Children of the Dust (Twilight of Magic 3)

By Erin O'Quinn

Ancient prophecies have foretold the future of Caylith’s new home, and the one she had to flee: Faerie is doomed to fall, possibly very soon... The people of Britannia and the scrolls of antiquity are in peril, in the path of coming barbarian invasions.

But oracles have named an unlikely savior. Caylith will lead everyone from the twilight of magic into a new dawn.

Shouldering the burden of being a “deliverer,” the seventeen-year-old gathers a ragtag group of allies and embarks on a mission to save both worlds.

Faerie has already begun to be eaten by a ghastly mist and by some evil that seems to be draining life from her grandfather, even as it fells one of her close friends. How can Caylith truly be the savior, when she cannot save her friend, or even herself, from a force that is more menacing than anyone could possibly imagine?

Book 3 in The Twilight of Magic series

• Language: English
• Publisher: Erin O'Quinn
• Release date: Apr 8, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370597499

Erin O'Quinn

Erin O’Quinn sprang from the high desert hills of Nevada, from a tiny town which no longer exists. A truant officer dragged her kicking and screaming to grade school, too late to attend kindergarten; and since that time her best education has come from the ground she’s walked and the people she's met.Erin has her own publishing venue, New Dawn Press. Her works cover the genres of M/M and M/F romance and also historical fantasy for all ages.

Book preview

Book Three in The Twilight of Magic Sagas

Children of the Dust

Erin O’Quinn

Copyright © 2017 Erin O ’ Quinn

New Dawn Press

ISBN: 9781370597499

Published in the United States of America with international distribution.

Cover Design by Erin O’Quinn

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the copyright owner except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author ’ s imagination or are used fictitiously; and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

Children of the Dust is a YA-adult crossover novel, meant for readers of all ages but especially new adult and older. This present work is a re-writing and re-release of the original, whose contract was gently laid to rest some time ago.

Dedication

To Bil, who inspired not just the series, but who inspires everything in my life, every day. Dedicated also to this great magical universe, where we are all children of the dust.

Foreword

I wrote The Twilight of Magic sagas not to glorify the reputation of Patrick, nor the rightness of any religion, but to explore the place of myth, magic, and belief at a time in our history when Western civilization seemed to be losing its center.

This tale, unlike those before and after, holds an edge of darkness. As the saying goes, It is always darkest before the dawn.

Ah, yes, there are many players in this world. Readers will find a list of characters at the end of the novel.

Introduction

Ancient prophecies have foretold the future of Caylith’s new home, and the one she had to flee:  Faerie is doomed to fall, possibly very soon… The people of Britannia and the scrolls of antiquity are in peril, in the path of coming barbarian invasions.

But oracles have named an unlikely savior. Caylith herself will lead everyone from the twilight of magic into a new dawn.

Shouldering the burden of being a deliverer, the seventeen-year-old gathers a ragtag group of allies and embarks on a mission to save both worlds.

Faerie has already begun to be eaten by a ghastly mist and by some evil that seems to be draining life from her powerful grandfather, even as it fells one of her close friends. How can Caylith truly be the savior, when she cannot save her friend, or even herself, from a force that is more menacing than anyone could possibly imagine?

Book 3 in The Twilight of Magic series

Part One

The SoothTellers

Chapter One

Seeing in the Dark

At first I could not say what jolted me from my swansdown sleep. My dreams had been of tiny gems and shifting, sparkling sand that seemed to sift down onto my truant hair and into my eyes. The feeling was pleasant, like drowsing in Grandfather’s enchanted garden.

Caylith. This is SoothTeller. The light voice was almost in my ear, yet somehow far away, an elfish wind chime barely tinkling in a slight breeze.

I sat upright in my bed, dreams scattering like motes of dust, with the knowledge that someone was in my room.

