Chapter 16.2.1

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The next day I found I could move easily. I rose went out the door, then through another door that led outside. I looked upon an inner court, a square of pristine snow bordered by covered walkways. Before me the spire of the church thrust higher than the red tile roofs of the cloister, and beyond it I could see the low, dark stain of the Dragon’s Tooth Mountains. I faced to the west, therefore. Towards Slatten, the Guildhall – and Elise. I closed my eyes and basked in her memory.

Not long, my lady, before I hold you again.

"Gerard!" Charles called out.

I opened my eyes to see him running across the square, a broom in his hand. I signed, slowly and with broad movements, "Careful. You ruin the snow."

He looked back at his footprints and shrugged. "More will fall. Go back inside, where it’s warm."

I hadn’t noticed the cold until he mentioned it. I retraced my steps, motioning for him to follow me.

Inside the room, he pulled the chair next to the fireplace, Then he sat on my bed, leaving the chair for me. "How are you doing?"

"The Abbot knows I’m a Heathen."

Charles looked as if this were not news to him. "What is he going to do?"

"I don’t know. He is letting me stay, but when I can travel, I think he will want me to leave."

Charles puzzled for a bit, then asked, "Will you go back to Songless?"

I shook my head. "I’m free of that place. I owe no allegiance to Lord Reinard. I will go to Slatten to look for Elise, and then – did you mention that you might go on a pilgrimage? To Bartiese?"

Chapter 16

Peter returned with my supper, a dish of beans, cabbage, and boiled fish. He also brought a cup of red wine. As he set these down, I signed to him, "Have you heard the news about the Bard-killer?"

"He’s dead." Peter spoke quietly, and not happily.

"That means you are free. You told me, back at Rockridge, that you wanted to walk your own path. This is your chance."

"Walk your own path." He frowned. "That’s a Heathen saying, isn’t it?"

I signed quickly. "I may have picked it up from the Bard I was traveling with. Tell me, where will you go now that the Bard-killer is dead?"

His look was one of disbelief. "Nowhere. I hoped to follow my cousin and take a place in her husband’s home, no matter who she married, but she has taken a Heathen beggar for a mate. She will realize what she has done, no fear of that, and return to her father – but hen she’ll not be a fit wife for any man of honor."

"Will the Bard be that bad a husband for her?"

He looked out the window. "The Bard would have been a better choice than the wretch who followed him. That’s the one my cousin went with – the penniless ne’er do well."

"Where did they go?" I asked innocently, hoping to show him the possible path.

"My cousin said that they were bound for Slatten."

Another change of plans. What was Wallen thinking? "So what will you do? Will you stay here?"

"I’ll stay here, but the circumstances of my birth prevent me from taking serious vows." He folded his hands in his lap.

"How is that?" I signed.

"I’m a bastard." He shrugged. "Imperfect in the eyes of God and man."

What a strange idea. "Why should your father’s actions mark you?"

He looked straight at me, and said without rancor, "You are a Heathen, Gerard. You don’t understand why a bastard can not be child of God."

"What a strange God you have, to throw away the hearts of those who are unpleasant to him." Even as I signed this, I knew that the suffering god did not think this way.

Peter frowned sharply. "The Lord God and his son Jesus Christ do not throw people away. They give their mercy to all the poor sinners of the world!"

And here I thought they had only one God. "If that is true, then any poor sinner could devote himself to your God, and this be a monk. Is that right?"

He shook his head. "A monk must be more perfect than the sinners of the world."

"Then a man must be perfect before he can be a monk?" This did not fit at all with the monks I had known at Songless Castle, many which were men first and men of faith second.

Taking a deep breath, Peter leaned forward and spoke patiently. "We find perfection through the sacrifice of Jesus Christ. Our hearts are purified through worship and his mercy."

Had he ever listened to the words he had learned? I pointed out, "Then if you worship your god, you’ll be perfect, and it won’t matter how you were born."

