'There's always that possibility, with humans."

"The Seeker gods are myths."

"Plenty of people believe in them, Ancilla."

"I have seen many like you," she said quietly. "You offer poor folk hope, and then you abandon them. You glean them of everything of worldly value. They never realize it until you are gone. You are a charlatan."

"People with hope are not poor."

"But the hope is vacant!" Ancilla cried. Her green eyes flashed. "There are no Seeker gods!"

"I believe in them," Tarscenian repeated.

"Of course," Ancilla shot back. "They're making you rich, 'priest' "

The villagers watched, fascinated, their common minds comprehending little of the argument. They knew, though, that a condemned witch challenged their holy man, and it ought to be only a matter of moments before Omalthea herself would rise and slaughter the sorceress.

"And your gods, Ancilla?" Tarscenian demanded. "Where are they while the world's spirit starves? Your Old Gods are the ultimate cause of this misery." Ancilla said nothing. Tarscenian added, softly, "Are you a mage?"

"I am." Her chin was high and proud. "I studied for ten years and have at long last passed the Test."

"The Test!" a woman whispered. Villagers gasped.

"Kill her!" another woman shouted, and others, encour shy;aged by Venessi, took up the call.

Tarscenian silenced them with an imperious gesture. "This woman is under my protection-at the moment." He ignored Ancilla's faint laugh.

"Ancilla," he went on, "you wear the white robe openly. Such an outfit would cost you your life in most towns these days. Like the Knights of Solamnia, the mages of Krynn broke their promise to save the world from the Cataclysm. The people have plenty of reason to avenge that betrayal. Most mages are more circumspect nowadays."

Ancilla's pale brows rose over green eyes. "Your point?"

"Why are you here, Ancilla?"

"I might as well ask you that."

Gray eyes locked with green. Venessi's hand was so tight on Hederick's arm that blood trickled from half-moon cuts where her nails had broken the skin. He noticed it dimly, as though it were the blood of someone else.

Ancilla stretched out her right hand; a mixture of blue dust and herbs lay in a small pile on her palm. "Bhazam illorian, sa oth od setherat," she whispered. She closed her hand, then reopened it. The powder was gone. Instead, a perfect dragon sat immobile, the slender shaft of a lance seeming to grow right out of its body. Speckles of light glittered from colorless gemstones that covered its back. At first Hederick thought the ruby-eyed figure was a statue, but then it shifted position, unfolded papery wings, and looked around.

Ancilla whispered and repeated the movements with her left hand. A tiny replica of Tarscenian, half the size of the dragon, appeared on her palm. It drew a sword the size of a sliver-far shorter than the dragon's lance. The little dragon glimpsed the figure, screeched, and leaped into the air, hurtling toward the Tarscenian figure with talons outstretched.

"No, Ancilla!" Hederick cried out.

"Bhazak cirik," Ancilla said immediately. Both figures vanished. She gazed at him. Compassion shone in her eyes, but thwarted power was apparent, too. "You protect this 'priest,' Hederick? What has happened to change you?"

Hederick wrenched his arm away from Venessi. "Tarscenian saved my life." Briefly he told her of the lynx and all that had happened since Tarscenian had come to Garlund. "He's been teaching us about the Seeker gods. I … I want to learn from him, 'Cilia."

"But I came back for you, Hederick," Ancilla reminded him. "I've dreamed of this day. I will instruct you in the true ways. My gods, unlike this phony priest's, are real. Get your things, Hederick."

The temptation to escape Garlund was strong, espe shy;cially when Hederick felt Venessi's hand clamp down on his arm again. But Ancilla had been away too long. Hed-erick had found a new champion, and Ancilla had maligned that champion. "I want to study with Tarscen-ian," he said stubbornly. Hederick heard the Seeker priest expel a long sigh. Again Hederick shook off Venessi's grip. "He has much to teach me."

Ancilla stayed silent for a moment. Her gaze flicked from her brother to Tarscenian. She ignored Venessi. "No doubt he does," his sister whispered at last. "This war shy;rants some prayer. I'll be in the copse, Hederick, if you change your mind."

Ancilla turned. Her robe swirled like white wings. "People of Garlund, heed me," she cried. "Know that I will set wards around the copse. Do not attempt to inter shy;fere with me if you value your safety."

"Witch!" one man exploded. He hurled a beer-filled mug at her head. She raised a hand. "Esherat!" The flagon crashed into an invisible barrier and shattered. Shards of glass clattered around her but never touched her.

Then Ancilla shrugged. "Mage, witch, whatever. I use magic. But I use it for good."

"Good as you see it, witch!" the man shouted.

Ancilla looked surprised. "Certainly. What on Krynn did you expect?" She clapped her hands and, with a whis shy;pered command, vanished in a swirl of silver snow. At the same moment, a puff of glitter appeared in the air above the copse, then drifted into the trees.

The villagers were quiet for a moment. Then chatter and oaths filled the air. "Shall we go after her, priest?" shouted the man who'd thrown the mug. "Surely if we all…"

Venessi cried, "Kill the witch!" She half stood, hands clenched in fists, leaning over the table like a fat hen.

"Ancilla has harmed no one," Tarscenian stated firmly. "And don't forget that she is of this village, too. She is still your kinswoman."

"But the dragon! The figure of you!"

Tarscenian snorted, but his face was unusually pale. "Illusion. Any sleight-of-hand artist could do it. Sedelon talimen overart calo." The priest opened his hand. A tiny dragon and miniature Tarscenian lounged together in his palm. They were statues, not moving figures. The priest closed his hand and reopened it, and they were gone.

* * * * *

Nothing more was heard of Ancilla, although none of the villagers could forebear occasional worried glances toward the copse in the distance. Two days later, in the depths of the night, Hederick went to Tarscenian's prayer house to speak with him and found the Seeker shrine empty. The same occurred the next night, and the next, and several more nights after that. Perhaps, the boy con shy;jectured, Tarscenian went onto the prairie to pray at night. He was back in Garlund each day, however.

To silence his growing disquiet about the man he'd grown to idolize, and to appease the gods he'd grown to revere, Hederick doubled his efforts to ferret out blas shy;phemy. He'd become experienced in entering houses without making a sound. Since the deaths of Kel'ta and the Synds, some Garlunders had developed the caution of locking their doors at night. But Hederick was small enough to wriggle through windows and openings that they never thought to block.

He mixed the macaba poison with ordinary basil or lemonwort stores. The stuff was nearly tasteless. The afflicted sinner would not detect it until it was too late, when he or she would suddenly go into violent paroxysms that allowed only a moment's conscious thought, spent most often on a desperate denial of death. Just a small amount of macaba would kill a victim, and the poison extinguished life so quickly that the sinner had no time to voice alarm.

It was perfect.

Four more people died that week. The villagers laid the blame on the witch, unseen since her arrival nearly a week before. For the moment, though, they feared her too much to assault her sanctuary.

Hederick continued his campaign of righteousness every night, sleeping only a few hours before each dawn. During the day, with Tarscenian, he studied Seeker creed and old Seeker parchments such as the Praxis. Each day thus found him newly aware of some fresh sin that the New Gods had as much as ordered him to stamp out. The villagers blithely violated divine laws-laws-as though they were mere suggestions on the part of jovial, indul shy;gent gods.