Who is it? I spoke into the darkness in what I hoped was a reasonable tone of voice. I strained my eyes and ears, but the voice was silent. I sank back down on my feather pillow. If someone were here in the room, I reasoned, I could quickly overpower him with my warrior’s speed and skill.

The longer I lay there, the more I realized I was alone, and wide awake. The voice had probably been part of a disturbing dream. I eased my tensed muscles and sighed deeply, for as usual, I sorely felt the burdens of my new life in Faerie. I was forced to wake before dawn every day, except the Sabbath day, and encounter Gristle, my stern trainer. After four hours of weapons training, I had to meet with Grandfather for lessons in plant magic and herbology.

Strangely enough, I was learning in spite of my cankerous attitude—which I thought was well hidden. Gristle’s unusual methods actually worked well enough that I was able to defeat the evil duke and his henchman last year. Not that I would admit to my sour armsman that he was right!

Lessons with the troll king were much more pleasant. He was guiding me in what turned out to be my natural talents with plants. I thought I was becoming more adept with every passing day. What I resented most about Grandfather and Gristle was their theft of my time . Did they not realize I was never alone? I longed to run free, if only for a few hours.

Something—some urge between thirst and itching—was gnawing at me. I sighed again and clambered from my oversized bed. It was much too big for me, but I loved it because it once belonged to my great-to-the-eighth grandmother, the legendary warrior, Caylith.

The early spring chill inside my room set me to shivering. Guided by a guttering candle, I dressed quickly—leather tunic, belt, leggings, and sandals. Eating knife, long knife. My secret necklace. The pouch of healing potion. There! Ready for…I knew not, but I slipped out of my room and into the great curved hallway of the troll king’s long house.

All along the walls, tapered candles flickered in finely wrought sconces. I passed Brindl’s room, the one next to mine. Grandfather’s chambers were across from my own. As I walked, I thought about all the people behind those closed doors: Luke, my old friend from Britannia…Andreas, the head scribe of Grandfather’s library…James the Mentor, a human who found his way to Faerie searching for gnomish sacred scrolls…Gristle, my irritating trainer. There were others I hardly knew—a blacksmith, a vintner, the head carpenter, a beekeeper. I had no idea which rooms were even theirs.

A light was dancing under the door of the library as I passed. The last time I saw a light like that, it turned out to be the teacher, James. Wondering if he were still pursuing his studies, I entered the room without knocking.

As before, the room was dimly lit by one smallish wall candle and another candle on a work-table. I had opened the door without speaking, and the person sitting at the work-table with head still bowed was apparently unaware of my presence.

Now I felt slightly embarrassed. Was I supposed to knock? Should I speak out and disturb whoever it was? As my eyes adjusted to the dimness, I recognized the scrivener Andreas from his close-cut ash blond hair gleaming dully in the reflected light. I coughed slightly.

The scribe looked up and raised his chin in an unhurried manner. Huh! he said, and his full mouth twisted in a half-smile. Caylith. I should have guessed it would be you prowling about in the middle of the night.

Whatever do you mean? I was peeved already. Andreas had a certain…blunt way about him that often set me on edge.

The scribe gestured vaguely. Find a stray bench. There are no end of benches, but—careful there! Try to avoid sitting on my scrolls.

Indeed there were scrolls everywhere—on benches, on tables, piled on the floor. I sat gingerly on a small bench near Andreas’ work table, making sure I did not bend even one precious scroll. "Andreas, what are you doing in the middle of the night?"

Ah, yes, it is getting a bit late. I was trying to track down some old skalds for James the Mentor, and time seemed to vanish as I read.

What skalds? I was not at all interested but did wonder what could have transfixed Andreas until so late in the evening.

There are two different sets of skalds that sing of the end of magic. The elfish skalds, which I have here. And the dwarfish songs, the prophecies—but they disappeared a few generations ago.

The end of magic? The words struck me suddenly. I remember once, on a trip to Elfland, how Grandfather dredged up a line from an old elfish history-or-something.