He frowned, then crossed his arms. "Church law states that no man of illegitimate birth may take orders."

"The Church says that," I signed. "But what does your god say? Ask him in your heart, and listen to his answer. Walk the path set before you."

He frowned sharply. "Eat your supper. I must talk to Father Alfred."

He did not return that night.

Chapter 15.5.2

"The problem is one that has been with me for some time. I have learned to live with it." There – let him find fault with that.

The abbot leaned back, the mouse gone from view. "The monks here who know you: they say they have seen you at Lord Reinard’s holding."

"I spent some time there, yes."

"Did you ever meet the man who is called the Bard-killer?"

Sourness burned the back of my throat. How would a pious Christian answer that? My movements were still curt. "I did indeed. He is not an easy master, but his people should not have to suffer for his sins."

"Indeed." The abbot linked his hands together on his lap. "Have you heard that the old lord is dead, and his son now rules the holding?"

This seemed an honest question, so I answered it truthfully. "Yes. But no priest has come to unlock the church so that the people may enter."

"The new lord has neither petitioned the Bishop for forgiveness, nor made peace with the Bardhall. Until he does, his people will stay without grace."

Had anyone explained this to Wallen?

Suddenly the abbot straightened. "But we were talking about you. The things I have heard about you, Gerard, since you came through our gate! Brother Peter swears you are a brother in good standing. Brother Umberto thinks you are a wizard in disguise, for he found strange symbols sewn into your robe. A maiden who lives with the nuns claims that you are a saint – though her father says you are a black-souled Heathen, yet a good man. None of the brethren will speak against you, but none will explain you, either. Tell me truthfully, Gerard, what are you?"

"I am a humble beggar who does not pretend his is anything." Thus I proved that I did indeed pay attention to the sayings of the Silent Monks.

The abbot leaned forward. "Oh, I heard that you play a harp. Gerard, are you a Bard?"

I jerked up my hands, palms inward, to show him that no harp was marked on them, and I glared – then realized that I had answered his question. No one but a Bard would gesture so. Slowly I signed, "What will you do with me now?"

"Rest. You are safe and will remain so." Father Alfred stood and laid his hand on my head. "May the gods watch carefully over your path."

Chapter 15.5.1

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That afternoon, as Peter read with me, an elderly monk arrived. He was white-haired but not yet frail, with stern features and a gentle smile. The blue of his eyes was flecked with gold – he had some Heathen blood in his Christian veins. He wore a mantle of white cloth over his shoulders.

Peter jumped up, then knelt. "Bless me, my Lord Abbot."

The abbot laid his hand on Peter’s hair and said quietly, "Go in peace, my child. See if the cooks could use a hand with the supper."

Peter rose and left quickly, not looking back.

The abbot settled himself in the chair. He picked up the cup Peter had brought me, sniffed it, and smiled. "Brother Peter’s favorite remedy for all ills. He is not made to be a monk, that child – even if he could take vows. But no one else will have him."

A feeling I knew all to well.

"But I have come to speak not of his troubles, but of you. I am Father Alfred, the guardian of these sheep, and I have been told that you are Gerard. Is that true?"

I nodded.

"Did you enjoy your book?"

I lifted my hands. "I found the stories most entertaining."

He leaned forward with a smile, looking a bit like a cat who has found a mouse. "Why don’t you use your voice? You know that our order does not prevent us from speaking in places such as this."

I signed back, honestly, "I have a problem with my throat."

"Brother Peter mentioned that – but you’ve rested for several days. Surely your voice must be better – and it is obviously not too sore to eat or drink." He shifted forward, the cat having glimpsed the mouse’s ears.

Chapter 15.4

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I read for a time, a story of a knight who outwits an three-headed ogre. It was obviously an invented tale, unlike some of the others which had a sense of truth about them. Many, however, rested in the border between obviously true and obviously invented. Much like my adventures in the cavern and the forest. Were those real, or were they only the wanderings of a battered mind? What message did they hold?

