The twin caps of Thunder Notch loomed over them as they worked their way up the western slope. In most places they were able to walk upright, stepping carefully to avoid loose shale ledges and crumbly sandstone outcroppings. Sometimes, though, Riverwind and Catchflea were forced to go on all fours, clinging to the brittle face of the mountain with fingers and toes.

A little after midday they entered the Notch. All the plain of Abanasinia lay at their feet. Riverwind felt in good spirits.

“Farewell, Abanasinia!” he called to the wind.

“Farewell, Que-Shu!” Catchflea added.

Till we are together once more, Goldmoon, Riverwind thought. Broad white clouds raced over the Notch, a silent panoply hurrying west.

Catchflea fished the acorns from his clothing and put them in the gourd. He knelt on a flat table of rock and began to shake the gourd.

Riverwind leaned against the vertical spire of the north peak and said, “What are you looking for, old man?”

“Our new direction, yes.” He droned the formula under his breath. “Ha!” he cried, spilling the nuts across the stone. For the life of him Riverwind could not see anything in the pattern of the acorns' fall. Catchflea scrutinized the humble oak seeds. In their pattern he saw the future.

“What is it?” asked Riverwind.

“You will go far, and be gone long years, face great darkness, and… the new is the old,” Catchflea muttered.

“Just the same.”

“Hmm, yes.” Catchflea gathered the nuts and shook them again. The result was the same as at Que-Shu: “go east” and “descend.”

Riverwind lost interest in what he could not understand. He went to the eastern edge of the Notch and gazed across the sea of peaks and valleys, all lower than where he stood. He picked up his quiver and shoulder bag. “Let's use the daylight we have,” he said.

Catchflea put away his gourd. They crossed the Notch and entered one of the ravines leading off the peak. It was an easy trail, never too steep or too narrow. They kept to it the rest of the day. An hour before sundown, the trail opened out on a sloping, six-sided clearing that was rimmed by fallen boulders. Riverwind walked to a large rock at the high end of the clearing and dropped his gear.

“Might as well camp here,” he said.

Catchflea surveyed the endless expanse of stone. “A very desolate spot, yes. This is why these are called the Forsaken Mountains.” Riverwind agreed. “No fire tonight,” the old man observed. There was no tinder.

“Cold camp for certain,” Riverwind said. “I have some pemmican left.”

They camped with their backs to a chalky limestone pinnacle, chewing lumps of salty pemmican and sipping water from Riverwind's goatskin bag. The clear sky darkened from lavender to deep purple. Stars appeared. The men said little. The air grew cold, and the old man's teeth rattled like the acorns in his gourd. Riverwind untied the horsehair blanket from the strap of his bag. The extra long blanket had been woven for his father by his mother. Though the zigzag designs had faded from red to warm orange and the edges were beginning to fray, Riverwind always used it on his forays into the wild.

He draped the blanket around Catchflea's shoulders. The old man looked grateful, but objected, “You will need this for yourself, yes?”

“My buckskins will keep me warm,” Riverwind said.

Catchflea drew the blanket up over his head. His teeth stopped chattering. “Thank you, tall man.”

They watched the stars, and Catchflea told what he knew of the lore of the sky. As he talked, a star fell flaming from the heavens. It traced a long, fiery path and vanished. The afterglow remained in Riverwind's eyes a long time.

“Tell me, old man: why did you hunt for fallen stars when you were young?”

Catchflea shifted on his narrow haunches. “I wanted to find proof of the gods, our ancestors. I thought, if the gods live in the sky, then anything that falls from there will bear evidence of their presence.”

Riverwind was startled by the strange but logical premise. “What did you hope to find?”

“Anything. Some sign that beings greater than ourselves lived in the heavens.” He sighed. “I found four fallen stars, and they were all the same. Lumps of burned stone, yes? It was then I decided the gods of our people were false, and the priestesses of the Que-Shu deluded.”

“I believe in the old gods,” Riverwind said simply.

Catchflea's eyes, shaded by the blanket, sought his companion's. “That's heresy, some say.”

“Perhaps.”

“Have the old gods ever spoken to you?”

“No, but I see the hand of Paladine, Majere, and Mishakal all around us. Where do you think your gift of prophesy comes from?”

“Do I know? I'm Catchflea the Daft, Catchflea the Fool.” He grinned.

“You jest with me. I should call you Catchflea the Fox,” Riverwind said. He leaned back, letting the field of stars fill his view. “When did you gain the power of augury?”

“In my twentieth year. I was returning from my fourth and last star-finding, which had taken me deep in the forest near Qualinost. I despaired of ever learning the truth. Our way, the way of the Que-Shu, was useless, yes? I felt my life was worthless, so I climbed to the top of a tremendous oak tree and prepared to throw myself off.”

“What changed your mind?” asked Riverwind.

“The love of life was strong in me. I hung there with only my fingertips and my hesitation between me and death. I still longed to know the truth, and the god Majere appeared to me.” Riverwind studiedopened wide. “Not in a human form,” Catchflea said quickly. “I heard a great voice, and felt-a presence, yes? Majere told me not to despair, that the gods were not merely legends, and that my life had a purpose. 'What purpose?' I asked. 'We cannot speak plainly to mortals,' said Majere, his voice filling the whole sky around me. 'But we live. You must strive to regain what the mortal world has rejected. You must strive for truth. Truth is the final act in a long struggle between good and evil. The struggle is yet to come.' ” Catchflea nodded to himself. “Forty years it has been, and I remember every word the god said to me.”

Riverwind studied his companion. There was none of the daft, uncouth old man in Catchflea's story. He said, “You have been honored. No one I ever knew spoke with a true god.”

“I climbed down from the tree-very carefully-and addressed the air: 'How shall I strive for truth, Great Majere?' Three acorns fell from the tree and landed at my feet. Take up these seeds and they will show you the way,' he said.

“By the time I got back to the village, I understood the future could be seen in the fall of the acorns. I also realized how deadly such a gift could be. The elders of our people would not suffer me to live if I proclaimed the truth to all.”

“So you played the fool.”

Catchflea nodded with vigor. “It was easy enough. Most already thought me a dreamer, yes? I let my hair grow wild and dressed in ridiculous rags. The children named me Catchflea, an insult I bore for the sake of truth.”

“I call you that, too. I'm sorry.” Riverwind laid a large hand on the old man's shoulder. He regretted many things at that moment, most especially his harsh words at the spring the previous day.

“Don't trouble yourself. I am Catchflea.” He scratched to prove his point and laughed with his usual rusty wheeze. Then he asked, “And what of Goldmoon? Does she know she loves a heretic?”

“By rights, she is a heretic herself. Her own mother's spirit appeared to her in the Hall of the Sleeping Spirits and confessed the falsity of Que-Shu religion.” Catchflea's face showed great surprise.

“The priestess of the people a heretic? Does the chieftain know this?” he sputtered.

“Arrowthorn hears and sees only what suits him. He listens to the poisonous mutterings of Loreman as often as he does his own daughter's good advice. His love for her at least allows him to tolerate my suit for her hand. Otherwise, I would have been stoned or cast out long ago,” Riverwind said darkly.