A wizard could study magic whenever he chose, but Mystra's dictates for casting spells were rigid and inviolable. A wizard's mind could accommodate only so much magic. The exact amount varied from one wizard to the next and, generally, grew larger with time and practice, but every wizard knew his or her limit intimately. Dru had cast himself to an exhaustion that wasn't measured in his muscles and he had hours to wait before he could hope to replenish his mental trove of spells. For Dru and Galimer, the moments when they could open their spellbooks and make magic with the words they read there began precisely at midnight—the moment when tomorrow's dawn was as distant in time as yesterday's sunset. Druhallen knew other wizards who experienced Mystra's dictates differently, but he and Galimer had had only one teacher in their formative years and they experienced the dictates exactly the way Ansoain had experienced them.

Wizards were a superstitious, conservative lot; they clung to reliable routines and shunned change for its own sake. Dru envied wizards who could effectively rest and restore their spell-casting vigor at any time of the day or night, but he'd never been tempted to emulate their habits. Except at midnight, Dru read his spells with his intellect alone and hoped for subtle insights that would enhance his spell-casting acumen.

In Wyndyfarh's glade, even Dru's intellect was weary. He couldn't concentrate on the faintly luminous words carved into the wood of his combination spellbook and reagent box. Her magic hung on every leaf and flower, dusting it with pale green-light. Amber markers, like the one Tiep had stolen, circled the pool and highlighted the marble arches of her small sanctuary. All in all, Wyndyfarh's glade was a beautiful place, but beauty was the last thing Druhallen wanted to contemplate.

He closed his eyes and set himself adrift in his memories. Barring his childhood, Dru had very few memories that didn't include his friend. He'd taken it for granted that they'd die or grow old together. It had never occurred to him that he might have to mourn for Ansoain's son.

Midnight was hours away when mist crept into the grove. It dampened Dru's cloak, not his mind, and seemed a natural mist—as natural as anything in Weathercote Wood. Druhallen folded his box and went for a walk around the glade. Tiep was curled up in an untroubled sleep. Dru stood over him, torn between anger and envy. A part of him wanted to use the boy's head as a battering ram on the glassy black stone, but that was a lesser part. The greater part offered absolution in pure self-interest; his heart couldn't contemplate another loss.

Rozt'a hadn't moved from her post outside the sealed cave. Not surprisingly, the mist was thickest there. At arm's length, Druhallen could scarcely see her face in the faint amber-and-green light. He didn't need to. Her sunken silhouette told him everything he needed to know.

"We'll find a way," he promised softly.

She answered with silence, and Dru completed his circuit the same way. The midnight moment came without warning, as it always did. His mind was once again receptive to magical instruction. He unfolded his box. If true learning had been the order of the night, Druhallen would have been in a bad way, but for his tried-and-true spells—his gloomy pall and the various types of fire—habit sufficed. Intention alone was almost enough. Someday, some midnight, he'd manage to recall them without opening the box ... but not this night. This night Druhallen left nothing to chance.

Dru would swear his eyes never closed after that and that he passed the quiet deadwatch hours fighting both sides of a private war between mourning and not mourning. He failed, though, to notice the sun's rise or the mist's dissipation and his night-chilled limbs were aching stiff when he straightened them. Rozt'a and Tiep were already awake. They sat beside the waterfall, sharing breakfast and making no noise that reached Druhallen's ears.

Considering the mysteries they faced, Dru could be grateful for sleep he didn't remember and dreams that had seemed like memories—until he saw a feather in the moss at his feet. It was a blue-green feather and it seemed safe to assume it had fallen from Sheemzher's outlandish hat. He imagined himself dozing and the goblin standing near—as Dru had stood near Tiep.

The image disturbed Druhallen not because he despised or feared goblins but because Sheemzher was so unlike the little halfwits he'd previously known. The world wasn't ready for thoughtful goblins.

Dru pulled the feather through a partially closed fist and past his magic-sensitive ring. It sparked no alarms against his flesh, but he hadn't expected it to. The ring worked best on living creatures. He'd need a day alone and a mind filled with different spells than those he'd memorized at midnight to unravel any substantial enchantment, assuming that Wyndyfarh's spells weren't so far beyond his comprehension that he could not detect them.

With that thought in mind, Dru's conscience advised leaving the feather where it had fallen. They'd all had an object lesson in the risks associated with stealing from Lady Mantis. It was a rare wizard who outgrew the recklessness of his youth, and Druhallen tucked the feather gently into his pack and hoisted it across his shoulder.

Rozt'a and Tiep noticed him when he was halfway down the hill. They both wore anxious, haunted expressions but seemed to have rebuilt their bridges. That impression was confirmed when Tiep, but not Rozt'a, clambered to his feet as he approached.

Tiep looked Dru square in the eye and announced, "I'm sorry."

"You should be," Dru agreed, taking his cues from Rozt'a who'd developed an unexpected interest in a cheese rind.

"Look," the youth continued, "I know it was my fault. Taking that amber wasn't just wrong, it was stupid—the stupidest thing I've ever done in my whole life. I'd give anything to go back there and just walk away from that tree with nothing to show for it, but I can't do that. I can't do anything except say my prayers to Tymora—which I did all night. I didn't sleep a wink. I know you can't forgive me, not now or ever. I'm not asking that, but, please Dru, don't throw me out. I can never make it up, but I'll try. I swear to Tymora—may She hear my words and hold me to them—I'm a changed man. I'm never going to do something stupid again."

Druhallen considered a number of replies. The boy was lying. Dru had seen him fast asleep, but maybe—considering that he, himself, had missed the sunrise and the goblin—Tiep deserved the benefit of doubt on that score. More significantly, he seemed more chastened by the consequences of his theft than by the wrongness of it. And most significant of all, even if Tiep were completely sincere, he was making a promise he couldn't keep. To be alive was to be stupid once in a while.

Rozt'a had gnawed one last mouthful of cheese from the rind and was chewing it slowly. Her face was without expression, but she was watching him carefully. Realistically, her foster son's fate and possibly her own future hung on Dru's next words.

He settled on, "We'll see," which sounded more evasive than he'd intended. "We have to get Galimer back before we start talking about the future."

Tiep had hoped for more and tried to swallow his disappointment. His silence would count in his favor when the time for reckoning did arrive. Rozt'a's attention had changed focus when she heard Galimer's name.

"Do you have a plan now that you've read up on your magic again?" she demanded.

Dru shrugged uncomfortably. "I'm ready to give it a try."

They followed him behind the waterfall where Dru took a stick of beeswax from his folding box and drew an eye-high, wrist-to-elbow diameter circle on the glassy stone. He uttered the Auld Thorassic word for "revelation." The wax sizzled like fat in a pan and gave off the scents of clover and roses. It was quite impressive but not notably successful. Dru's most reliable method for dispelling magic worked best on the spells he himself had cast or the non-specific enchantments that merchants—figuring any protection was better than none—bought by the scroll from wizard shops throughout Faerun.