I ached for my harp, for the music that would help me probe the mystery. All I had were the words that echoed in my mind.

Walk the path before you, the Dragon commanded.

Sing from your heart, advised the Prince of the Forest.

And the fate of the world rode on my actions.

Chapter 15.3

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I looked up to see Charles standing beside my bed. His clothes and weapons had been replaced by a simple monastic robe, tied with a rope. He looked excited, though, not deprived.

"Good day," I signed.

"You’re awake. Good." He smiled and sat down in the chair. "The abbot thinks you are a monk from west of the Royal City."

I signed, "Did you tell him that?"

Charles shook his head. "I said only that I met you on the road and agreed to help you. But some of the other monks said that they had seen you off to the west, and that you might be of Saint Sebastian’s Monastery."

Songless was indeed west of here, but any monk that had seen me there would know who and what I was. I had friends here, apparently. Their silence, however, was a message that I too needed to keep the truth quiet. "What have you been doing while I’ve been here?"

"Penance." He grinned. "I’m to keep all the walks free of snow as penance for my many sins."

"That makes you happy?"

"When I’m finished, I may take my first communion. I’ll be a complete Christian then – and I can pray for your soul."

"And I shall sing for your heart," I signed back.

He laughed, a joyful sound. Then he sobered. "I only hope that this will pay for all my sins, even the ones I had no time to confess. I talked from Terce to Sext, until the priest sent me away. When I asked if I could come back, he suggested a pilgrimage instead."

"Perhaps I may join you," I signed. There was, after all, no need for me to return to Songless after this. I owed no allegiance to the lord who had abandoned me.

"I’d best go now, before I am missed," Charles said. "No one is supposed to see you or talk to you, other than Peter or the herbalist – but I’ll still come tomorrow."

"Wouldn’t that be a sin?"

He grinned, wide and easy. "It can go with the other unconfessed sins."

For some reason, I felt that all his sins against me, minor as they were, went in that category.

Chapter 15.2

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Three days passed in this way, with food, slumber, and the pleasure of Peter’s reading – though his topics could have been more entertaining. On the fourth day I found that both pain and stiffness had eased, and that I could sit up. I signed to Peter, "Would you please find me a book to read?"

"The Abbot gave me a book, saying that it would be suitable for you. But why are you signing? You needn’t keep strict silence in the infirmary."

I thought quickly. "My voice is still bothering me."

"I’m sorry about that." Peter picked up a book from the side table and handed it to me. "I will fetch you some wine with honey. It’s very soothing to the throat – and other ailments."

So the good monk was as free with the monastery larder as with his uncle’s wine cellar? Far be it for me to complain. I nodded, and he went on his errand.

I turned my attention to the book. It was old and well-read; the leather cover was scuffed and cracked with age, and the ink was faded on the brittle pages. But I could read it. And as I flipped through it, I realized that this was not a book one normally found in within a Christian stronghold.

This was not a book that had been copied by a monk, sitting for hours in a cold, pristine scriptorium as he labored to make every letter a work of art. The handwriting was plain, sometimes hasty, with stains that smelled faintly of ale and grease. The subject was not considered philosophy or enlightened meditations, but stories of fiction and fantasy. They seemed to come from every corner of the world and from every walk of life. Some were boasts and some told of gods and demons. It was if the author had spent his days in a busy tavern, writing down every story that came to his ears.

Why had the abbot chosen such a book for me?

But they were good stories, and I was soon lost in them.

Chapter 15.1

Things blurred for me after we rode into the monastery courtyard. A crowd of people in brown robes came out and helped me from the horse, then carried me into a room scented with herbs and soap. I was bathed, bandaged, and fed. Somewhere in that I lost consciousness.

I woke in the morning in a bright room where dried plants hung from the rafters. On one side of me stood a desk surrounded by shelves filled with large glass bottles and leather-bound books. On the other side sat Peter, reading from a book. His hood was thrown back so that the sunlight from the window struck his wealth of blonde hair and transformed it into an angelic halo. It was not trimmed short in the center, as other monks wore their hair, but was full and lush like a warriors.

