"When the chief ordered the water search, he ordered it in desperation. And after a week, even the oldest and wisest of the Namers had given up.

"Racer pressed to be named the tribe's Water Prophet; the title was his by right arid age. He pleaded for the ceremony-the vow to be said before his blood kin, acknowledged on sacred ground, and beneath the shining north star. Then he would fast, and meditate, and perhaps find water, perhaps not. It was a hard and thankless task, water prophecy, and yet Old Racer desired it with all his might. But while Racer sued and cajoled and threatened, the water-skins dried and the youngest children took on the parched, haunted eyes of the drought-stricken.

"At fifteen, for the first time, Fordus spoke for himself at the Telling.

"In the midst of the boasts and dreary bravado he stood, as the firelight mocked the false cheer of the thirsty men around him. He stood, and at his stand shy;ing, the camp fell silent.

"With the kala, Kestrel pointed to his adopted son.

All eyes turned to the lean, muscular youth, who stood resolutely, confidently, flanked by his friends Stormlight the elf and Northstar, almost still a child.

" 'What do I care of your little hunts,' Fordus asked, 'of your spears and your bola, your journey of leagues and nights?'

"He took the old language of the hunter's boast and returned it to them, scalding and unforgiving.

"Racer spat, and his company of Namers nodded their beaded locks in support.

"A murmur rushed through the assembled hunters, but Fordus only smiled. 'Save your water, Racer,' he cautioned. 'With your prophecies, you will need it. Boast and brood and despair of water. As for me, I shall find the water we need.'

"Then Fordus turned and stalked from the camp, with two of his friends at his side. The older men talked of it all night, but by morning they had forgot shy;ten, departing on their own search for the legendary god-given spot from which the water would rise.

"Meanwhile, the three young men hunted on their own."

"A rebel even then," Tamex observed, his voice cold and insinuating.

"But a rebel then for the good of all," Larken replied. She reddened and avoided the dark man's stare.

"Then? And not now?" This Tamex was no fool. He had heard the wound in her voice, the regret and resentment.

"Judge for yourself," Larken answered blandly, and resumed the story.

"The lads combed the desert within sight of the camp, keeping the low fires of the Que-Nara con shy;stantly to their left as they circled the settlement. Fordus loped ahead of them, not even winded, as I have seen him do many times since in the vanguard of armies. And I am sure he paid no more attention to his two companions than to the missing red moon or the slow clouds straddling the western sky.

"When he reached the rise," she continued, ab shy;sently stroking the glowing drumhead, "Fordus stopped and leaned against a smooth, upright stone. Stormlight and Northstar were a step behind him, as always.

"Overhead the white moon sailed serenely out of the clouds, and suddenly the entire desert stretched before them, desolate and featureless as the face of that moon. Salt crystals dotted the arid landscape, catching the moonlight like blades, like slivers of glass.

"Salt and stone, but no water.

"This was south of here, in old country indeed. The ground they stood on once formed the north shy;ernmost borders of Silvanesti, back in the Age of Light. 'Twas woodland until the Second Dragon War, when Lady Chaos laid waste to the Elflands. Now it is rubble and salt, salt and rubble."

Tamex said nothing. The two of them sat in silence, there in the bed of the dried-up river.

"Elf country," Larken continued, her thoughts haunted by the prospect of such devastation. "Druid's country. And then .. ."

Tamex stirred restlessly. "I know. I know. The Dragon Wars. But what of Fordus?"

"Fordus? Oh, yes. That was the night he found the kanaji."

"Kanaji?"

"A druidic oracle pit. I first saw them near Silvan-ost, on the banks of the Thon-Thalas. Wide declivities, covered with netting and leaves. The druids descend into them to meditate, to … find enlightenment."

"How? How do they work, these …"

"Kanaji? Druidic magic," the bard answered elu-sively. Something in her shrank from the ardent ques shy;tioning. "Fordus found the pit that evening. He stood upon it, as though it had summoned him there.

"Dig they did, hoping beyond their wildest hopes for water. Then the three of them knelt together, pulling the heavy stone away.

"They found a hollow chamber, round, of lime shy;stone block, just large enough for two good-sized people to sit in. The floor was nothing but fine white sand, which looked as if it had gone undisturbed by wind and water for a thousand years.

"Fordus hopped into the circular chamber, Storm-light close behind. They examined the gray, gritty walls, the shadowed circumference, while the youngest, little Northstar, stood above them in an impatient watch.

"Fordus and Stormlight sat in the fine sand. They joked-the nervous, blustering jests of young men in holy places. But the ancientness and reverence of the place soon stilled their laughter, and they sat in silence as, over the dry expanse of the desert, the chanting of the elders drifted to the rise and down into the kanaji pit.

"The lads went still. In the reverence they had been taught since infancy, Stormlight and Northstar looked up toward the heavens, toward the mobius of Mishakal and the harp of Branchala.

"Fordus, on the other hand, looked toward the floor of the kanaji. Then, suddenly, as the sand began to ripple and eddy beneath him, he glanced up at Stormlight, motioned his friend's gaze to the changing sand, to the strange glyphs forming in the pristine whiteness.

" 'Druidic' my cousin Northstar told them. 'The picture language of a thousand years past.'

"With a whoop, Fordus raced across the level expanse toward the fires of the men, leaving his companions agape at the emerging symbols.

"Curious, not a little irritated at being disturbed at their ritual, the elders were led to the kanaji. Staring down into the pit, all of them noticed the change in Fordus-the sea-blue eyes suddenly bright and focused, as though his earlier addling had been lifted, the pupils dilated until a core of fathomless dark seemed to rise out of that blue sea.

"His lips moved slowly. With great effort, as though he were translating the hidden language of the gods, he breathed a single syllable, then another."

"Crouched by the lip of the kanaji, Racer made the warding sign, protection against the Lady, "and the destruction that follows her."

"A foolish sign," Tamex observed. "A foolish superstition."

"Whatever its wisdom, he did not complete it. With a firm grip Kestrel grasped the old conniver's wrist. 'There will be no warding of my son,' he decreed. 'Let him speak, Racer. Unless you can read glyph and symbol.'

"Silenced, Racer glared at Fordus, who knelt now above the signs fully formed.

" 'Axe,' Fordus muttered. 'Tower and Lightning. The rain is hewn of light and memory.'

"The elders glanced at each other uncertainly. Surely some of them thought of Sirrion's touch, of the flame of poetry or madness.

"Then Stormlight, his white eyes staring into the whirling depths of Fordus's blue, translated for them all.

" 'Halfway between the Red Plateau and the Tears of Mishakal,' he pronounced. 'Seven feet below the surface. Water enough for a month of travel.'

"They had to confirm Fordus's prophecy. Later that night they would dig to the water and their thirst would end. But now, in a starlit cluster, Kestrel set his hands on the head of his adopted son and began the chieftain's chant that would name the lad Water Prophet.

" 'It cannot be!' Racer shouted, bargaining for time, for delay, for anything that would keep the title out of the grasp of the upstart. 'The gods honor only the Prophet who stands beneath the North Star. It has not yet risen! You know this, Kestrel, and yet you wrest the robes from me and confer them on your firestruck son. It is not according to tradition, not fitting, not permitted, not… not…'