A small herd of deer was grazing beyond the thinning line of trees. The brute crouched as the others moved closer, their jaws slavering with the prospect of food. They crept around the bushes and toward the edge of the clearing and the oblivious deer, crept silently… and froze. The wind rustled the branches, revealing something near the deer, a thin, glowing construction that twisted upward from the ground, climbed into the wispy clouds far overhead, and disappeared from view. Nothing supported it, and it reeked of magic. Unnerved, the hairs raising on the backs of the creatures' necks, they plunged headlong away from the clearing and deeper into another section of the woods, not stopping until they were far out of sight of the unnatural thing.

"These insects! For each one I swat, a hundred arrive to take revenge!"

The dwarf chuckled at his companion as he tromped clumsily through a tangle of tall grass. "So what d'ya expect, Gair? It's summer, an' we're in the woods, miles and miles from any city or village or anythin' else for that matter. Out in the middle of nowhere. "Sides, I'd think you'd like it."

"Like insects?"

"The woods. Elves're supposed to like the woods, ain't they?" The dwarf's voice was deep and craggy, but not unpleasant. He paused and pretended to tug thoughtfully at his short russet beard before he repeated a little louder, "Well, ain't they?"

"And dwarves are supposed to like the mountains, or so I've heard. There's not a single mountain on this island." Despite his gruffness, the elf's words sounded silky and musical and soft, like the faint rustling of the leaves.

"Ah, by Reorx's beard, I do like the mountains, but the woods are just fine."

The elf sighed and batted futilely at a swarm of gnats wreathing his head. "I like the woods 'just fine,' too, Jasper, when there is enough of a breeze to keep the insects-and this appalling heat-at bay, that is. It's hours after sunset, and it's still insufferably hot. My clothes are drenched with sweat."

The dwarf chuckled again and resumed his tromping. "We could stop for the night. Tired?"

"No." The elf grimaced as he flicked a large shiny beetle off his shirt. "We might be close, if we're not lost."

"Close? Do you really think so?" There was hope in the craggy voice.

"No. I believe we are lost."

"Gair, I think you just like to complain."

The pair presented a sharp contrast. The dwarf was thickset and ruddy complected, looking a bit like a tree stump bedecked in an age-worn ginger-colored shirt with sleeves pushed up past his elbows and bright green pants that were stuffed into the tops of faded leather boots. He had brawny limbs and stubby fingers that flitted playfully across the array of ferns that spread alongside the overgrown path. His hair was uncharacteristically short for one of his race, and his blue eyes, from which the hint of a few smile lines sprouted, sparkled mischievously. His face was broad and careworn, his nose slightly bulbous and a little offcenter. His wide teeth were even, practically perfect, and as he grinned they glimmered like polished pearls in the light of the full moon that cut through gaps in the canopy.

"I don't complain, my dwarven friend, not at all. As a matter of…" The elf frowned and mumbled a string of foreign-sounding curse words as a thorny branch snagged his voluminous sleeve. "I was only making conversation," he added more softly.

"An' you don't argue, either, do you, Gair?" The dwarf sniggered, half under his breath. "An' I bet you really don't like the woods. All you like are books and magic."

Gair was tall for an elf at nearly six feet. He had to duck frequently to keep from getting smacked by lowhanging tree branches that the dwarf easily passed under. His eyes looked black-shiny-like wet stones- nearly matching the shade of his impeccably pressed and recently purchased trousers and shirt. Were the light better, however, his eyes would show themselves to be a rich shade of purple flecked with bits of gold. There were muscles rippling in his lithe frame, a hidden strength, and he carried himself gracefully, like a dancer, despite the large pack on his back. His skin was pale, a scholar's complexion, and his face was slightly gaunt, yet handsome, his expression serious. His hair was shiny silver-white like the moon, and as he walked, it fluttered back from his firmly set jaw and teased his narrow shoulders.

"Jasper, to be honest, I've just never enjoyed the Raging Fire all that much, or all these insects that come with it. It's just too hot to do much of anything. Too hot to think. Too hot to… it's just too hot."

Raging Fire was a plainsman term for the warmest month of the summer. The elf and the dwarf found themselves in the heart of an especially sweltering evening.

"I've never minded the Raging Fire-the Dry Heat." The latter was the dwarven term for the same month.

"You don't mind anything."

"Ah, Gair, the key is not to mind it but to appreciate it." The dwarf watched the elf nimbly avoid an exposed sweet bay root while he struggled to tug his own boot free of it. "Just look for somethin' enjoyable-the sounds of the crickets, the song of the owls, the feel of the new leaves beneath your fingertips. Mmm… the heat of the summer against your skin. All the things you don't care for just run right off your shoulder like rainwater, forgotten."

The elf sighed again. "At least it quit raining."

The pair lapsed into silence and continued down the twisting path, allowing their keen vision to separate the shadows so they could find their way through the dark woods. An owl hooted, long and soft, its call muted by distance. Closer, a hawk cried shrilly to its mate. A startled whippoorwill took flight, its wings beating against the leaves as it climbed and sending a cloud of finches rising and chittering in its wake. Around the elf and the dwarf, a symphony of crickets and frogs swelled, stopping for only an instant when Jasper stepped on a fallen branch, snapping it loudly beneath his heavy foot.

It had rained briefly earlier in the day. The moisture had long since burned off the foliage in the late afternoon sun, leaving the ground smelling rich and sweet. There were few spots where something wasn't growing on the forest floor-mushrooms, moss, creeper vines, a variety of grasses, wildflowers that gave off a faint, fragrant scent, and trees and more trees. The rising moon revealed an amazing diversity of the latter-junipers, willows, flowering pears, shaggybarks, hardwoods, nut trees, ginkgoes, poplars, wild cherries that had given up their fruit months ago, cedars, and some broad-leafed trees that were somehow hardy enough to handle the island's winters. When Krynn was much younger and colder, floes of ice pushed seeds from the far north and the far south to this place, resulting in the present remarkable mix of trees and plants. The Cataclysm further altered the land, crushing the spiraling mountains that once formed a jagged spine down the middle of the island, leaving instead gently sloping hills-and inadvertently giving the foliage more places to grow.

"Are you sure this is the right path?"

The dwarf nodded.

"Are you sure we didn't miss a fork somewhere?"

The dwarf nodded again and noted sadly that the crickets had stopped their serenade.

"Then we must be close. We should have caught up to her by now."

Jasper made a huffing sound. "She's got better'n two hours' start on us, Gair. Wanted a little time alone. Remember?"

"I never should have let her go." The elf waited for the dwarf to agree. Getting no response, he continued. "She's far from a young woman, Jasper Fireforge, and unless she turned off on another path to rest somewhere, we should have caught up to her by now."

Again no response.

"Maybe something happened to her. She could be lost, hurt. We should have talked her into searching in the morning."

"Can't find what she's lookin' for in the daylight."

"We should have-"

"Wouldn't've done any good."

"We could go back and retrace our steps, see if she-"

"Goldmoon can take care of herself, Gair. She's all right." The dwarf's voice was confident. Inwardly he worried a little.

Gair stopped on the path and ran a sweaty hand through his hair. The leaves of a willow teased the top of his head. "We should have followed right away, not waited. She's taking far too many chances for someone her age."

"And you take far too few," the dwarf whispered too softly for the elf to hear.

"She could have gone some other time. She's human. She can't see in the dark like we can. She…"

The dwarf made a clucking sound as he stepped in something squishy. He kept his eyes straight ahead, not wanting to discover what it was. "We're the students, Gair. She's the teacher. 'Sides, I've known her a little longer'n you, an' I know she can manage. She'll be all right, you'll see, an' we'll catch up soon enough." He huffed. "An' then I can get some sleep."

"I hope you're right, my friend, but I am not happy about this." His voice dropped to a whisper. "And I have the oddest sensation prickling at the back of my neck."

"Like we're bein' watched?" the dwarf asked in a hushed tone.

"Yes."

"I think someone's been watchin' us for quite some time."

"It's so beautiful." Camilla Weoledge stood on the bow of a small carrack as it eased up to the dock.

"Indeed it is a most lovely town, Commander." The Solamnic lieutenant at her side snapped to attention as Camilla strode past him down the gangplank and onto the dock, not waiting until the ship was properly moored. Her boot heels clicked rhythmically over the weathered wood, and her lieutenant hurried to catch up.

The port town of Schallsea was waking up around them. Merchants were on their way to their shops, bundled in coats on this early winter morning, walking with shoulders hunched into the wind, the ends of their scarves waving behind them like colorful pennants. Outwardly, they paid the knights little heed-that is, until they were safely past and could gawk from a respectful distance.

Chimneys were puffing smoke, tingeing the air with the scent of wood and cinnamon and bacon. Camilla inhaled deeply, finding the scents pleasing. Someone nearby was baking bread, and it sharply reminded her she hadn't eaten since early yesterday.

"Willum, I've visited many port towns, but…" The commander found herself at an unaccustomed loss for words as she stood on the shore and glanced up and down the streets that radiated outward from the docks like spokes on a wheel.

"But seldom one so tidy, Camilla."

"Tidy. Yes, Willum. Schallsea is quite tidy. I like that."

The port was large enough to accommodate warships, even several at a time. Steep granite cliffs protected the bay from storms. The buildings closest to the docks were made of stone with thick slate roofs, designed to keep the occupants safe from invading armies. The population of Schallsea had burgeoned during the War of the Lance. A large group of settlers had been the Solamnics' dark-armored enemies who used the port as a base for raids, primarily against Abanasinia and Southlund.

The streets of the walled city were remarkably clean. They were not of dirt or gravel as in most port towns in Ansalon's southern hemisphere. They were made of cobblestones, a mix of gray and rose stones, all of them looking as if they'd just been scrubbed. The storefronts were in good repair, with no peeling paint on shutters, no debris out front. The bright colors of the buildings seemed to complement each other.

As Camilla and Willum walked southwest through the town, two dozen knights marching behind and nearly a hundred soldiers trailing them, they noticed the residences were tidy and well maintained, from the modest cottages of the shopkeepers to the handful of sprawling manses with manicured lawns and sculpted evergreens.

"The citizens obviously take pride in this place," Willum observed. "It's an honor to be stationed here, Commander."

Camilla did not reply. She pointed at a keep perched on a hill at the southern edge of the bay. It was the most notable landmark in Schallsea.

"Our home," she said tersely. "At least for however long the Solamnic Council decrees we stay here."

"Quaint." Willum drew his lips into a narrow line and squinted. "Look there! Complete with ballistas and catapults to protect the harbor."

"Let's hope we won't need them." Camilla stared at the structure. The masonry had been severely weathered by the salt air. "Krynn has seen too many wars, Willum. I hope we never see another one in my lifetime."

"The battle here went well enough for us."

"I suppose, in the end, but that was a long time ago."

Willum made a humming noise in his throat. "The Dark Knights were kind enough to leave us a place to stay. It's defensible for certain."

Camilla nodded. "The Sentinel, it's called."

"Unfortunate for us they didn't finish it. Look there! Only three sides to the rear section."

She shook her head. "Actually, I consider it most fortunate they were not afforded the opportunity to finish it, Lieutenant." Camilla knew well the history of the Sentinel, eventually abandoned by the besieged Knights of Takhisis in the year 352 A.C., one year before the War of the Lance officially came to an end.

Willum adopted a cheerful tone. "Well, Commander, perhaps we will have a chance to finish it. We could import some stone, obtain the services of some builders. It's rather small, after all. Certainly not up to the usual Solamnic standards. I would think if we-"

"I have other things to worry about than bricks and mortar just now, Lieutenant."

Willum's lighthearted demeanor turned instantly serious.

"Have the men unload the arms and equipment, then get them settled in their barracks." She eyed the rank of knights and selected six of them. "You and I and these men will visit our charges. I'll meet you at the northern edge of the city in one hour. Make sure everyone gets something to eat. We've a hard march ahead of us." Camilla acknowledged the salute of her knights and pivoted sharply on her heels. She had just enough time for a quick tour of the port town. She heard Willum call that she should get breakfast herself, but she had other concerns. She suspected that food would only further upset her already churning stomach.

She walked purposely up and down the side streets, noting that there did not seem to be a single empty residence. A few clipped questions confirmed that all the boarding houses were full. An abandoned temple had been recently turned into an apartment building, and a kindly woman outside the entrance said many of those rooms would be filled with the next boatload of newcomers. Did she need accommodations? Camilla shook her head and moved on.

The knight commander saw that despite the cold Schallsea's carpenters and masons were doing a booming business, scrambling to finish a new row of houses before winter set in. At the edge of her vision, stakes and ribbons hinted that other streets were planned, extending eastward into the heart of the island. Gray and rose cobblestones were piled nearby, indicating they would be improved soon. Schallsea was growing rapidly, perhaps too rapidly. A shiver danced down her spine.

She paused outside an establishment called The Cozy Hearth, a sunny-looking hostel with butter-colored eaves and shutters painted seafoam green. A sign rested against the windowpane: Pilgrims Welcome. In smaller print, it announced, Comfortable beds, Rates reasonable, no one refused. Iryl Songbrook, proprietor. The knight's scowling image was reflected in the window.

Camilla's hair was boyishly short, her tight mahogany curls looking like a cap. Her nose was slightly hawkish, her cheekbones high, and her eyes a bit too large for her face. She wasn't unattractive by any means, but in her opinion she was a little too tall and hardly beautiful. She did little to improve her appearance or to make herself look feminine or appealing. She had more important things to address. She let out a long breath, turned away from the window, and continued her tour.

It was easy to see which buildings had stood since the War of the Lance. They were of thick stone, squat and looking a bit like the shells of tortoises. The newer buildings, mostly farther from the harbor, were two and three stories tall and were made of a combination of stone and wood. Most had sod roofs. Though the majority of the businesses were close to the harbor, other establishments were scattered here and there along the side streets: bakeries, weaponsmiths, clothiers, grocers, leather workers. They were practical businesses, catering to people's needs, nothing prone to much extravagance such as a jeweler's, florist's, or an art gallery. It was a simple town. The larger Schallsea grew, the more it would change.

Camilla hurried toward a stable at the northern end of town, realizing her tour had taken much longer than she expected. It was one of the new buildings, judging by the men still painting it, and considerably larger than the stable near the docks. She spied Willum talking to a thickset man with red paint smudges on his shirtsleeves. Her knights, their duffel bags at their feet, were leaning against the corral, admiring the horses snorting in the chill air.

"Commander!" Willum snapped to attention when he spotted her, and the knights immediately drew themselves away from the horses and formed a line behind the lieutenant.

She nodded curtly to them and started walking down the path that led out of town. Willum rushed to walk at her side, awkwardly shouldering two packs. The knights followed in single file.

"I've made arrangements for the horses coming with the next ship," he began. "The stable near the harbor was-"

"Already full," she finished for him.

He made a humming noise in his throat. "Yes. Well, it looked like there was a stable at the Sentinel-rather run-down, however. If we are stationed here long enough, perhaps we can repair it and keep most of the horses there."

"If we're here long enough."

He made the humming noise again. "I took the liberty of having your belongings placed in the Sentinel's tower room. It has a nice view of the harbor and the docks, and I unpacked a few things for you."

"Thank you, Willum."

"The people in town say it is a few days' walk. Bread?"

She took one of the satchels from him and effortlessly slung it over her shoulder, and he passed her a roll. Obviously it had come from one of the town's bakeries. She paused as if inspecting it, then ate it slowly as they fell into an easy gait. The town of Schallsea grew smaller behind them.

The clank of the knights' armor drowned out the whistling of the cold breeze as they made their way along the winding path leading northward. A rut ran down the middle, the original trail that led out of town. As more and more people had used it, the path had widened and pushed back the vegetation. There was evidence of wagon wheels and shod horses at the outer edges. Some of the tracks were very recent, making slight impressions despite the winter-hard ground. A mix of pines and shaggybarks sheltered the inland side of the trail. Low bushes, their leaves long since chased away by the cold, were set back from the western side of the trail, and through gaps in the scrub the knights spotted the sea in the distance.

The sky was gray, the color of Camilla's eyes, and she cast her head back to watch a lone gull fly to the west and drop toward the water. The air was crisp, laced with the scent of salt water and pines, and the clouds overhead hinted of snow. The padding beneath her armor, coupled with her red wool cape, kept her warm, though her fingers stung a little from the cold air. She flexed them in time with the knights' steps and watched as her breath formed a misty cloud in front of her face.

Willum walked with a stoic gait at her side, his face twitching. He hummed in his throat and concentrated on the trail ahead.

They paused briefly at noon, then resumed their trek, stopping again at sunset to set up camp. In the morning, Camilla afforded little time for breakfast before they were off again at a brisk march. Two hours into their journey, a scream cut through the wintry air.

Camilla sprinted ahead. Willum and the rest of the knights trailed after her, the clamor of their armor practically drowning out what sounded like a battle ahead. She dropped her pack and churned her legs faster, rounded a turn in the trail, drew her sword, and instantly assessed the situation she saw ahead.

One man lay dead at the side of a large wagon, a thick spear protruding from his chest. A thin elven woman was at his side, glancing furtively into the trees on the inland side the path. A dwarf stood with a hammer held high in one hand, the reins of a quartet of dappled horses in another. He was trying to keep the animals from bolting and taking the wagon with them. Near the dwarf was another elf, this one a lanky man in black who was weaving a sword back and forth in front of him and peering intently into the trees. On the seaward side of the wagon, more than a dozen townsfolk crouched for protection.

There was no immediate sign of the enemy, save for several spears lying on the ground. The attackers must be keeping to the trees. As Camilla closed the distance, the knights coming fast behind her, another volley of spears streamed from the trees, followed by the screams of frightened townsfolk. Three spears landed several feet short of the wagon, a fourth cleared the wagon and elicited another scream from a young woman when it fell near her. The last two spears shot toward the dwarf, who was still trying to keep the horses under control. At the last moment, the dark-clad elf knocked the dwarf aside. One spear lodged deep into the elf's thigh and pinned him to the ground. The other bit into his shoulder.

"Gair!" the dwarf hollered as he dropped the reins. He started toward the downed elf just as the lead horses reared. The dwarf cursed himself and made a grab for the reins, but the horses were already charging forward, the wagon clattering behind them.

The elven woman left the dead man's side and rushed toward the other townsfolk, yelling at them to get down, pushing them onto their bellies.

At the same time, Camilla cut toward the dwarf, motioning for her men to follow. Arrows rained from the trees, most of them striking the ground or bouncing off the knights' armor, but some finding their marks among the townsfolk.

"I don't know where you Solamnics came from, but praise the memory of Reorx that you're here!" the dwarf huffed above the cries of the townsfolk. He was on his knees next to the male elf, who was trying futilely to push him away.

"Jasper," the elf groaned. "I'm all right. See to the others." His dark eyes were demanding. "I can heal myself. Help them."

"Don't have to tell me," the dwarf grumbled as he pushed himself to his feet and whirled to see two men with arrows in their shoulders. The female elf was ordering the others to keep their heads down.

"They'll live!" she called to the dwarf. "Look out!"

A second volley of arrows came from the trees, one striking the female elf in the leg. Jasper rushed toward her as more arrows arced from the trees. "They've got us pinned down," the dwarf called to the Solamnics. "Can't see 'em. Don't know how many there are."

Camilla could barely hear him. She was charging toward the trees, feet pounding, armor clanking, peering into the shadows as she ran, trying to locate the archers. Willum and the other knights were fast on her heels, spreading out and batting away arrows with their shields.

She hollered, "Find the archers! If we can engage them, they can't fire on those people! Move!"

Camilla and her knights thrashed through the woods, sending a cloud of birds erupting from the trees. The knights were shouting, but the noise of their armor and the breaking branches muffled their words.

"They move fast! Can't make them out!"

"Find them!" This came from Camilla. "Spread out, but try to stay in sight of your comrades!"

On the trail, Jasper's thick fingers worked quickly, prodding the female elf's leg. At the same time, he told the other townsfolk to watch the trees and stay low. Two men ignored his advice and helped him stop the elf's bleeding.

"This'll hurt," the dwarf said as he gritted his teeth and pulled the arrow out. The elf cried out and fell back into the arms of one of the men. "Not too deep. Nothin' too serious."

"See to the pilgrims first," she pleaded.

The dwarf muttered, "Fine. I'll get right back to you. Press down on the wound," he said as he moved toward the injured men. "An' keep your head down!"

"This'll hurt," he repeated twice more as he pulled arrows from the men's arms. Blood flowed freely from one man, and Jasper held his hand over the wound, closed his eyes, and mumbled something in his native tongue. The words weren't necessary for the spell the dwarf was invoking. They merely helped him focus his thoughts. He reached deep inside himself, visualizing his heart, concentrating on his heartbeat, feeling a warmth spread from his chest and down his arms, centering on his hand and flowing into the wound. "The power of the heart," Jasper whispered. Goldmoon had been teaching him to nurture his healing power.

"Not too good at this yet," he told his patient. The words came haltingly as he continued to concentrate on the enchantment. His hand was warm and sticky with the man's blood, warmer still from the energy of the spell. He deepened the enchantment and felt the heat leave him and radiate upward from the wound. "That should do it."

Slowly Jasper opened his eyes and saw with considerable satisfaction that the wound had closed and the man was breathing regularly. "Rest," he said. "An' keep your head down." He pushed himself to his feet and tended to the other man's arm. Then he cast a glance at the trees. "Don't know where those knights came from, but it's a good thing they came." Or we might all be dead, he added silently. He closed his eyes and felt for the warmth.

The knights continued to thrash about in the woods, spreading out and searching for the archers. Camilla snatched up an arrow and inspected the ground for tracks. The frozen ground was too hard for the attackers' feet to leave an impression. She cursed softly and started scanning for broken twigs, disturbed leaves, any signs of the attackers' passing.

Willum, a skilled tracker, was having no better luck. "Trevor saw someone-or something." He stopped his nervous humming to call to her. "He's gone after it!"

She knelt by the exposed roots of a ginkgo, found a small piece of fur. "Which way did you go?" she breathed. "And who are you?"

"Six months, my beloved. Six months to this day we've been here now, and I still am not certain I'm doing the right thing." Goldmoon squared her shoulders and wrapped her cloak tightly about her. She watched the small pine cones blow across the ground, chased madly by the wind. "It's not that I'm questioning the course my life has taken since the gods left us. Mine has been truly a good life. But perhaps I am attempting too much at my age."

She followed a meandering, narrow path through the woods, toward the east and the Barren Hills, where an almost imperceptible rosy glow in the otherwise gray sky signaled that the sun was coming up. Goldmoon strolled at a leisurely pace through a copse of hickory trees, pausing occasionally to gather fallen nuts and stuff them in the pockets of her tunic. It had started to snow. Large flakes swirled merrily in the wind.

"I know the gods may never return, that we may well be on our own forever. I know that many people have little faith." She sighed and shook her head, cupped her hand over her eyes to keep her long silver-gold hair from whipping into her face. "The people here at the settlement have faith, but sometimes I think they have more faith in me than in what we're trying to accomplish."

Goldmoon shivered as a particularly bracing gust washed across her. She wrapped herself tighter in the folds of her thick cloak. The path narrowed as it wound up a rise where the hickory and walnut trees were closer together and where much of the ground between them was covered with bare thickets. Her boots crunched over walnut shell husks, and she walked hunched over to keep the branches from catching her hair. It took her several minutes to reach the top, where the trees thinned out.

"Will I live long enough to see the citadel built? Should this Citadel of Light be the dream of someone younger? Perhaps one of my students should take over." Her cloak fluttered away from her, threatening to tangle itself in the low-hanging branches as she made her way down the other side of the rise. "Perhaps I should…"

Her words trailed off and she spun and squinted, searching the path behind her. There, by the dead oak…

"Who's there?"

Nothing. Perhaps it was a trick of the shadows. She stared again. No, there was something there. A shadow hesitatingly separated from the darkness of the trunk.