In all of Faerie Land…did joy…escape to Hinterland, I said in a dreamy voice. "Someone mentioned The Skald of the— "

"… the End of Magic , yes, yes, Caylith. So you know about it? I am impressed!"

Now, I was embarrassed. I have a bit of a keen memory and was showing off just now. No, Andreas. But I remember there is supposed to be a Book of Oracles. Is that what you are reading from?

Even in the weak candlelight, his pale gray eyes were animated. Exactly! This is one of the original skalds. I ran across it earlier tonight, really while looking for something else. Now I need to try my hand at translating some of it. His voice, usually tipped with an acid edge, was warm and excited.

I started to fidget. Andreas was born to sleep and eat in a library. I was always too full of the present moment to succumb to the drowsiness of scrolls and lessons. Well, my scribish friend, I will leave you to your, ah…studies. I had almost said your parchment prison.

Closing the door firmly behind me, I left the scrivener with his nose buried in a musty old scroll.

I passed by Gristle’s door and hesitated. The last duty I wanted to perform was waking up my already foul-tempered trainer. But if I wanted to do anything on my own today, it would be best to omit my morning regimen. Always, my whole life, I squirmed whenever I seemed to be under the thumb of anyone at all. And Gristle’s thumb scratched me more than most.

I took a deep breath and rapped on his door—not too hard, but not like a mouse either. No more than ten seconds went by before the door was abruptly opened.

By all the runes— came a growl from the direction of the opened door.

Gristle. It is Caylith. May we speak a moment? His room was not dark at all but actually brightly lit. He must keep a cloth or something under his door to fool the unwary.

Gristle was fully dressed in a toga-like leather tunic. His pallid elfish face, usually more handsome than most, was now twisted into outright ugliness. This had better be good, Caylith. His voice was cold as a knife blade.

What do you mean by ‘good,’ O trainer? I was already spiteful. How the man grates on me! It is good for me to omit my training today.

Why? His manner, as always, was blunt.

To hear our conversation, one would never guess that it was I who led the marine forces into battle against the duke’s army, and Gristle who fought under my command. And it was I who gave him the position of training instead of lolling back on a feather pillow in Elfland.

I tried to keep my impertinence under control. Gristle—sir—I will train a bit in the Bad Weather Ballroom before I leave, but at daybreak, I intend to take a very long walk.

You intend to walk? Well, why did you not say so? That is very good training indeed.

His words sounded so reasonable, so un-Gristle-like, that I looked at him keenly. His eyes, as usual, held no humor at all, but there was a small tell-tale movement around one corner of his mouth.

Yes, ah, thank you. I will be off now. I turned and left.

I walked toward the courtyard muttering to myself. Now the really hard part—how do I tell Grandfather I am leaving? He seems always to set a watch dog over me.

In fairness to Grandfather, he did not want to keep shackles on me so much as he wanted to safeguard me. Lately, he was given to long periods of meditation—some might call it moping—and he seemed to be even more protective than usual.

He seems to be thinking more and more these days about his two lost wives and all his lost grandchildren, I mused to myself. That is the trade off for immortality. I wondered whether his somber thoughts had any connection to the nightfall of Faerie he had begun to talk about.

I walked into the Bad Weather Ballroom near the bath houses and the courtyard. Gristle had set up this place for me as a kind of training arena. Even in bad weather, Grandfather’s guests at meal time sat under a make-shift canopy in the courtyard while I used the room.

This morning, I ignored my faithful two-foot stick, the same type of weapon that had given me supremacy over the Duke of Deva and his lackey Gregor. Instead, I sat on the floor and concentrated on breathing as Gristle had taught me. Years ago, my faithful armsman Fletcher had taught me how to slow my breathing while hunting, so that my breath and the gentle wind were one and the same. Gristle’s training was similar, but he included the practice of breathing so deep and slow that I seemed to suspend my very being and enter a realm of pure thought, and sometimes even beyond.

