"And you won't give me your name?"

"It would mean nothing to you, but your knowledge of it might trouble me later."

Pol willed the dragonmark to life, hoping his disguised arm would mask this from the other's second sight. The man voiced no reaction as the throbbing began. Pol sent the force up and down his right arm, freeing it from the paralysis. Then his neck. He had to be able to turn his head a bit... Best to leave the rest as it was for the moment. Catalepsy, he knew, is hard to fake.

The hands continued to move over his face. The other's face remained out of his field of vision. Pol summoned a tough, gray strand and felt its ghostly presence across his fingertips.

"Now they'll all think you've been to Heidelberg. ..."

"What," Pol asked him, "did you say?"

"An obscure reference," the other offered quickly. "A really good sorcerer has knowledge of places beyond this place, you know--"

Pol let the energy pulse through him, breaking the paralysis entirely. He rolled onto his side and directed a flash movement of the gray strand. It snaked upward and snared the man's wrists. As he tightened it, he began to rise.

"Now I will ask my questions again," Pol stated.

"Fool of a Madwand!" said the other.

The strand writhed in Pol's hand and a feeling like an electrical shock traveled up his arm. He could not release the thing and the dragonmark felt as if it were on fire. He opened his mouth to scream, but nothing came out.

"You are very lucky," was the last thing he heard the man say before the storm reached his brain and he fell.

Dawn had just bruised the eastern heaven when he opened his eyes. It was the voices of Ibal's servants which had awakened him, as they moved about packing their gear, making ready to decamp. Pol raised his hands to his temples, trying to recall how much he had drunk....

"Who are you? Where's Pol?"

He turned his head, saw Mouseglove standing arms akimbo, staring at him.

"Is there a scar on my cheek?" he asked, raising his fingertips to search it.

"Yes."

"Listen to my voice. Don't you recognize it? Is the streak in my hair gone, too?"

"Oh ... I see. Yes, it is. Why a disguise at this point?"

Pol got up and began gathering his things.

"I'll tell you about it while we're walking along."

He searched the ground for signs of his visitor, but it was a rocky place and there were none. As they followed Ibal's servitors back toward the trail, Mouseglove paused and pointed into a clump of withered shrubbery.

"What do you make of that?" he asked.

Three mummified rabbits hung among the tangle of branches.

Shaking his head, Pol walked on.

It was more than a little traumatic at the beginning: the sights and sounds--all of the new things we encountered beyond Rondoval. I hovered close to Pol for the first several days, drifting along, sensing everything within range, familiarizing myself with the laws governing new groups of phenomena. Travel, I discovered, is broadening, for I found myself spreading over a larger area as time went on. My little joke. I realized that my expansion was at least partly attributable to the increased number of things whose essences I absorbed as we traveled along--plants as well as animals, though the latter were more to my liking--and partly in accord with Boyle's and Charles' laws, which I'd picked out of Pol's mind one evening when he returned in memory to his university days. I cannot, in all honesty, consider myself a gas. Though I am anchored to the physical plane, I am not entirely manifested here and can withdraw partly with ease, entirely with more difficulty. I confine myself to a given area and move about by means of my will. I am not certain how that works either. I was aware, however, that my total volume was increasing and that my ability to do physical things was improving--like the rabbits. I had decided to look upon the entire journey as an educational experience. Any new thing that I learned might ultimately have some bearing upon my quest for identity and purpose.

And I was learning new things, some of them most peculiar. For instance, when that cloaked and muffled man entered the compound, I had felt a rippling as of a gentle breeze, only it was not physical; I had heard something like a low note and seen a mass of swimming colors.

Then everyone, including the camp watchman, was asleep. There followed more movements and colors and sounds. Having recently learned the meaning of "subjective," I can safely say that that is what they were, rather than tangible. Then I observed with interest as he altered the sleepers', memories concerning Pol, realizing from the sensations I had experienced and from my memory of those back at Rondoval during Pol's duel with the sorcerer in brown that I was extremely sensitive to magical emanations. I felt as if I could easily have altered these workings. I saw no reason to do so, however, so I merely observed. From my small knowledge of such affairs, it seemed that this one had an unusual style in the way he shifted forces among the planes. Yes. Sudden memories of a violent occasion reinforced this impression. He was peculiar, but I could see how he did everything that he did.

Then he stood beside Pol for a long while and I could not tell what he was about. He was employing some power different from that which he had used minutes before, and I did not understand it. Something within me jerked spasmodically when he reached out and laid a hand upon Pol's shoulder. Why, I did not know, but I moved nearer. I witnessed the entire conversation and the transformation of Pol's appearance. When the man covered the dragon-mark I found myself wanting to cry out, "No!" But, of course, I had no voice. It irritated me considerably to see it done, though I knew that it remained intact beneath the spell--and I was aware that Pol could undo the spell whenever he chose. What this reaction told me about myself, I could not say.

But then, when Pol rose and there was a brief and rapid exchange of forces between the men, I rushed to settle upon Pol and permeate his form, inspecting it for damage. I could discover nothing which seemed permanently debilitating to his kind, and since they generally render themselves unconscious during the night I made no effort to interfere with this state.

Withdrawing, I then set out to locate the other man. I was not certain why, nor what I would do should I succeed in finding him. But he had departed quickly and there was no trace of him about, so the questions remained academic.

That was when I came across the rabbits and terminated them, as well as the bush where they crouched. I felt immediately stronger. I puzzled over all my reactions and the more basic questions which lay behind them--wondering, too, whether I was really made for such a fruitless function as introspection.

No one in the company, Ibal included, seemed to take note of Pol's altered appearance. And none addressed him by name. It was as if each of them had forgotten it and was embarrassed to reveal the feet to the others. Eventually, those who spoke with him settled upon "Madwand" as a term of address, and Pol did not even get to use the other name he had ready. Conceding the possibility of its protective benefit, he was nevertheless irritated that his new identity had caused Ibal to forget whatever it was that he had intended telling him about Rondoval. Not knowing how strong the stranger's memory-clouding spell might be, he was loath to associate himself with Rondoval in his companions' minds by broaching the subject himself.

It was two nights later, as they sat to dinner, that Ibal raised a matter almost as interesting.

"So, Madwand, tell me of your plans," he said, spooning something soft and mushy between what remained of his teeth. "What do you propose doing at the fest?"