Brandella saw the sadness in his face and seemed to know him for a kindred spirit. "Is it the leaving that hurts the worst, or is it the lack of a good-bye?" she asked plaintively.

"Both." He laughed harshly, thinking of the good-bye slap he'd received from Kit. "But it's better, in the end," he added thoughtfully, "to tell someone how you feel and to be told the same. Without those words to hold onto-for good or ill-you're just adrift."

Brandella pulled her shawl tighter against the twilight chill. "Are you adrift?" she asked.

His silence appeared to be answer enough. Brandella' made a sudden move to take his hand, then seemed to rethink the movement and merely sat quietly.

The weaver was like no woman he had ever known, Tanis thought, but she could not be his. It was driving him mad.

She broke the awkward silence, asking, "What should I do?"

Swallowing hard, he suggested, "Leave Kishpa a note. That way he'll always have your words. Hell have something to hold on to."

She thought about it for a moment and then slowly, sadly, said, "Yes, that may be best. Otherwise, I might not be able to part with him at all."

At that moment, Tanis remembered the enchanted writing instrument that Kishpa had given him. A band of sligs had been after it, the mage had said. He was right: they wouldn't find it here. He fished it out of the inside pocket of his tunic and handed it to her. "This was once Kishpa's," he said with feeling. "He gave it to me so that I might leave it in this time and place. From his hand to my hand to yours, I give it to you to write him his farewell."

She took it lovingly. It was wooden and plain, but that didn't seem to matter to Brandella. Her Kishpa once had possessed it.

"Thank you," she said, fighting her emotions.

Embarrassed, the half-elf said, "I ask but one thing. When you finish your note, leave the writing instrument behind. Don't take it with you."

"I will do as you ask," she said, throwing her arms around the half-elf in gratitude, the movement scaring off the half-dozen seagulls at their feet.

The smell of her hair, and the touch of her hands on his back, made Tanis light-headed.

A moment later she pulled away awkwardly. "Are you all right?" he asked in a whisper.

She nodded her head but did not meet his eyes. "I will go and write the note now."

He agreed too heartily, he thought. "Yes. Good. When it is done, meet me by the east gate of the village."

She had barely left his side when he called to her, "Please hurry!" He wasn't sure if he said it because he feared time was running out or because he simply needed to see her again as soon as possible.

Scowarr didn't follow Kishpa and Yeblidod. He had watched Tanis, Kishpa, and Brandella, and had seen every move they had made. The funny man was a jester, but no fool; he sensed trouble was brewing, and he figured that as the savior of Ankatavaka, he had a duty to try to stop it. The arrival of Yeblidod had been his great good fortune. But Kishpa would not be put off for long. Scowarr figured to handle this himself, now, quickly, before the great victory of which he was so grand a part was marred by betrayal and murder.

Scowarr followed the path that Brandella had taken, hoping that his worst fears would not be realized. When he circled around Reehsha's shack, he discovered that they had.

Tanis's defence of Mentwig had swayed mаnу of the elves of Ankatavaka. But Canpho had seen that Kishpa was unmoved; the mage had so little concern for the dwarf that the red-robed wizard had left without saying so much as a kind word about his old friend. With the celebrants arguing among themselves, each taking sides, the healer decided to settle the issue of Mertwig's guilt or innocence once and for all.

"I am sending a runner after Piklaker, the artist," Canpho said. "When he is brought back, he will tell us all how he was paid for his work. If he was paid in stolen goods, Mertwig will be punished. If he took a promise of work for payment from the dwarf, then it will go hard with the dwarf's accuser. So shall it be."

Everyone seemed pleased with Canpho's decision. All, that is, except Mertwig. "Unthinkable!" he cried, sputtering in his rage. "My honor remains in question? Am I to be considered a criminal until I am proven innocent on the morrow? The insult is too great!"

Yeblidod had sensed that Mertwig was in more trouble than he could handle. With her world seemingly crumbling around her, she had slipped away and run after Kishpa. He had always been her husband's friend. Surely he would not let Mertwig down now when he was needed most.

When Yeblidod returned a short while later with Kishpa in tow, Mertwig still stood railing against the injustice of Canpho's decision. Many among the elves had turned against the dwarf, but Kishpa had it in his power to rally the people behind his friend. But only if he so chose.

Mertwig did not see the mage; he was too involved in his own defense. Kishpa heard his old friend declare, "I've lived here my whole life. You all know me, yet it seems that the only friend I have in all of Ankatavaka is a virtual stranger!" At those words, the mage felt a deep shame-and he finally found his voice.

Interrupting Mertwig, the mage thundered, "He has more than one friend in this village, and I count myself as one!"

All heads turned to Kishpa. But not for long.

The dwarf was too hurt and angry with the mage to let him speak-no matter what he had to say. In a shrill voice, Mertwig shouted, "You had your chance to speak, Kishpa. You had many chances to speak, but you did not. Do you think I need your help now? Now, when the whole village has turned against me?"

"We have not turned against you," Canpho assured him. The faces in the crowd didn't reflect that reassurance, though.

"I side with you," said Kishpa simply.

Mertwig stomped, gesticulating, from side to side. 'Too late," declared the dwarf in a rage. 'Too late. I've had enough of this place. If I were an elf, this would not be happening. You would not treat one of your own with this contempt. I will not have itl No more. Yeblidod and I are leaving. We shall find a new home where our word will be trusted."

"Mertwig, no!" cried Kishpa, his face a picture of horror.

"You call yourself friend7" the dwarf challenged the mage.

"Yes. Of course I" Kishpa took several hurried steps that brought him within arm's length of his one-time companion. The rest of the elves stepped back from the two.

"Then make sure my son is sent to me when the ship returns," Mertwig said. 'That shall be your charge. Do you accept it? Or," he added sarcastically, "does it rankle against your lofty code of conduct to see to such matters?"

Kishpa went white. "I… I will look to your son," he said, chastened.

'Thank you. Now, make way for Yeblidod and me. We are leaving Ankatavaka with our honor and our dignity. Let no one say otherwise!"

Confused and unwilling to look at faces she had known for more than one hundred and forty years, the dwarf's wife took her husband's arm and walked with him past Canpho, past Kishpa, past everyone, into self- exile.

The first thing Brandella did when she stepped through the door of her home was to rush to her loom. She lit one candle and feverishly went to work on the unfinished scarf she had planned to give Kishpa. It would be her farewell present. It had to be, for it was the very scarf that he had carried with him until his old age.