Published for the first time in this volume.

You always learn something interesting at fantasy conventions. One year I found out there was an ongoing audition for the last book in the Harper series. This was originally planned as a series of stand-alone novels, but things quickly became unwieldy as books bred sequels, trilogies, and sub-series, and occasionally crossed over to link with other trilogies or series. Any product tree drawn under those circumstances would probably end up looking like something a toddler whipped up with an Etch-a-Sketch. So the plan was made to end the series with a "pivot book" that would introduce characters and plot threads to be developed through future books and game products.

It didn't work out that way. Editorial direction shifted, and Thornhold, which was written to be that pivot book with all kinds of loose threads for other authors to pick up and develop, was published as the last Harpers book. Period. Readers were justifiably confused. I chalked it up to a learning experience, vowed never to write another book that was quite so open-ended, and resigned myself to leaving a lot of unanswered questions.

Then, rather unexpectedly, I got the opportunity to revisit some of the Thornhold characters in Reclamation, the sixth and final book in the Songs amp; Swords series. Another door opened when Peter Archer suggested that I write a follow-up to Thornhold for the new short story for this anthology.

This story endeavors to tie up a few of those loose threads and to shed some light on the more puzzling aspects of the novel. It doesn't revisit all the characters or answer all the questions, but it puts several of the threads on a path toward resolution.

17 Flamerule, the Year of the Enchanted Trail (925 DR) Griffenwing Keep, a mountain fortress near Ascalhorn

The demon was not at all what Renwick Caradoon had expected.

Massive bat wings, scales the color of molten lava, terror and evil incarnate-the grimoire had hinted darkly of such things. Renwick, given his admittedly small talent for magic, would have been content with a whiff of brimstone and a tentacle or two. To his surprise, the creature standing in a circle of painstakingly drawn symbols looked more like a mildly disgruntled scholar than an agent of evil.

"Have I the honor of addressing the great incubus Yamarral, Lord of Chaos and Carnality?" Renwick inquired cautiously.

In response, the demon held up the book he'd been perusing, displaying the scene vividly painted on night-black parchment. The illustration was moving, and a glance at the writhing figures was all the answer Renwick required.

"You cannot summon a demon without speaking his true name," Yamarral observed as he tucked the book into his plain brown tunic. "Do you doubt the laws of magic, or is this your notion of polite conversation?"

Common enough words, and the clipped cadence indicated a very human state of annoyance, but ah, the voice! Music lurked in those deep, rounded tones, and the accent, both charming and elusive, seemed strangely enhanced by the demon's nondescript human appearance. Renwick had heard it said that men were seduced by their eyes and women by their ears. By that measure, innocent and impressionable little Nimra was all but damned.

No, Renwick told himself sternly. Nimra was descended from the Guardians of Ascalhorn. She was a true scion of her illustrious forebears, and a paladin's daughter. She had grown up at her grandsire's knee, her eyes shining with wonder as Maerstar spun tales of magical treasures the Caradoon family had collected for generations. The old bard had staggered out of the ruins of Ascalhorn with a single precious book, but his stories of the family legacy had set Nimra's soul aflame. Renwick had trained her for the coming task. She was resolved to see it through; she would survive with her virtue intact.

"I wish to strike a bargain," Renwick began.

Yamarral smirked. "And what boon do you offer me, little wizard? Perhaps you would teach me the art of patience? Clearly you have learned it well; while you labored over the summoning spell, Selune's crescent belly swelled with light three times, and three times did she give birth to moondark."

Actually, Renwick had been working toward this moment for much longer than three months. Only through long, difficult striving could he cast spells other wizards tossed about with ease. Summoning demons was a tricky business for anyone, and he was justly proud of this accomplishment. Still, the demon's mockery stung.

Renwick reached for the framed miniature on a nearby table and thrust it toward Yamarral's sneering face. "Save your insults for those who wish you ill, and save your pretty words for this."

"This" was Nimra, a slender, doe-eyed beauty in the first bloom of maidenhood. Thick braids of glossy brown hair framed a sweet, sun-browned face, and her simple green gown bared her arms and clung to budding curves. The little smile curving her lips gave her the look of a dryad caught in the midst of some small mischief. The portrait was a true and skillfully rendered likeness, and it had the desired effect.

Dark hunger flared in the demon's eyes. For one soul-staining moment, Renwick glimpsed the true nature of the summoned creature. He managed with difficulty to suppress a shudder.

"My brother's daughter, the child of his dissolute youth," he said. To his relief, his voice did not shake too badly. "My brother is the paladin Samular Caradoon. His duties often take him far from home, so the girl looks to me for direction. She wishes to learn Mystra's Art. I have promised to find her a suitable teacher."

"Ah." Yamarral nodded sagely. "And you would release me into your world so that I might… school her, in exchange for magic that would set your thoughts in proper order and place the mastery of magic within your grasp."

As summaries went, the demon's was flawless.

Renwick simply did not see things as other men did. To his eyes, symbols turned this way and that upon the page, rearranging themselves into unintelligible patterns that required long study to decrypt. His mind demanded that certain runes be written in certain colored inks or they would be perceived as something altogether different. There was nothing wrong with his memory, but his spells, once learned, were still unreliable, for he was likely to invert words and gestures. None of these troubles, however, lessened his ambition or dimmed his conviction that he was destined for great things. The notion of gaining mastery over his malady through a demon's magic pained him, as did the role he must play to convince Yamarral that he was a "worthy" ally, but some paths toward the greater good must needs pass through dark and dangerous places.

"A fair exchange, for you will not soon tire of the girl," Renwick promised. "She is as quick-witted as she is fair. Under your tutelage, she could become a wizard of great power. Through her, your dominion over these parts would be assured for many years to come."

"This has possibilities," Yamarral admitted. "And what form would your payment take?"