Like his brother’s, I thought uncomfortably.

He looked up and smiled, then spoke in a rich tenor voice that would have been the envy of any Bard, "Good morning. Would you like something to drink?"

I nodded and tried to lift my hands to sign. Pain shot through the stiff, bruised muscles of my shoulders and back.

Peter moved toward me, a cup in his hand. He held it to my lips. I tasted something tart, but not unpleasant. "Brother Umberto says that this will ease your suffering and help you to sleep. Slumber is God’s best medicine. He also wants you to drink soup until you have an appetite."

I’m a Bard; I already had an appetite. But my jaw, I found, was too sore to move properly. I accepted the soup and a little more of the potion.

Peter helped me with other things, then settled me back into the bed. I was already tired.
"Do you want me to read to you?" he asked.

I tried to nod.

His sweet voice, discussing the philosophy of sin, was a lullaby that sent me back to sleep.

Chapter 14.5

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"Finally!" Charles pointed ahead of us.

I blinked. We were on the crest of a hill, and the trees stretched left and right in an unbroken line. Before us, spread over the slope of the hill, was Saint William’s Monastery. Fields and orchards, asleep beneath the snow, lay within its grey stone walls. One on side huddled the church and cloister, accessible to the traveler yet separated by high walls from the world. The winter sun was already setting, its red light staining the underbelly of the heavy clouds, and I could hear the bells announcing None. From the kitchens came a thick plume of smoke, and the scent of dinner was on the wind.

A good time to arrive, I thought. It had been a long day.

Peter signed a prayer of thanksgiving, then went ahead of us to the gate. Behind him, Charles leaned in and said, "If we were this close, why didn’t we hear the bells before?"

I shook my head in reply and twisted my stiff back to look over my shoulder. Neither a dark road nor a simple path broke the brush behind us.

Chapter 14.4

If you haven't done so, or don't remember the story, now would be a good time to read The Heart of the Heart of the Eastern Green Forest. This tells the backstory of Taynair :

http://www.sff.net/people/dragonwriter/fiction/heart.html

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I opened my eyes on a different world.

Neither Charles nor Peter seemed to notice. They, along with the horse, trudged along a road that was now pure black and unmarred by leaf litter or mud – but none of us made progress. It was as if we were in current that moved us downstream as fast as we rowed up it. On either side of the path, the trees and bushes shone silver. Pale flowers, blossoms grown from gem stones, grew in clumps in the covering silver moss, and translucent mushrooms sprouted in perfect rings.

This was the true Heart of the Eastern Green Forest.

I looked for, and saw a man seated on a boulder, a man with milk-white skin and no smile. His silver hair, adorned with twigs and leaves from the surrounding trees, hung to his waist, and he wore a circlet of fire. His robe was woven of muted colors that shifted as I watched., and he balanced a long sword between his knees. A dozen ladies lounged at his feet, dressed in soft colors and hard gems, their eyes and hair glittering silver.

Taynair, Prince of the Eastern Green Forest. Beware his smile, for the pleasure of the Silver-eyed is mortal pain.

His frost-filled eyes fell on me. "Speak."

I raised my hands.

"None of that! In my realm, you will speak!"

I had spoken to the Master of Paths, though my mouth felt no less empty than it usually did. And so I spoke to the Mirthless Prince. "Please let us go. We mean you no harm."

The corner of his mouth twitched – the beginning of a smile. "Why are you here?"

I shivered. "We are just passing through. Please, let us go."

His eyes appraised me. "Do you wish to bargain? A promise for a promise?"

My breath caught. Never bargain with a Silver-eyed, and never accept a promise from Prince Taynair. "No. But I will freely give you anything you ask."

The Prince of the Forest smiled openly, and I felt as cold as if standing naked in a frosted wind. "Give me a song, Bard. Give me a story."

"I have no harp," I protested, before I thought to stop. "I can make no music."

