"No, I think not." Kelryn was firm, his expression pragmatic.

"Not even the boy?" Danyal gagged on Zack's fetid breath as the bandit leaned close, cackling in cruel mirth.

"I must say, the reward from my temple will be limited-perhaps refused entirely-if such a promising young apprentice is stolen from the church by untimely violence." Foryth's tone suggested that he thought his superiors were a trifle unreasonable on a matter like this, but that he, personally, was powerless to effect a more practical solution.

"No, Zack, not even the lad. At least not yet," Kelryn ordered with a tolerant shake of his head. "We'll find some other way for you to have some entertainment," he promised the sulking knifeman before turning to the rest of his band.

"Gnar, your leg is badly hurt. We'll have to see how you fare. And, Kal"-he addressed the man who had been kicked in the head-"you'll be able to walk, I have no doubt.

"Nic, let me see that arm." Kelryn gestured to the man whose elbow had been crushed by the rearing horse. The fellow came forward and knelt, while the bandit leader took the limb in both of his hands, ignoring the man's gasp of pain when the arm was lifted.

"Fistandantilus!" cried Kelryn Darewind, turning his face to the sky. "Hear my prayer and grant me the power to heal your unworthy servant's arm!"

A green light flared through the night, and Danyal gasped at a sudden, foul scent, like the odor released when someone turned over a rotten log. Kelryn Dare-wind stiffened, calling out strange words as he clutched the injured elbow.

"Stop! No!" The wounded bandit cried out in pain and twisted away, falling to the ground and writhing. He groaned, kicked weakly, and drew ragged breaths as he lay motionless, panting like a dog. After a few moments, however, he pushed himself off the ground with both hands, forcing himself to sit up.

"The-the pain is gone," he declared, extending the arm. To Danyal, the limb seemed stiff, still cocked at an unnatural angle, but the bandit seemed content that his agony had been dispelled.

"You called out the name of Fistandantilus, and then you healed him?" Foryth Teel, like Danyal, was clearly amazed. "What happened here?"

"A priest called upon the power of his god… and he cast a spell." The bandit leader spoke of himself in third person. He seemed dazed.

"That was astonishing!" Foryth Teel declared. He picked up his book, flipping through several pages. "Healing magic is the clear province of faithful priests and gods. But you called upon Fistandantilus. Does that mean that you…?" The question trailed off. Then the historian blinked. "You are the Master of Loreloch?"

"Indeed. As I was the Seeker in Haven, the 'false' priest of Fistandantilus." "But-but that was real magic! You actually healed him!"

"You are surprised?"

"Astounded, more truthfully." Foryth blinked again, scratching his chin. "And you claim the faith of a god named after the ancient archmage Fistandantilus? That is truly amazing."

"In fact, I worship the true faith of Fistandantilus, the sect of a god as genuine as Takhisis or Paladine!"

"But he was mortal. He was a man, not a god!" Foryth Teel was adamant. "There must be some other explanation. An inconsistency in translation, perhaps!"

"No, nothing like that, I assure you."

"But-but how could it happen? It's impossible. It must have been a trick-"

"In case you doubt the evidence of your own eyes, I dispute your preposterous suggestion about my actions. Are you as much a fool as the others?" The bandit sighed, with an exaggerated shrug of his shoulders. "It seems that I will have to prove it to you. Fistandantilus is a god, and I am his high priest! And you, of course, are my prisoners!" Once again Kelryn seemed to be in sudden good cheer, throwing back his head and laughing heartily. "Now, my unwilling guests, if you will be so kind as to gather your blankets, I wish to start out before the dawn."

"Where are you taking us?" Danyal dared to ask, keeping a wary eye on the menacing figure of the one-eyed bandit, Zack.

"Why, to your destination, of course." Kelryn spoke as if he was surprised by the question. "You will have a chance to become acquainted with the dungeon of Lore-loch, but it is still some miles away."

"Splendid!" Foryth Teel declared. "Then we'll have plenty of time to talk!"

The amazing thing was, thought Danyal as his fellow captive excitedly gathered his quills, ink, and teapot, that the historian actually meant it.

First Majetog, Reapember 374 AC

It is with a mingled sense of purest excitement and deepest regret that I at last address my notes. On the one hand, I have made a startling discovery that twists an understanding of history on its ear: Fistandantilus, a god! With a priest who is not a charlatan. Of course the story must be examined, the evidence studied by my critical eye, but here is great meat for the researcher’s diet.

On the other hand there is a matter that lays such a heavy cloak of guilt uponmy shoulders that I doubt I shall show these writings to anyone. (Of course, that cannot exclude the all-seeing perceptions of my ever neutral god, yet it is that very neutrality, I fear, that lies at the root of my failure. I shall expound momentarily.)

Who will believe me? Fistandantilus neither dead, nor undead; instead he has become immortal! It seems that the archmage has somehow vaulted himself into the pantheon of Krynn! Of course, it also seems unthinkable, but I saw the proof with my own eyes.

A priest of a self-proclaimed religion has demonstrated the power to heal! It was a limited healing; Kel-ryn all but admitted that the crushed knee of the bandit called Gnar was too badly damaged for the magic of his god to prevail. Yet the spell he demonstrated was enough to humble my own priestly ambitions-I who have yet to heal so much as a hangnail through the use of the magic of my faith.

Indeed, the proof was enough to whet my appetite, but I must learn more. Does Kelryn Darewind possess the bloodstone of Fistandantilus? And what does he know about the fates that cast the archmage into Krynn's pantheon? Though he was recalcitrant in conversation, the priest of Fistandantilus did promise me that I would have some access to his notes. (He claimed that his library was located in a lofty tower top, perfectly suited for reflection and research.)

But there weighs upon me that other matter, a fact that dulls the elation of my discovery, for I know that I have erred terribly.

Gilean, I confess to my utmost failure, though you doubtless know of my trespass already. How quickly I have abandoned the dispassionate viewpoint of the historian, allowing myself to become involved in the affairs of insignificant persons, while in full awareness that such involvement cannot help but steer my studies away from the truly impartial voice of the aloof chronicler.

Specifically, it is in the matter of the mistruth-oh, I must strip away obfuscation and call it by the proper name: the lie-I spoke on behalf of the young traveler who had made my acquaintance on that very night.

Of course, he is no more a squire than I am a high priest, or even any priest at all. My own actions served to obscure the truth, to twist my captors' perceptions of reality, all because of a realization that I would find the lad's execution unsettling. Indeed, Lord of Neutrality, it was this own selfish frailty that led to my weakness.

My actions kept the boy alive, but at what terrible cost to my objectivity? I have searched The Book of Learning, seeking some sign indicating the severity of the affront, but the tome has been ominously silent on the matter.