Eat a biscuit while I'm cooking."

"There is danger ahead of us, then," the wizard noted ominously. 'The

Irda knows."

"How does she know any such thing?" Wingover spun toward Glenshadow, tired and angry, confused and feeling as though everyone but himself had a hand in this situation. "Does she use magic?"

"Only a little… of the kind I use, when I can use it at all,"

Glenshadow said. "The kind you so despise, though it is a part' of your world and not always to your disadvantage. The Irda is a shapechanger.

That much is magic, though natural to her kind. And she is a singer. Some have said the Irda carry magic in their voices, though I think now it is simply that they have… such voices." He paused and considered the point for a moment. "Perhaps they have another magic that is outside the magic of Krynn. I believe they do, but who can say for certain. If they do, then it is used entirely for their own purposes and not for or against any other being. It is the nature of the Irda."

"You haven't answered my question," Wingover snorted. "How could such a creature – as you say -know that there is danger ahead for us?"

"She listens." Glenshadow shrugged. "The world has many voices, and eyes everywhere. The world itself knows what passes upon it. It speaks of it to itself, and the Irda listens. How else could she do what she does… observe the purposes of the gods' things, the ones that the gods themselves no longer observe? Who else could inform the Irda, except the world itself'" Wingover shook his head, wondering if the mage was in fact deranged. What he said almost made sense… sometimes, but not in any way that Wingover could see. He turned away and went to start unpacking his horse. "Don't do that," Chane Feldstone shouted, getting to his feet. 'We have to go on."

"We aren't going anywhere for a while," Wingover told him. "We are going to rest here until we're fit to travel."

"But I see the path now," the dwarf said, his face going pale again. "I see where Grallen went, and I have to go there. Spellbinder -

Jilian Firestoke was at Chane's side then, bracing him with strong little hands. "The man is right, Chane," she said gently. "You must rest.

Then we can go on. Please, sit down."

A sheen of sweat had erupted on Chane's forehead, and his eyes seemed glazed. Still, he tried to struggle free.

"Can't you see the path? Can't any of you see it? It goes down this mountain and out onto the plain, then it doubles back… just out there.

It turns back and stops. See? Why can't any of you see?" The dwarf slumped and let himself be eased down to a sitting position.

"Jilian?" Chane murmured. "Jilian, I think your father was right. I don't deserve you. But he was wrong, too. He was wrong in… deciding he could decide. It is for you to decide, Jilian…"

Chane's voice trailed off, and quickly he was asleep. Jilian covered him gently with a wrap from her own pack, and when she looked up her eyes were moist. "He's so tired," she said.

Wingover knelt beside the dwarf and touched a palm to the sweating forehead. Then he stood, nodding. "It was the goblin dart. It has sickened him. He needs rest." To Jilian he added, "Chane will be all right. If the wound were going to kill him, it would have before now."

Leaving Jilian hovering over the sleeping dwarf, Wingover walked to where the wizard stood, looking eastward. The mage raised his hand and pointed. Far out in the distance, where the slopes ended and a flatter land began, there was movement. Wingover and Glenshadow were too far away to be sure, but they suspected who was there. The Commander of Goblins was ahead of them, and with her was her army.

"They know we're here," Wingover growled. "But if they didn't follow us, how did they find us"?" Maybe they don't know exactly where we are," the bison-robed wizard offered, lowering his hand. "But they know which way we were going. And they know why."

"The mage?" Wingover muttered. "The one who died, but didn't?"

Glenshadow only nodded.

A flash of white in the distance flickered above the gorge where the path bent around the mountain slope. It wasn't bright, but the flash was enough to catch Wingover's eyes. He turned. "It's that gnome," he growled, pointing. 'Where has he been, anyway?" The soarwagon neared the mountainside, skimmed away, and did a wide turn. As the gnomish contraption came about for another approach, Jilian Firestoke waved and

Chestal Thicketsway ran to the ledge to watch. "Tell him to come in and lower his line," the kender said. "Tell him we have raisins. And cider."

The flying thing approached carefully this time, finally hovering on updrafts just above the cove. The gnome in the wicker seat leaned out and waved. "Hello!" he called. "Do you remember me? I'm Bobbin."

"I remember you!" Wingover shouted. "What news do you have?"

"About what?… Ah, yes! You're the one who's looking for cats. Well, I saw some, up the mountain from where you are. But they're going the other way." Wingover scowled. "We know about the cats! Anything else?"

"Well, I saw a dragon. A big, red one. He weighs nearly three tons and had flown five hundred miles." The gnome frowned. "He wasn't very friendly."

"A dragon?" The kender danced about in his excitement. "A real dragon?

Where?" Wingover shook his head in disgust. There was no telling what the gnome had actually seen… if anything.

Part IV

Solinari and Lunitari had set hours ago. Beside a small fire, set far back in a mountain cove, Chane Feldstone lay in peaceful sleep for the first time in several days. For the moment, the red spot on his forehead was so dim that it was barely noticeable. Better still, the firelight reflecting on his cheeks above his beard revealed a healthy, ruddy color that Jilian attributed to two days of rest and good food, though among the others were some who suspected other cures as well.

Glenshadow the wizard had made it clear that, in his opinion, the dwarf had been in no danger, despite his illness. The red moon, the wizard said, had set Chane a task.

Glenshadow had been silent after that. He had gone off by himself to sit in thought. Then, after a time, he had pulled his bison cloak about him and wandered away on some path of his own.

He had not returned, though a day had passed. But as Chane Feldstone lay now, sleeping by the little fire, Jilian hovering beside him as always, it was the kender who saw a thing that needed no reconsideration. He came with twigs to feed the fire and paused there. Then he beckoned to Wingover and pointed.

Jilian had fallen asleep. Her head nodded forward, then rested, moving slightly with her even breathing as she slept. In the shadows between the two dwarves, their two hands lay clasped, Jilian's little hand resting in

Chane's larger one.

Wingover grinned. 'Yes," he whispered. "That very likely is what is curing him. Some comforts have more power than people know."

"Not for me," something seemed to say wistfully, and Chestal Thicketsway looked up from the new task he had begun, which was trimming branches off a long, thin sapling he had found.

"Quit complaining, Zap," the kender said testily. 'You never had it better than this. I'll bet you never expected to travel."

"No," the disembodied non-voice seemed to mourn,

"just to happen."

"Well, you weren't happening where you were, either. So what's the difference?" Wingover glanced at the kender, curious to see what the little person was doing. It was the first time he had seen Chestal

Thicketsway concentrate on anything for more than one hour. Yet, Chess had been working on his sapling for most of the day. With all of its branches gone and most of its bark peeled away, it was a slim pole of fresh wood more than twenty feet long. With the last of the trimming done, the kender laid the sapling down near the ledge and looked around. "I need some string," he said.