He leaned forward, his silver eyebrows flicking up as Master Meiltung’s did when we argued with him. "Sing with your heart, as you always have, Gerard, Bard of Songless Castle."

I started. "How do you know me?"

His smile widened, like a river of ice on the move. "Long have I waited for you, to hear your music and magic. Sing for me and remember me – though your path now curves away, we will meet again."

What would I play? For the people of the world I played of the spirit-lands. For a spirit, then, I need play of the world. So I sang of Lord Reinard and his follies, of our adventure together and its bitter end, and the words of the Dragon. Then I sang of the wider world, of the rising sun on a new-mown meadow, of the yule-fire crackling on the hearth. I sang of the Bardhall in Slatten and the one that I knew would never be again at Songless. As I emptied my heart to the Mirthless Prince, it filled with more. The cries of a newborn, the joy of a bride, the cold thud dirt filling in a grave.

The prince’s cold smile dropped away and was replaced by a gentle curve of his lips. It was a foreign, frightful thing to see, an unnatural warmth amid the chill.

At his feet the maidens gathered jewel flowers and wove them into daisy chains. One wove a coronet, the pale gems flickering within a nest of silver stems and leaves.

Abruptly Prince Taynair dropped his smile and raised his hand. "That is enough. Go, now, before the Night Riders travel the path."

The maiden weaving the coronet stood. "A gift! From Spara to your lady, the mother of your children."

Taking the offering, I brushed her fingers with my own – ice was never so cold. I put the coronet away in my pouch.

Price Taynair spoke again. "Remember Gerard – walk the path before you and always sing from your heart.

Then he let his hands fall, and the Heart of the Heart of the Eastern Green Forest disappeared, and with it the black path of the Night Riders.

Chapter 14.3

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I woke in the Heart of the Eastern Green Forest. Snow fell lightly, creating a crystalline veil through which ice-clad trees stood guard. The sky above shone with an unbearable whiteness, though no sun could be seen, causing the ice to glitter like polished silver. No wind stirred the brush. Beside the path stretched a snow-covered river, as flat as a road. On the farther bank, a cliff that towered above us, there were icefalls colored like moonbows.

I looked down to where the horse’s hooves had churned mud and snow together, and saw that we walked on a black road.

Gods protect us. At least it is still day.

Peter slogged along, head down and arms hanging at his sides, breathing heavily. He had carried me for a long distance from the castle, and now he had walked while I slept. I touched his shoulder to catch his attention, then signed, "Ride for a time. I’ll walk."

He shook his head and signed back, "Please stay on the horse. I am in good health, and it would be easier on you if you did not try to walk."

Obviously he had never ridden a war-horse while bruised. "Perhaps we could stop a few minutes to rest."

He nodded, then caught Charles’ attention. Together they released my bindings, and helped me down. Charles unpacked a feedbag of grain for the horse, then pulled out cheese, bread, and a skin of wine. "Join me?"

Charles could ride with me, anytime. I nodded eagerly; Peter accepted what he was given. We ate, and then the other two helped me back into the saddle. Almost immediately, I fell asleep.

Chapter 14.2

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The snowfall hid us as we took a path that led south from Krast. Soon a wide, dark road crossed it, leading us into the forest. There knobby trees closed around us, like a withered fist. Clumps of snow filled the branches, wet and heavy. Shaggy vines hung down, ropes waiting to bind us, and the bushes below the trees filled with white. Yet the road stayed clear and black.

A wind blew, knocking a clod of snow onto the horse. He snorted and shook his head, but otherwise kept his training.

Charles pulled his cloak tighter around his frame. "I was knighted on a day like this. Bitterly cold and bleak. There was ice on the inside of the chapel walls – and when I put my hands between my lord’s to swear my fealty, they felt even colder."

I remembered the day. It was so cold that Wallen had insisted that I sleep inside, in his room, and attend the festivities afterward. I wondered what omen this was for the new knight, this stinging cold and shadowed skies, but his warm manner seemed not to notice anything amiss.

