"Right away, Father," said Wiglaf.

He glared back at the crowd before heading for the door. As Sasha passed Angrod, the hilt of her sword dumped his drink into his lap, but she didn't apologize for any accident, and she was smiling as she walked away.

"I wanted to surprise you," said Wiglaf as Thorin Evertongue walked them home.

"Your mother couldn't keep a secret if it was locked in the pasha's playroom," Thorin said. "You should know that by now." He paused in the street. "Barroom talk is cheap, Son. Welcome home. We're very proud of you."

"We're very proud of you, dear," agreed Ariel exactly twenty minutes later, over a mouth-watering dinner that Wiglaf and Sasha were attacking greedily.

Wiglaf's mother had laid on an assortment of spiced meats-the specialty of the region-lovely steamed vegetables, and best of all, hot fresh bread and cakes from her husband's bakery, one of the oldest continuing establishments in Calimport. After days of bland road rations, the visitors showed their appreciation with their appetites. Wiglaf was glad to see Sasha enjoying herself: she was on her best behavior, and his parents seemed to like her company. It's true, he thought. There's no place like home.

"And I hope you feel that way about us, son," said Thorin. "Those layabouts in the Sheets can talk all they want, but no man ever need apologize for a day of honest labor. And I've never seen any of them turn down the fruits of my ovens, have you?" Wiglaf smirked shyly as his father placed a hand on his shoulder. "You chose another path, and we're happy for you. Face it," the tall man grinned, "you weren't exactly my best apprentice anyway, were you?"

"His mind was somewhere else, dear," offered Ariel cheerfully.

Thorin winked at Sasha. "Well, let's give thanks that today, his mind is here with the rest of him. At home."

Wiglaf raised his tankard of sweet cider, and the rest of the table joined him. "Home," he said with a clink.

The next morning, bellies full and tired bodies rested, Wiglaf took Sasha off to show her the sights, and he headed first for his favorite spot: the seashore.

Wiglaf had spent hours upon hours here as a boy, dreaming of lands even stranger than the Empires of the Sands, of people even more worldly than the sailors whose tales he had doted upon, of heroes and quests unknown and uncountable. The vastness of the panorama made many people feel insignificant, but Wiglaf saw the stunning vista as a window into a wider world, beckoning with opportunity and potential. Here he felt greater, not smaller.

The shoreline was pocked with blowholes, caves, and grottoes carved by the relentless pounding of the Shining Sea, and Wiglaf and Sasha retreated from the warm sun and salt air into one of these hidden refuges. Once inside the grotto, they stopped short at the sight before them.

A gentle three-foot falls fed a still pool of crystalline water, perhaps thirty feet in diameter, surrounded by a navigable ledge. As their eyes grew accustomed to the dim light, they carefully stepped farther around the perimeter to a spot where the water level nearly reached the ledge. Wiglaf walked like a balancing artist, arms outspread, feet in single file, as Sasha dipped her hand into the luxurious pool.

"Now this is my kind of magic," she sighed. "It's warm!" She unclasped her sword and slipped into the water. A few powerful strokes took her to the center of the pool. "Ahh, perfect! Come on in, magic man."

As Wiglaf looked up to watch Sasha swim-for who could resist that sight?-his foot caught on an outcrop and he tripped into the pool, executing a perfect belly flop that reverberated through the cavern. Splashing and sputtering, he flailed for a moment, but then Sasha was there, and Wiglaf was in her arms, something he might well have enjoyed under other circumstances, but his pride was at stake-in fact, just now it was burning at the stake.

"Perfect form, o magic one," she snorted as she dragged him through the water to the ledge.

After he finally found a handhold, he blustered, "I'm, uh, a little rusty in the water. It's hard to navigate in this robe. I landed wrong."

Sasha was incredulous. "Wait, wait. You grew up in Calimport, on the ocean, and you can't stvim?"

He took a breath to answer, then let it out. His belly was aching from the impact, but the terror was gone, and the water was soft and soothing, so near his body temperature that Wiglaf felt like he was floating in air. The ripples from his splat were subsiding and forming a beautiful shimmering glow just below the water line.

What?

"Sasha, there's something down here!" Wiglaf shouted. There, in the rock at knee level, something definitely glistened in the dark pool. He anchored himself to the ledge and reached underwater with one hand to pry it out, and with some effort slid it free.

It was a bottle, the kind you might use to cast a message into the sea; Wiglaf was barely able to hold it with one hand. He couldn't see clearly through its translucent surface, but something inside continued to twinkle softly. It looked as if the bottle was reflecting bright sunlight as he turned it in his hand. He looked up to find the light source, but no sun shone inside the grotto. He placed it carefully on the ledge and clambered up beside it as Sasha easily pushed out of the pool.

Dripping wet, he held the bottle up before him and reached toward the stopper, but where a cork might normally have been, there was nothing but smooth, sealed glass. In surprise, he jerked his arm back, brushing the bottle out of his other hand. It seemed to hang in midair for an instant, then fell to the rocky ledge and smashed to pieces.

"No!" he screamed. But his distress evaporated when he saw the glowing packet among the shards. Gingerly, he retrieved it and shook off the remaining glass.

It was squared, just larger than a double handful, and solidly packed. A smooth, opaque, milky white material stretched tightly over its contents. Wiglaf noticed that though the back of his hand was still dripping, the packet itself was as dry as a stone in the desert, its surface instantly consuming the moisture off the tips of his fingers as he rubbed. As an experiment, he dipped the tip of the packet into the water and fingered it again. Bone dry, and it left a tiny residue of fine white powder as it again consumed the moisture from his fingertips.

There was clearly something inside, something square-edged and yielding, and another item that was harder and cylindrical. But the strong, thirsty stuff that encased its treasure was completely smooth; Wiglaf tugged and pried, but he couldn't find a seam or clasp to work with.

"No use. It's shut tight." He sighed and tossed up his hands in dismay-to discover his palms and the bottoms of his fingers covered in white powder. Curiously, he rolled it with his fingertips and was fascinated to find that it joined together in little clumps. He brought a bit to his tongue and tasted before Sasha could reach to stop him.

Wiglaf s face brightened. "Flour! It's flour!"

"And it's covered," she said.

Wiglaf looked back at the packet. Its protective outer shell was sloughing off in great clumps now, deconsti-tuting as they watched. Wiglaf made to pick it up, and his hand came back full of flour. He brushed it away, and revealed his new discovery.

Nestled inside the pile of flour was a cream-colored soft lump, a finger-length square, that appeared to have been broken in two, judging from its one jagged edge. There was a small jar full of cloudy, viscous liquid with bits of matter suspended in it. Under both items, Wiglaf found a double-folded piece of parchment covered with strange vertical scribbles: semicircular forms, bisecting lines, strategically placed dots. The dry sheet crackled as Wiglaf unfolded it.

"Can you read it?" Sasha asked.