"Good morning, Goldmoon! What a surprise to see you." The elf quickly caught up to her, moving silently and gracefully up the path, though it was evident he was favoring the leg that had been injured a few days ago. In his black clothes, he looked stark against the falling snow.

"No surprise at all, Gair. You were following me."

He scowled and shook his head, started to disagree, then thought better of it. "All right. Yes, Goldmoon, I was following you. I didn't mean to intrude. But I… I wanted to talk to you."

"You don't have to follow me off into the woods to talk to me."

"I wanted to talk to you alone. Away from the-" he gestured with a long arm back to the west-"away from all those people and our Solamnic visitors."

Goldmoon offered the elf an understanding smile. Gair Graymist was perhaps her most eager student. His capacity for grasping the intricacies of mysticism was remarkable, his curiosity insatiable. She thought of him as she thought of this morning's breeze-relentless and unable to be ignored. She had sensed his persistence the first day she saw him, when he'd walked calmly into the Que-Shu village in northern Abanasinia, introduced himself, and announced that he'd traveled hundreds of miles just to study at her side. Goldmoon accepted him on the spot, and when she took on a few more students and decided it was time to leave the tribes behind and establish a center for mysticism, he had insisted on following. She enjoyed his company and had come to think of him almost as a son. He tried hard-too hard sometimes-to please her.

"Talk to me about what?" she asked, shaking her mind loose from her musings. "What could possibly be so important that you had to follow me way out here without a coat? You've hardly had time to recover from your wounds."

"Jasper healed me well enough… saved my life, in fact. You finished the task and made me whole again. I feel fine, truly. My shoulder's not even stiff anymore."

"But not even a coat? Don't undo our healing." Her eyes softened. "So what is it that is so important?"

He studied the toes of his leather boots for a moment, then slowly drew his gaze up again to meet her stare. "Riverwind."

Her mouth fell open in surprise. She thought he meant to ask about learning another spell. Riverwind had been Goldmoon's husband of nearly three decades until he died at the claws of the red dragon Malystryx several years ago.

"I know you talk to him," Gair said. "Every day. Some of the others… when they hear you talk to him, they get confused. They know you miss him terribly, but they think that you're… touched, talking to yourself. They don't think any less of you. They admire you-everything you've done and are doing, like I admire you, but… they think you're getting-"

"Senile," she finished for him. She closed her eyes and sighed. "Addled by the years. So this is why you wanted to talk to me alone. Gair, are you telling me that you agree with them? Do you think I'm… touched? Senile?"

He studied his boots for a moment more, brushed at some snow on the ground, then vehemently shook his head. "You're not senile. You're the sanest person I know, and I think you really are talking to Riverwind, or at least to his spirit. Can you see him? Is he here now?"

She cast a glance over her shoulder, then reluctantly nodded.

"I want to talk to him, too." He dug the tip of his boot into the ground. "Well, not necessarily to Riverwind, but I want to talk to the spirits of the dead. This is very important to me, you must understand. I would've asked you earlier. I had intended to ask before we ever left Abanasinia, but the time never seemed right. You were always so busy. But I guess you'll always be busy."

"And so you're asking now?"

"Yes."

"No." She sadly sensed Riverwind's presence depart.

"Goldmoon, I desperately want you to teach me this. I've wanted it a long time. When I almost died a few days ago, it became even more important to me." He paused, searching for the words, studying her face, which looked uncharacteristically impassive, then plunged ahead. "I just thought this was the right time to bring it up. We're alone. Riverwind's here."

"Not anymore. He's gone now."

"To where? I want to know, Goldmoon. What is after this life? Is it full of happiness? Is it filled with misery? You could teach me to-"

"Absolutely not." Goldmoon started walking to the west, back toward the settlement. "You're not ready for this."

"When were you ready?"

She ignored the question.

He walked beside her until the path narrowed and he was forced to walk behind her. "Goldmoon, this truly is important to me."

"Healing people is important."

"I heal people. Goldmoon-"

"The dead are dead. They've no impact on the living, Gair."

"But Goldmoon…"

She stopped abruptly and whirled to face him, her eyes boring into his. "You are not ready."

His jaw was rigid. The veins in his neck stood out, but he kept his voice soft and even. "Why, Goldmoon? When were you ready? You've been talking to the spirit of Riverwind for as long as I've known you."

Her eyes narrowed slightly. "So you've followed me before?"

He rubbed his chin. "Listen, Goldmoon," he went on, "don't be upset with me. I meant no disrespect. I mean you nothing but respect. I'm curious, that's all. Talking to spirits must be fascinating. What could be the harm? It doesn't matter if it's difficult. I could master it. I know I could."

"It could master you," she returned sharply. She squared her shoulders. "Gair, speaking with spirits is the dark side of mysticism. Think of it as a door, one that is best left closed and forever locked. One that I hadn't intended opening myself. It just… happened."

"There's nothing dark about you, Goldmoon. There will never be anything dark about you." .

"I am an old woman, Gair, and-"

"Not so old," he cut in. "The years have been very kind to you, Goldmoon."

"I am old and I miss my husband. I talk to Riverwind and only to Riverwind."

"Could you talk to other spirits if you wanted?"

"I suppose so, if I wanted to, but I've no intention of opening this door any wider."

Gair scowled, his expression grim. "I don't think I can learn it on my own."

"No," she admitted. "Fortunately, I don't think you can."

"You know I will bring this up again."

"And I will say no… again," she answered.

He sighed, then grinned, though his countenance couldn't hide his disappointment. "Want an escort back to the settlement? I'm sure breakfast is cooking somewhere." He extended his arm. "It's getting cold out here."

"I told you you should have worn a coat." She reached out a hand to take his arm, wet from melting snow. She paused and cocked her head to the side, sensing something.

Gair turned to the north, hearing it, too. "Sounds like boars," he observed. "I can hear them snorting. Good thing I did follow you, Goldmoon. You could get hurt out here alone. No one should be out alone, not after the bandits." His hand drifted to the pommel of his sword. "Something doesn't seem right."

Gair opened his mouth to say something else, but Goldmoon had turned from him, already starting toward the faint sound. Quietly she picked her way through the hickory trees, her breath in the cold air feathering away from her face like a lacy fan. Gair sighed and followed, rubbing his hands together in a futile effort to keep them warm.

Gair padded silently through the woods, tracing roughly the same path that Goldmoon and he had followed early this morning. This time wisdom prevailed, and he wore a heavy coat that draped to his ankles and brushed the top of the snow. Dark green, it helped to conceal him among the trees, a shadow among shadows. Like the shirt and trousers he wore, it was relatively new and exquisitely made. Only his boots were well worn, kept because of their comfort. However, he made a mental note to buy another pair on his next trip to town and start breaking them in.

The elf had a significant cache of steel and gems, an inheritance from his family. And while he had given a more than generous amount of it to Goldmoon for her citadel and various other causes throughout the past several years, he still had plenty to indulge his pleasures-fine clothes and good food-for a long while, likely for the rest of his life.

As the woods became thicker, blocking out the early evening starlight, he focused on his heightened senses. His keen eyes separated the shadows so he could continue on his way without slowing his pace. The snow helped to brighten the area, reflecting the light of the stars and the moon where it penetrated gaps in the pine canopy. He mused that the stars sparkled like the lady knight's eyes. Gair found himself thinking of her again and wondering if he should be spending time with her rather than on this macabre errand. He admitted he was captivated by the face that had hovered over his when he was injured by the spears. Perhaps he would visit with her in the morning.

He was as careful as possible where he walked, avoiding passing beneath certain trees where the crunch of his boots on fallen nuts and pine cones might give him away. Were the snow harder, he would worry about the crunch of that, too, but the snow, which had fallen most of the day, was downy soft.

Though he wasn't particularly worried about others being out in the woods at night, he didn't want to take any chances of being discovered. He didn't want to be followed by any of Goldmoon's curious students, and he didn't want to be discovered by any green-furred creatures such as he and Goldmoon had encountered this morning or by any bandits. He shuddered when he recalled his brush with death several days ago on the trail to the settlement.

Gair moved almost silently, listening carefully for wild boars, wolves, anything that might pose a threat. He wanted to be about his business, then return to Goldmoon's camp before his absence had been noticed.

The wind had died down considerably, or so it seemed in the thick woods. He breathed deep. The scent of pine needles was pleasant to one who had spent much of his early life in the forest, and he detected a trace of rotting wood from a few dying trees. These were the earthy smells of winter, and they reminded him of his home so far away along the southeastern coast of the elven country of Silvanesti.

Stepping off the path and striking off deeper into the woods, he came to a grove of willows, huge trees halfdead from age and errant lightning strikes. Some had carvings on their trunks, symbols he tried to commit to memory and hoped to decipher later. The oldest of the carvings-the bark had grown to nearly cover the scars-showed a half sun, and under it a stick figure carrying a spear. There were smaller symbols around the figure, words perhaps, much of it not readable anymore. The more recent carvings looked like masks with empty eyes, with more symbols around them. He knew several languages, but nothing here was familiar. He traced one of the symbols with a bit of charcoal and a piece of parchment he'd brought along, then thrust them deep into his coat pocket.

He turned north and followed a trail he had missed on his first few explorations of these woods in the early fall. Other eyes would have continued to miss it, but Gair's years in the forest had taught him to look for branches artfully trained to touch the ground. When the leaves began to thin with the fall, he noticed it. They were hiding a narrow trail, one not often traveled, at least on this end, and one certainly not intended for the uninvited.

The elf ducked beneath the limbs and walked faster now, listened more carefully. He'd placed a few branches across the path on his last visit, and they were still here and unbroken, indicating this part of the trail had not been traveled in the past few weeks by people or any animals of significant size.

The trees were so dense here that they blocked the mild evening breeze almost completely. They helped to lessen the cold, too, though his breath still huffed out in a vaporous cloud. There were more symbols on trunks here, none of them recent. Gair made another tracing of a few more symbols, then continued on his way.

The elf felt a mix of excitement and apprehension. He was heading toward what he believed was a sacred spot. Why else would someone hide the trails and carve symbols into trees along the way?

Finally he came to edge of a circular clearing. In the clearing was a series of earthen mounds, radiating outward from a pebble-dotted center. The mounds nearest the center were the oldest and therefore the most worn, weather and time eroding the dirt and stones and the various objects on top of them.

He crept quietly up and down the paths, slipping from mound to mound and hurriedly brushing the snow aside so he could inspect them more closely. The elf had been here twice before, both times briefly and at night. Each trip had added to his knowledge. He was certain the mounds with the smoothest, flattest stones covering them contained the remains of people of importance. Many of these stones had intricate carvings on them. Words, perhaps. On this trip, the elf pocketed one of the more elaborately carved rocks and rearranged the others so it would look as if nothing was amiss. His fingers trembled from the cold. He intended to take the stone into the port town, with the rubbings of symbols he'd made, to the scribes there. Perhaps they could be translated.

Some of the mounds had only small rocks scattered atop them, and Gair decided these graves were for commoners. The smallest mounds were likely for children or animals and had the fewest decorations. A mound near one edge of the circle was fairly recent, made within the past month, since the earth had not yet settled. He brushed away more snow. There were mounds decorated with shells and rotted nets-for fishermen, he suspected. Those graves with daggers thrust into the earth were undoubtedly the resting place of warriors. Arrowheads artfully arranged were likely for hunters. He stopped and his breath caught in his throat. Arrowheads. He dropped to his knees and tried to tug one free of the mound. The frozen earth resisted his efforts, and he resorted to pulling out a small knife from his belt and working the arrowhead free. It was made of stone, with the same jagged edges of the spear tips and the arrowhead had that found their way into him several days ago.

"Who is buried here?" he said too loudly for his liking, and instantly turned his thoughts to a whisper. "Iryl Songbrook said the natives of Schallsea couldn't have been responsible for the attack, that they are peaceful." Gair ran his fingers over the arrowhead, wincing when a sharp edge drew blood. His leg seemed to throb in response, and he shuddered. "It wasn't bandits who attacked us. Bandits don't bury their dead in elaborate graves. So this arrowhead proves Iryl was wrong. It was natives, and I must show this to her and Goldmoon." He stood and pocketed the arrowhead, then frowned. "If I show them, I'll have to tell them where I got this. Do I want to do that?" He stared at the remainder of arrowheads on the grave. "Perhaps I should say nothing. They might never attack us again."

Deciding he would give the matter more thought tonight, he padded toward the opposite edge of the clearing, passing by one mound in particular that had caught his eye on his first visit. He knelt beside it now. It seemed to be one of the oldest graves, and almost reverently he brushed the snow off it. The rocks atop the mound were so carefully arranged and so deeply embedded into the earth that they seemed to form an intricate mosaic. The pattern meant nothing to Gair, though he studied it intently in the light of the moon, trying to commit it to memory. He worked one of the larger, more intricate stones free and pocketed this too. When he returned to his tent later, he would sketch the mosaic on the grave and see if someone in town could tell him what it signified. Perhaps the man beneath the stones had been a king or a chief. Definitely someone important, as more work had gone into this mound than into any others here, and it seemed as if it were still being carefully tended. Gair's fingertips traced the pattern of the stones, and he concentrated on the feel of them, on the various textures.

"One more attempt," he whispered. "Who are you?"

He focused on his heartbeat as Goldmoon had taught him to do with healing magic, and he raised a hand to his temple to help him concentrate. He felt his heartbeat slow, sounding rhythmic and soothing in his ears. Warmth pervaded his limbs, chasing away the cold of winter. He reached out now with his senses as he had done when he calmed the boars. This time, though, he reached down, down into the earth. He sensed the coldness of the dirt, the age of the stones atop it. He sensed a hint of life-insects wintering beneath the ground. He concentrated harder, listened more intently to his heart, listened, searched. He imagined a man beneath the earth, perhaps wrapped in regal, ceremonial burial garb, imagined that what was left of the man was only a skeleton covered with scraps of rotting cloth.

"Nothing." He rocked back on his heels, frustrated. The elf could not sense the body in the mound nor in any mound he had approached on his previous trips, but he was certain there were bodies here. It was a burial place.

He simply could not sense the spirits of the dead.

"I have to know. I must." Gair had hoped his nearness to the dead in this place would help him to contact spirits. He'd certainly had no luck trying to contact spirits from inside his tent. "It seems it won't be tonight. Maybe not ever."

Reluctantly he rose and carefully inspected the ground, brushing at his boot prints to conceal them. He retraced his steps, covering all of his tracks, and stood at the edge of the clearing, staring at the circle and realizing that if anyone happened by, he would know the snow on the graves had been disturbed.

"One more try." He knew he should leave, told himself that he shouldn't stay here one minute longer and risk discovery, but he was here, and the dead were here. Who else would come to visit them on such a cold winter night? Winter, he mused, a season of death. It was appropriate that he was here at this time of year. "Besides," he whispered, "It would be for the good of the settlement if I can learn about these people, whose descendants almost certainly attacked us."

He knelt at the most recent mound, a small grave at the edge of the clearing, a child's grave, by the size of it. The elf splayed his fingers over the snow, above where he guessed the body's heart was in life. Again he concentrated on his heartbeat, let his senses drift into the frigid, hard-packed earth, sensing the husks of insects, stones, twigs, bones. Bones! He let out a long breath and tried futilely to dig his fingertips into the earth. He sensed the bones of someone who had lived on this island!

His mind was feeling them, not imagining them, guessing their length-indeed it was a child, a child who had lived to be perhaps ten or twelve. Bones were covered by flesh and muscle partially eaten away. Long hair was braided with beads and shells. Young… recently dead. Of what? Disease? Disease that perhaps Goldmoon or he could have cured? An accident? His senses revealed no broken bones. So young. So very few years on Krynn. Beads and shells and braids… a clue to these people.

He felt sadness for… her. Somehow he knew the child had been female, but he felt a twinge of pleasure at the same time. A smile played along his lips. He had sensed no spirit, but he had sensed something, and that was a minor victory of sorts. Perhaps if he kept at it, he thought, if he came back here again, worked longer and harder. Perhaps then he might finally be rewarded.

"Find the door," he whispered. "Find the door and open it." From that door he would reach the spirits he was seeking to talk to.

"Jasper says I don't take enough chances." He stifled a laugh. "I will take a chance with this, and I will speak to Goldmoon again. I have to make her understand."

He tried to smooth the snow back into place as he pulled his mind away from the child's grave. Perhaps he needed to concentrate on the recently dead. That could be the answer. Perhaps their spirits were closer to their bodies and to this world, and perhaps that would make them more receptive to his senses.

"What lies in wait for us after life?" he whispered. He continued staring at the graves for the better part of an hour, lost in his thoughts and oblivious to the cold. "What is all of this for… life? You struggle to better yourself, to help others, to gain some measure of status. For what? In the end, someone will bury you and forget you. Is that all there is? With the gods gone, is there not even a promise of redemption? Certainly Riverwind's spirit exists. And if Riverwind's spirit exists, so must others. But what existence?" His eyes locked onto the child's grave. "Is whatever follows life better than life itself? Or is it some hellish shadow of life? When we die, what awaits us?"

Carefully Gair retraced his steps. Several minutes later he was on the path that led back to the settlement. He walked slowly, still lost in thought. Only when he heard voices as he approached the settlement's campfires did he stop thinking about spirits, and then only to think about finding Goldmoon.

He, Goldmoon, and Jasper arrived on Schallsea Island a little more than six months ago, carrying nothing with them except blankets and a few treasured possessions. Since that time, Goldmoon's followers in Abanasinia had made the trip here, bringing building supplies, tents, seeds for future gardens, and more. From three blankets on the ground around a single campfire, the area around the Silver Stair had grown into a thriving tent town that most certainly would grow even larger come spring.

Nearly a hundred tents and lean-tos stretched east of the Silver Stair toward the cliffs that overlooked the Straits of Schallsea. Some were elaborate, with trinkets hanging on the outside that jangled pleasantly in the wind, or with names and home towns painted on the exterior canvas. In the light of the day, the multihued tents looked quite cheery. The elf imagined that from above, the camp looked rather like a big patchwork quilt. It would be getting bigger, he knew.

The number of Goldmoon's followers continued to increase as word of the settlement spread throughout the southwest part of Ansalon. Many of those who came here were single individuals, wanting to make a difference in the world by learning Goldmoon's mystical healing powers or her philosophy. Others were families who had come to be near the famed Hero of the Lance and who hoped to find inspiration in a world absent of gods. Some were curiosity-seekers, intrigued by the Citadel of Light Goldmoon intended to build, or mystified by the Silver Stair. Finally there were the townsfolk who came out to visit, many of whom ended up staying to join the community. The latest addition was a miller named Roeland, who had sold his shop to join the ragtag community.

Dozens upon dozens of pilgrims, as they were calling themselves, were living in the port town, where the accommodations were better. This had resulted in the building spurt and in the "no vacancy" signs in nearly every inn's window. Iryl Songbrook was doing her best to house as many newcomers as possible in her hostel, some of whom had spent every coin they owned for passage to Schallsea Island. They made monthly pilgrimages to the stair and to visit with Goldmoon. Iryl herself conducted most of the tours.

And then there were the settlement builders. Heavy hide tents ringed by stacks of crates stood at the far edge of Gair's vision. These belonged to the dwarves, who came a few weeks ago and who, under Jasper's instructions, were beginning construction on the citadel. A few of the dwarves sat around a campfire. They appeared to be drinking.

Gair stood and took it all in, listening to the musical notes of someone's wind chimes. There were a few small perimeter fires to help the sentries see and to warn away any wolves. Toward the center of the tent town, a large cookfire still burned. Someone was eating late-venison, the elf's nose told him. He slipped in past the first row of tents. To his far right, a Solamnic knight walked with one of the settlement's sentries. More knights were expected soon, and more soldiers as well.

To the east, the Silver Stair rose above everything. He stared at the mystical creation. Someone was walking down it, though Gair was too far away to see who it was. Goldmoon? He wanted to talk to her. Gair edged closer, staying concealed by the shadows of the tents. No, it was not Goldmoon. It was the Solamnic lieutenant named Willum, his plate mail reflecting the shimmering of the steps. Jasper stood at the base of the stairs, waiting for Willum. The dwarf had climbed the Celestial Ladder a half-dozen times since their arrival.

"Perhaps I shall try soon," Gair breathed.

The elf moved deeper into the community, slipping from tent to tent. He wasn't entirely sure why he was staying hidden. Goldmoon's tent was near the cliff, as the healer enjoyed looking out at the Straits of Schallsea toward Abanasinia. His tent was several dozen yards away to the north.

Gair thrust his hands in the pockets of his coat and hurried toward her tent. A light was burning inside. She was still up.

"Goldmoon?" He paused outside her tent, waited patiently for her to draw back the flap. No answer. He risked poking his head inside and discovered no one there. "Where are you?" Determined to find her, he started pacing away from her tent, nearly bumping into Camilla Weoledge when he turned the corner around a large lean-to.

"Good evening, Mr. Graymist," the knight said.

"Gair," he corrected her. "Only Jasper is so formal to use my last name."

"Gair, then."

"Weren't you able to sleep either?"

She shook her head, her breath clouding around her face in the cold air. "I was just going to turn in, after one last stroll around your settlement."

He extended his arm. "Then allow me accompany you, lady, and let me thank you again for comforting me when I was so grievously wounded on the trail by the"-he stopped himself, swallowing the words that might give away his trip to the burial ground- "by the bandits."

As the elf escorted Camilla toward the cliff, it began to snow once more. The full moon, though partially hidden by wispy clouds, illuminated the start of a dock far below them. The pilings were in place, the planks on the shore covered by a snow-dusted tarp. Stakes wedged into the cliff face suggested the path a set of stairs would take.

"Like stars falling to the earth," Camilla stated.

"What?"

She was watching the lacy snowflakes spinning slowing down, disappearing into the darkness of the water below. "That's what my father called snow."

"The snow is lovely," Gair returned, "but not so lovely as you."

She blushed and looked away, studying the distant dark water and removing her arm from his.

"You truly are lovely, Camilla."

The elf's keen eyes noticed her face redden. He knew she was not elegant and graceful like the elven women of the Silvanesti woods that he used to dream about. She was as tall as he and muscular, not the dainty woman on his arm he'd always pictured. She wasn't someone he had expected to be drawn to, but he was drawn to her nevertheless.

"Don't turn away," he said softly.

"I… I hardly know you."

"Then you must get to know me better." He took Camilla's hand, and she did not protest. He led her around the perimeter of the settlement.

"Where I come from, Gair, relationships aren't rushed."

"Where I come from," the elf countered, "people follow their hearts, and I think you've captured mine."

They indulged themselves with idle conversation about the port town and the Solamnic order, and when the conversation turned to his Silvanesti homeland and his family, he deftly changed the subject-to her mysterious eyes, her curly hair, her milky complexion.

"You remind me of Goldmoon," he said and failed to notice that she bristled at the remark. "Daring, strong, admirable…" He added to himself, and I believe that is why I am so taken with you.

She turned her gaze from his. However, she did not shy away when he moved closer, released her hand, and draped his arm around her shoulders.

"I am a Knight of the Sword," she told him. "My heart belongs to my order, and this-" she stared at the ground and brushed at the snow with her boot heel- "this is too fast. We've known each other only for a few days. This is-"

"Don't say it's wrong," he interrupted. "Please, give me a chance."

She looked toward a tent where Willum, wrapped in blankets, stood at the flap. Her pace increased as they walked past him and headed toward another tent, which the knight occupied.

"Gair, I do not believe in this settlement. I think what Goldmoon is doing is wrong, and therefore I think you're wrong in following her."

"Then why are you here?"

"I am here only because of my orders. I am a knight, and my heart-"

"Let just a little of your heart belong to me." He stepped back and stared at her eyes. Impulsively he darted forward and kissed her on the cheek. "Just a little," he repeated as she slipped out of his arms and ducked into her tent.

