"Let him be," Artulle said. "He can walk back to town. Argivia isn't far."

The hired draymaster snapped his reins, and the wagon lurched away. Edgur slid sideways off his haunches and wept bitter tears, not only for losing the duel so ignominiously but for losing Riliana, the love of his life.

The last red rays of the sun died a silent death behind the western hills. A light breeze kicked up, scattering the pale clouds and revealing the night's first wash of stars.

Sword thrust through his belt (he'd lost the scabbard somewhere in the meadow where the duel was fought), Edgur trudged dolefully along the dusty road to Argivia. He had no idea how long he'd lingered alone in the field, weeping quietly over the injustices of his life. At length he mastered his melancholia and found his lost sword. He'd paid good money to Embric the ironmonger for the sword, and he wasn't about to leave it behind.

It was a windy night, and the grass on either side of the road sighed continuously as the wind moved through it. There was no light except the stars, but the sandy road was white enough for him to follow easily. Edgur's sweaty clothes soon chilled him, so he slung on his journeyman's jacket and stuffed his hands in his pockets. The cut on his chest stung like a shirtful of bees.

Ahead the road forked, one lane curving off to the right, which was south, another lane curving to the left through a copse of trees, to the east. Edgur slowed. Which way would take him back to Argivia? He didn't remember passing a fork like this on his way out, but then he was preoccupied on the outbound journey with visions of his hated rival impaled on his blade.

He paused at the junction and tried to figure out which way led back to town. Edgur was born in Epityr and had come to Argivia as a lad to apprentice to the Guild of Coppersmiths. His family had long ago been among the first citizens of Epityr, before Urza and Mishra fought the ruinous Brothers' War. In the upheaval that followed the catastrophic conflict, Edgur's ancestors found themselves reduced to trade. Coppersmithing was Edgur's chance to better himself. Now twenty, he was a third-degree journeyman, but he seldom traveled much outside the city and never at night. He stood staring at the fork, chilled by the night wind. His chest ached. Which way?

The south road wound around a low hill. By starlight he couldn't tell if horses or carriages had come this way recently-the sand was too soft, and any tracks made by Joren's or Artulle's conveyances would have been quickly obscured by the wind. The eastern track was marked by a row of trees on either side of the road. It was plain the trees had been planted by human hands as a windbreak, so he decided the left-hand path must be the road to Argivia. Hitching up his belt, which was sagging under the weight of the sword, Edgur started down the eastern track.

A distant dog howled. He turned back to look over the starlit fields and saw nothing but the vague shadows of clouds passing over the waving grassland. Once under the trees, the night closed in around him. Stars and breeze alike were blocked out by the closely growing cedars. He heard a flap of wings overhead and ducked. There were creatures of the night abroad in the country, creatures unfriendly to lonely travelers. Edgur drew his sword and quickened his step.

Without the wind to mask it, he detected all sorts of rustlings and stirrings in the brush on either side of the road. Edgur skirted first one side, then the other, determined not to let anything spring on him from the shadows. At one point he thought he spotted a pair of glowing green eyes in the ferns and thrust at them with his weapon. A bird flew up, shocking him. It flew away, screeching. Edgur muttered a curse and hurried on.

He was tired. The sword was heavy, his wound throbbed, and he hadn't eaten since noon. His mind went back to the elaborate repast Joren's servants had brought to the duel and spread out on fancy woolen carpets. Joren had offered him cold fowl and white wine then. Edgur haughtily refused his rival's hospitality. Now he'd give his left hand for a bit of roast chicken.

Wait-were those footfalls behind him? Edgur whirled, sword ready. He couldn't see beyond ten paces, but there was nothing to see. Backtracking a bit, he found large, five-toed footprints in the dirt. They were like cat tracks, only much larger and more robust than any cat print he'd ever seen. He knelt beside the tracks and found he couldn't cover the strange prints with his spread hand.

The night was very quiet. Too quiet, in fact-all the crickets had ceased singing, and the stray rustlings in the underbrush were still. Edgur stood up and ran. He didn't know what he was running from, but he was certain he didn't want to find out.

After his initial burst of fear-induced speed, running degenerated into a painful chore. Puffing with fatigue, Edgur slowed, then stopped. It was still eerily calm around him. Facing behind him, he waited and watched, straining every sense to discover who or what was trailing him.

There was a rapid shuffle of feet, followed by a crash off to his right. Edgur had had enough. He shoved his sword in his belt and broke into a hard jog away from his unseen stalker. He hadn't gone fifty paces before he saw a glimmer off the road among the trees. A light! Light meant people.

He made for the north side of the road, expecting to have to cut his way through brambles and brush. To his surprise, Edgur found a neat hole in the hedgerow and evidence of a well-worn footpath, leading directly toward the dim, yellow light. With frequent glances over his shoulder, Edgur made for the small glinting beacon. From its soft color he took it to be an oil lamp. It didn't waver like a flame but gave off a steady amber glow that flickered only because Edgur was darting among tree trunks and hedges.

The narrow path took him straight to a clearing about twenty-five paces wide. Offset from the center of the clearing was a patriarch among oaks, easily twice the size of any other tree in the area. Stout limbs branched off the trunk at low levels. Perched on one limb was a child of undetermined sex, perhaps twelve years old. A lamp rested on the ground below the child's dangling feet.

This was so unexpected a scene Edgur stopped dead in his tracks. The child sat with his (her?) back against the mighty trunk, eyes closed and hands folded. Edgur slowly approached, the unseen menace behind him forgotten. Twelve steps away he stopped again, this time because the child suddenly opened his eyes. Edgur decided he was male.

"Who are you?" demanded the boy.

"A traveler. I've lost my way," Edgur replied.

"You carry a sword."

"For my own protection."

"You were running. I heard you."

Edgur mopped his brow with a handkerchief. "Something was after me. I never saw it, but I found its tracks." He stuffed the kerchief back in his pocket. "What's a sprig like you doing out on his own in the middle of the night?"

"I live nearby." With a single swing of his hands, the boy leaped down from the limb, landing lightly in front of Edgur. He was just five feet tall, slender-almost gaunt-and had vivid green eyes and pale hair. He was dressed in a faded gray shift that came down to his knees. The old garment was threadbare and had been mended many times.

"My name's Dare."

"Edgur." He offered his hand, but the boy stared at it as if he'd never seen the gesture before. "Where's your home, Dare?"

"Over there," the boy said with a vague wave of his hand. "I go where I want and do as I please. I spend a lot of time at this tree."

"Don't your parents mind?"

"Parents?"

A throaty snarl interrupted their conversation. Edgur fumbled for his sword, while Dare scampered up the oak tree with the agility of a squirrel.