The king and the eight other members of the Supreme Circle glared at Fesz, demanding to know how the Nightmaster's plans were progressing and whether the unusual news from Atossa meant any kind of setback.

"I will go to Atossa myself in the morning," replied Fesz firmly, "and from there to Karthay to assist the Nightmaster in the final preparations."

"Is this human who escaped the mysterious mage you have been seeking?" asked Akz, the leader of the navy. "I do not intend to mobilize my fleet unless I have absolute assurances that nothing has interfered with the Nightmaster's plans to bring Sargonnas into this world."

"We have lavished great resources on the Nightmaster and his effort," noted the keeper of the treasury, Groppis.

"As for me," put in Atra Cura, the pirate representative, "of course I believe and trust in the Nightmaster, but some of my loose federation of followers are independent-minded, and will require more than my word to go on."

The others nodded and murmured in agreement.

Fesz took a long moment to reply, placing his hands on the table and lowering his eyes to gaze at them from beneath hooded lids. His eyes were deep, his expression furious, yet he managed to calm himself and took a deep breath.

"I am one of the three chosen shamans of the Nightmaster," said Fesz in a low, ominous rumble, "and I do not need to reply to each of your individual craven anxieties. Your petty fears do dishonor to all minotaurs and to your status as members of the Supreme Circle.

"The Nightmaster has informed you that he will cast a remarkable spell to bring Sargonnas, the Lord of Dark Vengeance, into the world. Much expense and preparation has gone into that spell. And everything will happen according to plan when the heavens are in conjunction four days from now, in early nighttime when the stars are at their zenith."

There were gasps from several of the members of the Supreme Circle. Until now, the Nightmaster hadn't revealed the precise timetable of the spell. Fesz's mention of the exact date and time had had the intended effect of making all the worry and opposition among the assembled leaders disappear.

"What about this escaped prisoner?" asked the king.

"I do not believe he is the human called Raistlin," Fesz answered respectfully, "but I will stop in Atossa on the way to Karthay and make certain."

"Where is this Raistlin, then?"

"That I do not know," admitted Fesz. "Perhaps he isn't coming after all. Perhaps we have overestimated him in our minds. In any case, I don't think Raistlin Majere is anything but a minor annoyance, a mosquito on the arse of a woolly mammoth."

The eight members of the Supreme Circle chuckled at Fesz's use of an old minotaur adage.

The king looked satisfied. "What about the kender?" he wanted to know. "Is he still under the effects of the evil potion?"

Fesz nodded. "Most assuredly he is," rumbled Fesz, "and he has proved quite helpful as an ally. I plan to take him with me to Atossa and Karthay. I hope to persuade the Nightmaster that he might play a role in the ritual."

The king looked skeptical.

"Do not fear," the shaman minotaur said smoothly. "Before I depart, I will be sure to double the dose of his potion."

Although be bounced and jostled inside the sack, which withstood his repeated efforts to tear a hole in it so that he could see out, Caramon didn't sense he was in any immediate danger.

The Majere twin guessed he was being transported a great distance away from the minotaur prison, although who his rescuers were and why they had taken him remained a puzzle. As glad as he was to be free of the minotaurs, Caramon fretted about leaving Sturm behind, and he realized that he was someone else's prisoner now. In effect, he had traded one captivity for another.

His uneasiness wasn't relieved, over the course of the next two hours, by the distinct impression that he was being swept through the air. Caramon could feel no hard surface beneath or on either side of the burlap sack. The only noises that reached his ears sounded like nothing so much as the steady beating of wings and the occasional caw of a giant bird.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, the young warrior seemed to remember having heard a similar cawing once before.

Eventually Caramon had the sensation he was descending from a great height, a descent that ended with the burlap sack, with him still curled up inside, bumping and scraping along rocky ground. Moments later, someone tugged the sack open. On wobbly legs, Caramon stepped out.

A spectacular sight greeted him.

He stood on a ledge in a high-walled canyon that wound out of sight to his left and right. The sides of the canyon were honeycombed with dozens of caves stretching as far as the eye could see. And perched in front of the caves, as if to greet him, were hundreds of an ancient and wondrous folk whose remote civilization few humans ever had been privileged to glimpse.

A welcoming committee of these fantastical "bird-people" stood with Caramon on the ledge. They were a mix of hawk and human, walking upright on long, sinewy legs that ended in birdlike talons. Huge feathered wings sprouted from their backs and attached to their arms and hands. With growing excitement, Caramon thought, Why, they look just like…

… like the broken man back in the prison cell. These were his people! Those terrible wounds on his back and shoulders, Caramon now realized, must have been where the minotaurs had ripped off his wings.

The bird-man nearest Caramon was the one who had rescued the Majere twin from captivity. He was taller than Caramon, and leaner. His bronzed face, quite human in appearance, was fiercely handsome. Rather than hair, flowing golden feathers grew from his head. Fine brown pinfeathers covered his chest. He wore no clothing other than a waistcloth of leather.

"Who are you?" Caramon asked his rescuer.

"In your language," the bird-man said with pride in the common tongue, "I am Cloudreaver."

Caramon fumbled for the proper words. "What are you?"

Cloudreaver frowned and stepped aside, gesturing with his wings to one of the bird-people behind him. His pebble-black eyes watched Caramon haughtily.

Following Cloudreaver's gesture, Caramon saw an elder whom he had not noticed at first. Others grouped protectively around this venerable bird-man who shuffled forward on clawed feet to meet Caramon. In spite of his odd gait, he moved with dignity and grace.

The elder bird-man's feather hair was silver white and streamed down to his chest. Many year of exposure to the sun and elements had darkened and lined his face. In spite of his apparent age, muscles rippled across his chest and in his sinewy legs.

Slightly bent over, his head cocked to one side, the elder bird-man approached Caramon with a glimmer of warmth in his clear yellow eyes. "We are the kyrie," explained the elder, his speech clipped but precise. "I am Arikara-in your tongue, Sun Feather, leader of the people who inhabit the skies."

"Kyrie?" questioned Caramon.

Sun Feather cocked his head, peering at Caramon. "A proud and long-lived folk," the kyrie leader said softly. "You have not heard of us?"

Caramon glanced at the hundreds of feathered kyrie who gazed at him from the high safety of their respective aeries. They murmured amongst themselves; some of them pointed at him. Raistlin may have mentioned the kyrie once. His twin read so many books, it was hard for Caramon to keep track. The burly warrior shook his head from side to side in response to Sun Feather's question.

"That is to be expected," said Sun Feather, placing a huge wing over Caramon's shoulder and leading him gently toward a shelter dug out of the canyon wall.