Gair returned to Goldmoon's tent. This time he found the healer at home. She poked her head out between the flaps to talk to him when he called softly.

"It's late," she said simply, but she was not dressed for bed. She was still wearing the deerskin tunic and breeches she'd put on after the incident that morning with the creature and the boars. And she had her cloak on, still wet from melting snow.

"Goldmoon, I…" The elf closed his eyes and sighed. "You know how much I want to talk to spirits. I-"

She shook her head firmly. "Gair, I will not teach you dark mysticism. I told you that this morning."

"I've thought about it all day." The elf was clearly exasperated, but he tried not to show it. "Goldmoon, I know I push you sometimes, but I've never misused what you've taught me, and I wouldn't misuse this. You talk to Riverwind. That's where you were earlier, isn't it? Talking to Riverwind?"

She didn't answer.

"There's someone I want very much to speak to." He lowered his gaze to the ground, studied the tips of his boots for several moments. "If you don't teach me this, I'll have to stumble along on my own, trying to contact the dead. Maybe I can't learn it on my own, but I won't stop trying. I have to know that my family still… exists, that there is something beyond this life. Maybe once that knowledge is within my reach, I'll be satisfied and can move on, and then this won't consume me."

She stared at him, his silver-white hair shimmering in the moonlight, lips set in a determined line. Suddenly her eyes showed that she had made a decision. "All right, Gair. Against my better judgment." She ran her fingers through her hair and shook her head. "Maybe if I wasn't so tired and you weren't so persistent…"

"When?" he pressed.

"It had better be now," she answered softly, "before I change my mind."

She beckoned him inside her tent. He felt his heart racing, his palms sweating. Her tent was sparsely furnished, with a bed raised above the ground atop some sturdy-looking crates. A small chest near the bed held the possessions that she'd brought with her from Abanasinia. An oil lamp rested atop the chest, bathing the interior of the tent in a soft glow. A large crate stood in the center of the small tent and served as a table. Two chairs abutted it, the only real furniture in Goldmoon's tent-given to her by a farmer as thanks for healing his sick wife and son. Goldmoon told the elf there would be time for furniture after the citadel was built.

It was much warmer inside the healer's tent than Gair expected. She'd hung thick blankets up against each wall to help keep out the cold. Taking off his coat, he carefully laid it across the back of a chair and sat, steepling his fingers on the table.

She sat opposite him, looking pale in the soft light. "The first thing you must do is clear your mind," she said slowly. "I hope this gives you some measure of peace, and that I am not doing the wrong thing." She studied the elf's face; his brow was knitted in concentration.

"This process is not unlike reaching the minds of animals," she began, "but this is sensing a different type of… life. You must look elsewhere for it."

For the next hour, she showed Gair what were mostly rather familiar mystical concepts, but with some peculiar twists. The elf realized he had been close in his attempts to communicate with the dead at the burial ground tonight, frighteningly close. There were just a few differences in approach.

Under her direction, Gair closed his eyes and let his senses drift. In his mind, he could see the features of Goldmoon's tent and see her sitting across from him. The sensation was heady and a bit unnerving, as he was perceiving the world unconventionally. Rather, he was searching for things not of this world. In the back of his mind, he saw shadows all about him, fleeting images of insubstantial people, but no one he recognized.

"Search a little longer. Picture a different land," she told him. "Picture different shadows, ones recognizable and familiar."

"Father…"

Goldmoon moved to stand behind the elf and placed her hand on his shoulder for reassurance. The healer had discovered this path of mysticism accidentally years ago when she was grieving for her husband. When her senses reached out and touched his spirit, she was at first startled, then overcome with joy. Since his death, she had felt so alone. To contact him again, she had to mentally retrace all the steps. There had been many failed attempts before she finally found him and the secret again. Ever since, contacting him had been relatively easy, and she often found herself talking to him without even realizing she'd opened the door.

Until this evening, the healer had never taught anyone this mystical ability. Her doubts about doing so now vanished when she saw a calmness come over Gair, his brow smoothing and his breathing deepening. This student would be the exception.

"Father, I wasn't there when the dragon came. I should have been with you, not sneaking off into town when you had ordered me to stay home. If I hadn't been so young and foolish, if I hadn't disobeyed you…"

Goldmoon stepped back. She didn't want to eavesdrop on his conversation, and so she reached for her cloak and padded from the tent, leaving Gair to his visit.

"I couldn't stay in the forest afterward," Gair continued. "There was nothing for me there. … You … my sisters … all gone. I sold the estate and took the emeralds. I made a few investments for the future. I'm sorry, Father… ."

Goldmoon strolled toward the end of the community where the dwarves had their encampment. Jasper had joined two other dwarves, who were nursing mugs of ale and hovering close to a low-burning fire.

"Can't sleep?" Jasper's voice was uncharacteristically thick, evidence he'd been drinking.

Goldmoon nodded and sat on an overturned crate and warmed her hands by the fire.

"Tomorrow we finish the foundation." Jasper glanced at the moon. "Well, later today, actually. Told you my friends work fast. We'll start buildin' in a day or two. Listen, don't be surprised if…" The dwarf's words trailed off, and his eyes narrowed. He had spotted Gair leaving Goldmoon's tent.

"It's all right, Jasper."

Then his gaze drifted from Gair to the construction site. "Always concerned about you, Goldmoon. Always… what in the name of Uncle Flint's beard is that?… A monster!" he hollered, reaching for the hammer that always hung at his waist. Jasper's short legs propelled him toward a large pile of building supplies, and Goldmoon followed. The other dwarves threw down their mugs and trundled awkwardly after them.

"Monster!" Jasper's cries alerted the sentries, who ran toward the construction site. Here and there lights were blinking on inside tents. "Monster!"

Gair's long legs carried him quickly through the settlement toward the noise. He was at Goldmoon's side, long sword drawn, before the sentries had reached her.

"There's the monster!" Jasper waggled his hammer, pointing at a dark shape hunkered down behind a pile of lumber. He stalked toward it, Gair towering behind him. One of the inebriated dwarves grabbed a rock and skirted around the other side.

Jasper and the elf raised their weapons, intent on striking the trespasser, who hadn't moved. The elf's eyes narrowed, and his hand shot forward just as Jasper was drawing his hammer back to throw it. Gair grabbed the handle and yanked it from the dwarf's stubby fingers.

"It's not a monster," the elf said. "Not exactly, anyway."

"Orvago!" Goldmoon breathed from behind them both.

The creature edged away from the pile, holding out a long hairy arm to keep the drunken dwarves from coming closer.

More lanterns blinked on. People draped in sleeping clothes and blankets emerged from tents and lean-tos, some bearing torches. Camilla clanked forward, still in her plate mail. Willum, wrapped in blankets and hoisting a sword, was at her side. Footfalls sounded across the dry ground of the settlement. There were sounds of weapons being drawn.

Goldmoon whirled to face the others. "He's a friend," she explained. Her stern expression stopped all but Camilla from coming closer. She made a gesture, and those who had weapons out sheathed them.

More torches. The construction site's shadows were being chased away, revealing the green-gray form of the creature. His tunic was stiff with dried blood, and matted blood stuck here and there to his fur.

"What manner of creature is this?" someone sputtered.

Iryl Songbrook made her way through the crowd, eyes wide, mouth opened at first in a yawn, then open wider in amazement.

"He's nothing but a monster!" an elderly man shouted. He wriggled a crooked finger. "A demon from the Abyss!" The woman at his side gaped at the creature as her husband continued, "He's not human. He's a creature of Chaos!"

"I'm not human!" Gair cut in, "and they're not human." The elf pointed to the dwarves. His sword was held protectively now, letting the settlement folks know he was defending the creature.

"It's a creation of some foul wizard," the old man went on.

"Look at all that blood on that thing!" another cut in. "It must have killed someone, it did. We've got to kill it. It's probably part of the band that attacked you and killed Harrald!"

"He didn't attack us!" Gair returned. His free hand was in his pocket, feeling the arrowhead. "It wasn't him."

The creature growled softly. A trace of spittle edged over his lower lip and ran to the ground. He growled again. It seemed as if he were trying to say something.

Several settlers gasped. "A demon for certain!" someone cried.

"Goldmoon, save us from the dog-beast!" a young woman cried. She clutched the hands of two young boys. "Save us!"

Cries of "Save us," "Demon," and "Dog-beast" echoed around the camp.

The healer padded toward the growing throng and tried to calm them. Behind her, Gair sheathed his sword. Jasper's inebriated friends took another look at the creature and swayed unsteadily on their feet.

"It's all right," Gair said to the creature, who grunted and brushed by the elf, heading toward Goldmoon. The crowd backed away instantly. The old man stabbed his finger at the air, pointing at the creature and leering.

Goldmoon shook her head. "Shame on all of you!" she said. "I don't judge any of you by how you look." She held a hand out to Orvago, and the creature took it with his clawed paw. "Gair and I met Orvago earlier today. His clothes are bloody because he fought a boar."

"The monster's not staying here!" This came from a young man standing next to the elderly couple, one of the tent town's more affluent members.

"He's not a monster," Gair said.

"I believe he's a gnoll," Camilla said suddenly. The knight's face was grim, and her hand was tightly clenched around the pommel of her sword, though it remained sheathed. "What in the name of Kiri-Jolith is a gnoll doing on Schallsea Island?"

"A gnoll?" Iryl found her way to the knight's side. "What's a gnoll?"

"I never saw one before," the knight was quick to reply. "Only pictures, and I've heard tales, but I don't really know anything about them, other than the fact that they're not native to anywhere around here. According to Solamnic records, Lord Toede captured gnolls and used them as servants."

"Well, whatever he is, he's welcome to share my tent tonight," Gair said, stifling a yawn.

"There," Goldmoon said. "The matter is settled. Orvago will stay with Gair as long as he likes."

She didn't notice the elf's wide eyes.

"Orvago can stay," she continued, "just as anyone here can stay as long as he likes. If you cannot abide by this, then this place is not for you." She stood defiantly amid the throng, listening to their whispers. Some seemed to accept her words, while others seemed merely curious. Still others seemed frightened. Finally the crowd began to disperse back to their tents.

Goldmoon watched the creature follow Gair toward his tent, then motioned to the sentries. One would be stationed near Gair's tent for the rest of the evening, just in case some of the people in the tent town opted not to abide by Goldmoon's decision.

Gair ducked through the low tent flap and stepped inside. The gnoll stepped forward, his head catching the top of the tent. The creature howled as canvas billowed around them, and then the tent collapsed.

It took the elf nearly an hour to set it up again.

Orvago woke with a start, snarling loudly to get Gair's attention. The elf glanced at the floor, where the gnoll had fashioned a makeshift bed out of blankets, and rubbed the sleep out of his eyes.

"What are you howling about?" the elf grumbled. "I haven't had more than an hour or so of sleep, and…" Then he cocked his head. The gnoll wasn't howling; it was the wind, and the tent was flapping threateningly. Gair jumped to his feet, stuck his face outside, and instantly pulled it back in, sputtering and blinking furiously.

The wind keened furiously, a great low whistle that drowned out everything except the flapping of the canvas. The elf hurriedly searched through his clothes for his warmest pants and shirt, then struggled into them as the canvas continued to flutter madly and the center pole began to wobble. Orvago growled softly and edged toward the tent opening, cautiously crawling on his hands and knees, a ridge of hair standing up on his back.

Gair continued to hop about, pulling on stockings, then one boot, then another, all the while cursing in his native tongue. "We've got to get outside," he said as much to himself as to the gnoll. "I think this tent is about to…"

Before he could get the rest of the words out, the smaller poles tugged free of the ground and the center pole tipped, bringing the beating canvas down on the elf-but only for a moment. The wind continued to batter the tent, pulling it loose from its stakes and sending it flying away. Blankets and books followed it. Gair gave a shout as his cot spun over, banging into the back of his legs. He made a mad grab for a red leather-bound book, and the cot turned end over end away from him to disappear in the snow.

Howling, the gnoll crawled out of the path of Gair's tumbling belongings, then pressed himself into the snow as more objects passed quickly over his back. Orvago propped himself up on his elbows, only his face above the thick blanket of snow, and cupped a hairy hand over his eyes and tried to get a better look around.

The world was totally white. Snow was driven practically sideways from the south, reminding the creature of the fierce storm at sea he had endured more than a year ago. Through the nearly opaque whiteness, he saw faint shadows moving about slowly. It took several seconds to realize the shadows were people from the settlement. Above the terrifying wind, the creature heard the shouts of men and women and the frightened whinnies of horses. He heard Goldmoon. Orvago crawled on his hands and knees toward her voice.

Gair clutched his precious book to him, thrusting it inside his shirt and buttoning the shirt up to his neck to keep the book safe. The elf's teeth were chattering, and he reached out his mind to his father while he fumbled in the snow for his green woolen coat.

The elf closed his eyes against the threatening snow, bundled his coat tightly around himself, and thrust his hands deep into the pockets. "Father, can you see through this?" He concentrated on the mystical ability Goldmoon had taught him but a few hours ago, opened the door to the realm of the dead, and heard an answer in his mind, though it was difficult to understand with the roar of the wind around him. "If this snow is nothing to you, then guide me through it, Father," he implored. "I must find Goldmoon and Camilla."

The spirit, unhampered by the blizzard, unerringly guided his son around chests and crates too heavy to be tossed by the wind but hidden by growing drifts of snow. Slowly he directed Gair in the direction where Goldmoon's tent used to be.

The gnoll and the elf arrived at nearly the same time, finding the aging healer bundled in blankets, surrounded by a few dozen men, women, and children, and calling out to the rest of her followers. Some of the people were hysterical, unable to find loved ones in the blizzard. The healer was trying to gather everyone close and was counting heads.

"Jasper!" The word was lost in the wind. A dwarf at Goldmoon's feet, looking like a tree stump covered by snow, shouted that she hadn't seen Jasper since last night.

Orvago pushed himself to his feet, draping an arm across his brow in an attempt to keep some of the wind and snow out of his eyes. He leaned into the wind and headed toward where he'd hidden himself last night at the construction site. The scent of the dwarves would be strongest there.

"My baby!" A woman huddling near Goldmoon cried. "I can't find my baby!" The woman made a move to dart away, but a man held her fast and Goldmoon tried to calm her.

"My wife!" a young man blurted. "She was right next to me when we were awakened by the storm, but then we became separated on the way here. Help me find her." He, too, was entreated to stay put.

"We've got to stay together!" It was Iryl Songbrook's voice. "Call out and the others will find us."

"Amanda!" the woman wailed.

Goldmoon began calling out names again, and others joined her chorus. Their words began to cut through the wind. Camilla and Willum appeared at the edge of the group, bundled in cloaks and blankets and carrying a rope. Camilla tied it about her waist, handed the end to Willum, and headed out in search of people lost in the snow.

At the same time, Gair chatted softly to his father, confident the wind and the people's cries would conceal his conversation. "Help me find the children," he urged. "They must be brought to safety first."

There is one nearby, his father replied, and the spirit began guiding his son. Gair kept his eyes closed, wrapped his coat even tighter around him, and trustingly followed the voice in his head ever closer to the cliff.

The elf softly cursed the island as he went, so hot in the summer, so cold in winter. And this blizzard! Despite his travels, he'd never been caught in something so fierce and so cold. His teeth chattered uncontrollably, his face stung horribly, and he imagined his skin was as red as a cherry. He paused for only a moment when something tumbling along in the wind struck his legs and almost made him lose his balance. He plodded on through the deepening snow until he heard the rush of the waves beating the rocks below and heard his father practically scream in his mind for him to stop.

Careful. Kneel down, the elder Graymist instructed. Be very careful. The edge of the cliff is only inches away, and a child is just…

"Over the ledge," Gair finished, shouting to hear himself over the wind. "I think I can hear her. Barely." The elf knew it was his acute hearing that allowed him to detect something over the pounding water and the howling wind. "Must have fallen over the side. Couldn't see in this storm." I can't see in this storm either, he added to himself.

He crept forward, his bare fingers painfully cold in the snow, feeling for the edge of the cliff.

That's it! his father encouraged. Off to your right. Just a little farther! That's it…

The elf lay on his stomach, the spine of the book beneath his shirt pressing uncomfortably into his chest. He found the ledge and pulled himself to it, until his head and shoulders hung over the edge and were buffeted all around by the blast of cold and snow. He was certain he heard the girl crying now, soft and desperate for her mother. He called out to her and relied on his hearing and his father's directions to find her.

She was on a shelf several feet below the ledge, and Gair leaned over as far as he safely could, until only his hips and legs were anchoring him against the edge. "Child!" he hollered as loud as his voice could muster, sputtering when the wind whipped snow inside his mouth. His tongue felt thick and stiff from the cold. "Child!" he repeated. The crying stopped, and he felt something brush his fingertips, achingly sore now from exposure. "Grab my hand! I'll pull you up!"

He felt the faint brush of her fingers, then heard wails of "I can't… reach it." The elf turned his thoughts inward to his father, whose presence hovered in the elf's mind.

She will not climb up the rocks. She is too frightened. You must leave her, Son. Together we will search for others whom we can save. Her death will be swift, and we will welcome her into our realm. The cold is claiming her even now.

Gair hesitated and opened his eyes slightly. He knew the cliffs were steep, with few handholds in most places, and he couldn't see anything to grab on to. He could see only the never-ending sheet of bone-chilling white. It would be risky.

Too risky, my son. Don't take the chance.

"My friend is always telling me I don't take enough chances," the elf replied as he maneuvered around until he lay parallel to the cliff edge and carefully swung himself over the side. The rocks bit into his fingers, slicing into his skin as the elf struggled to hang on. His feet flailed about along the cliff face until he found a lip of rock so narrow it accommodated only the toes of his boots. He found another handhold and worked himself farther down. The rocks were coated with frost and terribly slippery, but somehow he managed to hold on until he had worked himself down to a shelf. The crying was louder here.

Slowly he inched his way toward where his fretting father said the child cowered. A heartbeat later, a small pair of arms wrapped around his leg and held tight. The crying eased a little.

Gair's fingers walked down the rock, over trails of ice, steadying himself until he could kneel without slipping. He drew the girl into his arms in the same instant he reached inside himself and searched for his mystical strength. He felt his heart, heard it beating even as he heard his father's worried words, sent the thrumming outward to wash over the child and to calm her as he had calmed the boars.

She was trembling from fear and from the cold, and Gair shuddered when he felt around her to make sure she hadn't broken any limbs. He discovered she had on only heavy socks and a nightshirt. He fumbled at the buttons of his own coat and wrapped it around her like a blanket.

"You'll be all right," he said firmly, his mouth against her ear. "I'll get you out of here. What's your name?"

A whisper.

"Amanda? That's a pretty name. I'll get you out of here safely, Amanda."

He closed his eyes again to shut out the white. With one arm, Gair cradled her to his chest, and with the other, he began searching for handholds in the rock. There were small cracks here and there that his aching fingers found, but they were too narrow to get a good grip. He barely felt his fingers as he continued to grope about.

"Damn!" he swore softly. "Father!"

The elder Graymist's words swirled in Gair's head, encouraging him to keep searching. The spirit said he perceived the cliff, but seemed unable to judge a precise path up and could not make out enough details to help with handholds. The elf's sisters joined in the spirit chorus, murmuring that Gair must not give up and that it was not yet time for his essence to join theirs in death.

"Help! Goldmoon!" He hollered loudly, realizing instantly that there was no way the healer or anyone else could hear him. Gair had no idea just how long he'd been gone from the camp. The intense cold and driving snow made it seem like hours. He held his eyes clamped shut, since they were useless to him in the whiteout. "Please," he whimpered to the departed gods as he continued to feel about.

When his sense of touch had all but abandoned him, he found a horizontal crevice just above his head large enough to squeeze most of his hand inside. He did so and pulled himself up slowly, scrambling to find footing against the cliff face, his boots scraping against rock and ice and finding nothing. He lowered himself back down, still clutching the child tightly. "It will be all right, Amanda," he said into the folds of his coat. There was no answer, and he pressed his face into the gap of his coat and opened his eyes. The child looked at him mutely, her lips a ghastly bluish tint and trembling. "My magic can't warm you," he said. "Perhaps Goldmoon can help, but I've got to get you out of here first."

He gritted his teeth and focused all of his strength into his right arm, flexing it and pulling himself up until his chin struck the edge of the crevice and his wrist. He hung there, trying to find something to wedge his boots into, but the leather was too thick and only scraped against the rocks and ice. "Nothing," he cursed as he dropped back down and stared at the cliff. Through the whiteness of the blizzard, he saw only the shadow of the rocky cliff face. He closed his eyes again.

Don't do this! his father warned. It is not yet your time! Leave her here! Use both your hands to save yourself! Don't do this!

"I've no intention of dying," Gair told him, as he struggled out of his boots and gasped when the frigid air hit his stocking feet. He tucked the boot tops under his belt at his back. "But I am getting both the child and myself out of here." He clamped his teeth together and again searched for the crevice, wedged his hand into it, and his fingers gripped the rocks. His muscles bunching, he slowly pulled himself and the child up. He flailed his feet around, searching for even the slightest of outcroppings, something he could sense with his toes. The rocks cut through his stockings and slashed at the flesh beneath, the pain keeping him alert and making him more determined.

He continued to wriggle about until his fingers felt numb and he feared he would lose his handhold. At last he found something to wedge his toes into. Plastering himself against the rock face and whispering words of comfort to the child, he cautiously released her, holding her body between his chest and the cliff. He searched with both hands now, finally finding another handhold. He held her again with one arm and pulled himself higher.

At last at the top, he lay down, gasping for breath. Even through the coat, he felt her shiver against his chest, and he struggled to pull his boots back on, all the while cradling her. Finished, Gair slammed his eyes shut again, blotting out the hateful white, and forcing himself to his feet.

"Father!" he yelled, though he knew the spirit could hear his thoughts. "Guide us back! Hurry!"

The elf stumbled along, falling more than once to his knees when he tripped over objects that had been scattered about by the wind. Each time it was harder to get to his feet, which had lost nearly all sensation and continued to move through the snow only because of Gair's force of will and his father's urging.

The wind continued to whistle unmercifully and tauntingly, stinging his face beyond feeling. Where, Father? His questions were inside his head now, his lips so horribly chapped he didn't want to move them. "Where?"

The spirit of his father continued to guide his son until Gair heard the cries of Goldmoon's throng and could find the way on his own. "Are there any more lost children?" Gair demanded of his father. The spirit reluctantly told his son where, and Gair thrust the child at Iryl Songbrook and disappeared again into the swirling snow.

Red Street was neither red nor a street. At best, it could be considered a narrow alley lined with gray cobblestones that ran behind the biggest warehouse off Schallsea's burgeoning merchant district and ended at a stone wall. The three buildings that faced the alley-a leather shop, a tailor's, and a weaver's- were neatly shingled in brown with various shades of yellow, white, and blue trim respectively. There wasn't a shade of red to be seen anywhere. The three buildings that faced away from the street, whose back doors opened onto the alley, were all owned by the same businessman, one Lenerd Smithsin, who also owned Schallsea's newest stable. These buildings were being used as residences for the town's newcomers, who were filling Smithsin's pockets with steel, which he already had plenty of. Smithsin had inherited his buildings from his father, Markus.

Red Street had tickled Gair's ever-present curiosity, and so he sought out its origin, even as he sought out the goods sold along it. He told himself he needed something to occupy his mind other than Lady Camilla, who was busying herself with "Solamnic concerns." So through a string of carefully worded and persistent questions, the elf learned that several decades past a stream had cut through the middle of the port town, which was then little more than a barbarian village. The stream was called Red Creek, named after a Qualinesti elf who homesteaded along its northern bank and who seemed to get along well with the natives. No one Gair chatted with could remember the elf's name, as it was long and difficult to pronounce. They knew that, according to the island's history, the elf dressed only in shades of red, which the natives at that time considered odd for an elf, since the few other elves in the area favored hues of green. Hence, for some reason known only to those long-dead folks, the natives named the stream Red Elf's Creek. It was shortened through the years and slips of the tongue to Red Creek.

