And there was a great deal that had been written about my subject, enough to keep me occupied for those years of research. (Forgive me, Excellency, if I now dare to think that my own body of work has significantly expanded that material, that it might provide months or years of inspiration to the diligent student historian who might someday follow in my tracks!)

Yet inevitably I reached a time when I had exhausted the available sources. And still I had displayed no aptitude for the casting of even the most basic spells of clerical magic. In truth, it seemed that my aspirations toward the priesthood were destined to end in failure.

It was in the spirit of a last chance that Patriarch Grim-briar and my own tutors at last called me into their presence. I remember still the flickering tapers casting yellow beams of light through the dark, lofty library. My heart was hammering, for I feared that I was to be dismissed as a failure, sent from the place to make my way in the world as one who could not find his true calling.

Instead, my mentor, Falstar Kane, opened the meeting by giving me a gift. The Book of Learning, it was, and I well recognized the treasure that I held and the level of trust that the temple hierarchy had placed in me.

I opened the enchanted tome and was confronted with a blank page. I knew enough of the meaning to wait expectantly for the further words of the masters. (Of the book, more later.)

"We have decided, Foryth, that your learning must continue along a different path than it has to date," Falstar Kane declared, his tone gentle.

"I await your commands, your inspiration!" I pledged with utmost sincerity.

"We are sending you once again into the world beyond the walls of our temple," continued my mentor gravely.

"Where, my lords?" I inquired in tones as bold as I could muster.

"Your diligence in the matter of the archmage is well known," declared Thantal, one of the other masters. "It has been suggested that you journey to a place where you might continue that study, where you might seek to add to your work… and at the same time seek something else as well."

I was admittedly intrigued. Even at that moment, I had determined upon an initial target for my studies.

"Field research – and a quest for magic," declared Patriarch Grimbriar, putting all the cards on the table (if Your Excellency is not repelled by a gambling metaphor).

"What kind of magic?" I dared to ask.

It was Falstar who replied. "Any kind, my son. You are to travel for a year, and it is hoped that you will take advantage of the time to further your studies on the matter of Fistandantilus."

"However, it is expected, nay, required" – the patriarch's tone was very stern indeed – "that you return to these premises in possession of a spell of clerical magic. You must do this within the allotted time of a year, or your course of study under the Scale of Gilean shall be terminated."

His words chilled into a ball of ice within my gut. I had struggled mightily to learn a spell, but if I had failed within the reverent, controlled environment of the monastery, it did not seem likely that I could succeed in the chaos of the outside world.

"Do you have an idea," Falstar asked, "of where you might commence your journey?"

To that, I replied with confidence. "You may recall from my research the discovery of a man, a false priest of the Seekers, who once lived in Haven," I replied. Encouraged by my listeners' apparent interest, I continued.

"During the time of the Seekers, he established a false religion, gaining considerable prestige until the coming of the dragonarmies. He left the city then, but I have encountered hints in my studies that suggest he may still live somewhere in the remote and mountainous country south of Qualinesti."

"Why does this particular cleric – a false cleric, it should be noted-interest you?" There was honest curiosity in Brother Thantal's voice.

"Because his sect was based on a worship of Fistan-dantilus," I replied.

"Appropriate enough," agreed Grimbriar. "But the man must be very old by now. Perhaps he has died."

"He may have died," I agreed, "but I doubt that he is old." In the face of their questioning glares, I explained. "His sect lasted for some fifty years in Haven, yet at the time of its dissolution, he was still a young man. He had found a means to avoid the effects of aging." (I did not mention my supposition, but I believed even then that the bloodstone of Fistandantilus might have been the key to this longevity.)

"That is interesting," Falstar Kane declared with a pleased smile. "May the god of neutrality watch over you on your travels."

"And grant you good fortune as well," added the patriarch. (For all his sternness, I believe that he really did want me to succeed.)

So it was that I left the monastery in Palanthas behind, taking ship to New Ports, then following a rough overland road into the depths of the Kharolis wilderness.

And it is there, Excellency, that my story truly begins, in that future era when I was a much younger man.

In Devotion to the Truth,

Your Loyal Servant,

Foryth Teel

Fourth Bakukal, Paleswelt-First Linaras, Reapember

The apple orchard was right where the kendermaid had said it would be. Tethering Nightmare to a sturdy branch, Danyal gathered as much of the fruit as he could. He placed the apples in his creel, for lack of a better place, and then ate several while he sat on the grass and watched the black horse graze.

Nightmare, for her part, glared balefully at the lad, the relentless stare of the large brown eyes making Danyal very uneasy. He imagined the horse thinking about a way to break loose, perhaps to trample him or, at the very least, to gallop away, never to be seen again.

"Maybe I should just let you go," he reflected aloud.

"You're probably going to be a lot more trouble than you're worth."

The horse's ears came forward at the words, and as Nightmare started to crunch another apple, Danyal felt a strange kinship to the animal. He knew he would be even more lonely if the steed was to run away, so he shook his head and laughed ruefully.

"I guess we're stuck together, the two survivors of Waterton."

It still didn't seem real when he thought about it, and so he tried not to do so. He wondered about the trail he would walk tomorrow, though these thoughts were troubling, too, because they led, inevitably, to the dragon that had flown away into the north.

When darkness descended, the lad pulled his blanket over himself and fell asleep, only to toss and turn anxiously. His dreams were troubled by images of fire, of giant crimson wings and a killing maw. Interspersed were episodes in which he saw his mother or the rest of his family, only to have them snatched cruelly away by some force over which he had no control.

He awakened before dawn, shivering despite his blanket, and feeling a powerful gnawing in his gut. It was a hunger that could not be addressed by apples, and he made his way to the stream as the first tendrils of light reached upward from the eastern horizon. Before half the sky had paled he had three nice trout. He built a fire at the edge of the grove and felt the warmth of the flames. Cleaning and splitting the fish, he speared the fillets onto sharp sticks and grilled them over the fire.

By the time the sun had risen into the treetops, he was well fed, warm, and dry. He changed the muddy poultice over Nightmare's wound, relieved to see that it had begun to heal nicely. Finally he took the tether in one hand, his fishing pole in the other, and started along the streamside trail.