I used to slow my breathing in this way all on my own while I was performing plant magic, but I had to admit that Gristle was teaching me the fine points. Now I was doing it more and more, and I realized it was very effective. No longer did I feel almost like fainting from lack of breath. Instead, my mind seemed to focus like an arrowhead on a moving target.

I drew in a breath slowly, so that it seemed to take a full minute to gather in all the air. Then I let it out just as slowly, trying not to think any thoughts at all. They would come unbidden, I knew. Do not force them.

I saw myself walking. I turned toward the woods. It looked almost like the same place Brindl and Thom and I had been when we embarked on the magic Walk into another world. I could almost see Grandfather’s long house far away, on a hill. The birch trees now had tender new leaves, freshly curled from catkins, and the wind sighed through them like a gentle keening.

I heard a sound that seemed to float in the slight wind. Caylith. This is SoothTeller.

It was the same voice that had pulled me from sleep, like a faraway spun-silver bell. I followed it as in a dream. I was moving along a little stream that seemed to skirt the forest. The waters danced and sang their song to spring. Fresh… Cool… Come!

I thought I saw a flash of unusual color just—there—where the river bank curved toward the trees…

Caylith!

I was shaken from my vision. I looked up, startled, into Brindl’s sun-flecked brown eyes.

Brindie. You startled me. You know, I was practicing my breathing. I tried not to sound reproachful.

"Oh, Cay, I am sorry! I thought you had drifted off to sleep. It is very late, you know. Or very early." She giggled, and I could not help joining her lighthearted laughter.

Then why in the world are you up, Brindie? Is it already time for morning meal?

Um, not quite. She bowed her head slightly, and I thought a bit of redness highlighted her cheeks. I tried to sleep, she admitted, but I woke up a while ago. I thought I would take a turn in the ladies’ baths, and then I saw you sitting here as I passed by.

Now, why would two young, active people wake up in the middle of the night? I asked my best friend.

I…I woke up thinking about my future.

Is this anything like the thoughts my great-aunt Marrie prattled at you?

At those words, Brindl really did start to assume the color of a ripe apple. The last time we talked about Brindie’s future, she was planning to marry Bert, the cooper. After listening to my old auntie lecture me about getting married and starting a family, she had decided to settle on a marriage contract. Then we found out Bert and his parents were killed in the raid on my mother’s villa. Ever since then, neither of us had felt like talking about marriage, or even an attraction to a young man.

Honestly, Caylith, I am a bit confused, Brindl confided. I really like Thom. He and I have become close friends. I cannot tell whether I like him in a…different way, or whether his own infatuation for me is blurring my emotions.

Affection for my childhood friend rushed over me. I stood and gave her a warm hug. Brindie, you will do the right thing. No matter what you decide, I will be happy for you.

Before last year, the thought of losing Brindl scratched at my heart. She was the child of my nurse, Chessie, so I had known her since she was a fat, happy baby and I was a whole year older. I learned a year ago, during our perilous trip back home, that Brindl would as soon fall on her own Roman sword as betray me in any way. I sometimes entertained jealous thoughts of her spending time with Thom. At that moment I knew, with a spark of insight, that I was not afraid of losing her, but of being lost myself.

Brindl turned her gold-speckled eyes on me. And why would you, a young active person, wake up in the middle of the night?

Brindl, I need to lose myself today, I confided, not without a sense of irony. I have already earned a reprieve from sweet-tempered Gristle. Now I must make my excuses to Grandfather. There is…someplace…I need to go.

I think your grandfather will be upset to know you are on your own.

I know, Brindie. That is why I have decided to leave him a short message. I really do need some time by myself. Grandfather does not seem to understand that.

He does understand, I think, Brindl said slowly. It is just—I think he fears for your safety.

Please, Brindie, deliver him a message for me. Just say that I will be back in time for supper. That I have had a…a vision calling me. Remember the place where you and Thom and I started our Walk?

She nodded.