As more years passed, and the land changed with the addition of buildings and people who'd moved here from Abanasinia and Southern and Northern Ergoth and elsewhere, the elf moved on to the northern end of the island, and the creek dried up-at least on the surface. Below ground, the water still ran from a crystal-clear spring. So the well outside of the building at which Gair now stood pulled water from what was once Red Elf's Creek. The brightly clad elf who unknowingly had the alley named after him was said to have died roughly a dozen years ago, killed during a misunderstanding with a hunter. Gair considered using his newfound skill to attempt to contact the deceased elf's spirit, and perhaps the spirit of Lenerd Smithsin's father, so he could learn firsthand what the village was like decades ago. He would indeed do just that-but not today. Gair had too many other things to accomplish today.

Gair strode into Logan's Bootery and Leather Shop and inhaled deeply. The scents of leather and polish pleasantly filled his nostrils. Carefully tooled shoes and boots gleamed on shelves from floor to ceiling along the right-hand wall, embroidered belts and satchels hung along the back on either side of a counter, and leather trousers and shirts were carefully folded on shelves along the left.

"Good day to you sir!" The balding proprietor beamed at the elf. "What can I help you with?"

"Boots, trousers, a few belts." Gair rattled off a considerable list while the proprietor measured his feet and selected a few pairs for the elf to try on. "And a very large belt-something that would go around me two… no, make that three times."

His choices made, Gair paid the man generously, then added a tip. "Could you have them delivered? To Smithsin's stable? I've obtained a cart there to transport my purchases."

The man set about accommodating the generous elf, nodding politely as Gair exited the shop and strode to the weaver's across the alley. Here he purchased three dozen blankets, all exquisitely made and practically the weaver's entire stock. He made little fuss about his choices, as they were meant to be hung inside his tent-and inside the tents of the dwarven builders and the Solamnic Knights and soldiers-and so they did not need to be of any particular color. They just needed to be thick. Again he had them delivered to the stable.

His last stop was to the smallest shop, where an elderly man custom-made garments. The elf suspected the owner could have easily afforded more expensive space in a better district. He charged enough for his clothes, and for good reason. The man was an artist with scissors and thread, and the elf envied his talent. Gair pressed him why he stayed on Red Street when he could certainly increase his sales elsewhere. The man answered that he simply liked it here. It was quiet. He lived upstairs with his wife, worked when he wanted, made a reasonable living- better now with the influx of people coming here to see Goldmoon and the Silver Stair. He had no desire to run a shop in a busier part of town, where he himself would be therefore busier and would be forced to hire others to work for him to keep up with the demand. Too much bookwork, too few days off-and a bigger store meant there would be more snow to clear away from the front door and walk. Gair immediately liked him.

"I need a cloak," the elf began. "Better make that two cloaks."

"Colors?"

"I don't suppose it matters. They just need to be long… very, very long."

"You want it to drag on the ground behind you? A fashionable thing, though not very practical, especially in the winter."

"It's not for me," the elf sighed. "It's for… an acquaintance. He's nearly seven feet tall, broad shouldered. I'd say twice as thick as I, a trifle more. Make sure it's plenty big. A tunic, too, with very long sleeves. No, make that two of them. And trousers. Make them baggy, to be safe-and make them long."

"Your oversized friend can't come here for a fitting?"

The elf shook his head. "It wouldn't be… practical. How soon can you have them done?"

"A few days," the old man replied.

The elf reached into his pocket and extracted an oval-cut emerald. It gleamed enticingly in the light that spilled through the window. "Today?"

The old man's eyes widened, realizing the gem was worth more than all the garments and fabrics he had on display, probably worth as much as the entire building. "I could alter some garments already finished. Get my wife to help, but to be honest, I still couldn't promise them before sundown."

"Make sure the cloaks have hoods-large hoods. If you've any shirts that are very big, I'd like those, too."

"Certainly, sir."

Gair drifted away to the shelves, pulling down a few cloaks that were roughly his size and a coat to replace the one he'd wrapped around Amanda. He felt the fabric to select the warmest ones, then brought them to the counter. He tugged off the blanket that he'd tied around his neck, passed it to the shopkeeper, and put on one of the cloaks he selected.

"Deliver everything to Smithsin's stable. I've a cart there. And-"

"Yes?"

"Do you know where I might purchase some wax?"

The old man looked at him quizzically.

"My… acquaintance… has a terrible problem with snoring. Therefore I'm in terrible need for something to stuff in my ears, some strongly scented lamp oil, and some perfumed soap."

The winter wind prowled angrily through the tower chamber, howling at every corner and bringing a biting cold on its tail. There were no motes of dust for it to chase. The room was spotless, and there was little furniture for it to slip under and whistle around-only a desk, stark in design, a straight-backed chair that offered no hint of comfort, and a narrow bed with a quilt so tightly in place it could toy with only a few frayed threads.

There were no rugs on the stone floor, no pictures on the walls, no knickknacks or sentimental remembrances of youth-nothing that could be disturbed by the wind, and nothing that could distract the room's occupant.

Camilla stood alone at the window, seemingly mindless of the frigid breeze that played across her face and teased her freshly washed hair. Her slender fingers were wrapped around the edge of the sill, and her gray eyes, which mirrored the shade of the early morning sky, were narrowed in contemplation.

She inhaled sharply at the rap on her door, turned, and nodded as a primly dressed woman entered, balancing a silver tray on one hand.

"Mornin', Lady Weoledge," the woman chirped. She hurried to the desk, set the tray down, and arranged the silverware precisely upon a linen napkin. She hummed as she moved to the window and pulled the shutters closed, leaving the blinds on one side open just enough for some light to spill in. "That wind! Don't want your breakfast to get cold, do you, lady? Sausage and shirred eggs, fixed just the way you like them, with a bit of sharp cheese. Sugared grapes, too. Do eat. Please, Camilla." This last she added softly. "At least somethin'. Usually you only pick at your plate-except for these past two nights when your young gentlemen dined with us. He should sup with us every night. So polite. And handsome."

"Judeth…" Camilla warned.

"Well," the woman huffed, throwing back her shoulders and sticking out her ample chest. "I worry about you, lady. Someone has to."

Camilla offered her a warm smile. "I don't need to be the object of anyone's concern, Judeth. People should be concerned, instead, about Goldmoon."

"Isn't your young man from Goldmoon's settlement?"

Camilla frowned. "He's not my young man, Judeth. He's one of Goldmoon's students. I was simply extending him the courtesy of a warm place to sleep."

Judeth slyly winked. "Courtesy," she tittered. "And you hold hands with everyone you let sleep in front of our fireplace? In all the years I've known you, Camilla, I've never seen you so taken with someone."

The knight blushed.

"I think he fancies you, too," the woman continued.

The knight's fingers fluttered up to her neck, where a thin silver chain and a heart-shaped charm dangled. "A heart, as you've stolen mine," she recalled Gair telling her last night as he fastened it around her neck.

"Indeed, he fancies you quite a bit," Judeth needled. "It's about time there was something in your life other than your order." She poured a cup of tea. The steam rose in a twisting spiral in the chilly room, releasing the scent of orange peel. She stepped back, smoothing her apron with her hands. "Fancies you quite a bit, he does. Pity he said he'll be leaving soon. Within the hour, he told me. Will you be going with him to the settlement?"

She shook her head. "I'm sending a dozen soldiers with him for reinforcements."

"I would think you'd want to make sure they get settled." Judeth winked at her.

"I've other concerns."

The servant drew herself up to her full height, still a head shorter than Camilla. "Well, then, I do hope he comes back. Can I get you anything else, Lady Weoledge?"

"Thank you, no, Judeth."

Camilla sat at the desk, speared a piece of sausage, and watched the woman bustle out of the room, closing the door behind her. Camilla studied the meat as Judeth's footsteps receded down the stairwell beyond, actually considered eating it, then decided against it.

"Goldmoon." She uttered the word as a curse. To mollify Judith, Camilla stirred her eggs to make it look as if she'd at least nibbled at something, dropped the fork, and pushed away from the desk. She returned to the window and opened the shutters to stare down again at the town. Her fingers tightened on the sill until her knuckles grew white, the muscles of her neck knotted tightly with tension.

At the docks, she spotted a carrack raising its sails. It had arrived yesterday from the city of New Ports, far across the bay to the west, bringing in its belly more than a dozen people who'd sold their worldly goods and intended to build a new life here on Schallsea Island. The ship was returning to New Ports or some other mainland coastal city, and Camilla knew it would come back again-with more people and with all manner of supplies for Goldmoon. Iryl had spoken with the captain a long time this morning, and there would be other ships. Schallsea's harbor was too deep to freeze over even in the coldest of winters.

"Blasphemy," Camilla muttered. "What Goldmoon's doing is blasphemy. Her magic of the heart will only push people away from the true gods, though they are absent. Someday the gods will return."

She whirled and paced the length of the room, her boot heels clicking rhythmically over the stone. Passing by her desk, she paused to snatch up the cup of tea, which was growing tepid. She held it briefly, stared at her reflection in the pale brown surface. She let out a long breath, watched the ripples in the tea disturb her image, then downed all of it in one long gulp. It soothed her throat but did nothing to ease her ire. "Blasphemy." She resumed her pacing.

"People coming here, using their last steel pieces to do so. People camping in the snow, freezing to death in blizzards. Misguided, foolish people. Healing without the gods. Blasphemy." Camilla's fingers fluttered to her hip, closed about the pommel of a sword that hung there. "I cannot let Goldmoon build this citadel. I cannot let her ruin so many people's lives."

She returned to her desk, pushing aside the breakfast tray. Tugging open a narrow drawer, she retrieved a bottle of ink, a quill, a length of black ribbon, and a sheet of fine parchment watermarked with a rose wrapped around the blade of a sword. Camilla carefully considered each sentence she put to the paper. Her handwriting was painstakingly meticulous, the letters like soldiers marching clearly and evenly across the page. Finished, she cleaned the quill and replaced it and the ink in the drawer, blew on the parchment- even though the chill wind had already dried the ink- then carefully rolled it and tied it with the ribbon.

She rose and pushed the chair in close to the desk. "Goldmoon will not build her Citadel of Light on this island," she said. "It's blasphemy."

Gair raced forward, churning through the drifts until he came upon a path that seemed to head straight toward the blaze. As he ran, he took in the shouts and cries filling the air, the crackling of the flames. The entire settlement was awake, and panic ruled.

He could distinguish no one voice, which was what he was trying to do in hope of locating Goldmoon. So many people were shouting, arguing, screaming. Children were wailing, and parents were too preoccupied to silence them. Only a few words managed to rise above the din, and these seemed to be shouted orders. The elf closed with the crowd and slowly began pushing his way through it closer to the center of the chaos. As he went, he felt the air become warmer from the heat of the fire. His boots sloshed in snow that was melting.

Three stories of flames illuminated the evening sky. Like an orange-red waterfall, the fire seemed to pour from the roof and down the walls, sparking and snapping angrily as if it were some great, wrathful beast.

Those with tents closest to the citadel were taking them down as quickly as possible, fingers madly fumbling in the canvas, arms locked around valuables and dragging them away.

"Everything!" one woman moaned as she sank to her knees. She was one of the first who had moved into the building, Gair recalled. "Everything I own has been lost!"

"Not everything," said a man trying to comfort her. "You still have your life."

Gair blinked furiously. The heat was pushing outward, stinging his sensitive eyes. He brushed at his face, finding it smudged with ashes that filled the air. Gray snow, it looked like. He cast his gaze about, searching for Goldmoon.

His eyes locked on the shining armor of the Solamnic knights. They were carrying people away from the burning building, their exposed faces black with ash. Some of the soldiers were keeping the panicked crowd back. Others were at the edge of the burning building, calling out to see if anyone was trapped inside.

"Goldmoon!" the elf shouted as he continued to move forward. He shook the shoulders of one of the Solace twins. "Is Goldmoon in the building?"

The man shook his head. "Other side o' the fire!" he barked, his voice raspy. Gair noticed his hands were blistered, and part of his sleeves had been burned away. "She's with Roeland and my brother."

The elf made his way around the blaze, dodging people dragging their belongings farther away from the conflagration, getting out of the way of a dozen men who'd loaded up pieces of tarp with snow. They were running forward, and Gair watched as they hefted the tarps and flung the snow at the fire. The flames seemed only to laugh at them and glow more brightly.

Smoke poured from one of the citadel's doorways, and through it Gair saw dark shapes. People indeed were trapped! The elf paused in his search for Goldmoon, edged closer to the building, and breathed a sigh of relief as the three fishermen from the port stumbled out, coughing and patting their clothes. Two Solamnic knights were behind them. A pair of the Thorbardin dwarves rushed forward to tug the fishermen away from the building-and just in time. There was a great flapping sound as part of the roof came free, spiraling down, flames licking madly in the air. It landed where the fishermen had paused a mere heartbeat ago. The knights joined the crowd and began plucking pieces of their armor off, revealing blistered skin beneath it.

Gair continued his way around the massive inferno. He spotted Iryl Songbrook. She was taking stock of the followers, and by concentrating he picked out a few of her words. It seemed she was trying to determine who else might be inside.

"No one, I hope," Gair said as he continued to press himself through the hysterical throng. "Nobody else is going to make it out of there." He was knocked to the ground as another snow regiment thundered forward, futilely trying to fight the fire by slinging more tarps full of snow at it. Gair knew there was little water available. Since the snows came, everyone had been melting it for water rather than continuing to dig wells.

Still, there was one functioning well at the far edge of the settlement, and the elf could tell that a bucket brigade had formed. The line of humans and dwarves, adults and children alike, was working quickly, shuttling pots and pans, helmets, and even a few actual buckets toward the blaze.

The fire was too big, burned too quickly. "The resin," Gair muttered as he picked himself up and continued around to the far side of the citadel, finally spotting Goldmoon. "The resin's fueling it." He could smell the odd mixture of tree sap and oil that the builders had been diligently applying for days.

He turned the corner and saw that the healer was perilously close to the flames, Roeland at her shoulder, his hands clenched on her cloak to hold her back. Orvago was behind them, fur tinged black with soot and obviously singed, as if he'd been inside the building when it had caught fire.

"What started it?" Gair called as he waved to Goldmoon and weaved his way toward her.

Shadowwalker's clan. The elder Graymist had opened the door.

Gair stopped in his tracks, staring mutely at the flames that continued to pour down the sides of the citadel as if they were liquid. The heat this close was nearly unbearable, and it had melted the snow far back from the building, turning the top layer of the once-hard ground muddy. Shadowwalker, Gair thought. Darkhunter had mentioned the name.

"Let me go!" Goldmoon started to struggle with Roeland. He had his arms wrapped around her now, keeping her from bolting.

"So you can die, too?" Roeland's voice was firm. "You yourself said no one else was to go in there."

Gair swallowed hard and pushed himself through the last several people to reach Goldmoon's side. "I went for a walk," he began, for some reason believing he needed to supply a reason for his absence. "I saw the fire as I was returning, and-"

"Jasper's inside." Goldmoon's face was ashen. She was smudged with soot and tears. Her hair was plastered to the sides of her face with sweat, the edges of her cloak singed.

"Everyone else made it out," Roeland said, "but Jasper-"

"And Redstone," Goldmoon breathed. She sagged against the former miller.

"They were helping to get the last ones out," Roeland continued. "People were sleeping when it started, and-"

"Suddenly part of the roof caved in."

Goldmoon dropped to her knees, her head in her hands and her shoulders shaking. Gair had never seen her look so old and frail, so broken. He knelt at her side, brushing the hair away from her face, his fingers adding to the gray smudges.

"Maybe he got out on the other side," he offered.

You know that's not true, Son.

"Maybe…" Gair left the sentence unfinished, unable to come up with another even half-convincing prevarication.

The healer pressed her hands into the slush and sent her senses forward into the fire. "Jasper," Goldmoon whispered. "I'm sorry, my friend. By the memory of Mishakal, if only I'd-"

A growl cut her off, angry and loud and coming from the gnoll. He tore off his red cloak and charged forward, hairy arms in front of his face. Gair was on his feet in an instant, reaching out to stop him. The elf's fingers closed on air.

"No!" Goldmoon shouted.

"Orvago, don't!" Gair's words were lost in the crackling of the flames.

The gnoll leapt through a smoky doorway, growling and disappearing behind a wall of flames. The building groaned, seemingly in response to the hairy intruder. Sections of the roof tumbled down, burning and sending stinging ashes into the crowd.

There was a gasp from the other side of the citadel, followed by something like a moan. The noise grew, and there were cries of "Run!" There was a loud crash. Gair didn't need to be there to know that one of the walls had collapsed.

"Orvago is searching for them," Goldmoon's voice was soft. "He can't see them. They're in the basement. No, he's looking up."

Black smoke was billowing into the air now, thick and choking and forcing the crowd back. Over the sound of gasps and groaning beams, the elf heard the sizzling splash of water being uselessly thrown on the citadel.

His eyes were watering from the heat and the ashes, and he rubbed at them.

Sentimental, his father observed. Are they tears for your dwarven friend, or for the animal that shares your tent?

"Can you see inside?" Gair knew he was inches from Goldmoon, that the healer might realize he was talking to a spirit. "Like you saw through the snow?"

"I can't see anything," Roeland answered, thinking the elf was talking to him. "Just fire and smoke. Goldmoon wouldn't let us go in after them. She said it would be suicide, but she would've gone if I had let her."

A stalemate of wills. Fire and smoke and a foolish hairy beast who has given up on the upper levels and is heading for the basement.

"The basement?" Gair repeated.

"As far as we can tell, the fire started on the top floor," Roeland said. "Maybe the roof. Can't see how, though."

The basement, the spirit said. The dwarves fell through to the basement. I think the beast can smell them somehow.

Gair insisted on going to the port town for Goldmoon to arrange for more building supplies to replace everything that had been destroyed in the fire. He didn't tell the healer that he had planned the trip anyway, intending to stop at the scribe's. Willum accompanied the elf, determined to inform Camilla of the sabotage against the settlement and to ask for a larger garrison. They rode horses to cut the time of the journey considerably.

Gair thought that he might tell the knight commander about the Que-Nal and Shadowwalker, since he had not yet mentioned either to Goldmoon-or to Iryl, who claimed friendship with the Que-Nal. Camilla might not think to press him for information about how much he knew. The elf worked at being pleasant and plied Willum with questions about Camilla to keep his mind off the fire and his dilemma.

"Why don't you ask her yourself tonight?" the lieutenant said as they neared the town's gates. "Over dinner. You'll be my guest."

Gair accepted, of course, and was exceptionally amicable company, silent only when Willum discussed the tragedy of the citadel. Camilla politely expressed remorse for the fire, then astonishment that Goldmoon would consider proceeding.

As the evening wore on and the subject finally changed, she found herself eating everything placed on her plate, and at the elf's encouragement, having a second helping of plum pudding. The Solamnic commander's eyes drifted often to the elf, then quickly stared at her plate each time others noticed her. As soon as dinner was finished, she excused herself. "Letters to write," she told Gair and her men.

In her tower room, she paced in front of the desk, glancing at a letter that had arrived for her on the Solamnic ship still anchored in the harbor. It was in reply to one she'd written a little more than four weeks ago, asking the Solamnic Council to give her the authority to oust Goldmoon from Schallsea Island. She read the reply again and again then paced some more.

She let an hour drift by. As the stars winked into view, she strode to the window and looked out over the city. She peered toward the harbor. The full moon reflected off the waves, illuminating the docks and the Solamnic ship moored there, and illuminating Gair Graymist. What was the elf doing up so late? Couldn't he sleep either?

"The fire changed everything," Gair explained. "The new citadel will be more complex. Some of the dwarves have gone north and are mining crystal to use, and-"

"You believe in all of this, don't you?" Camilla interrupted.

He took the knight's hand and led her down one of the several paths that had been cleared through the thigh-high snow. The paths led from tent to tent to the main cookfire to the old building site, which was completely free of snow because of the heat of the recent fire. Only a light dusting from the new snow tried to conceal the rubble.

The eldest of the builders was already at work clearing away more of the debris. He was none too pleased about the weather and was cursing the snow that was still falling. "It doesn't snow inside Thorbardin," he muttered loudly enough for Gair and Camilla to hear.

"This section will be-" the elf paused, drawing his lower lip under his teeth as he searched his memory for the new plans he'd only bothered to glance at-"part of what will be called the Healing Lyceum. We're standing in what will be its very center." He led her toward the edge of the old site, where bits of charred wood still remained, and he pointed down into a deep, snowdusted basement. He tugged her back when he discovered how slippery the ground was. "Careful," he warned, pointing at a patch of ice that looked dull-gray in the pale dawn light. "According to Redstone's and Jasper's plans, the lyceum will have five floors, and part of it will cover this."

The Solamnic commander shook her head in disbelief. "I can't believe Goldmoon isn't giving up."

Gair smiled wistfully. "I don't think she knows how."

"I wish I knew who was working against you. The ambush on the trail. The fire: it's not bandits-they wouldn't destroy, they'd steal. Maybe Knights of Takhisis, sent here to vex Goldmoon, though I thought they had some measure of honor and would have attacked openly. I just don't know." She ran her fingers through her tight curls. "I might not agree with what's going on here, Gair-Goldmoon's mysticism and everything- but these attacks against you must stop. I've sent word to the council that I need skilled scouts. They should be here in a few more weeks, and with them we'll get to the bottom of this."

"Are you warm enough for this?"

She nodded. The red wool cloak the knight wore this morning, coupled with the thick padding under her armor, kept the cold at bay. "I just wish I knew who the dastards are. An enemy you know is easier to fight."

Gair decided to change the subject as he steered her past Jasper and Redstone at the dwarven tent community. Both had their hair trimmed oddly short, and their skin was still terribly blistered from the fire. The smell of roast pork and the crackling of eggs cooking was rousing all the builders. They were chattering in their gravelly voices, seemingly oblivious to the human and elf.

"Jasper's going to build a tower for the knights you intend to station here. Maybe you should talk with him to make sure it will be big enough."

Her eyes flashed with a hint of anger. "Is all of this really necessary?" She closed her eyes and exhaled slowly, then opened them again and took in the camp. Though the tents and lean-tos were much closer together now than before the blizzard and the fire, it still looked the same: a ragtag community of dreamers who had bundled up their hopes and worldly possessions and who had hitched themselves to the aging Hero of the Lance. "Why would someone of Goldmoon's age undertake something like this? She used to be a priestess of Mishakal. This"-she waved her hand to indicate the settlement-"this goes against the gods, and it goes against all my principles to protect her."

"But that's what you're doing-protecting her."

No answer. Her eyes were fixed on two bundled-up boys doing their best to add extra tent stakes to their canvas home. They were fighting with the frozen ground, and neither showed any indication of giving up.

Gair shrugged. "Camilla, I believe in Goldmoon. But maybe I don't always agree with her. I would have given up after the blizzard."

"This image you're painting of multiple buildings is most disturbing. Imagine how long it could take to construct them. Imagine the cost! The steel could be better spent helping the poor, rebuilding towns devastated by dragon attacks, paying soldiers in an army, funding…" She spun until her face was inches from Gair's. "Don't you realize this is all a frivolous waste of resources? If Goldmoon isn't senile, she must surely know that people, not this new order of mysticism, could make far better use of the money and effort."

Camilla scrutinized the elf. He looked like a twolegged bear in his hooded coat. She sighed and started to draw away, but he pulled her closer. "Gair, Goldmoon could have at least waited until spring when the weather was better. All the money and effort will be doubled if there are more fires and-"

"And perhaps the citadel will never be more than a dream," he said, "especially if this sabotage keeps up." He moved his face closer still until he could smell a hint of rose, something she washed her hair with. "If things get too bad, Camilla, maybe Goldmoon will take her project somewhere else. Then you'll have nothing to worry about."

