She woke after the moon had set. Something stirred her senses, though she could not name it. She concentrated first on smell. Nothing. Then sound. Still nothing. Finally, she opened her eyes and rose, silent as a ghost.

The man was all but indiscernible to her senses. She wondered for a moment if he were real. But it mattered nothing. She moved, wraithlike, through the tall grass and white lilies. By the time she was at his back, she knew he was real. A man of average height, he stalked her camp as carefully as her Ryllidan trainers. Nothing stirred to give his position away; Belkynn wondered only for a moment, in a distant part of her mind, how she was even able to find him.

Instinct drove her. She leapt, snaking an arm around his throat. Her other hand brought the deadly point of her climbing axe to his throat and pressed firmly just shy of drawing blood.

“Go easy, old man,” she threatened hoarsely.

“Well, hello there,” he replied. His voice was harsh from disuse, but to Belkynn’s ears it sounded as though the old man were smiling.

“You can take the spike from my throat,” he said patiently.

“Can I?”

“Come all this way to kill me, did you?” He spun with inhuman speed and suddenly Belkynn found herself in his grasp. Instinct drove her reflexes; she struck time and again, but he evaded her.

“Cease,” he commanded.

She dropped back from him into a ready crouch.

“Who are you?” she asked, panting slightly from the exertion.

“Who do you seek?” His breathing was undisturbed. He stood in an open posture, but she could see the ready tension in his shoulders and around the lines of his eyes. Those eyes drilled into her, through her. She felt as though it would be impossible to hide anything from him if he chose to know it. Even in the scant starlight, his eyes were distinctly sapphire, intense and crystalline.

“I believe I’ve found you, Damar,” she said politely. She nodded, more to shield her eyes from his gaze than out of respect.

“Indeed,” he nodded and his braids jangled. She noticed now that his hair and beard were braided together in such a way as to keep them from blowing up to obscure his vision. Numerous bones and other things were braided into the pale hair.

He turned suddenly and made his way to her pallet. Picking up her gear bag, he dumped its contents onto her pallet and wrinkled his nose.

“That’s from the troll . . .” she began to explain.

“Yes,” he said dryly. “Strange—it’s what brought me here.”

He looked up and around in a canine manner, as though sniffing the air.

“Come along.” He gathered her belongings into her bedroll and strutted westward. Belkynn stood astonished for only a moment before racing silently to catch up to him, surprised at how agile he was. She barely noticed that he had left the bag.

“I’m not that old, you know,” he said gruffly. She wondered if he were reading her thoughts.

“Can’t read your mind, if that’s what you’re thinking.” He chuckled as though it were an old, familiar joke. “Just a pretty good guesser. Lots of folks seem to think I’m ancient as Dreydillon . . .”

He picked up his pace. Belkynn realized now how much her climb had challenged her. Her muscles ached; they began to quiver as she opened her stride. She clenched her jaw in determination and kept pace with Damar.

They left the meadow of white lilies, and Damar slowed as he led her down a slope treacherous with scree and shale. Deftly, and still at a brisk pace, he led her into a crevice inky with shadow. Stone walls closed over them. Belkynn smelled moist flint and granite, felt the wind in her face as they moved. She could barely discern the ground in front of her.

“This way,” Damar’s voice penetrated her hearing as though a part of the wind. “Just a little farther.”

She stumbled. Her left foot slid as a flat stone shifted away, scraping over the stone beneath. She tried to catch herself with her right leg, but the muscles were spent. She rolled into the fall.

“Poot!” Damar dropped the bundle from his arms and turned to gaze at her intently for a moment. He advanced toward her one step, then stopped abruptly to stare back in the direction they had come.

Ignoring her, he pulled something from the wide sash around his waist and sprinted back eastward. Belkynn glared after him, frowning at the strange old man. Her thoughts drifted to his age, and suddenly she wondered why anyone thought of him as ancient. He was a roundear, not of the dhari or Vhari races; it seemed impossible that he had been around for centuries. In truth, he only appeared to be approaching midlife. Forty to forty-five, she guessed. He was more grey than her own father, but had fewer lines in his face.

The fine hairs on her neck tickled, sent a shiver down her spine. She took several deep breaths and climbed to her feet. A jolt of terror ripped away her exhaustion—Damar was fighting the troll, retreating toward her. She reached for her climbing axe and pick, but neither was in place in her belt harness. She had knocked them away during her fall. Instinct. Had she fallen . . .

Damar leapt high into the air. His foot flashed out in a lightning fast kick. His heel struck the beast’s forehead. It reeled drunkenly. Almost before landing, Damar pivoted and brought his other heel down in an axe-kick to the back of the beast’s skull. He jabbed with the things in his hands. One to the base of the troll’s neck. One to the base of its spine. The troll lay still on the ground at his feet. He bent down as though to speak into its ear, but Belkynn could hear nothing over the wind and the thump of her own heartbeat.

“Let’s not linger,” Damar approached her. “He’ll be up and after us in another hour or so. Resilient beasties, trolls.”

Belkynn stared in wonder at the bones in Damar’s hands. Short, heavy bones. They were aged and looked like stone, but she was certain they were bones. Each was only a foot long. What kind of maniac would challenge a troll with such weapons?

“Skulkrist femurs,” Damar grunted, hefting the bones. “Aged and petrified. Made ‘em myself.”

He walked past her, his stride deliberate and unhurried, and retrieved her gear.

“Grab your tools and come along, girlie.”

She balked at the word, though his tone was neutral. Shrugging it off, she searched until she found her axe and pick and followed.

An hour later, Damar led her into a small cave that led back into a tunnel. She was about to complain of the darkness when six glowing orbs popped into orbits an arm’s reach over Damar’s head. The tales had that right at least; he was definitely a sorcerer.

The tunnel seemed endless. Belkynn wished to every god she knew that she could just lie down and rest. But the indomitable force that was Damar continued to lead her deeper into the mountain. She followed because she was too exhausted to protest.

Finally, the tunnel opened into a small cavern. Strange odors wafted through, dank and mineral.

“There,” Damar pointed to their left. “Sorry, but you’ll have to lose the clothes. I’ll return in a moment with new ones.”

“What?” She felt suddenly very confused and severed from herself.

“If you’d rather not have a soak, I’ll just take you . . .”

He shook his head and wandered off, as though forgetting her completely. Or perhaps something else had grabbed the old hermit’s attention. Belkynn shrugged and made her way to the bubbling pools of hot, mineral-rich water. She gazed at four different pools, wondering for a moment which one would soothe her best. Just as she decided on one, one of Damar’s orbs drifted in and bobbed insistently over another. She frowned at the invasion, but conceded to weariness and eased herself into the pool.