There is a small stream near there. I saw it clearly. And just around a bend, I heard a voice calling me. It will be all right, I promise.

What did the voice say? She was looking at me with her familiar expression of high suspicion.

Now it was my turn to be embarrassed. It said, Caylith, this is SoothTeller."

What does that even mean?

I have never heard such a word before. I think it means some kind of fortune-sayer— just like the old woman at the Fair in Deva. I thought about our trip to the port city years ago, when Mama, laughing, had sat me down in front of an old crone who said she could see the future in my eyes. Pah!

Caylith, it all sounds a bit muddled. I hope your grandfather will not call out the marines.

She was jesting, but I knew Grandfather might do just that.

Well, make up a brief story of where I am going, but without any details.

She sighed. Please be careful.

Without answering my friend, I surveyed my rack of weapons. My eyes lingered on the gleaming war hammer, the unique weapon Luke had fashioned for me. The wrought-iron head was his master work, and its burnished shaft had been hand carved by Grandfather.

The rest of my armory was really wooden substitutes for weapons. I selected a three-foot stick. Perfect walking stick! We left the training room. Brindl turned to the vaulting doorway of the Roman-style baths, and I walked out to the courtyard.

The night was dark, and there were no candles here. I stopped and let the night, really the pre-dawn, settle around me. The courtyard was encircled by giant hemlocks and pines, so the only light came from the stars glittering overhead and the pale sliver of a waning crescent moon.

I slowed my breathing again, trying to sense my surroundings. I heard the splash of a waterfall to my left. Ah, just beyond would be Grandfather’s secret garden. It seemed strange not to visit the garden, my haven and my solace in times of need.

Gradually, I began to see shapes in the courtyard. There was Grandfather’s great arched table; here were finely carved wooden benches; just over to my right was a statue of Lalith, the ancient earth goddess. I eased my way through the expansive courtyard, letting old custom and newly alive senses guide me.

At last, I left the courtyard and emerged under a vast, star-scattered sky. By now, the moon had descended a good ways, so I knew my trip through the courtyard had taken nearly an hour. Excellent, Caylith! This is all part of your training. Keep up the pace!

The light of daybreak would make my trip a short one, so I walked the long road down into Harborton at a leisurely pace. Grandfather had taught me to hear the dawn, and at one point, I stopped and sat at the side of the road. I let my fingers find a handful of salt grass, and I tore off a bunch of it.

Caressing the silk-like tassels of the budding grass, I closed my eyes and opened my ears. Tufted grass…the dawn will pass…guide me to the light.

I listened for a long time, breathing very slowly. Then I heard it. Break! Break! The voice of a sassy crow. Wing beats, as of a thousand migrating birds. Treble bells, like elfish wind chimes.

The birds were helping me hear the dawn. I rose to my feet and continued down the long road, now forking away from the harbor, then away from the city. I thought I could just hear a bell-like voice calling SoothTeller as tiny fingers of sunlight prodded the dark sky.

Chapter Two

Jay Feather

I estimated less than an hour had passed since I left the Harborton road and struck out toward the woods on the far side of the city. My stick turned out to be a wonderful companion as I marched along, letting it tap the road ahead before I skipped to keep up with it. I started to hum, then sing, my favorite walking-along song:

So pack me for home, home,

So pack me for home.

Sure an’ I’ll be home

And never to roam

When me cup runs out of wine, wine

When me cup runs out of wine-O.

Whenever I sang that song, my mind went back to memories of Father Patrick. Not that Father Patrick was much of a drinker, but he was recently escaped from thralldom by savages in Eire-Land, the source of that little ditty. I wondered now, as often, why the fortyish baby-faced priest held such fascination for me.

Because he escaped from slave-traders. Because he lived among the Druids. Because he taught himself the Eire-Landish tongue. Because he has set himself to being a missionary. Because he is a merry, sweet-tempered person who also likes me! I laughed at my own explanation, yet every word was true.