"Will you go with her?"

The elf brought his slender fingers to her cheek, his thumb brushing her lips.

"Mornin', Commander, Mister Graymist," Willum interrupted as he hurried past toward a growing rank of soldiers. He drilled them each morning, though there were fewer today because several had accompanied the dwarves. "Cold one this mornin', isn't it? Cold enough to make your eyes freeze open."

The moment lost, Camilla stiffened and turned to watch the men.

"Good morning, Commander!" a tardy soldier chirped as he crisply saluted Camilla and rushed to find his place in line. The knight's eyes narrowed. She would reprimand the young man for his lateness when she returned this evening.

Gair tugged her away, noticing that she relaxed a little when they passed a high drift and the men were lost from view. He reached his hand to her face again as they slipped around another drift and were nearly knocked over by Orvago.

The gnoll grinned as he trundled by, growling a greeting to her and the elf. He was shuffling through the deep snow, making his own path and angling toward the building site, his bandaged arms wrapped around a bundle of wood dowels. Two shaggy mongrels followed him, light enough to scamper on top of the drifts. They barked and playfully nipped at each other's tails.

Camilla had seen the dogs before, hanging around the docks in town, though their ribs showed more prominently there. Even the four-legged strays had found their way to Goldmoon's settlement, she mused.

The gnoll barked at the dogs, and they barked back. One darted in front of Orvago, and he stumbled. Dowels went flying everywhere, landing in the snow, most of them sinking as if they were arrows shot from a bow. The gnoll howled, the dogs joined his chorus, and tardy risers poked their heads out of their tents to see what the ruckus was about.

"Hard to be alone here," he said too softly for her to hear.

"Wherever did this notion to build the citadel arise? Did you and Goldmoon spend months planning it?"

The elf gave a clipped laugh. "This Citadel of Light started as a vision," Gair began as he took her arm and steered her toward the main cook tent, where he was given a large basket of dried fish. "Goldmoon came up with the idea after she climbed the Silver Stair. She said she had a dream of dormitories for her students of mysticism, chapels, halls, lodging for visitors, stables, shrines, a great garden in the center, and in the very center of that the Silver Stair. Perhaps a moat around the entire complex, and…"

"And… ?"

"I guess the whole thing is pretty overwhelming."

"Sounds like a nightmare, not a dream."

The pair struck out toward the east now, plodding through the snow and making their own path as the gnoll had tried to do. It would take them perhaps a few hours to reach Heartspring walking through these heavy drifts. Without the snow, the trip of a few miles took little time.

"It's my turn to visit the village," Gair had told her. Someone from the settlement went to the farmers' village once a week or so to check on the families and to see if anyone needed healing. The blizzard and the fire had interfered with that routine. "I'm glad you agreed to come with me. I wanted to talk to you, to spend some time with you alone, and-"

"Gair!"

The elf turned to spot Iryl Songbrook plodding through the snow toward them, two Solamnic knights behind her. She was wrapped in a coat practically the color of the snow, her dark hair whipping out of the folds of her hood providing a sharp contrast. She was almost out of breath by the time she caught up to them.

"I was worried I'd missed you."

Gair gave her an impatient look.

"I'm going to Heartspring, too." She jangled her coin purse. "I need too see if the farmers have any more wool blankets to spare. Many of ours were lost in the fire. The ones you brought back with you from town helped, but-"

"I can do that for you," the elf volunteered.

"Nonsense!" she objected. "You'll be too preoccupied tending to the sick."

"You've brought these men to carry the blankets?"

She smiled at the elf. "Willum sent them. He said no one goes anywhere without protection. There's safety in numbers. He would've sent more, but he thought the commander would be satisfied with two."

Iryl brushed by the pair, taking the lead and forging the path through the snow. The lithe elf struggled in places, but he didn't sink as deep as the others and made a little better time. The knights fell in behind Gair and Camilla.

"So much for some time alone," Gair muttered under his breath.

The land between Goldmoon's settlement and the village of Heartspring was relatively flat, with a broad open stretch between two stands of pines and oaks. The snow that had blown to obscure the gently winding path gave character to the area, the drifts rising and falling like white waves captured on canvas with an artist's brushstrokes.

Gair mused that it seemed a shame to mar the landscape with their boot tracks, yet that is what they continued to do by plodding onward. They'd traveled several minutes when the sun broke through the gray sky and painted the snow a delicate pink. As the sky brightened further, the snow turned a glistening white, cut through at the edges of their vision by the blue shadows of the tall pines. A breeze was blowing from the south, dusting flakes across their path.

By midmorning, Heartspring came into view. The village was quaint, though not as tidy as the port of Schallsea. There were fewer than two dozen homes, all of them a mix of large fieldstone, mortar, and logs, none of them looking quite the same. The roofs were thatch, patched here and there with sod, and all had chimneys puffing merrily away. Outside each home was a collection of tools: plows, axes, bins, and others in various states of repair. These gave the village an old, cluttered look. Added to that were barns, some with roofs sagging under the weight of the snow, most with peeling paint, some with doors standing permanently ajar because the wood had warped. The fields extended to the east and south of the village, blanketed with white, though it was obvious Heartspring was spared from the worst of the blizzard that had struck Goldmoon's settlement many days ago. In the distance, a shed leaned into the wind, its door banging back and forth with each gust of wind. Behind it, an ice-covered lake reflected the sun's rays like a mirror.

The people who came out to meet the elves and knights seemed to match the buildings. Homesteaders who chose the fertile lands inland from the coast, they were all human. Many were in rumpled, mismatched clothes decorated with patches. The adults had weathered skin from the hours they spent under the sun in better climes. Some had hammers and other small tools sticking out of their pockets. The children wore clothes that looked either too small because they were outgrowing them or too large because they hadn't yet grown into the hand-me-downs. Only a few children had clothes that seemed to fit right. Nearly all of them wore smiles, and they were obviously happy to see Gair.

The children ogled the knights, rubbing grubby fingers over the silver armor and oohing and aahing at their wide-eyed reflections in the leg plates. The knights obliged the youths by answering questions about weapons, fighting, and life beyond Schallsea Island.

The visit in Heartspring was not unpleasant, but it had the feel of a ritual, with Gair presenting the dried fish to the village leader, a crusty old man with a voice as gravelly as any dwarf's. Iryl visited with a man who raised sheep, and Camilla could tell from the delicate elf's expression that she had secured more blankets.

Gair stopped at each home, taking time to ease the fever of an elderly farmer, mend the arm of a young child who slipped on the lake, offer reassurances to a pregnant woman. There was tea at one home, hot biscuits at another, kind words exchanged at all of them. Camilla silently watched, amazed at Gair's mystical talent-and troubled by it.

It was late afternoon before Gair had finished his rounds, turning down invitation upon invitation for dinner and promising that someone would return next week.

"Home, m'lady?" Gair said, extending his arm to Camilla.

"The settlement is your home, not mine," she replied. She volunteered to carry some of Iryl's blankets, keeping her arms occupied.

The entourage made better time on the return trip, following the trail they'd blazed in the morning. The knight noted that they would be at the settlement by sunset, in time for the evening meal and in time for her to patrol the grounds with Willum again before turning in. The wind had picked up considerably, blowing the topmost powdery layer of snow across their path and nipping at their fingers. The sky had quickly turned gray again.

"I'm looking forward to spring," Gair said simply. "I think-"

"Down!" Iryl dropped, hands and legs flying out, bundled body hitting the snow with a muffled whuff.

"What is it?" This came from one of the knights who'd been toting blankets. The other was fast to follow Iryl's example, landing atop his pile of blankets and driving them into the snow.

"Get down!" Iryl repeated.

Gair reflexively crouched, pushing Camilla into a drift just as a spear whizzed past from the north, slicing through the air where the commander had been standing a heartbeat before. Another spear came from the south, striking the sluggish knight's armor with enough of an impact to rattle him. He pitched forward, blankets flying like big, spooked birds.

Gair pressed himself into a drift, then rolled to face to the north, his fingers splayed across the snow. He was stretching out, magically, with his senses. He cursed himself for paying so much attention to Camilla that he hadn't noticed anyone lying in wait. He knew Iryl's natural senses, not so distracted, had warned her heartbeats ago that something was wrong. He reached inside himself and coaxed his mystical power to grow and flow outward.

My son, take care. Gair's father had opened the door. There are barbarians on both sides of the trail. Que-Nal. A deadly ambush.

"I think I saw something move!" Iryl called. "Too far away to make anything out. Can't tell how many!"

Gair swallowed hard. "Que-Nal," he said softly.

"Why didn't I say something about their involvement before now?"

Your words would not have prevented this.

The elf saw an unending blanket of white, cut through here and there by scraggly bushes. In the distance stood some evergreens, but the spear-throwers would not be that far away. Hiding behind one of the drifts, then.

"How many of them?" he asked as his senses flowed over the snow like running water.

Seven, the elder Graymist replied. To the north. Hidden by deep drifts.

"We're halfway between Heartspring and the settlement, too far from either to be seen," Iryl said, her voice low and panicked. "A perfect spot for an ambush. Why? Who would do this? We've nothing of value!"

"Except blankets," Camilla muttered.

Gair glanced over his shoulder to make sure Camilla was all right. She was extricating herself from the drift he had pushed her into and was now crouched in the narrow path they'd been making, edging her head up and looking to the south.

The elf returned his concentration to his spell and felt a tingling warmth in his fingertips, though his exposed skin was cherry-red from the cold. Directing the warmth away from him, his senses grew even more acute. He smelled the faint scent of pine, carried from the distant row of evergreens, smelled rotting wood where a bush had died and the snow was decaying the dead branches, smelled the snow, which had a clean, almost mystical scent. And he smelled wolves, mixed with the scent of men, the scent of the latter being more prominent. Men were wearing the skin of wolves for warmth, he decided. Indeed, there were seven to the north. To the south? He directed the warmth away and behind him, where he heard the shush of steel as Camilla drew her sword, then more whispers of steel as her two knights followed suit. Next he heard a fluttering noise. Camilla released her woolen cloak so it would not hamper her.

I can direct you out of here, the elder Graymist said. Alone, you would have a chance to escape. The barbarians would concentrate on the knights.

"Out of the question," Gair hissed.

Save yourself

The elf blocked out his father's insistent urgings, not bothering to shut the door, since the effort to do so might disrupt his other enchantment. His senses continued flowing farther to the south, where he discovered more men, wearing the skins of wolves and beavers. His acute hearing picked up their hushed conversation, but it was of a language he could not comprehend. The group was about thirty feet from the trail, well hidden behind snowdrifts and crawling closer. From the west, one large figure was approaching.

"Camilla," Gair whispered. "There are six to the south, seven to the north and one coming from the west."

"How… how do you know that?"

"Magic."

Camilla growled softly in her throat. "Badly outnumbered," the knight said, "and they've got us pinned down."

"Maybe we can crawl back to the settlement," Iryl suggested. "It's not dignified, but-"

"We stay put. They'll have to come closer if they want us," Camilla said. "Everyone stay alert."

"Unless they intend to freeze us out," one of the knights whispered.

The wind continued to chase the snow across their path, blowing stronger now. Gair squinted and cupped a hand over his eyes to keep the snow from getting in them. He noticed a white mound moving a little closer, and he dropped his hand to his belt, tugging free a knife. His other hand reached for the pommel of his long sword. His fingers were so painfully cold. Still, he kept his concentration on the spell so he could follow the barbarians' movements.

"What do you want?" Gair called out to them. "We've no coins with us!"

"The elves!" a strong voice from the north called. "The knights can go on their way."

Listen to me, Son. I can find you a path out of here.

Gair gritted his teeth.

"What is this all about?" Gair challenged. "We've done nothing to you!"

"You defy the gods!" This a softer voice from the south. "You and all in your settlement, all of you must die!" A spear followed the words.

"I can see them!" Iryl chirped. "By the blessed memory of Habbakuk, they're Que-Nal!"

Gair swung his gaze to the south. There were six barbarians, standing on a stretch of hard-packed snow, white and gray wolfskins and dark brown beaver furs covering their tall forms. The one in the lead carried a shield made of deerskin. There were symbols painted on it similar to those the elf had seen on the trees near the burial ground.

The shield-bearer spoke. "Silver knights! Our fight is not with you."

"Then leave us be!" Camilla called out.

"We will fight you if we have to," the shield-bearer continued, "unless you surrender the elves from the settlement, and unless you promise to leave the cursed settlement forever. We offer you life."

Son, there is still a chance I can direct you out of here! Listen to me!

To the north, Gair heard the sounds of more snow crunching, watched seven wolf-clad forms rise from behind a drift. Thirteen Que-Nal altogether, plus whoever the large figure was, were advancing from the west. The barbarians readied spears.

Listen to me!

The elf closed his eyes, tilted his head until his chin touched the snow. He released the enchantment he'd been holding and focused on another, and on the snow beneath him, reaching out with his thoughts to the north to sense the snow beneath the seven warriors' feet.

"Peace," Gair whispered. "Peace, warriors. I have peace in my heart. Find the peace in your hearts, too." It was a mystic spell similar to the one he'd used on the boars. He sensed their rapid pulses and tried to slow them, chattering comforting words as a mother would to calm an upset child. He directed all of his energy into trying to convince the men to be calm and to drop their spears. "There is no reason to threaten us," he murmured. "We do not threaten you. Find peace inside your hearts."

The elf discerned that four of the seven relaxed. Their fingers quivered, and they dropped their spears. Their breathing slowed. "Peace," they murmured, almost in unison.

Their fellows snapped at them and shouted that sorcery was at work. Gair continued to concentrate, and the quartet remained at ease, did nothing to regain their weapons. "Peace," the elf repeated. The word was echoed by the four barbarians. "Friends."

There were other words swirling amid the blowing snow-unintelligible words from the barbarians to the south, who were moving closer, words of concern and disbelief from Iryl Songbrook, orders from Camilla. There was a crunch of snow as the Solamnic knights stood to meet the challenge.

Listen to reason, Gair. Save yourself. It is not yet your time to die.

Gair used the last of his mental strength to reach out to the other three barbarians to the north. "We are no threat," he repeated emphatically. "Let me be your ally, not your enemy."

"No threat," two finally parroted. They dropped their spears. "Allies."

Iryl gasped. "Camilla, Gair's spellbound… ."

"No!" bellowed the last of the Que-Nal warriors. Gair touched the man's mind and was instantly repulsed. His will was strong, and he was angry. That ire was a shield that kept the elf's soothing words at bay. The barbarian cursed to his companions, who continued to stand docilely. Then the barbarian bolted toward Gair.

The elf struggled to get to his feet, but his coat tangled in his legs and cost him precious seconds. Behind him, the knights advanced to the south to meet the charge of the six approaching barbarians.

"Take the woman knight first!" one of them roared.

"I don't want to kill you," Camilla hissed through clenched teeth. To Iryl, she said, "Keep yourself down and watch for more."

Gair managed to make it to his feet just as the angry Que-Nal warrior was upon him. The elf held his sword parallel in front of him, using it to fend off the barbarian's attack. The Que-Nal was young, perhaps only fourteen or fifteen. The scattering of blood-soaked beads in his hair clacked together as he dropped to a crouch, thrusting up with his spear.

"They don't sink into the snow!" Gair reported, studying the odd, wide boots his attacker wore. It distributed the youth's weight and kept him on the surface. The elf easily parried each jab, while at the same time, he kept a corner of his mind focused on the six submissive warriors to the north. He needed to keep them calm so they would not join the fray.

"No!" It was Camilla's voice, and Gair risked a glance behind him.

One of her Solamnic knights was staggering, hands clutched in front of him. He fell onto his back, a spear protruding from his throat, and beneath the weight of his plate mail, he was quickly swallowed by the snow.

Still parrying the young warrior's frantic attacks, Gair noticed that Iryl had retrieved a miscast spear. She held it in front of her, evidencing that she knew how to use it, and kept her eyes glued to the west, where a shadow on the horizon suggested the large figure was closing.

Camilla and the remaining knight were back to back, thigh-deep in snow. The two knights were exchanging blows with the six attackers who had ringed them and were at a disadvantage because of their lower position. Still Camilla managed a lucky blow, her sword cleaving deep into the leg of one of the barbarians. He fell, howling, and the Solamnic commander brought her sword down hard, finishing him off.

"This is senseless!" Iryl spat. The lithe elf had discarded her voluminous cloak and was heading toward the knights, plodding through the snow and waving the spear back and forth in front of her. "The Que-Nal are peaceful. My friends, stop this!"

A young warrior broke away from the knights and charged Iryl. "Friends! Only the weak Que-Nal befriend outsiders," he proclaimed with a sneer. "Only they ignore the trespassers at the stair. Not Shadowwalker's clan!"

"Shadowwalker!" Iryl declared. "By the blessed memory of Habbakuk!"

She used her spear to knock away his first thrust, whirled in the snow, and fell prone as his second attack passed over her head. She rolled to the right as he moved in and jabbed downward. Covered with snow, she managed to get to her feet and continued to parry the warrior's attacks.

To the north, Gair tried to reason with his foe. "I have no desire to kill you!" he said.

The youth laughed. "Zebyr Jotun does not trouble my mind with such concerns." He drove forward, pressing the elf back and jamming his spear down, trying to impale the elf.

Gair moved at the last possible moment, hurling his knife at the youth and striking him in the stomach. The young warrior continued to cackle, tugging the bloodless knife free. His furs were so thick, it was as if he were wearing armor and the blade was too small to find its way through. Knife in one hand now and spear in the other, he advanced on Gair again.

"You give me no choice!" the elf shouted. Softer, to himself, he added, "I can't afford to dally with you when Camilla is in danger."

The elf darted in, swinging hard to the right and splitting the youth's spear. Without pause, he lunged in and swept the blade again, cutting through the thick skins and finding flesh beneath them. The young warrior struggled back a step, gasping in surprise and pain.

Nearby, Camilla crouched in the snow, making herself a smaller target. Then a heartbeat later she rose, and feinting to her right, sliced forcefully under the barbarian's shield. The blade bit through his fur and deep into his stomach. The startled Que-Nal grunted and fell back, his hand pressing against the growing line of red staining his pelt, then dropping the decorated shield.

"Kill the woman knight!" This was a new voice, and all eyes swiveled to the south to spot an ancient man yards away, his long hair as white as the snow and blowing wildly about a deeply lined face. "Kill all of them!" He raised his hands, thumbs touching, fingers spread wide.

"Shadowwalker!" Iryl moaned. She was still locked in a fight with a Que-Nal warrior.

Another blow, and Gair dropped his foe.

The remaining four Que-Nal continued to jab at Camilla and her knight. Blood stained the snow around the latter, and his slow movements showed he was seriously wounded.

Gair! The elder Graymist intruded again. You and your friends cannot win this battle. Not now. Hide!

"Never!" Gair cursed as he plowed through the snow to the south, slowed only by his indecisiveness of whether to help Iryl or the two knights.

The four around Camilla and her knight increased the tempo of their attacks, thrusting with the tips of their spears, then bringing the other ends around as if their weapons were quarterstaffs.

Far behind them, the old man was humming, the droning sound cutting through the clamor, unnerving Gair.

He has magic, Gair's father surmised. That's why you cannot win. Run while you can, Son! We've much work to do together. Do not throw your life away for these people.

"These people are my friends," the elf growled.

Several blows glanced off Camilla's armor, but one struck the side of her head, momentarily stunning her. She sagged back against the other knight, who was faring worse. A spear had found its way between the plates in his armor just as he had managed to land a serious blow against one of the barbarians.

Another glance told Gair that Iryl was holding her own, so he darted toward the knights, feet flying over the snow and sending a shower of white in his wake.

"Orvago!" Iryl hollered. "It's Orvago!"

The shape coming from the west was the gnoll. He was running, jowls wide open as he howled.

"Orvago! Help us!" Iryl called to him. "Hurry."

As the gnoll closed the distance, Shadowwalker clapped his hands together, the sound booming like thunder. The wind gained more strength, whistling fiercely and whipping snow into the eyes of the knights and the elves. The snow seemed not to bother the Que-Nal, who continued to worry at the knights.

A grievously wounded warrior dropped his spear and threw himself on the male knight, bearing him to the ground and pitching him into Camilla in the process. Camilla struggled to stay on her feet as the other three warriors thrust their spears at her.

Gair wasn't yet close enough, and one of the Que-Nal spears found its mark. It skewered the commander from behind.

"No!" Gair cried.

Despite her injury, the Solamnic knight moved quickly. She brought her sword down on the arm of an attacker in front of her, cleaving it and sending a shower of blood everywhere. With the spear still protruding from her back, she whirled and swept her sword high, slicing through the hides of the already wounded barbarian who was atop the other knight. The youth cried out once, then fell lifeless.

"Only three left," Gair chattered to himself as he closed the distance. "We can prevail here yet."

You can't, his father hissed into his ear, and now you can't run.

The wind became even more fierce, like the blizzard of a few weeks ago. The world turned white. "Did he cause that storm, too, Father?" Gair hollered to hear himself above the wind. "Was the old man responsible?"

I do not know, the elder Graymist replied, the spirit's voice a mere whisper.

Camilla's chest was heaving from the exertion, her breath puffing away from her face like a chimney being stoked and melting the flakes that swirled in front of her. Her back burned, and she felt the blood running from her wound and soaking the padding beneath her armor. She couldn't see more than inches in front of her and concentrated on listening to the swishing sound of the Que-Nals' feet over the drifts. There was one in front of her! She rained a succession of harsh blows toward it, hearing a sharp crack when her sword cut through a spear.

Three Que-Nal, two of them weaponless, danced around her as if the snowstorm was not there. One darted in and picked up the fallen knight's sword, then brought it up to parry Gair's swing. The elf was not relying on his eyesight but was listening to his father tell him where the barbarians were.

Crouching, the elf feinted, then rose up and rammed his sword forward and felt it sink into someone in front of him. "Keep me away from Camilla!" he called to his father. "I don't want to harm her by mistake." Nor do I want her to harm me, he thought.

Away from the pair, Iryl clutched the spear in one hand, and with the other tried to bat away the snow so she could see. She felt a rush of air and leapt to the side, feeling the brush of fur as the Que-Nal charged where she had been a heartbeat before. She felt another brush of fur, this more coarse, and heard a deep-throated growl.

"Orvago!" She let out a sigh of relief. "Thanks be to the memory of Habbakuk!"

"Kill them!" the old man continued to shout. "For Zebyr Jotun! Kill them!"

"A beast!" the Que-Nal nearby Iryl cried. "Shadowwalker, they have monsters on their side!"

Chaos continued to rain in the swirling snowstorm. The clang of Gair's and Camilla's swords rang out against the spears of their foes and the soft thuds of the blades striking the thick hides of the barbarians. A muffled cry cut through the wind, Camilla's, followed by a series of thuds and clangs as an incensed Gair retaliated.

"Camilla's down!" Gair called out, hoping that Iryl still lived. "Father, how many left?"

Still three, the elder Graymist answered. One is sorely injured.

"Tell me where they are, Father!"

More blows rained.

Somewhere in the wicked whiteness, the old man continued to shout, "Kill them all!"

Near Iryl, the gnoll was wildly slashing at a barbarian who was doing his best to crawl toward Shadowwalker. The gnoll's hood was thrown back, revealing his doglike face, spittle flying and freezing as he continued to claw at the man.

Camilla was face first in the snow and struggling to push herself up. The knight was faint from cold and the loss of blood, her fingers practically frozen.

Gair was wounded, too, from spear jabs that penetrated through his defenses and punctured his legs, but none of the wounds were serious. He stepped in front of Camilla, following his father's directions, thrusting his sword forward like a spear, driving it through one of the remaining barbarians.

Two left! The elder Graymist's voice finally showed a hint of optimism. The monster you call your friend has finished another, and the old man is retreating!

