"You sound like you think there's going to be some kind of war," noted Ariakas, raising his eyebrows. He started to shave, using his dagger and cold water. "Does Thorbardin face invasion?"

"Nobody knows for sure. But it's not just us, or me," Ferros declared. "There's a lot of talk of trouble-the elves of Qualinesti patrol like there's a threat on every border. And surely," Ferros added, studying the human carefully, "you've noticed the troops here in Sanction. I think someone is getting ready for war-and when one army gets ready, all the rest have to prepare."

"I had noticed the numbers. But I don't think they're in service right now. You don't see any unit standards or barracks."

"How much of the city have you really seen?" pressed the Hylar. "All the alleys and buildings? Who knows what goes on in them?"

Ariakas shrugged. "As for me, when there's war, there's work. Not that I'm looking for either."

He told the dwarf where he lived, and when he learned that Ferros was quartered in a noisy waterfront inn he invited the Hylar to be his guest. Ferros agreed to bring his things over later in the afternoon, and Ariakas led him through the great hall of the temple to the door. "I'm going to talk to the high priest," the warrior told the dwarf.

Ferros gruffly repeated his thanks, then ducked through the curtain of darkness and disappeared.

"You were going to speak to me?"

Ariakas whirled in surprise as Wryllish Parkane silently stepped up behind him. Flushing, he nodded.

"We'll talk later," said the high priest. "Right now, Patriarch Fendis is beginning a lesson-historical studies I think you will find quite interesting. It's as good a place as any to begin your tutorship."

"My tutorship?" Ariakas glowered at the unperturbed priest.

"Forgive me. Doubtless there are many important matters requiring your immediate attention. Just remem shy;ber," Wryllish said, "it is not for me, nor for yourself that you now make your choices-it is for her."

The meaning of the priest's words hit Ariakas like a blow. For a moment he had to suppress an urge to kneel, to beg his queen's forgiveness. He spoke to her mutely in supplication, knowing he was right not to display weak shy;ness before the high priest.

"Where is the patriarch holding forth?" he asked.

Wryllish Parkane smiled slightly and led the warrior to one of the many small rooms off the great hall. He saw several novices, and two gray-haired priests, blue col shy;lars, all seated on the floor. One of the elders was speak shy;ing, which he continued to do without pause as Ariakas entered and sat on the opposite side of the room from the circle.

"The Kingpriest of Istar epitomizes the arrogance of faiths who claim the mantle of 'goodness'," Patriarch Fendis was explaining. "At first, that ignoble ruler hurled his hatred at everything he branded as 'evil,' and even in the beginning he forged his branding irons with his own convenience in mind."

Ariakas was in fact immediately interested. His travels had taken him around the fringes of the Blood Sea, and he had marveled at the thought of the mighty nation that lay buried by the crimson maelstrom. The power to rack a land like that, he had often reflected, was the ultimate attainment of mastery.

The cleric continued through the morning, presenting an insightful description of the ebb and flow of god-power that had culminated in the Cataclysm. Ariakas learned that Takhisis had remained aloof and unin-volved in that celestial conspiracy. Alone among the gods of great power, she watched Reorx, Paladine, Gilean, and the lesser deities hurl flaming wrath from the heavens.

Yet in the wake of the godswrath, when humans declared themselves bereft of immortal leadership, Takhisis had been cast aside with the rest of the pan shy;theon. Now she worked slowly to spread word of her existence, and her destiny-the destiny of greatness that would be shared by all her faithful.

The pictures woven by the patriarch's words brought to Ariakas's mind images of huge armies, powerful war machines, and vast, stone-walled fortresses. And, vividly imagining, Ariakas saw that he rode in the thick of battle-he commanded, wielding the power of his queen like a mighty sabre over the field.

* * * * *

In the following weeks, Ariakas attended regular stud shy;ies at the temple. Though every instinct told him that Tale Splintersteel must be punished for his treachery, Ariakas somehow found the serenity to delay his revenge until the future.

As the days passed, he delved into mountains of information on topics to which he'd never before devoted much attention. In addition to history, he was exposed to the poetry of the ancient bards, the Public Tomes of Astinus, the elven histories by Quivalin Sath, dwarven epics by Chisel Loremaster, and an assortment of legends and mythologies from across the width and breadth of Ansalon.

He also learned of the profusion of cults, all worship shy;ing false gods, that had sprung into existence since the Cataclysm. Many of the warriors who had served him had professed great allegiance to one or another of these deities. It amused him to think that their prayers had been directed to nothing more than an uncaring cosmos.

And he learned that, of the true gods of Krynn, Takhi-sis was the being meant to inherit mastery of all. Mortals and immortals together would one day worship at her altar, each and every one of them owing existence itself to her pleasure. For now her favored clerics were marked with leather collars to display their status in her service- with red reserved for the high priest and blue for his chief lieutenants. Declining through black and then green, the white collars denoted the many young novices.

Of the dragons, his teachers said much. He learned of the mighty scarlet wyrm, the red dragon whose breath burned like the flame of an infernal furnace, and the white, whose exhalation exploded like a blast of arctic frost. When Fendis described this serpent, the warrior vividly recalled the frigid eruption from the white blade of his sword. Then he learned of the black wyrm and- mindful of his midnight blade-he listened avidly to the description of this dragon's caustic acid breath. Spit in a long stream, the liquid could rot flesh, wood, or metal with ease. Neither were the green and blue dragons excepted. The former's expulsion of poisonous gas, a seeping, seething cloud of noxious fumes, brought insidious and horrifying death. The latter's lightning bolt could sear enemies with explosive force, or pulse through metal with sizzling heat, melting even steel bars in a way that mere fireballs could not. And these five attacks comprised only the breath attacks of the col shy;ored dragons. The creatures also possessed claws that could rend an ox and jaws that could crush a small house.

Many dragons, he learned, stood so high in the favor of their goddess that the Dark Queen granted them spells with which to further her aims. And it was with the discussion of these spells that another fascinating phase of his training began.

Fendis and Parkane worked with Ariakas alone, drawing forth from him the memory of the power that had possessed him when he had cured Ferros Wind-chisel's wounds, and his own. For long hours the clerics instructed him on the rituals of prayer that allowed mor shy;tals to tap into immortal power.

Ariakas showed a remarkable aptitude in these stud shy;ies. Soon he could call into existence a globe of light such as Parkane had used in the Sanctified Catacombs, or weave an enchantment to create a fine meal-or to cor shy;rupt and decay a large stockpile of food. A useful spell allowed him to neutralize a poisonous meal even before it was ingested, or to cure the effects of toxin afterward.

He learned chants that could increase his effectiveness in battle, and others that could reveal the presence of traps and snares in his path. The two elder priests were astonished at the rapid pace of his progress, and for a time it seemed that every day added a new magical incantation to the warrior's repertoire.