I was exuberant. I could not remember the last time I was utterly alone. Even back in my childish days at the villa, I was alone only when I managed to escape Mama, Fletcher, or Brindl.

Ah, now I remember! My last Feast Day! I sneaked away from the abbey and went back to the ruined villa looking for clues to Mama’s disappearance. Without thinking, I rubbed Mama’s garnet-and-gold ring under my tunic. I had found the ring—a signal left for me, I was sure—and made it into a hidden pendant on a chain.

Nearing the woods, I paused to look back over the distance I had walked. There rose the distant hill where Grandfather’s long house had been built, but the house itself was too far away to see. I slowed my pace and searched for a little stream. The woods beckoned, and I ambled up over a little rise toward the sound of rustling leaves.

And there it was. A meandering little river circled the edge of the woods. I had already seen it in my mind’s eye. If my vision had been true, the stream should take a sudden bend…

Then I saw it. A flash of blue edged with white just at the curve of the stream. I walked hesitantly to where I saw the sudden color, and then I stopped. A voice came to my ear as clearly as if someone were standing at my side.

Caylith… This is SoothTeller. Help!

Now I ran to where the color had flashed, at the bend in the river. There in the clump-grass, almost on the river bank, lay a figure wearing a pointed cap, a bluejay’s feather sticking out of it, set at a rakish angle. The white markings on the blue-and-black feather had riveted my attention.

I rushed to the fallen figure and sank to my knees. Why, it was a dwarf! I had seen only a few dwarves in Harborton—mostly along the boardwalk, pushing their wares along in barrows. This was an older man, his face set in a grimace of pain.

Can you hear me? I asked.

" Yrrmph ."

Where are you hurt?

His eyes, filled with distress, strained toward his left leg, which was bent at an odd angle.

Do not move, I said in my sternest voice. I pulled the trouser leg up as gently as possible and saw his knee was bruised black and swollen with blood under the skin. I reached under my belt and drew out the little leather pouch Grandfather had given me. I never trained without it, for the contents had once healed my badly mangled hand. With studied purpose, I poured part of the contents onto the little man’s festering and twisted knee. I closed my eyes and mumbled in a sing-song voice, Oh! Yes you can…heal the man…Heal, O heal, my little plant. The powder ground from horsetail reed bubbled for a few seconds and then seeped into his skin.

The knee lost its swelling, and the man’s leg straightened. In a few minutes, the leg looked completely natural.

Thank you ever so kindly, said the man, and he rose up onto his elbows. He regarded me with his head cocked at almost the same angle as his perky feather.

Why, you are welcome kindly. I smiled back. How did you get hurt?

Ah, I was walking like one of my grandsons—hopping over rocks, I think—and somehow twisted my entire leg. The leg went one way, and the knee went another. He regarded me silently for a few moments. I have but two questions, the man said. First, how did you find me?

I heard you call my name.

He shook his head. But I did not call you. I do not know your name.

I looked at him narrowly. Was he lying to me for some reason? He looked back at me with his luminous eyes, clear and bright as a baby’s, and I knew he was telling me the truth. Well, then, my name is Caylith. And you are?

They call me Jay Feather, he said, rolling his eyes up to his jaunty cap.

We both laughed.

And second, he said, his eyes seeming to fill with little stars, how did you heal me?

We can talk about that later. Do you think you can walk on that leg, Jay?

The dwarf bounced to his feet like a youngster. I can walk on this leg, or that leg, or on both if you prefer.

I laughed again, feeling his lively spirit infuse me with good humor. Will you tell me a bit about yourself?

I continued to sit on the soft grass at the river bank, and Jay sat back down next to me. He was a delight to gaze at. His short, well-trimmed beard was gray streaked with black. His features were fully as beautiful as the other dwarves I had seen. He had fine, gracefully curving brows, a straight nose, radiant blue eyes, and a mouth that sang without moving.