The gnoll's victory cry cut through the chaos, sending a shiver down Gair's spine.

The two remaining are fleeing, too, his father continued. The monster has unnerved them! It was fortunate your beast was worried over your tardiness and came looking for you. The monster is good for something after all.

The gnoll was snorting and growling, trying to find his way through the snow to pursue his quarry.

"Let them go, Orvago!" Gair shouted as his father explained what the gnoll was trying to do. "Over here! I need you!" Then the elf slumped to his knees, as if the effort of shouting took the last of his strength. "I should have told Goldmoon and Iryl about the Que-Nal, Father." His voice was soft, cloaked by the sound of the wind-driven snow.

No, his father corrected. You were right to keep the knowledge hidden. It would not have prevented this.

"Camilla!"

There was nothing but the persistent shushing of the snow and Orvago's growls.

"Where is she, Father?"

Lost to you, Son. Mortally wounded, I'm afraid. She is slipping toward my realm. I will welcome her for you.

Gair shut out the rest of his father's words and groped furiously with his frigid hands, desperately trying to find Camilla. She was lying on her side, a layer of snow atop her, a spear lodged in her back. He felt her face, his fingers dancing down her body until they encountered the warm stickiness of her blood. Gair blocked everything else, focusing on his heart, trembling from fear of losing her, calling forth his healing spell.

The magic was dead within him. He was exhausted, physically and mentally, too spent to nurture a mystical spark.

"Please!" the elf whimpered as he concentrated harder, felt himself grow colder as all his energy was directed inward. His breathing became ragged, and he slumped over her still form. "Please!" He could sense his heartbeat, weakening himself further as he tried to draw energy from it. It thrummed irregularly as he gave up the last of his strength in an effort to find his mystic center. The penetrating cold, and a blackness that came up from nowhere and everywhere, swelled to surround him, and he felt himself lose his grip on consciousness and spiral downward. "No!" It was a hoarse whisper of protest. "I won't give up yet!" Just as he suspected he might fail himself, he found a last bit of energy left in his limbs, and the elf felt something stir within him, something inexplicable, a faintly mystical pulse.

He pictured it as a flame, and he crouched over it, protecting it from the wind and blowing on it gently to give it more substance. The image became more real in his mind until he could feel the warmth of the fire he was building. It was chasing the cold from his limbs, melting the snow all around him. He continued to tend the flames, fingers scrabbling over the dry ground he was mentally painting, gathering twigs and dead leaves. These he shoved into the fire, and it grew.

The elf pulled back from the image now, registering himself draped over Camilla. The warmth from the fire in his chest was surging down his arms and into her unmoving form. The waves were strong, as he'd felt them moving into himself when Jasper healed him on the trail in what seemed so long ago. He stoked the fire higher and was rewarded when he heard her gasp, felt her move slightly.

Still focusing on his healing wave, he reached around to her back, where the spear was lodged. It was not too deep, and he tugged it out, pressing his fingers into the wound and coaxing his mystical warmth inside.

She moaned softly.

"You'll be all right." Guided by Orvago, Iryl had found her way to the knight commander's side. "Gair is healing you."

"No!" The word was firm. She tried to push herself away from the elf's hands, but Iryl held her down, and Camilla hadn't the strength to handle the slight elvish woman. "Take me to town, please. There's an herbalist at the Sentinel. She'll see to me. No magic."

Gair's fingers fluttered across her arm, where he felt a broken bone. He couldn't set it, though he knew Goldmoon or Jasper could handle that task. He could stop the bleeding and ease her pain. He directed the warmth to flow into the arm.

Camilla was growing stronger, and Orvago helped keep her from squirming.

"I don't want this!" The words were almost lost in the still-blowing snow. "None of this mysticism. None of it. Let me die… or take me to town."

"I won't let you die, lady knight," Gair said. "And the port is days away." He turned his attention back to the spell and directed the last of the healing warmth into her. Thoroughly spent, he fell back into the soft snow, gasping and clutching his cold fingers to his chest.

"Willum," Camilla moaned. She was feverish, ranting. "Willum, don't let them heal me. None of their mysticism. None of it."

Iryl smoothed the knight's hair and cradled Camilla's face in her lap to protect it from the wind. "Everything will be all right, Commander Weoledge. Rest now."

The miniature storm died several minutes later, leaving behind snow that had all but covered the bodies of the slain Que-Nal and the two knights. One of the latter lived, barely, and Gair somehow found just enough mystical strength to stop his bleeding. The elf plucked at the fastenings of the armor and tugged it off the man.

The gnoll padded over, removed his own cloak, wrapped it around the wounded knight, and hoisted him gently over his shoulder. Orvago glanced to the west. He had followed their tracks to get here, and the storm that came from nowhere covered up all trace of them.

Iryl brushed the snow from the slain knight, ran her fingers across his eyelids to close them, and offered a quiet prayer to the departed Habbakuk. Finished, she joined Gair, who had removed Camilla's armor and was wrapping her in one of the blankets, then lifted her in his arms. The knight was as tall as the elf and at least as heavy, but Gair somehow managed to carry her.

"We'll have to return for the armor and the rest of the blankets," he told Iryl. "Too heavy to deal with now."

A blanket under each arm, she nodded and took the lead, her eyes darting to the north and south, fearful of spotting more Que-Nal. "I did not believe the Que-Nal capable of this," she said. She shook her head in disbelief. "As a whole, they are a peaceful people. I apologize."

"For what?"

"I was blinded to the truth of the real nemesis. If I'd had a clue that Shadowwalker was involved, I could have prevented this," Iryl declared.

"Prevented it?" Gair sucked in his breath. "How?"

"Shadowwalker's a renegade. The chieftain of the Que-Nal, Skydancer, is a close friend of mine. I could have said something to him. He and his people could have stopped Shadowwalker, stopped all of this. Shadowwalker's mad, my Silvanesti friend. You heard the young warriors mention Zebyr Jotun? That's one of their gods. You might know her as Zeboim, queen of the sea. Shadowwalker believes the gods are still here and thinks that his power comes from her. He's mad… and dangerous. He's probably behind the fire at the citadel, the attack on the pilgrims. All these deaths, Gair-the fire, everything-they could have been prevented if only I'd known."

Not another word was spoken as Orvago, Gair, and Iryl forged a new path through the snow.

It was after sundown by the time they reached the settlement. They went straight to Goldmoon's tent, where the aging healer and Jasper tended to the knights. Camilla's protests to their mystic ministrations were ignored.

Gair padded from the settlement when he was confident Camilla would live and that she was resting comfortably. "Could have prevented this," he muttered to himself as he passed by the Silver Stair, just winking into view with the stars. "Well, I will put an end to all of this. Darkhunter will tell me where to find this Shadowwalker, and I will deal with the old man." And then I will return to Goldmoon and beg her to cleanse this darkness I feel growing stronger inside me, the elf added to himself.

The gnoll stood stoop-shouldered inside the tent, too tall to stand completely upright without tearing the tent stakes loose, something he'd done several times already. He was admiring the ornamental broadsword Gair had hung just inside the doorway. When the light hit it just right, as it was doing now, he could see his eyes reflected in the blade.

He grinned, a trail of spittle edging over his lip. He wiped at it with a hairy paw, rubbed the paw against his pants leg, and reached up to tug the sword loose from its fastenings. He ran his clawed fingers over the carvings of pegasi and made a sound reminiscent of a cat's purr. Almost reverently he placed the sword on Gair's cot, admiring it a few more moments.

Next the gnoll slipped out of his red cloak and bright blue tunic. He tugged his boots free and carefully placed them and the socks on the end of his bed. Naked except for his loose-fitting trousers, which he rolled up to his knees, Orvago snatched up the sword again and stepped out of the tent, nearly barreling into Goldmoon.

"Good evening, Orvago." She smiled up at the gnoll. "Aren't you cold?"

He shrugged, wrinkled his snout, and glanced toward the sun, which was starting to set.

Her eyes drifted to the sword. "Isn't that Gair's?"

The gnoll nodded sheepishly.

"You're borrowing it to go hunting? I'm sure he won't mind, though I wish I knew where he was. I haven't seen him since last night."

The gnoll shook his head and shrugged his shoulders.

"I'm sure he's all right."

The gnoll smiled broadly, revealing a double row of sharp teeth. His eyes glimmered with the same excitement she'd noticed when she saw him hunting the boars. He demonstrated to her how the blade reflected like a mirror.

"Tired of eating our cooked food?"

He nodded again.

"Well, good hunting, my friend," she offered as she turned and headed toward the settlement's main cookfire.

The scent of roast deer and the sound of friendly conversation drifted across the settlement. His keen ears picked up Jasper toasting the memory of Reorx the Forge, whom the dwarves considered the greatest of Krynn's gods, and he heard Camilla and Iryl discussing the renegade Que-Nal.

The pads of his feet were cold against the snow, but he considered it a pleasant sensation as he ran toward the north, toward where the River Shard met the Lake of Swords. He had grown so used to wearing boots that he'd almost forgotten what it was like to feel the snow beneath his feet. The biting cold put him on edge and made him more alert, and the wind teasing the greengray hair of his chest was invigorating. The sun was halfway swallowed up by the horizon, painting the ground a pale orange and making the edge of the broad sword gleam as if it had just been pulled from the forge. He sniffed the air, searching for prey, no longer picking up the scent of roast deer. The woods loomed ahead, and he raced toward them, quickly losing himself in the shadows of the thick trees.

He ran a little farther then dropped to his knees and traced a depression in the snow. There were other tracks nearby, under the spread of a massive willow-a large elk. Orvago followed the elk's trail, pausing occasionally to check his position and sniffing to keep track of its spoor. He dropped again, noting more tracks, tracing their outlines and sniffing. Abruptly he turned to the west now, following a different set of tracks.

The sun had set, and the woods were growing darker. The gnoll's dull red eyes separated the shadows. He could see well in the dark, but these tracks were difficult to follow, since they'd been covered up here and there.

The last of the light was fading, making the air even colder. Orvago traveled another hour, then another. The stars were winking into view, illuminating a trail made narrow by thickening trees and spreading ground cover. The tracks were fresher here.

The sound of voices drifted to him from ahead, beyond a thicket of trees. The gnoll recognized one of them. He picked out six distinct voices, all whispering in low, raspy tones. He crept closer. Eyeing the trees, he noticed several had carvings on them. He selected one with a hollow trunk and hid the broadsword in it, approaching weaponless.

Orvago drew himself up to his full height and walked forward into the clearing. His lips curled up in a smile at Gair, and he waved a hairy paw in the air in greeting.

The elf was standing in the center of a clearing filled with snow-covered mounds, bright to the gnoll's eyes against the black of the tree trunks, and against the black of the things that seemed to be talking to Gair.

There were six of them, manlike in shape and somehow blacker than night. They floated above the snowy mounds, speaking in voices that sounded like coarse whispers. Their hair, if it could be called stich, looked like trails of smoke waving madly away from their mouthless faces, and their eyes… these were what set a ridge of hair standing up on the gnolls back.

Their eyes burned white, unblinking and looking hot as coals. All six pairs were focused on Orvago. His lips curled back in a snarl. What passed for their black chests did not rise and fall. He could not smell them, and they did not breathe.

A menacing growl rose in Orvago's throat. The gnoll took a step back, and then another. A chill ran down his spine as he saw two of the black creatures separate from the group and advance toward him. They moved slowly, like clouds floating across the sky, their eyes seeming to burn white-hot. The other four remained in a semicircle around the elf.

What manner of creature are you ? one of them asked in its coarse, whispery voice.

"He is called a gnoll," Gair supplied.

A gnoll, it repeated. It cackled then, a sound like glass shattering. A living thing. We hate life, it continued. We will end the gnoll's life.

The others cackled, too, and Orvago threw his paws over his ears and backed away faster. The laughter was physically painful.

We will end your life, the second parroted, and we will make you one of us. You will thank us for your death.

They shot forward with a speed that amazed the gnoll. Impossibly black arms grew claws and reached out, slashing at Orvago's chest. He waved his hairy arms in an effort to fend them off.

The cackling continued, and two more spirit shapes floated forward. Four of the things circled the gnoll now, taunting him, darting in and scratching him with nails as sharp as any sword. The cuts were not deep, but they hurt terribly. Each swipe brought with it a freezing jolt. Their touch was colder than the snow!

Orvago retaliated with his own claws, but to little effect. His arms passed right through the black bodies and made him feel as if he'd thrust his arms into an icy pond.

We'll make you one of us! another tittered. The sentiment was quickly repeated until the coarse whispers drowned out his snarls. Make you dead!

Make you dead! The words became a chant that was echoed around the clearing. Dead. Dead. Dead.

"No!" The voice was Gair's, and it gave the creatures pause. "Leave the gnoll alone!"

The black creatures still hovered around the gnoll, darting in and out, eyes burning. The gnoll continued to bat at them as he backed away, glancing around. The hollow tree where he'd hidden the sword wasn't much farther away.

"Leave the gnoll alone," the elf repeated, moving forward even as Orvago continued to back away. "I want to talk to him."

The gnoll continued to back away as he tried to look beyond the black bodies to see his friend, carefully looking him over to make sure the black creatures had not injured the elf.

Gair understood the gnoll's concern. "I'm all right. They haven't harmed me."

We would not hurt him. Only help him. The master summoned us and gave us life, one of the black creatures explained.

Orvago's heart thundered in his chest, and his thick eyebrows rose in bewilderment.

Intensely glowing eyes moved to within an inch of the gnoll's face. They exuded a frigid wave, and they took on a reddish cast that grew steadily brighter. The gnoll's teeth chattered, and he backed away faster now. He was at the edge of the clearing now, nearing the hollow tree.

"Orvago, don't leave." It was Gair's voice again. "We need to talk, you and I. Well, I suppose I have to do the talking, and you have to listen very carefully."

The gnoll's eyes darted back and forth between the black shapes, vigorously shook his head and motioned frantically for the elf to come with him.

"That wouldn't be a good idea-not right now, anyway." Gair's tone was terse. "I need to stay a while longer with my new friends."

Orvago howled mournfully, and he desperately motioned to the elf once more to come with him. The woods had closed completely about Orvago now as he had maneuvered himself farther down the trail. The black creatures were still following him, passing through trees and effortlessly keeping pace.

Kill him? one asked in its whispery voice. Can we kill him, Master? Then we can go to your settlement, drink the life there.

Gair shook his head. "Not the citadel grounds. Goldmoon is there."

Not the citadel, Master. As you wish. But this animal? Let us drink the life from this animal, Master. You summoned us to do your bidding. Please let that bidding be to kill this creature.

The gnoll glanced through a gap in the icy black bodies, met Gair's stare.

"I summoned them, Orvago, just like the spirit said." The elf was keeping pace too, but he remained behind the black creatures, sticking to the center of the trail. "I used a spell that Goldmoon taught me, and because I summoned them, I am their master," He paused and threw his head back to look at the stars, inhaled deeply, then dropped his gaze to the gnoll. "I owe Goldmoon much for this enchantment, Orvago. She uses her magic only for the living. I simply made a few adjustments and called upon my father and Darkhunter for help. I choose to use my magic on the dead now."

Orvago was close to the tree now. Just a few more steps. The gnoll raised his hairy arms, trying to bat the creatures away.

The black things cackled. It sounded like breaking glass to the gnoll's sensitive ears. Gair was laughing, too. "Orvago, it takes more than that to drive them away. Indeed, I don't think I could make them go away even if I wanted to." His eyes narrowed. "Which I don't."

Suddenly Orvago's back was against the tree. He was feeling behind him for the hollow spot. There. He was working the fingers of his right hand inside the hollow trunk, stretching them lower.

"I know you consider me your friend, Orvago," Gair began.

The gnoll nodded his head animatedly.

"I'm not sure I can trust you. I know you can't talk, at least not in my language, but you can get your point across when you want to. I don't need Goldmoon finding out about my dark companions, my loyal wraiths."

Can we kill him now, Master? the largest of the black creatures asked. Its eyes consumed Orvago's vision. He reeks of life. Let us drink the sweetness from him.

The gnoll's red eyes grew wide and he swallowed hard. That word "Master" again.

Can we, Master? the large wraith repeated.

"I suppose so… yes, Darkhunter. You may kill him."

Orvago howled in disbelief.

"You may kill him," Gair continued, "but do so quickly. I do not want the gnoll to suffer for long."

The large wraith moved to Orvago, touching its icy chest to his hairy gray-green one. The gnoll yowled in agony at the painfully frigid sensation. The undead creature persevered, and Orvago slid to his rump, sobbing and twitching, growing weaker by the moment.

The gnoll's paw fumbled behind him, his fingers moving erratically. The pain was becoming even more intense, threatening to render him unconscious.

The wraiths' whispers grew louder, filled with promises that the gnoll would die but not die, that he would be raised at the behest of their elven master to walk with them. Stronger than the living, more powerful in darkness.

Behind them, Gair's voice grew irritated. "I told you to finish him quickly. There will be others to kill at your leisure!"

Tears poured from the gnoll's eyes, both from the pain that wracked his body and from the knowledge that his elven friend was ordering his death. His fingers continued to fumble about in the opening as one of the creatures thrust its intangible hands into his thighs. The icy sensation was almost more than the gnoll could bear, and he screamed, his voice sounding practically human in its pain.

"Enough of this, I said!" Gair spat. "Kill him now!"

With his free hand, Orvago tried desperately one last time to bat the creatures away. His hand passed through them again, adding to his icy agony. But when his claws raked at the eyes of the creature in front of him, the one called Darkhunter, the thing backed away. If he couldn't harm their ghostly forms, maybe he could hurt their eyes. And if he could hurt them, maybe he could kill them, or at least make them return to wherever they had come from.

The clawed fingers of his right hand finally closed about the carved pommel of the hidden sword. He drove Darkhunter back with the other by poking at the creature's eyes. Another spirit darted in under the sweep of his shaggy arm, its claws out and digging into his side.

The gnoll's sharp cry pierced the night, and the creatures howled in glee.

Do not fight the death we offer. Join with us, Darkhunter said. He floated just beyond the gnoll's reach, letting his fellow creatures dart in and out for the attack. Join with us. Join with us. The words became a ghostly refrain picked up by the other five. In death gain life. Join with us. Join with us.

The gnoll growled fiercely, summoned the last of his strength, and pushed himself to his feet. In the process, he passed through the forms of two wraiths, the sensation insufferable and threatening to send him to the ground again. He gritted his teeth and forced back a howl, then doubled over in pain as one of the spirits passed a hand into his chest. He withdrew the broadsword and swung it in an awkward arc, slicing into the large wraith called Darkhunter.

The wraith screamed, the noise so high and shrill it nearly caused Orvago to drop the blade. The other wraiths paused in their attack.

"Orvago, where did you get my sword?" Gair shouted.

Orvago gasped and swung the blade at Darkhunter again, driving it deep into where its belly would be. The scream was inhuman and long, and it trailed off into a snarl as the wraith flew backward. Darkhunter floated behind Gair, moaning from his unseen wound and cursing the gnoll.

The blade is enchanted, the wraith muttered.

"A magical sword?" Gair waved his hand, beckoning the five other wraiths to resume their attack. "So the man in town sold me a magical sword. Most certainly he didn't realize what he had, or he would have charged me much more. I didn't realize what I had. Do be reasonable, friend Orvago, and put it down. It is not yours, after all. I promise you this will be over swiftly."

The gnoll bellowed and charged forward, swinging the blade to the right and slicing at the waist of the nearest undead. The gnoll's muscles bunched; dragging the sword through the creature was like dragging it through mud. He sliced again, and the wraith howled and fled, even as he brought the weapon around to jab at another. This one, too, retreated.

Only three were left to face him. The elf's eyes were narrow slits, his lip curled upward in a sneer. Orvago had never seen him look like this. The elf's expression caught him off guard and bought his undead opponents an opening.

The nearest spirit suddenly disappeared into the ground, coming up beneath the gnoll to grab his ankles. Icy pain shot through Orvago's legs, and his knees buckled. The gnoll pitched forward, straight into the second wraith, whose claws clutched at Orvago's heart. The third had somehow gotten behind the gnoll and was clawing at his back.

The gnoll screamed and rolled on the ground, still refusing to drop the blade. He swung it clumsily and ineffectually, his opponents able to dodge his erratic movements.

The elf's expression softened as he regarded his friend. For a brief moment, he considered calling off the wraiths, but Darkhunter was at his side, demanding revenge for the pain the gnoll had inflicted on him.

Kill him, Darkhunter urged his fellow wraiths.

"Finish him," Gair pronounced. "Now!"

The three uninjured wraiths wrapped themselves around the gnoll like an inky blanket. Writhing on his back, it was all Orvago could do to raise his arm and try to feebly swing the sword.

The gnoll bit down hard on his lower lip, hoping this new pain would help him concentrate. It barely registered, though he could taste the blood in his mouth. Focusing his energy into his next swing, he lashed at his own leg, slicing through the wraith on top of it and digging into his own flesh.

The gnoll and wraith cried out simultaneously, and the spirit floated away. Two left. Orvago drove the blade down again. The tip bit into his abdomen, sending another jolt of agony into him. He tugged the weapon free and swung again. Another ghostly scream cut through the air as a second wraith fled. One left.

The gnoll was able to push himself to his knees. A few yards away, Gair was urging the injured wraiths to move forward, to surround the gnoll. "You should have finished him when I told you to," he lectured. "See what you've done by toying with him?"

There was a chorus of coarse-whispered apologies. The wounded undead continued to beg their master's forgiveness as Orvago stood shakily and faced his remaining opponent. He avoided looking at the things' eyes, which continued to unnerve him. Instead, he swept the sword back and forth in front of him, glancing sidelong at the elf.

The gnoll took a step forward, purposely giving the wraith an opening. The black creature took it, darting in and raking the gnoll's bleeding abdomen. Orvago felt numb, whirling only by sheer will and slashing at the creature before it could move away. The blade passed all the way through the wraith, and Orvago spun about and sliced at it again and again.

The wraith's brief scream drowned out the cries of its fellows as it dissipated. Bits of blackness, like rain, fell on the snow, then disappeared.

Orvago was weak and bleeding profusely. Still, he squared his shoulders and snarled defiantly He waved the sword again in a serpentine pattern he'd seen the men use on the ship that brought him close to Schallsea Island.

Darkhunter was conferring with Gair, the whispery words too soft for the gnoll to hear. The other four wraiths were behind the elf, nursing their unseen wounds and glaring at Orvago with their ice-hot eyes.

"I can't let him return to the settlement," Gair said. "Not now. No matter what. Goldmoon would question him about his injuries. Perhaps she could use a spell to pull the information from his small brain." With a gesture, he waved the four wraiths forward. Darkhunter remained at the elf's side.

Orvago spread his legs and bent at the knees, jabbing forward, sending the blade into the lead wraith's chest, then dragging it up through its mudlike form until the blade sliced through its neck. The creature screamed and disappeared, raining blackness on the snow. Not pausing, the gnoll aimed a blow at the ground, where one of the wraiths was coming up between his feet. The sword cleaved the thing's head in two. More rain.

The elf called the remaining two off, but Orvago pursued them. He slashed to his right, narrowly missing one, then turned and brought the sword down to his left, slaying a third. He shuffled forward, sweeping the blade left and right until he connected with the last of his foes.

Behind Gair, Darkhunter sought safety by seeping into the ground. The elf backed up, warily watching Orvago, who was stumbling toward him.

"You're hurt," Gair said. "I could heal you."

Orvago snarled. "I do not trust you," the gnoll said, the words guttural but clear.

"By the vanished gods, you can talk!" The elf drew his sword. It gleamed faintly in the starlight. He continued to back farther into the clearing, and the gnoll continued to follow him. "You're good with a sword," Gair said. "I'll warrant you that, especially with a magic one-my magic sword-but I'm the better swordsman."

