Sunbright scratched his ear insolently. "Those traits are the same as I've heard attributed to elves. And I took a bath this morning." He held up his damp shirttail.

Dorlas rumbled again, a chuckle this time. "I've heard the same said of dwarves."

"I won't have him with us!" the elf went on. "Dorlas, if you're responsible-"

"I am, and so's he, if his scars are any proof. And part of this disaster was to employ a barbarian named Sunbright, if you recall. And we need another sword. Tears of Jannath, we need a dozen! Hoy there, don't strike that animal or I'll tie you to its tail!"

Sweetly, Sunbright said, "You haven't introduced yourself, sister."

"Greenwillow of the Moon Elves, cousin to the High Elves of Cormanthyr! Too high-born to wallow in a trough with human barbarians!"

Still smiling, Sunbright bowed. "Then please, your ladyship, don't speak to me." Huffing and jingling, the elf swung away.

"Never mind her. She's joined us with some mission to somewhere, and paid to do it, so thinks she has a say in my doings." The dwarf hooked a calloused thumb down the road through the village, where a round-backed wizard plodded toward the forest. "Who's your friend?"

"Not a friend. That's Chandler, steward of the local castle."

"No, he isn't." At the barbarian's angry look, as if he'd been accused of lying, the dwarf explained, "We bunked at the local castle last night. The steward's a tall cob that lacks two front teeth."

Sunbright didn't argue, only pondered. If there was no reason for the dwarf to lie, then Chandler must be lying about his true identity. For sure, he was a wizard, but who was he really?

"What a mess." Dorlas interrupted his thoughts. "I can't believe I signed on with these clowns. They'll be dead in the first five miles. Help them strap on these provisions, or we won't even cross the river before nightfall."

"In a moment. First I must seek a girl."

Dorlas peered up at him from under bushy brows. "Night's the time for loving. Day's for working. But go and hurry up. And boy, you'd better be a fighter. We'll need that sword."

Sunbright had no luck finding Ruellana. None of the villagers knew a girl by that name. He supposed some might lie to keep a rapacious barbarian away from the local girls, but many answers seemed sincere. Strangely, the people he believed most were the lumpy, bruised men he'd brawled with. They were nursing their hurts while picking up the mess in the tavern, but gave grudging admiration to a stranger who could bring down the house. But no, there was no Ruellana living nearby. No redheads at all within a dozen miles, in fact. One old duffer rasped, "If you spent the night with a fire-faerie or whatever she be, think yourself lucky to escape still a man and not a gelding."

Sunbright did not feel lucky and, remembering her firm, ripe body under his hands, found it hard to believe her a phantom. He'd hoped to find her quickly and ask her to accompany him, or at least wait until he returned. But maybe she was, after all, only a dream: the shaman's double blessing and curse.

Reluctantly, he rejoined the party, strapped tents and leather cases and satchels of food and finally a few traders to the horses, and slapped and prodded and dragged beasts and men onto the wobbly ferry raft.

It was before nightfall, but well after noon, by the time they were assembled on the other side and blundering into the spring-leafy cathedral of a forest.

The party trended east, southeast, and east again. For weeks, as spring ripened to summer, they threaded forests, skirted hills, forded rivers, picked their way cautiously through swamps, passed villages and towns and fields and orchards. Names learned from locals blew by Sunbright like birds and butterflies: Red Lake, Hidden Lake, Shylock Mountains, Conifer City, Zweihaus River, High Ice, Fluvion, Frostypaw, Froth-water, Cede Run, Gillan River, Hatchet Mountains, Remembrance, Gods' Legion. The Dalekevans grumbled at every step. They had to walk all the way home, when earlier they'd been whisked by magic portals to Delia, the castle in the air. Yet even on that they couldn't agree, for some took a perverse pride in the lofty ways of the high wizards and were disdainful of those who had to travel afoot. Sunbright thought they should have been happy to be able to return home at all, but some lamented how the elder council would condemn their failed mission, while the rest fretted into the future, of their ongoing mission to meet the One King. By the evening campfires, snivelers delighted in tormenting one another about the hideous deaths they would no doubt reap. Then the bickering would flare up again, and accusations would make the air ring like crows fighting over a dead horse.

The way was sometimes easy, a saunter across open fields with new grass to the horses' hocks. Often it was hard, when rain was pounding them senseless yet they had to ford a river to their chins before it rose higher and blocked them for days, or on one stretch where there was no groundwater at all, and everyone plodded along with gasping, protruding tongues.

There were deaths. An elderly merchant, already half dead with fear and fatigue, tripped over his now-tattered gown and landed in the campfire. Folks dragged him out and rolled him in dirt, but he died of burns two days later. One woman panicked and drowned while fording a river. One bodyguard left her bedroll one night, walked into the woods, and never returned, and even Sunbright couldn't track her.

The barbarian heard strange and wondrous stories, mostly of wizards and their stupendous spells, usually ending with some deserving trader gaining a fortune. The bodyguards, most of whom Sunbright liked, told tales of heroes and beasts, some new to him. He would have liked to hear other people's stories as well, but the dwarf had little to say unless it involved the caravan moving on, and Greenwillow was often gone by night, wandering the woods on strange errands of her own, for she never seemed to sleep.

Sunbright spent his nights uneasily, for by dusk and dawn he was haunted by memories of Ruellana. He relived his night with her over and over, savoring the details, then fretting over what had happened the next morning. Who was she? Why did she appear and disappear? Was she human, or even real? He half dreaded the thought she was enchanted, for then he'd probably never see her again. But by that token, he hoped she was, for a spirit might surprise him no matter how far he traveled. Often he felt her warm flesh under his calloused hands, the nibble of her teeth on his chest. Yet he always woke alone by a cold fire. So he was quiet in his own way, and pondered, and knew he'd eventually forget her. Yet every night's dreams possessed the same intensity as before, as if she brought her astral self to him but not her body. And what a body…

Occasionally, too, to his dreams would come the raven-haired woman. But that one, he knew, was just the raven in another form. Wasn't it? When he asked either the dream-woman or the raven, he got no answer. All in all, portents could be a pain.

The barbarian proved a valuable member of the party right off. His wilderness training, shaman abilities, and honed reflexes let him follow any sort of trail, warn of danger or changing terrain ahead, predict bad weather, identify poisonous plants, and more. He could heal minor wounds too, and often did, for all the traders were incompetent. None had been allowed to bring servants along with the delegation, and now the coin counters were stranded in the wilds having to learn the most basic camping and walking and survival skills. Sunbright swore he healed burns and cuts on every finger of every trader in the party at least once. Yet when they tried to haughtily order him to do so, he growled them into submission. The bodyguards all agreed they were not servants.