Tungdil set down his knapsack and took a seat. It sounded as though the magus had something important to say.

"I've been thinking." Lot-Ionan cleared his throat. "The two of us have known each other for sixty-two of your sixty-three cycles."

The dwarf knew what was coming. At times like this, when the mood was sentimental and the magus was feeling relaxed, he would pour himself a draft of beer, warm his feet by the fire, and journey into the distant past, recalling events that had happened over a human lifetime ago. Tungdil loved these conversations.

"It was winter and the winds were howling when there was a knock on the door and a band of kobolds deposited a bundle." He looked his ward in the eye and laughed softly. "It was you! Back then, without your beard, you could almost have been mistaken for a human bairn. They threatened to drown you in the nearest river if I didn't pay your bond. What could I do? I gave them their money and raised you myself."

"For which I shall be eternally grateful," Tungdil said softly.

"Yes, well, eternally…" The magus fell silent for a moment. "It seems to me that it might be time to let you go your own way." He laid a hand on the dwarf's thick shock of hair. "I've outlived my natural span and you've served me so loyally that your debt of gratitude, if ever there was one, has been repaid. Besides, if I don't come up with a more convincing charm against old age, my soul will be summoned to Palandiell."

Tungdil didn't like to be reminded that human existence was inescapably brief, even for the likes of the powerful magus. "I'm sure you'll find a way…," he said hoarsely. "Er, didn't you want to tell me something?"

The dwarf's clumsy attempt to change the subject brought a wry smile to Lot-Ionan's face. "You were left here at your parents' behest because they wanted you to be the greatest wizard of the dwarven race, or at least that's what I told you. You saw through the story soon enough. Once I taught you to read, you learned enough about your kinsfolk to know it wasn't true."

"Dwarves aren't fond of magic and magic isn't fond of them." Tungdil couldn't help smiling. His hands were best suited to wielding a hammer and he could happily clutch a book from Lot-Ionan's vast library, but a sorcerer's staff was another matter. "Vraccas made us artisans through and through. There's no room in our hearts for magic."

"Indeed," the magus agreed in amusement, remembering the long line of minor disasters resulting from Tungdil's accidental encounters with the occult. "But you're too modest. You've crammed your head with knowledge like a scholar. You know more about the peoples of Girdlegard than some of my pupils."

"The credit is all yours, Lot-Ionan. You even schooled me in rhetoric."

"And that was no small feat. Adhering to the proper rules of disputation is a challenge for the obstinate tongue of a dwarf!" His face became serious. "I still curse myself for not asking the kobolds where they found you. At least then I'd be able to tell you which clan you belong to." He reached down to the floor and rummaged through a stack of papers to produce a map of Girdlegard, which he carefully unfurled. "I've sent word to Beroпn's folk," he said, pointing his index finger at the secondling kingdom. "Perhaps they'll know something of the circumstances surrounding your birth. Given the ripe old age you dwarves can get to, there's a reasonable chance your parents are still alive. Well, Tungdil, what do you say?"

The dwarf was visibly moved. His dream of meeting his clansfolk was on the cusp of being fulfilled. "That's…Oh, thank you, Lot-Ionan!" he said, overcome with excitement. "Have the secondlings replied?"

Lot-Ionan was delighted to see his enthusiasm. "Not yet. But I'm sure they'll be intrigued by the news of a lost dwarf. They'll be in touch; you can count on it. It's only a start, though. You shouldn't get your hopes up yet."

"I can't thank you enough," Tungdil said solemnly, still struggling to put his emotions into words.

"Now that we've got the map out, I may as well show you where you're going." Lot-Ionan traced a route from the underground vaults through Idoslane, across the border, and into the kingdom of Gauragar. His finger stopped just short of the enchanted realm of Lios Nudin, home of the powerful magus Nudin the Knowledge-Lusty, and came to rest over a peak named the Blacksaddle. "There you have it, three hundred miles on a northwesterly bearing. The paths are well marked and I'll give you the map to take with you, of course. Failing that, you can always stop for directions in one of the villages on the way." He rolled up the parchment. "As for your errand, I need you to convey a few items to my good friend Gorйn. If you look in the ebony cabinet, you'll find a small leather bag with green drawstrings. I borrowed the contents for an experiment many years ago and their purpose has been served. The coins on the table are for you to take."

While Tungdil was scrabbling in the cupboard, Lot-Ionan leafed through a book, pretending to read. The dwarf pulled out a bag. "Found it," he said finally.

"You should go, then, Tungdil, but remember to reflect on our earlier conversation. If we find your family, you'll be free to join them or remain with me, as you please," he said without looking up from his tome. Tungdil turned to the door.

"And one last thing: Be careful! Keep an eye on the bag and don't lose it: Its contents are valuable," he warned. At last he glanced up and smiled: "I strongly advise you not to open it. We don't want any mishaps while you're away. Palandiell be with you-and Vraccas too!"

"You can depend on me, Lot-Ionan."

"I know I can, Tungdil. Now, enjoy your trip and come back safely."

On leaving Lot-Ionan's study, Tungdil steered a course for the kitchens to stock up on victuals and tell Frala of the news.

He found her working at the large dough-trough. The stodgy mix of flour, water, and yeast took considerable effort to knead and her face glistened with sweat from the exertion.

"I need provisions," he announced with a grin.

"The magus is sending you on an errand, is he?" Frala smiled and gave the dough a final vigorous squeeze. "I'm sure we'll find something in the larder for Lot-Ionan's special envoy." She dusted her hands and led the way into a small room that Tungdil imagined was the closest thing to seventh heaven for a mouse.

Frala filled his knapsack with cured meat, cheese, sausage, and a loaf of rye bread. "There," she said, "that should keep you going."

"Not for three hundred miles, it won't."

"Three hundred?" she exclaimed in surprise. "Tungdil, that's not an errand; it's a serious journey! You'll need more food than that." She added two large sausages and some ham. "But don't let Cook see," she said, buckling the flap hastily.

They returned to the kitchen. "Aren't you going to tell me where you're going?" she asked impatiently.

"The Blacksaddle. The magus wants me to deliver a few items to one of his old apprentices."

"The Blacksaddle," Frala echoed thoughtfully. "I've never heard of it. But three hundred miles is an awfully long way. Which kingdoms will you pass through?"

Tungdil chuckled. "I'd take you with me and show you, but I don't think Lot-Ionan would approve-not to mention your husband and daughters." He showed her the map and traced his finger along the route.

"Through Idoslane and Gauragar! And Lios Nudin is barely a stone's throw away. Aren't you curious to visit?" she exclaimed in excitement.

"Not much happens in Lios Nudin," Tungdil said dismissively. "Nudin the Knowledge-Lusty does nothing but study. But Turguria would be worth a look."

"Why's that?"

"Turgur the Fair-Faced is on a quest for universal beauty. He wants to make everyone into paragons of elven grace-even bow-legged farmers and squinty-eyed maids. From what Lot-Ionan told me, he hasn't quite perfected his spells. Apparently, his experiments have led to such deformities that some of his subjects are too ashamed to leave their homes. It's probably a good thing I won't be going there. What if Turgur took it into his head to magic me to human size?"