"Fenzig, have you gone mad?" Wiglaf spoke out of the side of his mouth.

"No, son," his master spoke softly, "but I never cause my students ridicule in public. Bad for the professional image. Don't worry, you'll be doing plenty of penance when we get back home."

And so, while Fenzig and Sasha passed the time with Wiglafs parents, Wiglaf himself spent the rest of his Calimport vacation on janitorial duty. He emptied the bakery with rakes and shovels, and on hands and knees scrubbed it clean again from top to bottom-a job made even more difficult after just about every bird in Cal-imshan discovered the mammoth feast; a few judicious grease spells when nobody was looking helped the process immensely.

The bakers enjoyed a temporary holiday while Wiglaf cleaned up, and spent the days lounging in the sun and at the seashore.

"I'm sorry, Father," Wiglaf said on the third day, when Thorin brought him a lunch basket from home. "I'm sorry you had to close down."

"Don't worry, son," the baker said, looking around. "This place has never looked so clean before. And Fen-zig has shown me exactly how to use that jar of starter, so I should make up for the lost business in no time. In fact, this could turn out to be my most profitable season ever. And I owe that to you, son."

Wiglaf hugged his father for a long time. Things were right again. Things were normal again in Calim-port.

Except.

Those who were close enough to hear said the screams from the pasha's palace continued for many days thereafter.

Interlude

Wes began looking for something more to read. He had learned so much in this room, more than most of the monks knew, he was willing to wager. As his gaze traversed the room, his attention was caught by a thin, leather-bound tome, wedged behind a bookshelf. He hadn't noticed it before, but it seemed to be calling to him, begging him to pick it up and read.

His curiosity aroused, Wes carefully extracted the book from its unusual place and took it to the table. The book began with a history of when and why the library was built, and why here at Candlekeep.

The library was housed in a large stone edifice near the edge of the cliffs overlooking the Sea of Swords. The cliff-top position made the library easy to defend in its early days, when any kind of building was assumed to be a fortification. Indeed, parts of the library gave the appearance of a noble's castle.

Baldur's Gate lay a little over one hundred miles to the north, and there wasn't much of anything else close by. This was how the monks who ran the library preferred it. Study, meditation, and the copying of written works were not pursuits that leant themselves to the hustle and bustle of a busy city.

After a few pages of this dry history, Wes put the strange, slim tome aside and searched for another book. He discovered a tale from long before Candlekeep. In the ancient days of Netheril, there were floating cities, propelled by enormous magics, and defended by mages riding griffons…

Now, this looked interesting.

When Even Sky Cities Fall

J. Robert King

Peregrin rose beside the thunderhead. The sun glinted from his eagle eyes and shone warmly in his flashing feathers. His leonine body cast a darting shadow up the wall of cloud before him. With each surge of his wings, the griffon climbed, prying loose the covetous fingers of Faerun.

His rider hunched, light and expert, in the saddle.

Josiah was a mage, as were all the green-robed griffon riders of Tith Tilendrothael. Only a mage could be mind-bonded to a griffon. Josiah had been mind-bonded to Peregrin for eleven of the man's twenty-five years. He rode with the balance and grace of experience. His long black hair lashed in the wind.

Just a little higher, Peregrin.

Through Josiah's eyes, the mind-bonded griffon saw the rest of the cavalry-four hundred bird-lions and their riders-topping the gray-black wall of cloud above.

Peregrin responded with a lunging rush of wings and fresh speed. He watched as the hind claws of the last ranks disappeared over the cloud ridge. In three more wing beats, Peregrin followed, vaulting the coiling squall line of the storm.

A broad skyscape opened before him. The top of the thunderhead dipped slowly away into a great black sea that stretched to the horizon. Against that toiling expanse, the other griffons glinted in formation like ships in a golden regatta. The creatures looked tiny and fragile upon the angry cloud.

For Tith Tilendrothael, pledged Josiah.

His black hair whipped around him as he took one final look back at the floating city whence they had come. Tith Tilendrothael was barely visible through a dark valley, its ivory towers and golden streets glittering in sunshine.

Peregrin meanwhile focused his attention ahead. What are we looking for, he asked, this? He sent an image of lightning leaping jaggedly across a misty cauldron below. Or this? His vision shifted to where the vaporous sea curved into a black vortex. Or-this?

For a moment, they both fell silent, watching a ragged flock of crows straggle en masse just above the cloud top. The birds flew with the weary, hovering motion of sea gulls following a fishing boat.

That's it, Josiah agreed. Crows don't fly this high. They must be tailing the enclave, looking for scraps. The city should be hidden just below them, about there. He focused his eyes on the snaking darkness beneath the birds.

Peregrin snorted a white ghost of breath. Who would steer a floating city into a thunderstorm?

The Lhaodagms would, apparently, replied his rider. It's the only way to approach our enclave without being spotted. They probably thought to drop out of the clouds and bash Tith Tilendrothael to pieces.

Never in the three hundred years of animosity between the two floating cities had they approached this close-within five miles. Only griffons and other aerial units had ever engaged each other. As with any other Netherese enclave, Lhaoda and Tith Tilendrothael kept their citizens safely out of battle. Though fully fitted with rams and spikes and grappling equipment, enclaves preferred to float serenely above their conflicts-safe and aloof.

Lhaoda's advance upon Tith Tilendrothael was tantamount to a declaration of war.

Peregrin banked into a steep dive. He headed for the misty spot directly in front of the struggling crows. The cloud there boiled darkly, mounded currents above something solid and vast.

Peregrin shrieked once.

The sound sliced through the rarefied air and reached the other griffons. They turned in their flights and saw the screaming golden comet of Peregrin, diving toward the turgid chaos of the cloud.

Peregrin's wings were folded tightly to his sides. He dropped from the heavens. Josiah perched close atop him, eyes low and keen.

In one wet, roaring moment, griffon and rider plunged through the fleecy head of the storm and into the loud blackness beneath.

They flew through ink. The darkness was complete. Water saturated Peregrin's feathers. He spread wide his wings-sluggish and heavy. Rain sheeted away behind him. Wing tips trailed spirals of sleet.

A diffuse flash of lightning came below, showing Peregrin his own coverts against a momentary gray. Then, only blackness. The boom of thunder did not lag long before it shook the heavens. The very storm shivered.

I see it, Peregrin thought. He sent Josiah the image of faint yellow lights moving evenly through the blackness below. Yellow glow, not blue. Fire-perhaps magical fire, but still fire-not lightning.

Take us there, Josiah responded.

Peregrin dropped easily back into his steep dive. His pelt riffled. Claws curled toward pads.

The others were beside them now: Fletching, Evensong, Glazreth, and the rest of the cavalry. They had seen the fires below, too. Lhaoda hung there, in the turbulent throat of the storm.