Charles continued. "That night, though, there was a feast to suit royalty! Two pigs roasted on the fire, and there was swan and fat goose. Four kinds of pudding, and the breads were shaped like rabbits and ducks. Roasted nuts, candied fruits. And for desert there were a sugar confection, a whole glorious battle with men, machines, and a castle wall."

The detail had been perfect, down to the fainting maiden and the sappers undermining the wall.

"And while we feasted, there was music. A rare thing, in truth."

No, I thought to Charles, trying to catch his eye. Don’t tell Peter where you’re from.

"For we had with a Bard – and almost Bard, that is. When my lord called for presents, this man came forward to play the harp. What he played, I don’t quite know, but the notes themselves were words that embedded in my heart. As he played I saw the duty and honor of being of knight. I was to be as serious about my service as a monk is about his vows, and if I soiled my honor I would have broken faith with God himself. That was the message I heard, and I swear by my life that I will honor it forever."

I hadn’t realized that my simple meditation melody had affected him so deeply. At the time he had looked as pleasantly blank as everyone else in the room, but perhaps I had allowed him to look within and see what he had sworn himself to.

My thoughts returned to pleasant memories of the feast, of the food I was not likely to see that day. From there I slipped into dreamless slumber.

Chapter 14.1.2

Peter responded to his offer by shoving me forward; Charles caught me before I sprawled in the snow. They worked together to put me in the stiff saddle of the warhorse. Peter tied me in with roped while Charles shorted the stirrups to feet my feet. When my sleeves fell back to reveal the raw flesh on my wrists, I heard the knight suck in his breath.

He had yet to see my face or ribs.

"Which way do you travel?" Charles asked.

Peter pointed toward Krast.

"The town is filled with soldiers." His tone was light, disinterested, as if gossiping. "They’re searching every house and building, and stopping every one, looking for people who left Rockridge last night. It might be easier for us if we went a different way."

We could go over the pass and into the Badlands, passing Rockridge on the way, or into the Eastern Green Forest. Perhaps, while the sun shone, the powers of the forest would be weak. If we could pass before sunset, we might be safe. There was a better chance among the enchanted boughs than with the soldiers, slim as it was.

I nodded. We would follow Peter’s path, after all. Hopefully it was the same one that the Master of Paths wished me to travel.

As we moved forward down the road, I thought of Elise. Was she safe? Would the soldiers recognize her, as well as Jason and Ison? Or would her sister’s gifts be enough to protect them? What did Charles know? I waited until he glanced back to check on me, and clumsily signed, "What of the lady and the harp?"

"It’s a good thing for you two that I happened to be free. I had just decided to go on a pilgrimage, and had planned to travel with companions, but they went on without me. The whole lot of them. It’s my own fault, of course. They sent the message for me to come, but I was too much into my cups and dice to pay any heed."

Charles? Drinking and gambling?

Then I realized what he was saying. My lord and my oldest friend had summoned Charles to go with them, but he ignored his lord and stayed for the one they were leaving behind. Not all Christians were evil. But Elise had gone with them, and taken my harp.

What had they said to make her leave me? That I was dead?

Probably. If not for Peter, I would have been.

Charles continued on, as if he was bothered by what he said. "I do not think I broke faith with my companions. I believe they broke faith with me, by leaving before they knew that all of our company was free. And I had made a promise that I found bound to keep. Do you think I did wrong?"

Peter lifted his hands, palms up. Those of his order do not judge.

Chapter 14.1.1

Sir Charles, by all the gods of nature and man! My lord had left behind the hidden dirk when he fled the castle, and Charles had known where to wait when he heard that a monk had disappeared. He must have been waiting for some time, as his cloak was caked with snow and he slid stiffly from the saddle.

He stepped forward enough that I could see his face, then he quickly sheathed his sword and threw himself on the ground. "Forgive me! I did not mean to threaten a pair of God’s own servants! May I be allowed, for my penance, to care for these who I have wronged. I will give my horse and the service of my hands, so that they may ride in comfort through the snow and ice."