"Maybe," the gnoll grunted.

"I don't want to kill you, Orvago."

"Liar."

The elf spun and darted down the trail, kicking up snow as he went. He dashed into the middle of the clearing, down a path between a row of burial mounds. A black shadow-Darkhunter, the gnoll guessed-rose from a mound and followed him.

Orvago did not pursue. He didn't have the strength. He turned and staggered southward, the magical sword in one hand, the other hand pressed as firmly as his strength would allow over the deep wound in his abdomen.

They were shadows against shadows, deep in the Que-Nal woods. The wraiths, recently given life by Gair, slipped across the drifts and clung to the darkened tree trunks, chasing their prey toward the ruins of Castle Vila and reveling in the fear the men radiated.

The elf followed the wraiths, moving almost silently across the hard-packed snow and down the winding path of a frozen stream. Darkhunter was at his side, his father floating somewhere above them beneath the spidery branches of dormant maples.

"They stood their ground longer than most men would," Gair said. "Knights are like that, uncharacteristically brave. I know two of them."

You knew them, Darkhunter corrected. The wraith floated through a tree stump that Gair had to step around. You knew them when you were with Goldmoon and her doting disciples, but you are beyond them now, as far beyond them as the stars are above the face of Krynn.

A part of Gair shuddered at the thought, the part that was being smothered by the darkness still growing inside him. That small part regretted his hand last night in killing a half-dozen Solamnic knights who had been sent to search for him, and that small part had suspected that sweet Camilla, concerned about him, sent the men. The darkness within the elf had relished watching the knights die.

The darkness helped Gair understand Goldmoon better now than he ever had before. She was too caring and sympathetic. She put other people's welfare before her own, and all of that made her emotionally weak. The night that she taught him to open the door to the realm of the dead-because she believed it would give him peace-he sensed that he had forged a bond with her. He wondered if she sensed the link as well. He could somehow tell when she was thinking about him, which she was now. However, he hadn't yet been able to divine precisely what she was thinking.

"That will come," he said to himself. "I will strengthen our bond, Goldmoon, use the magic in the Silver Stair. I will learn what you are up to and if-and how-you intend to stop me." He realized it was a newfound obsession, this wanting to know what Goldmoon was planning. "Perhaps I will question these men about Goldmoon's plans and about where she takes her walks now with Riverwind."

The elf continued to glide along after the wraiths, talking to Darkhunter. The trees were thinning out, giving way to scrub and small oaks bent by the weight of the snow on their branches. The sky loomed dark to the west, with only a smattering of stars poking through the clouds. Gair strained his eyes and saw a finger of blackness prodding up from the flat expanse of snow-covered ground.

Castle Vila, Darkhunter announced, where we chase our prey.

"Camilla's knights and Goldmoon's men. You will help me become as powerful, magically, as Goldmoon." It was more of a statement than a question.

No, Master, the wraith hissed. I will make you more powerful.

"When I am, I will face her. I'll kill her, and I'll capture her spirit as I've captured yours. She will serve me. I cannot have her remain alive."

Slay her, Gair's father agreed. The wraith fluttered down to float at Gair's other side. She might be the one person who could stop you. Her citadel must fall, and she with it. And then, my son…

"And then I will raise the spirit of every Que-Nal who died on this island. When I am finished with that, every Dark Knight, every farmer, every one of Goldmoon's followers, Smithsin's father, the elf of Red Creek…"

Schallsea Island will become the realm of the dead, Darkhunter finished.

The elf slowed his pace and watched the wraiths dart around the fleeing men, all of them shadows against the snow. The wraiths circled the men, though they did not yet know their path to Castle Vila had been cut off.

"The tallest is Roeland Stark," Gair said, his voice as soft as the small icicles gently clicking together on the branches in the breeze, "a miller from the port town. He came out one day in the early fall to meet the famed Hero of the Lance. Goldmoon impressed him, as she impresses nearly everyone. He went back to town the next day, closed his shop, gathered his belongings, and joined the settlement. He is strong-minded, just learning the rudiments of healing magic. I like… liked… him."

He shall die swiftly, Darkhunter pronounced. His body shall feel little pain.

"He'll not die until I've spoken to him. Do you understand?"

You've left that life, the spirit argued. You've no need of their company, no need to talk to them.

The elf chuckled. "I need only the company of the dead?"

Darkhunter's eyes seemed to glow a little redder.

"I only want to question him," the elf explained, "and then he will die. Yes, kill him quickly. That would please me. You may take your time with the others."

And then they will join us, his father's spirit whispered, all of them.

Made stronger in death, Darkhunter said.

The words were echoed by the elder Graymist and repeated in the distance by the other wraiths until they swelled into a chant. Darkhunter flowed away from Gair and moved to join the other undead.

"They said Vinas Solamnus had visions." Camilla stared at the translucent silver steps that spiraled up and out of sight. Like gossamer, they didn't seem at all real, shimmering strips of fabric that she would slip right through to the ground if she tried to stand on them. She bent to touch the bottom step. "Solid," she pronounced, holding on to it for support. She felt slightly lightheaded. "I guess it'll hold me." She slowly stood and let out a long breath that fanned like a puff of smoke away from her face. "It'll hold me better than I can hold wine."

Camilla glanced upward and felt a wash of dizziness as she tried to spy the top step. "Of course, without the wine I probably wouldn't be standing here. False courage. Or foolishness. I wonder if the people who make it to the top really do have visions?" The knight found herself on the first step and then the second. She wasn't thoroughly aware she was climbing the stair until she glanced down and discovered that she was higher than the tallest tents. "Oh my." She felt instantly dizzy again. She closed her eyes and steadied herself.

The winter wind played around her, teasing her red cloak, which was threatening to become entangled in her feet. With a quick tug, the cloak fluttered to the ground, stark in the faint moonlight against the snow. Camilla opened her eyes and gave her garment a quick glance, as if she were making a note of where she left it. She returned her gaze to the spiraling steps in front of her, and she told herself again she wouldn't be doing this if she hadn't been polite and joined Goldmoon and the gnoll in a drink.

"Polite," she grumbled as she climbed higher. "Politeness had nothing to do with it. I let down my guard, indulged in a bit of melancholic ruminations, and… oh, my."

Camilla glanced down again. She felt herself swaying on the step and spread her legs as much as possible to gain better balance. There were a few lights below, around the construction site. She knew men and women were still working. A few of the tents glowed softly, as if lanterns were burning merrily inside of them, their occupants unable to sleep.

Taking a deep breath, she resumed her climb. "Don't these stairs ever stop? To think Goldmoon regularly climbs them, at her age." Camilla had witnessed truly elderly folks take the climb, hobbling up with canes, and the dwarves from time to time, their stubby legs finding this a real challenge. Jasper had climbed it again just last night.

Their legs? She touched her thighs. Her legs were aching. Camilla considered herself very well conditioned. If she was having trouble with these steps, how did the common folk in Goldmoon's settlement handle them?

Higher and higher. Still there was no end to them. The knight considered climbing back down. This was a waste of time. The chill air had helped to sober her, bringing with it more thoughts that this stunt was absurd. She had no reason to climb these stairs. Foolish though it may be, she decided, it was now a matter of triumphing over this insubstantial-looking relic. She needed to reach the top just to prove that she could do it. She would reach the top and then instantly climb down.

"In the name of Kiri-Jolith," she breathed, "do these stairs indeed reach to the stars?"

Her side ached. The air was thin, and she gulped it in raggedly. Her teeth were chattering from the cold, and when she reached down to touch her legs again, the leggings she wore felt like ice. A mist rose around her; she suspected it was the low-hanging cloud she'd spied from the ground. She stopped to catch her breath and toyed with the notion of sitting here for a moment.

"Just a moment. Sit in the cloud and think and rest." Camilla had no idea how long she had spent in Goldmoon's tent or how long it had taken her to climb this high. If morning came before she was finished, the steps would vanish from sight. Would she plummet to the ground? Disappear with them? Or were the steps always here but you could only see them in the moonlight?

Faster, she urged herself. She climbed above the mist, climbed so high it looked as if she were standing amid the stars. "Stars fallen to earth," she whispered, remembering her stroll with Gair. "So beautiful."

Camilla saw no top step, but suddenly when she thought she didn't have the energy to go any farther, she was standing on it, balanced like a dancer on a gossamer strip of… what? Just what were the steps made of? She breathed only faintly, worried that too much motion might cause her to topple. "Foolishness," she whispered. "Foolishness and cherry wine."

"I much preferred ale, dwarven if I could get it." The voice was strong and rich, coming from in front of her and behind her at the same time.

Forgetting for an instant just where she was, she pivoted and found herself in an oak-ringed glade. It was late spring or early summer, judging by the leaves on the trees and the wildflowers that grew in clumps here and there and at the feet of a towering elderly man in ornate plate mail.

His long gray hair and drooping mustache were teased by a breeze that felt pleasant and warm. All trace of Schallsea Island's winter had vanished in a heartbeat. A long sword and a shield, both gleaming in the midafternoon sun, and a great horned helmet were propped against a large block of black granite.

"Vinas Solamnus," Camilla said in disbelief.

"Ah, fate has sent someone to fast with me" came the rich-sounding reply. "Come!" He crooked a finger at her, beckoning her closer.

She didn't hesitate, didn't consider that she was on the very top of the Silver Stair and that one step, which she was taking now, and another and another, might send her hurtling through the air. She wasn't falling, wasn't thinking about the ruin. She was thinking only about the great man several yards in front of her, and she was walking on solid ground. It had rained recently, and the mud was sticking to the soles of her boots. The grass felt fresh with the moisture.

He smiled kindly at her, took her hand, and led her to the granite slab. "You have me at a disadvantage," he said. Again the wonderful voice. Mesmerizing. "You know who I am, but I've no clue who you are, beautiful lady."

Beautiful? He called her beautiful, but she wasn't beautiful, and she wasn't really here. She was only dreaming.

"Your name?"

"Camilla," she said, her name nervously catching in her throat. "Camilla Weoledge."

He scratched his chin with his free hand. "A familiar name."

Up close, she noticed that he appeared gaunt, as if he hadn't eaten in days. There was a line of stubble along his chin and cheeks, and his hair was tangled at the ends. His boots were worn and dirty, hinting that it had taken him a while to journey here.

"Where are we?"

"Sancrist Isle, beautiful Camilla. Join me?" He knelt at the rock, and she knelt nearby, but a few feet away so she could study him.

"What are we doing here?"

"Fasting, praying, looking for guidance."

"Praying to whom?"

"Kiri-Jolith."

He closed his eyes and a serene expression came over his rugged features. He looked so much like the Vinas Solamnus of the paintings and sculptures she'd seen- the man who had founded the order of the Solamnic knights so long ago and who she idolized above all others. It couldn't be him. He would be bones and dust now, and she couldn't be on Sancrist Isle. She was on Schallsea Island. Wasn't she? On the Silver Stair?

Her stomach growled, and she noticed that the afternoon sun had turned to evening. Morning and evening flashed before her again and again until her belly felt like an empty pit and her lips were cracked like a dry riverbed from lack of water.

It was daylight again, and she was still kneeling, as was the image of Vinas Solamnus. She was hungrier than she ever remembered, so terribly thirsty. She tried to say something, but her throat was so dry, no sounds would come out. Foolishness, she thought to herself. Time to end this dream. She made a move to leave, but her legs felt like tree trunks rooted to the spot. The sky darkened again and the stars came out. Constellations that were familiar to her before the Chaos War. Constellations of her youth, representing the gods Habbakuk, Paladine, and Kiri-Jolith.

The stars shimmered and began to fall like snowflakes, grew and formed transparent images of three humans in shining plate mail. They shimmered more brightly, solidifying before her eyes. The gods were taking human form-the historic vision of Vinas Solamnus.

The celebrated event was played out before Camilla's wide eyes. Vinas rose and was touched by each god image, was instructed to create a knighthood such as Krynn had never known.

"It will last for generations," the image of Habbakuk said.

"Three separate orders will there be." This from the image of Paladine. "Each shall uphold our ideals, and together the knights shall unite the lands."

"The knights will carry on your concepts of goodness and honor," Kiri-Jolith finished.

Honor, Camilla repeated in her mind. Honor. Honor.

The god images vanished, became stars again that climbed to the heavens. Their light reflected on the surface of the black granite slab, which was shimmering and growing taller and narrower, paler and brighter. Camilla gasped as it was transformed into a pillar of white crystal.

The pillar, according to Solamnic history, signified the gods' pact to watch over the orders of the knighthood. If the knights strayed, the pillar would crumble. It was standing to this day, Camilla knew.

"Time to leave, beautiful Camilla." Vinas was facing her, hands extended to help her to her feet. His shield was strapped to his back, his sword in his scabbard, his great horned helmet firmly atop his head.

She shivered and accepted his hand, stared up into his face, which was shimmering as the stars and as the granite block had shimmered, shimmering and melting and reforming into another image-a younger man in the armor of a Knight of the Crown.

"Kastil!"

"Dear sister, it is good to see you."

The years vanished in a heartbeat, and Camilla's tunic and leggings melted from her like hot butter, replaced by a flowing blue gown. The holy symbol of Kiri-Jolith hung on a silver chain about her neck. She was little more than a child, an acolyte at the temple.

As she blinked in amazement, her surroundings melted too, replaced by the austere halls of her father's manse. She and her brother stood looking out a window at a rolling meadow. In the far distance was a temple of Kiri-Jolith.

"I wish this could be under better circumstances," the image of Kastil continued, "but life rarely gives us the best of circumstances." He smiled, his eyes gleaming mischievously, then drew his lips into a tight line, and a bit of the light faded from his eyes. "I'm leaving the knighthood. Too rigid for my tastes, dear sister. All this duty is nonsense, sheer drudgery. I'm completely bored. I certainly can't deal with giving all my coins to them. This is poverty!"

"This is madness. You can't leave the knighthood!" she protested. "You took an oath."

"Est Sularus oth Mithas," he said flatly. "My honor is my life."

She nodded. She was familiar with the Oath. It was ingrained into her very being. Her great-grandfather had been a knight, her grandfather, her father until an injury took his right arm and with it his fighting heart.

"The knighthood is not my life. It was something expected of me. Dear Cam, don't hate me for failing to live up to expectations." He handed her his sword and backed away, his boots clicking on a stone hallway that melted beneath him, becoming instead the scrabble of a worn trail. In the distance, the temple became a garrison, and Camilla could see knights keeping watch from atop a barbican. Kastil was backing away from them, as he had moments ago left her. His mouth moved, and she caught his whisper on the breeze.

"Do not hate me, Cam. I will always treasure you."

"You're abandoning your post!" she called to him. Camilla thought she saw him smile faintly, though his image was too far away now for her to be certain. "You're abandoning your post!"

She was young when he left the knighthood and disgraced the family. She was an acolyte who was finding the rituals and studies of the temple not to her taste. She had not backed away from the temple, not until the day she was told that he had fled from the garrison, dishonoring himself. She wouldn't have left the priesthood even then had an elder not suggested that her heart lay elsewhere and that there was no dishonor in pursuing another honorable calling.

The last she heard of Kastil, he was making his way across Ansalon by singing bawdy tunes in taverns.

"My honor is my life," she whispered.

The garrison vanished, and the sky turned a brilliant blue. The grass that appeared beneath her feet, each blade carefully trimmed and carrying a hint of dew, was darkened by the shadows of dragons flying high overhead. There were knights on the field around her, one holding a sword and touching it to her shoulder.

She was being welcomed into the Solamnic Order on the day a battle of dragons in the middle of the dragonpurge raged amid the clouds.

"Est Sularus oth Mithas," she stated solemnly. "I do not hate you, Kastil. I just wished I would have told you so."

"You didn't need to." He was suddenly there, behind the knights, smiling proudly at her. "You never needed to. Use my sword well, dear sister. There's a good bit of magic inside."

Again the scene changed, and the top step of the Silver Stair came into view beneath her feet. A blast of winter-cold air hit her like a slap, and she put all her effort into steadying herself. The stars were spread out like a blanket all around her. Breathtaking and frightening.

Was it the wine? Or was there indeed such magic in this ancient construct? The vision seemed so real. Her brother's face, his words.

Turning carefully, she picked her way down the steps. There was no ache in her side or legs now, and the warmth of the alcohol was a distant memory. The stairs did not seem so high on her downward trip.

Safely on the ground now, she looked for her discarded cloak. She remembered leaving it behind. She made a note of where it fell. Nothing. That's odd, she thought. The snow was brushed as if her cloak had been dragged across it. The marks led away from the stair to the north, as if someone had covered his footsteps. Or as if an animal had grabbed her cloak and dragged it away to make a warm bed of it. A wolf, likely, or a big fox.

She had a few other cloaks in the Sentinel, though none so colorful, the one bit of brightness she had allowed in her wardrobe. "I hope it keeps you warm," she mused as she made her way back to her tent, "and that you need it more than I."

"It will help me to think of you," a voice replied after she was well out of earshot. "It carries your delicate scent."

Gair rose from behind a bank of snow and silently crept toward the Silver Stair. It was so late, he suspected no one else would climb tonight. Late and cold, the settlement, for the most part, was asleep.

He skittered up it like a monkey wrapped in Camilla's warm red cloak. Shadows followed him to either side-his father and Darkhunter.

You still think of her too often, his father scolded in his dead, whispery voice. A human… her life is too short, but if she were dead, she could be with you forever.

Gair stopped and cocked his head in the direction of her tent. He was about twenty feet above ground, and with his keen elven vision, he could see a faint glow in Camilla's tent. He stared at it, imagining her inside, lying in bed. He wondered what she had seen on the Silver Stair and decided that she was probably at this very moment thinking of him, as he was thinking of her.

"I'm obsessed with her," Gair said.

Then slay her, Darkhunter suggested. Make her one of us. By your side.

Forever, Gair. No longer would I call you foolish for being smitten with a human, his father added.

"Father, you would have me in love with a spirit? One who has no soft flesh to touch and who does not have flower-scented hair to smell?"

Love is more -powerful in death, my son. I know this. I love you more now than when I breathed.

Darkhunter nudged the elf with an icy claw, encouraging him to climb higher and out of sight of any passing sentries. Gair Graymist, are you not already in love with death? the Que-Nal posed. Shall I slay the human for you to keep your conscience clean?

"I have little conscience left," Gair said with a sneer. "She will die eventually."

He stopped when he was more than fifty feet above the ground. With Darkhunter's and his father's black bodies to shield him, no one would notice him. If, by chance, someone elected to climb the stair so very late, there was always room for one more wraith in his growing army.

The elf's fingers gripped the frigidly cold step, and he concentrated on the energy pulsing in the magical site. So strong! His senses heightened under Darkhunter's tutelage, he was able to picture in his mind the shifting bands of arcane power that ran the length of the ruin. Sometimes dozens of feet long, sometimes hundreds, the ruin seemed not to have a precise height. The elf suspected it varied based on the individual climbing it. The stronger the man-or woman-the higher the stairs went.

The Silver Stair would likely stretch to the very heavens for him if they were to present a challenge, Gair guessed. He was becoming stronger and more magically aware with each passing day. The steps would have to stretch beyond the stars! He did not need the visions, and therefore did not have to climb to the top step. He only needed their power, and that he could get right here.

He focused on the bands of energy and pulled them toward him, felt the arcane aura surge into his hands and arms, stoke his chest as if it were a caldron. His feet felt as if they were on fire; his chest felt as if it might explode.

"More," he coaxed. "I need more."

He felt the step crack beneath his fingers, a spiderweb of fine lines racing away beneath his palm. A chunk of whatever material it was made of fell away, and then another, and he scrabbled down to a lower step to pull still more energy. Another step damaged. And then another.

"More!"

The elf's body shook, mildly at first, then as if he were having a seizure. He wondered if Goldmoon had thought to use the ruin in this manner. He pictured her in her tent.

She was trying to sleep! What are you dreaming of? he asked. In a corner of his mind, he saw her eyes flutter open and her mouth gape in surprise. "I woke her up," he told the wraiths.

Were you dreaming of me, Goldmoon?

"Gair!" she gasped.

Or were you dreaming of Riverwind? I could make him a creature of half-life, too, Goldmoon, if I draw enough energy from these stairs. I've tried before, you know, to solidify his spirit here, but he's very willful and wants to remain very dead. He's just beyond my grasp-but not if I gain more power. He could walk at my side, Goldmoon. He could be unreachable to you until you, also, walk at my side.

He saw her stand. In a woolen nightgown and bare feet, she walked to the flap of her tent and pulled it back, looked in the direction of the stair, but he knew she could not see him.

You realize I am on the stair. You can sense me, as I sense you. Good. The link is stronger; the stair did that. I'll use the link to learn all your secrets. I'd best hurry now, Goldmoon, since I sense you're planning to summon the soldiers. I cannot have you interrupt me, and I cannot have you catch me. Gair withdrew from the healer's mind and returned his full concentration to the stair. So hot. The energy made the steps feel as if he were sticking his hands into hot coals. "Just another moment more. Power. Give me all your power."

Darkhunter's icy dead fingers grabbed one arm. His father took the other. The power flowed into them, too, and they soaked it up like inky sponges.

"More!" Suddenly he felt as if his entire body were engulfed in flames. The sensation was too much for him to handle. The fire so hot. So…

He awoke on the ground at the base of the gossamer spiral, the blackness of his father and Darkhunter hovering over him.

We carried you here, Darkhunter explained. You would have fallen. We saved you from death. It is not yet your time to join us, Gair. You must make more of us first.

Many more. Enough to rule the island, the elder Graymist insisted.

Gair shook his head as if to clear his senses. A small part of himself was scrabbling for control, forcing the darkness back. "Why would I want to do that? It would be wrong, evil, to bring more spirits into this world. I have already done enough damage. It would be wrong. And-"

Don't you want us to rule the island? Darkhunter's redhot eyes bore into the elf's. At your behest? More powerful in death. Don't you want us to have power, Master? Don't you want us to serve you? Forever?

Master? Gair mouthed. For some reason, the word sounded good to the elf, and the red of Darkhunter's eyes was somehow warming and comforting. Master. The wraith of the long-dead Que-Nal seemed to make sense. "But Camilla-"

Will join us in death soon, Darkhunter continued. She will call you Master, too. She will be more powerful in death. ›Don't you want her to be more powerful?

The elf nodded. Everything was clear again. He was more powerful, too, had pulled the energy from the Silver Stair. He knew he was weakening the steps. If he kept it up, perhaps he would destroy the thing. He'd have to take much more power from it before it collapsed, enough to raise the spirit of every man who died on this island and in the sea around it, perhaps the spirits of dragons as well. "If the stairs truly did collapse in the process?" he mused aloud. "It would only be fitting. It would be keeping the magical energy from Goldmoon, and then she would not have the power to stop me."

The spirits helped him to his feet.

"Goldmoon," he said plainly, "I will destroy your Silver Stair, step by step, and then I will destroy you." Goldmoon would die, as Camilla would die, and they would be with him forever.

He padded to the northeast, letting Camilla's long cloak drag on the ground behind him to wipe away his tracks. There was still a touch of darkness left this night-time to raise a few more spirits from his favorite Que-Nal burial ground before the spirits flew him back to Castle Vila.

The ruins of Castle Vila were tinged a burnt orange by the rising sun. Gair traced a deep crack that ran between the age-worn stones.

"The Que-Shu sheep must die!"

He turned to watch the barbarians gathered nearby.

"It is only one Que-Shu, Shadowwalker. Hardly worth your effort. Let her be."

The old Que-Nal shaman stomped and spat at the ground, beads clacking angrily as he shook his head. "I decide if it is worth my effort, Windfisher. I decide!"

"You don't command the tribes, Shadowwalker. My brother does. He has made a truce with the elf Iryl Songbrook. You cannot command warriors to follow you on some foolish-"

"Your brother is not here."

