"By all the bloodiest gods," Caledan whispered, a chill prickling the hairs on his neck.

Tyveris muttered a hasty prayer. Mari slung her bow over her shoulder. "Let's get out of here!"

The three whirled their mounts and cantered down the steep slope of the ridge toward the frothy river. The assassin pursued them with a strange, fluid swiftness, black robes billowing out behind.

The three pushed their mounts into a gallop, a perilous move on such a steep slope. The horses snorted, their nostrils flaring. The assassin-even though on foot-was gaining on them.

Caledan swore another oath. What kind of being did not feel the pain of an arrow's bite? Perhaps some fanatic of a dark god, caught in a religious frenzy. He had heard of such things but never expected to witness them firsthand.

Just as Caledan felt a gloved hand grope his heel, Mista plunged into the turbulent river. Muddy water swirled wildly about her flanks. The mare nearly lost her footing, then recovered. Spray slickened Caledan's face and the roar of the water deafened his ears. The other two struggled to keep their mounts upright to either side of him as the current carried them all downstream.

For a moment all thoughts of his strange attacker were forgotten. There was only the rushing of the river, angry and frigid with water from the spring snowmelt. Once Mista rolled onto her side, and icy water closed darkly over Caledan's head. His lungs began to burn. Then he was thrust back above the surface as Mista fought to stay upright, and air filled his lungs. The gray mare scrabbled up the slick stones of the opposite bank. Astride their own mounts, Mari and Tyveris followed.

Caledan leaned against Mista's neck, shivering and coughing up gritty water. The gray mare's flanks were heaving. The others were in a similar condition. He turned around, expecting to see the black-robed assassin fording the raging river, ready to close dark-gloved hands about his neck.

There was no one in sight.

The three galloped hard across the rolling terrain, letting the warm sun dry them as they rode. But the spring sunlight could not counteract the chill in Caledan's chest.

The three companions stopped for the evening as the golden orb of the sun dipped toward the horizon. They made camp in a low hollow beneath a hill and took turns keeping watch throughout the night. But they saw no further sign of the mysterious black-robed assassin.

They reached the monastery of Oghma late in the afternoon of the following day. The road leading into the foothills was simple enough to find. Two tall, weatherworn standing stones marked the way like sentinels at the mouth of a narrow, wooded valley. The road climbed steeply through sun-dappled groves of aspen and pine until finally the trees gave way to a grassy meadow at the foot of a sharp, iron-gray peak still tipped by snow.

That's a monastery?" Caledan asked in astonishment, staring at the massive stone edifice hulking on the rocky mountain slope above them. "It looks more like a fortress."

"It is a fortress," Tyveris said with a deep laugh. "This was wilderness only a short time ago, remember, and monks have to protect themselves too, every bit as much as ordinary folk. Ravendas wouldn't hesitate to attack this place if she knew a copy of The Book of the Shadows was here."

The steep, winding path that led to the monastery's gate was too narrow for the horses, so the three climbed up the last part of the trail on foot. Caledan let fall the massive bronze knocker, and after a long while a panel in the gate opened, revealing the face of a wizened old loremaster.

"Hail, brother," Tyveris said, holding his palms open in greeting. "Hallowed is the name of Oghma, the Binder of all things."

The wizened old loremaster smiled and nodded. "Indeed, hallowed is the Binder's name."

The old loremaster opened the gate and led them across the tiled courtyard into the monastery. Despite the stark-ness of the outside of the stone building, inside it was warm and comforting, its walls paneled in dark wood and its floors covered with finely woven rugs. The loremaster left them in a small receiving room.

Minutes later the abbot of the monastery shuffled forward to greet them. Abbot Derevel was a tall, gray-haired man with bright eyes and a kind smile. Derevel sent a pair of monks to see to the companions' horses, then led the three to his study, offering them wooden cups of warm, spiced wine. They accepted gratefully. The air was crisp and chilly in the mountains despite the advent of spring.

Tyveris did most of the talking, bringing Abbot Derevel up to date on all of the happenings in the Realms which might be of interest to the disciples of Oghma.

"I appreciate your patience in telling me all the latest news, Loremaster Tyveris," Derevel said finally, "but surely you did not journey all this way simply to pay a kind visit to an old loremaster who does not travel as much as he used to. Is there some matter in which I might help you?"

Tyveris nodded. "Indeed there is, Abbot Derevel. You see, we're looking for an ancient book, one written in Talfir."

Derevel nodded. "Our library is not large, but it does contain some rare tomes written in that tongue. What do you seek?"

"It's called the Mal'eb'dala, The Book of the Shadows," Tyveris said. "I'm told your Loremaster Erill might have made a copy from the original in the library of Elversult."

Abbot Derevel raised an eyebrow in surprise. "That's true. Old Erill did make a copy of the Mal'eb'dala. That was several years ago, not long before he passed on to Oghma's halls."

Caledan grinned eagerly. "Can we take a look at it? It's important."

The abbot stood up, a frown on his face. "I'm afraid not," he said, shaking his head as the three companions stared at him. "You see," Derevel went on, "the Mal'eb'dala is no longer here.

"It's quite odd, really," the abbot continued. "Had you come here asking for the same tome a month ago, I would not have even recognized the title. But just last tenday a traveler came from the city asking to borrow the book. He seemed a scholarly man and offered to leave us several rare volumes in trade. I saw no reason not to let him borrow the tome and take it with him." Derevel looked at Tyveris in concern. "Have I unknowingly done some wrong?"

"I'm not certain, Abbot Derevel," Tyveris said, pushing his spectacles up. "These are dark times in Iriaebor, and there are wicked folk who seem interested in learning about ancient mysteries."

"Do you know the name of the one who borrowed the tome, Abbot Derevel?" Man asked.

"I wrote it down. It's here somewhere." The abbot rummaged through the papers strewn across his desk. "Tall, quite stern-looking fellow… Ah, here we go." He lifted a scrap of paper and held it up to the fading light coming through the window. "Yes, I lent the book to one Morhion Gen'dahar of Iriaebor."

Caledan stood abruptly and snatched the paper from the abbot's hand, staring at it with hard, unblinking eyes.

"Is this someone you know?" the abbot asked, taken aback.

"Yes, I know Morhion Gen'dahar," Caledan said in a low voice, as if the name were a curse. "I know him too well, that treacherous mage."

"I won't do it," Caledan said in disgust, pacing the back room of the Dreaming Dragon. "I will not go begging at the tower of Morhion the mage. Not for The Book of the Shadows. Not for anything. Is that clear?"

Man glared at him hotly, her arms crossed tightly across her chest. "You're being utterly unreasonable, Caldorien. So far that tome represents our only chance to learn what Ravendas is digging for beneath the Tor. I don't care if you and this wizard had some sort of fight years ago. What could he have done that's so bad you're afraid to see him again?"