I am what we call an Old-Timer. My family is many…my wife, my eight children, and their thirty-some children besides. All the dwarves in our enclave seem to think I am some kind of leader, for they come to me with their joys and their sorrows.

Tell me, Jay, why is it that I rarely ever see your people—um, that is, dwarves—in Faerie? Where do you live?

Why, we live right here! He wore a huge smile.

Oh? Right where?

Just inside the tree canopy. Would you like to see?

I was aching with curiosity. No one, I was convinced, had ever seen more than one or two dwarves together at one time. They simply did not gather together where others might see them.

I jumped to my feet. Yes!

Jay stood next to me. He was only some four or so inches shorter than I. You are almost our size, he said appraisingly. Are you of dwarfish blood?

Nay, unfortunately. I am actually half-troll. There! I said it! I usually did not admit to my heritage. Being part giant did not fit my secret picture of myself.

His blue eyes glimmered with humor. How is it a giant may walk with a dwarf and not look down on him? There is a merry riddle!

He walked at my side, guiding me from time to time with a small gesture—a turn of the head here, a slant of the eyes there. As we walked, he whistled like a woodland bird, warbling and trilling. We strode among trees, but these were not closely spaced as in a thick forest. There were no signs of anyone else.

In less than five minutes, he stopped and gestured to a good-sized boulder. Here we are, he announced cheerfully, as though he had led me to the portal of his estate.

I stared like a child. Why, there is nothing here but a…a rock.

He gazed at me from ancient eyes. Caylith, I think you know how to move that rock.

Whatever do you mean?

Instead of answering right away, Jay sat cross-legged on the crumbly forest floor. Let me tell you of a prophecy. He cocked his head in his bird-like way, his eyes glittering and his feather twitching like his name-sake blue jay. The old scrolls tell of a time, when darkness will fall on our land like a moonless night. Those who heed not the prophesies will perish. Those who follow the words of the oracle will flourish. His words were intoned, as though he was recounting an old story. He gazed at me for a long moment. They also tell of a giant who will walk like a dwarf. Of a healer who will mend a broken bone. Of a dainty being who can move stones. Does that sound like someone you know?

Even though my companion was likable and funny, he was beginning to aggravate me. No, Jay. I think you are jesting with me. I thought you were going to show me your home, but perhaps I need to leave now.

Please wait! The dwarf still sat in his cross-legged position. He placed his hands, palm up, on each knee and started to sing:

A maiden fair will move the stone,

Straighten out the crooked bone.

Tiny giant all alone,

She will show us our new home

And save the scrolls of her old home

In Sanctuary, Shore, and Stone.

I believe you are the ‘deliverer’ the oracle spoke of generations ago. Can you move this stone? If you cannot, I will never speak of it again.

This oracle you speak of—where are the words written?

The scrolls are lost. They disappeared many years ago. We had set a guard on their burial place, but they simply vanished.

I uneasily remembered Andreas’ words earlier this evening. There were two skalds of the end of magic, one in the elfish language and the other in the dwarfish tongue. He mentioned that the scroll containing the dwarfish skald had been missing for two generations. All of these coincidences were beginning to wear on me.

I sighed. All right, Mister Jay Feather. I will try to move this stone—but I need silence. And I need time. Can you give me both?

He nodded eagerly, his eyes shut tight.

I sat before the stone and looked at the ground around it. I needed a living shred of grass, or… The earth was crisp and loose, like most soil on a forest floor. There were no plants to speak of, but the stone itself was covered in a rich green moss. I placed my hands on the furry growth, soft as kitten ears. I bowed my head, closed my eyes, and started to slow my breathing. My breath came more and more slowly, until I seemed to become part of the stone itself.

There was no passing time. There was no actual place. Without looking, I saw a crack begin to appear near the top of the stone, between my outstretched hands. It grew and grew, and I heard my voice say: Stone, stone…this is home…

The crack grew wider and wider, and I pushed