"No. He would not dignify this gathering with his presence, but he has said the camp of the mystics is to be left alone. He gave his word."

Shadowwalker glared at the young Que-Nal, puffed out his chest, and again stomped in the snow. The pair was in front of a spirit pole, an old tree carved with oversized Que-Nal faces. The left half of each face was red, the right black. Four faces, one each facing east, south, west, and north. In decades past, the poles were believed to serve as homes for the spirits who watched over the village and who carried the shamans' prayers to the gods. Many of the barbarians believed the gods were still here but were turning a deaf ear.

Not Shadowwalker. He and his fellows were confident the gods were still here and very much attentive. "The Que-Shu sheep who leads those people has wronged us by her very presence! The gods would be happy if we killed her. The spirits will rejoice."

On the far side of the spirit pole were more than five hundred barbarians, nearly the entire village of Que-Jotun, and they were clearly divided. The youngest, by their murmurs and raised fists, sided with Shadowwalker, eager for a confrontation. The older villagers stood with Windfisher. All of them carefully regarded the two men as they shivered in the morning cold. Like the adults, the few children present were lean and muscular. Even the eldest looked graceful. All of those assembled had olive skin, which had not lightened despite the winter, and their dark hair was decorated with beads and feathers.

"You are mad, Shadowwalker. No one will rejoice if you try to kill the Que-Shu and her people." Windfisher squared his broad shoulders and ground his slippered heel into the snow. He had an impressive array of beads, easily more than Shadowwalker, each one from a kill accomplished during a special hunt or given for some act of courage, but they were not soaked in blood like the older man's. "Our fight with the Que-Shu was a long time ago, Shadowwalker, and it was based on an argument about the gods. Those years are gone. Let it rest."

"Rest. Pha!" Shadowwalker spat at the younger man's feet. "The gods care! The Blue Phoenix, Habbakuk, Zeboim, and Zebyr Jotun are still here watching over us. The shamans said Habbakuk and Zebyr Jotun would have washed away all of Abanasinia if everyone on the land did not fall down and worship them, but not all of the Que-Shu would revere them so. The fools! Perhaps they will wash away Schallsea if we do not slay the mystic."

Windfisher narrowed his eyes. "Abanasinia was not washed away, old man. Schallsea Island will not be washed away either. The Que-Shu-"

"The sheep waged war on us."

"After our ancestors attacked them! Our ancestors thought war would force them to worship our gods."

"They drove us off Abanasinia!" Shadowwalker was red-faced with anger. "Threw us to the mercy of the sea."

"And to the mercy of the gods our ancestors tried to ram down the throats of the Que-Shu."

"I have not forgotten that our people were driven from their homeland!"

"You should not, Shadowwalker. It is part of our history." Windfisher circled the spirit pole, scrutinizing the faces of those barbarians closest to him. The youths were angry, infected by Shadowwalker's fiery speech. His own words had done little to calm them. "Goldmoon, the Que-Shu sheep as you call her, did not drive us out of Abanasinia. She had done nothing to you, Shadowwalker, and you will do nothing to her."

Shadowwalker whirled on the balls of his feet, sending a shower of snow at the younger man. He stomped through the assembly toward the wall of Castle Vila, where Gair stood alone.

"One madman running to another," Windfisher said softly.

The air around his head was buzzing with questions. Could Windfisher's brother-Skydancer, the leader of all the Que-Nal-stop a war against the settlement?

Yes. Skydancer and he would stop Shadowwalker, as they had stopped his other foolish plans through the years.

Did he think the gods would swallow Schallsea Island if Goldmoon stayed?

No. There is a place for mysticism. There is a place for everything, and there is a need for such magic on Krynn.

And Shadowwalker? Could Skydancer stop him from acting alone?

The young Que-Nal paused at this question, running his fingers over his smooth chin. Behind him, Shadowwalker and Gair held a whispered conversation.

Windfisher turned to address the assembled Que-Nal. "Shadowwalker says whatever Goldmoon and her followers are building is a blight on the face of this island. Some of you obviously agreed with him and helped him set the fire at their camp. He says that Goldmoon's very presence is a slap in the face of all the villages. Yet the magic she practices is not so different from that commanded by Shadowwalker himself. Perhaps he is jealous of her and is trying to stir up all of you just for his own benefit.

"I cannot stop how he thinks," Windfisher added, "but my brother and I will stop him from provoking a senseless fight. There is room for the Que-Nal and for one Que-Shu on this island."

Windfisher led the way back to the village, unaware that several of the youngest warriors slipped away and headed to the ruined castle. Shadowwalker and Gair welcomed them inside.

There Shadowwalker continued to fume. "Skydancer could not dignify the gathering with his presence," he snarled. "He sent his brother instead. Both of them are soft."

The young warriors gathered close and hung on the old shaman's every word, cheering when he repeated that the Que-Shu and her followers must die.

Gair edged away from them. The shadows were thick inside what was left of Castle Vila, since the narrow windows on the first floor let in little of the morning light. The stone walls were covered with dirt and the remains of moss that had died when the cold weather set in. His fingers brushed at the dead moss, crumbling it.

"Everything dies," he whispered.

There were bolts in the wall where the elf imagined grand paintings once hung, images of the wealthy people who built this place overlooking the sea. There were thick, rusting chains hanging from the ceiling from which the remnants of wrought-iron chandeliers dangled. In the center of the room, a great, rotted rug spread, and atop it were splintered chair legs. A large piece of wood, oval-shaped and molded by exposure to the salty air, had a hint of beveling at the edges; it might have been an impressive table decades ago. There was a lone chair still intact, far from the windows. Rickety, it was nevertheless still sturdy enough to hold the elf. He'd cleaned the dirt off it on a previous visit, and he eased his lanky frame into it now as he continued to listen to the barbarians.

"Skydancer is a weak chief," Shadowwalker snarled. "He does not respect our heritage. If he did, he would be ordering the deaths of the Que-Shu sheep and her blind followers."

"Perhaps he should not be chief!" one of the young warriors shouted.

"Shadowwalker!" another cried.

Gair listened another few minutes, then slipped from the room and followed a winding staircase up to the second floor. There had been a carpet running down the center of the steps, thick and undoubtedly expensive. Gold and silver threads remained in the remnants of the age-worn nap. He paused on the landing, listening to the warriors swear to follow Shadowwalker to the death.

"Everything dies," the elf repeated as he was swallowed by the shadows of the level above.

And in death becomes stronger. Darkhunter waited for him.

The elf decided that decades ago this must have been a music room. The stone walls had been painted, and curled chips of pale yellow-had they been white?- clung here and there. He stared at strings lying amid a jumble of rotted wood. Strings from a harp, he guessed as he imagined a beautiful woman playing exquisite music to which others danced.

"A place of ghosts," he whispered.

In the center of the room lay the bodies of five knights and one of Goldmoon's students-the final of the three search parties sent after Gair. Darkhunter had promised to teach him a new trick with them.

Shadows separated from the wall-Gair's father, and the wraiths of Roeland and the other Solamnic knights. They floated forward slowly, and Gair fancied that they moved to the bygone music of this place. The air around the elf grew colder as the creatures came closer. Gair inhaled deeply and closed his eyes. He loved Castle Vila. It was as dead as its occupants.

What do you wish of us, Master? It was Roeland's spirit.

"At the moment, nothing, but soon I will need all of you-and more. With our living friends below, we will journey to the settlement."

And drink of the sweet life there, Roeland said.

"Yes," Gair replied. The elf padded from the chamber, retracing his steps to the lower level.

Jasper pounded his ale mug down on a log that served as a table and gave a cockeyed look at Redstone across a merrily burning campfire. "Good ale," he pronounced. "The perfect finish to an evenin' meal." He patted his stomach. "An' now I need to take a walk and work some of this off. If you'll excuse me?"

She grinned politely her thick upper lip coated with foam from the ale. The blisters on her face and hands from the fire were healing, and they didn't look quite so bad in the firelight. Behind her, great chunks of crystal sparkled, brought this morning by a team of dwarven miners, who turned right around and headed back to the mines. There was no rest for anyone. Work on the citadel had resumed in earnest again.

Jasper touched her shoulder and glanced up at the winking stars. The moon would be full tonight, he noticed as he watched it edge its way up from the horizon. "I shouldn't be gone too awfully long, Red. Just takin' a walk. An' then you can tell me all about those domes you've got on your mind." Then he was heading down the path away from the building site and toward the Silver Stair, which was shimmering into view.

The dwarf stared at it in amazement, which was how he looked at it every time the moon revealed it. "The gods summoned fireflies, I think," he said to himself as he trundled forward, touching the bottom step and sighing deeply as the energy tingled into his fingers. "Summoned fireflies and talked 'em into holdin' this pose forever." He pressed his palms against the step, as he did each time as way of a ritual rather than a confirmation that the stair would hold him. Then he took a step up and then another.

"No better place." He continued to talk to himself as he went higher. "Goldmoon was right." Talking to himself was also something he always did when he took a trip on the stair. It kept him preoccupied so he wouldn't look down quite so often. "Best place to build the citadel. Goldmoon was definitely right. An' I was silly to think we should wait until spring to begin buildin' again. Right place, right time. Still, I'm kinda tired of startin' it over and over again. The blizzard, the fire. Why can't the fates just let us be? We ain't botherin' nobody."

He tugged on his terribly short beard when a bracing gust of wind struck him. He reached up to touch a step just above his head for support. "Wonder if my Uncle Flint ever got to see this? Hope he did. Hope he got a chance to climb it. Hope everyone in Krynn comes here to see this and takes a climb. Amazin'."

He was dressed warmly, but the cold cut through his clothes as he climbed ever higher and watched the lights of the settlement grow smaller all around him. He paused and frowned when he glanced to the south, where the three-story citadel used to be. "A whole lot of sweat an' work went into that," he grumbled. "Well, the next one'll be even better." The damage the fire caused looked worse from above. The basement was an ugly black scar against the snow-covered earth, reminding him of that night. He pushed it to the back of his mind and continued to struggle up the steep steps. It seemed a little harder to climb each time.

"Maybe I'll see Uncle Flint tonight," Jasper reflected, "or maybe I'll have another vision of that ship. Mmm… what was it called again? Flint's Anvil. That's it. The ship with the barbarian cap'n who carried all the knives. I'd kinda like to see how that's gonna turn out. Can't imagine me on a ship, though, an' in the company of a kender. The ground's much better than the sea. Doesn't move aroun'. The ground an' these stairs."

"Whisperers!" the gnoll shouted. He waved his broadsword and pushed his way through the crowd, leaping and trying to get close enough to slice at one of the undead who held the elf.

"By Reorx's beard!" swore Jasper. The dwarf clutched his hammer tightly and made a move to follow the gnoll, but Goldmoon grabbed his shoulder. She pointed to the fallen soldiers and renegade Que-Nal. The dwarf was torn for an instant between helping the men who still lived and going after Gair. He couldn't reach the elf so high above the ground, and some of the injured needed immediate attention.

"By Reorx's beard," he grumbled again. He, too, pushed through the crowd, but not toward Gair. He noticed that more of Goldmoon's students were following suit, kneeling to tend to the renegades, not just the Solamnic forces. He heard Goldmoon shouting to Gair, but he couldn't quite make out the words. There was too much talking going on among the settlers.

He knelt by a soldier whose arm was badly mangled.

The dwarf was exhausted, but seeing the wounded man and the others dying nearby, forced him to summon his mystical energy. "Have to get you fixed up quick," he told the man as he searched for his inner spark. Gotta be quick, he added to himself, 'cause I might have to help Goldmoon handle Gair.

"Goldmoon!" Gair cried as the shadows lowered him just enough to tantalize the gnoll.

Orvago stood underneath them, leaping and swinging the blade.

"Goldmoon!"

The healer edged through the crowd, noting the shocked look on the settlers' faces. Some were angry, while others looked frightened. However, most were still bewildered by the night's events. Amanda was at her mother's feet, reaching up into the air and calling for the elf.

"I'm here, Gair." Goldmoon raised a hand to draw his attention.

The wraiths of the elder Graymist and Darkhunter continued to hold Gair suspended. The elf slowly regarded the healer.

"I want to thank you, Goldmoon," he began. "You showed me the doorway, and through it, I've brought these men, and more. I couldn't have done this without you."

The aging healer shuddered but kept her eyes locked on her student.

"I owe you, dear teacher, and I need to pay you back, but there's the dilemma. How? I tried to bring Riverwind's spirit through the door, to give him some substance. Just for you. But he objects to the notion. Still, you know that I am nothing if not persistent. Would you like that, dear teacher? To have Riverwind at your side, as I have these men at mine?"

"Gair, come down, please."

"Ah, that wouldn't be such a good idea. My hairy friend down there doesn't seem too friendly."

Orvago howled and redoubled his efforts, his leap taking him perilously close to one of the wraiths. They raised Gair a little higher.

"And then there's sweet Camilla." The elf gestured toward the edge of the crowd. The knight commander was slowly making her way through the throng.

"Gair…" Goldmoon motioned to him.

The elf scowled and shook his head, then laughed. "I'll come down when you're all dead."

A scream cut through the murmurs of the crowd, coming from the construction site. Goldmoon turned but couldn't see through the gathering. There were cries of "What's happening?" and "What in the name of vanished gods is that?" She tried making her way through the bodies, while at the same time keeping her eyes on Gair. The elf laughed louder at her quandary.

Suddenly the crowd was scattering, and Goldmoon was knocked to the ground in the panic. The elf drifted toward the construction site, Orvago following him, barking and snarling. One of them stopped long enough to tug Goldmoon to her feet.

Camilla was shouting orders to her men within earshot. They quickly formed a rank and tried to restore some semblance of order. Iryl was instantly at her side with Skydancer, both trying to help.

"Gather the people by the Silver Stair!" Camilla shouted to the pair. "There's nothing there that can catch on fire. Get them away from the rest of the tents." The knight and two of her men were moving forward, eyes on the fallen who were still being tended to by Goldmoon's students.

There were shadows dancing around the healers. At first glance, it looked as if the shadows were caused by the still-flickering campfires and the tents that continued to burn, but as the knight moved closer, she saw that the shadows had eyes… red ones.

"Undead!" she called, realizing it would panic the people more, but wanting them away from the shadowy things. She charged forward, nearly slipping on a patch of ice, and stepping between bodies to reach the wraiths. She nearly knocked over Jasper, whose eyes were closed in concentration.

In a heartbeat, she was at the edge of the settlement, and the black shapes were moving to meet her. They hovered above the ground just beyond the reach of her sword, darting in as if to tease her.

The cries from the settlers grew softer, indicating they'd moved away from the center of the camp and that Iryl and Skydancer were having some success herding the settlers toward the Silver Stair, but not all of the settlers were being cooperative.

Camilla had the fishermen to her right. They were swinging gaff hooks at the shadowy creatures. Dwarves were hurling spikes from the construction site at the things and were greeted by bone-chilling peals of laughter. Redstone was among them, but she was swinging Goldmoon's staff. One wraith darted too close to the stout dwarf, and she landed a solid blow with the staff. The wraith flew back, howling.

"Dozens of the things!" Redstone was shouting. "Commander, they're practically impossible to see in the darkness!"

"Cold!" shouted one of the fishermen. "Colder than snow!"

The man at his side doubled over as a wraith came up through the ground and grabbed his legs. The man screamed once, then was oddly still.

"Get back!" Camilla called to the men. She saw that the spikes and clubs, even the swords of her men were doing nothing to the shadowy creatures- but Redstone's staff! The dwarf landed another blow, where the thing seemed to have a neck. It screamed shrilly and burst into pieces of black that rained down on the snow and dissipated. "All of you, get back!"

She motioned Redstone to her side as her knights covered the settlers who were retreating. "The staff…"

"Goldmoon's," the dwarf huffed as she swung at a wraith coming up through the snow at Camilla's feet. The creature keened and seemed to melt into nothingness. "I think it's got some potent magic in it."

The knight leapt at a wraith flying toward her, slicing away a nest of spiderweb fine hair. The black tendrils fell like rain and sent the rest of the creature retreating. "Orvago calls them whisperers. He claims only magic can harm them."

"Wonderful," the dwarf said as she jabbed the staff at a creature trying to come up through the ground in front of her. "Your sword, Goldmoon's staff, and there's dozens of them."

The dwarf and the knight backed up toward the line of wounded soldiers and renegades, where the trees were thin and they could better see the undead.

Jasper had moved on to another soldier, and then another, furtively looking toward Camilla and Redstone and at the wraiths that slipped around them and floated toward the fallen men. He watched in horror as one fell on a wounded renegade and began to devour him.

"The time for healin' is done," the dwarf pronounced as he pushed himself from the ground and grabbed his hammer.

Gair continued to float toward the construction site, watching with fascination as his wraiths did their macabre dance with Camilla and Redstone. He was paying so much attention to the battle that he hadn't noticed the gnoll. Orvago was climbing onto a crate, then onto another that was stacked higher. As the wraiths carried Gair past him, he vaulted toward them, broadsword raised high above his head.

He swung the sword as hard as he could as he awkwardly plummeted toward the ground. He had aimed for the elf, who finally saw him when the blade glimmered in the light of the moon. Gair managed to twist his body enough so the sword cut only Camilla's cloak, but the sword also bit deep into one of the wraiths holding him.

The black creature wailed inhumanly, and as the gnoll landed, he dropped the sword and threw his paws up over his ears to lessen the painful sound. The wraith contorted for a moment more, then dissolved into black rain that fell down on Orvago, chilling him.

"Father!" Gair howled. "Father!"

Darkhunter had been unprepared for the gnoll's brash attack and nearly dropped the elf when the elder Graymist was slain by Orvago a second time. The wraith juggled the elf in midair, moving his icy hands beneath Gair's armpits to keep him aloft. The elf seemed to struggle against Darkhunter.

"Orvago!" Gair shouted. "You will die! Die!"

Master, Darkhunter whispered. The gnoll is beneath your notice. Do not let him worry you. I need you too badly to let you get caught up in petty ?notions of revenge. The knights first. The woman knight. And then the old-Goldmoon. But the wraith kept his red eyes on Orvago's sword as he chattered.

"The sword," Gair cursed, his legs churning through the air. "I want that sword first. Next we'll slay Cam and Goldmoon-whatever you want. Get the sword first!"

The wraith groaned softly but finally made a move to comply, dropping the elf lower while the gnoll continued to writhe on the ground, wounded by the dissolving bits of the elder Graymist. Orvago was making a whining noise, not unlike an injured dog, and he twitched uncontrollably in the snow.

"The sword," Gair repeated. "It's mine. The animal stole it."

While the fight with the wraiths continued at the construction site and the soldiers and knights tried to drag the wounded away from the undead, Darkhunter gently deposited the elf on the ground. Hurry, the wraith whispered.

Gair darted toward the sword, the fingers of his good hand outstretched. At the moment his fingers brushed the ivory pommel, the gnoll's arm shot out, beating him to the weapon. The gnoll howled and leapt to his feet, all traces of pain gone.

"You tricked me!" Gair shouted. "I didn't think you capable of such a thing!"

The elf skittered back as the gnoll darted forward, slashing madly. The blade cut deep into the elf's leg, and the gnoll continued to press the attack. Gair turned and ran, eyes skyward, searching for Darkhunter. The wraith was above him, descending, inky black fingers reaching out.

The gnoll's feet pounded across the ground behind Gair, as he swung the sword again and again, slicing through Camilla's cloak and biting into Gair's back. The elf cried out just as Darkhunter's fingers grabbed him and pulled him aloft. Orvago crouched and leapt, the magical blade swinging in a wide arc that sliced off a piece of the wraith.

Darkhunter's eyes burned hotly red as he pulled Gair higher and out of sight.

It was the heart of Raging Fire.

There was little left of the tent community. Nearly everyone had moved into the Citadel of Light, even though the structure was not yet finished.

Redstone was hard at work on part of the complex. She sat in front of a block of crystal and was shaping it magically with her hands, as if the material were the softest clay, and in so doing showing everyone the reason why Jasper had coaxed her here from Thorbardin. An earth mystic, Redstone was largely responsible for the appearance of the citadel, and she proudly announced that it should take only another year to complete.

Nearby, Skydancer and his Que-Nal cleared the land to make room for the rest of the citadel.

Four domes were finished, several stories tall, huge and made of the crystal mined from the northern tip of Schallsea Island. There would be nine when the work was finished, all with a pale blue tint that seemingly reflected the sky of a bright summer day. The setting sun was hitting them now, however, making them glow like dying coals.

Altogether sparkling like a jeweled bracelet, they would ring a great garden that had started to take shape. Elves were hard at work on that, training hedges to form an elaborate maze that would lead people to the Silver Stair. Flowers were woven among the hedges, scenting the air with lilacs and honeysuckle and rose.

"I don't believe I've ever seen anything so beautiful," said Camilla. She was watching the crystal grow under Redstone's hands. "In all my travels, I can't say that anything exists to rival the Citadel of Light."

Goldmoon was at her shoulder, a wistful expression on her face. "It is beautiful," she admitted. "As in my vision. They look like gems, shining with hope."

Other earth mystics were working to form hallways connecting the domes. There was one dome larger than the others, what Goldmoon had dubbed the Grand Lyceum. There was a barracks inside for the Solamnic knights and for others who had become the grounds' guardians, though the guardians merely patrolled the land now. There had been no trouble since the night Gair was slain.

Children were playing outside the great dome, orphans from the port town and from elsewhere in Ansalon. Goldmoon sensed that several of them had mystical potential and readily took them all in.

The healer nodded to a young girl with night-black hair, then turned away and strolled toward the docks. A small ship was arriving from New Ports, bringing with it pilgrims and curiosity seekers. Goldmoon and Camilla stood at the top of the cliff, waiting to greet the newcomers. The sun had set by the time the entourage had made it up the long staircase from the bay, and twilight touched the island by the time they were all were settled in.

The healer and knight continued their rounds, their path taking them by a cemetery, where knights, soldiers, and Goldmoon's followers who had died in last winter's struggle were buried.

One grave sat apart from the others, and it was to this one that Camilla and Goldmoon were drawn. They were among the very few visitors to this stone, and when they came it was always after sunset. The carving was elaborate, courtesy of Redstone, and the words simple: Gair Graymist, who waits for us beyond the door. The healer knelt and touched the earth, a gesture that had become a ritual. No flowers or grass grew upon the ground here, as they grew in profusion on the other graves. The dirt was as cold as the breath of winter, and infertile. She shivered, despite the hot summer air that wrapped around her. Camilla helped her up, and then they headed toward the Grand Lyceum, where people were gathering for dinner and stories and songs.

The stars lazily winked into view in a purple-blue sky, reflecting brightly off the domes. The moon rose above the horizon and brought with it the Silver Stair. The steps shimmered invitingly.

The gnoll stood at the base of the steps, hackles raised, a growl playing softly in his throat. He had not come close to the construct since the night Gair had unleashed his undead forces. There was something about the stair's magic that intensely unnerved him.

Still…

He placed a clawed foot on the bottom step, cringing as he felt the energy of the Celestial Ladder tingle against his pad. He took another step, and then another. The breeze ruffled his fur as he climbed higher, and he dared to look down only once. Far beneath him the domes glimmered like wet pearls. Faintly he heard singing, dwarvish. His feet moved up the stairs now in time with the music.

The mist swirled around him, and he growled more loudly. Despite the fear that clawed at his belly, he continued higher and higher until the stars stretched out all around him. The gnoll scarcely breathed as he tried to take it all in, one paw reaching out as if he could catch a star between his fingers. The wind was colder here, nipping at his skin, the air filled with a myriad of scents that seemed achingly familiar, yet that he couldn't quite place.

A little higher.

The top step shimmered into view, and Orvago swallowed hard. The tingling beneath his feet was no longer pleasant. It seemed to challenge him. For the briefest of moments, the gnoll considered retreating.

He held his breath, squared his massive shoulders, and went all the way to the top… .