He should have been a Bard.

Chapter 13.4.3

We made our way down the narrow trail, Peter and I. I stumbled at times, and Peter kept me from falling, but I was safe when we reached the floor. The old hermit was gone from his camp, but I had Peter fetch wood for his fire anyway. Then we followed the path out, and stepped from the darkness of the earth into the grayness of morning. We had not beaten the dawn.

Nor the soldiers. Through a curtain of snow I could see the shadow of a warhorse, and astride her a man as wide as a mountain, with a sword in his hand. He could have been any of Lord Guerney’s soldiers, as his face was hidden by a thick grey cloak. The horse stamped at our presence. The soldier turned, raised his sword, and said, "You owe me a book, monk!"

Chapter 13.4.2

The path seemed longer than the last time I had traveled it. I scraped the crusty surface of the tunnel, and I stumbled on the uneven floor. Peter kept me from knocking my head on the ceiling, as I was pulled down when he bent over, but I often caught my shoulder on the side at the narrower parts. Bruised and bleeding more than when I started, I stepped with gratitude onto the narrow ledge that looked over the great cavern.

Then remembered the narrow, slick switchback trail. It had been a test when I was well, but now it was an impossibility. I sank to my knees, defeated.

The shadows of the cavern lightened, and I saw the stone dragon. He shifted, his wings spreading slightly, and turned his head toward me. Emerald eyes glittering, he spoke in a voice that shook the mountain. "If you think this path is hopeless, it will be. If you see it as only a challenge to overcome, you will."

I rose to my feet. Peter did not move, as if turned to stone when the dragon came to life.

Was this a demon or a god? It spoke, and thus was more likely the latter – but only one of our gods is known to take the form of a dragon, and that is a god who is far above the affairs of mere mortals. So this must be a demon. Irritated at its impudence, I thought, And where does your path lead, that I must suffer to travel it?

My thoughts came out as words, spoken in the voice I did not have.

The dragon’s throne began to shine with a light that would have dimmed the sun, then the damp stone became gold and silver that looped up and cascaded down the sides. Glittering jewels – rubies, sapphires, and diamonds – crusted the armrests and backrests that curved up from the soft velvet seat. The dragon now had emerald scales and ruby eyes, and his breast plate and underwings gleamed gold. When he spread his wings a moonbow cast across the darkness, touching the far wall. The stone opened, letting a multitude of beings creep forth. Demons, spirits, and animals crept forward and lay down at the base of the throne.

A crown of fire circled his head as the throne turned milky-white, a swirl of clouds. The whiteness parted, showing the whole world beneath the dragon, his wide wings covering what is, what has been, and what will be. He roared, "Do you challenge the Master of Paths?"

A god, most definitely, and none other than the oldest and greatest of them all. Mere mortal that I was, I bowed and said, "Forgive me. I only wanted to know, not to challenge."

The Master of Paths gave me a tolerant smile. "For an ignorant child, you pass the tests well. Look on this."

Beneath him, the image of the world shifted and twisted, then formed itself into unnatural warriors that fought among desolation and waste. "This will be, should you fail your greatest test. You, small but chosen one, have no small part to play in the fate of the world."

Chosen one? I was but a mute cripple, shut away from his calling, without even the support of the Christian lord who had abandoned him. And yet, if the Master of Paths himself pronounced it so, I must be, though I could not see how it could be. If the fate of the world depended upon my actions, I must be careful of them. Still, there was one thing I had a right to know.

Gathering up my courage, I said boldly, "Tell me what I must do to succeed."

"Do not turn back from the path set before you!" With that, the Master of Paths folded his wings about him, plunging the room once more into darkness.

I shook my head to clear the last of the vision. Peter stooped then, and signed in the pale light of the lamp, "You fainted. Should we rest?"

I shook my head. The command from the God had been quite clear.