“Troll!” She lurched awake, eyes wide and searching.

“Don’t bother calling,” Damar murmured. “He can’t hear you.”

She gaped at him for a moment. He sat with his legs crossed, back straight as a sword blade, eyes closed. A cold draft washed over her. She felt her nipples pull taut and scrambled to pull the fur blanket up to cover herself, only now realizing that she was naked.

“A little late to play it coy, girlie,” Damar said teasingly. He opened his eyes and stared blankly at her, his right eyebrow arched.

“Villainy!” she spat. “I’ve half a mind . . .”

“You might be equal to it, too,” Damar grinned mischievously. “But not today. Nor tomorrow.”

“What’s that smell?” Belkynn wrinkled her nose at the pungent odor that seemed to emanate from her own skin.

“Your muscles were rather in need of attention . . .” Damar rose and strode into the darkness.

Belkynn searched for clothing, but found only the hide and down bedding and the soft furs that covered and kept her warm. She cursed her own naivety and tried to recall anything after entering the hot spring to soak.

“Though it gives me a naughty sense of pleasure and flattery,” Damar smiled down at her, holding out an outfit similar to the one she’d worn into Damar’s lair. “I’m afraid I’ve not yet been alone long enough to forget honor and civility. I did nothing to offend your honor.”

“What of your own?” She glared at him, a hot blush creeping up her throat and into her cheeks.

“You’re quite lovely in that color.” He grinned and dropped the outfit, then turned on his heel and left. She followed him with all her senses, feeling his motion after he was out of the light cast by his luminorbs, which remained stationary over a small stone cairn the size of a campfire.

Satisfied that she was alone enough for modesty, Belkynn stood and clothed herself. Not because she was bashful—she never had been—but that she felt a need to evade Damar’s penetrating eyes. It seemed strange to her even while she insisted on waiting for privacy.

Her muscles screamed their complaint with every movement. And yet she felt much better than she thought she should, given the climb and subsequent flight from the troll.

“Damar?” She called in a low voice, cautious despite her instincts telling her she was safe.

“At your service.” He emerged from the shadows again.

“We need to go soon,” she told him firmly.

“Nope.”

“We must,” she said adamantly.

“Nonsense!” He snapped. “First we must feed these bodies of ours.”

He reached a stone cauldron from a shadowed crevice in the cave wall and set it on a tripod. He stared at the stones beneath the pot, and after a long moment they began to glow. She could feel the heat from them as though there were a campfire there. Shrugging, she sat, painfully, and watched as the strange hermit gathered things from various shadowed ledges in the cave wall and prepared a stew.

“Now then,” he gazed at her with his full attention. “What brings you to Hermit Point?”

“I came for you,” she answered. “You brought me here.”

“To what end?” It occurred to her that his patience was a façade, that her presence pained him.

“We must go into the Mists of Night,” she said quietly but firmly.

“Fools errand!” he snapped. He stabbed a crude wooden spoon into the cauldron as though to mash an onion.

“Nevertheless,” she stared at his forehead as though she could will his compliance.

“Why?” Damar disappeared into the shadows again, returning after a tense moment with a small bladder of liquid. He pulled a bone plug from it and drank deeply.

“My father told me that you were the only man in Dreydillon worthy to escort me.” She had not intended to be so straightforward. All she had heard of Helioric Luminaries suggested subterfuge as the best tactic.

“Did he now?” Damar looked her in the eye again. This time she held his gaze. He smiled again, suddenly. She marked this time how it took twenty years from his face, turning the brooding visage almost boyish again. “Why should I care what your father has to say on the matter?”

“My father rode against Helion,” she blurted.

“Don’t care much for Helion,” he murmured. “But that don’t win the prize.”

“He never came home.” She slapped her hand over her mouth this time. Never had she been one to speak her mind so straightly—with anyone. In Temlacaer, she was very proud to hold the reputation for being a model of self-restraint and military discipline. Even the Ryllidan Rangers admired her for this quality.

“It’s me, girlie,” Damar winked at her. “I haven’t the patience for subterfuge.

“Now then. You say your lost father told you to find me? How does an absent father manage such a thing?”

“Dreams,” she said. She took a deep breath and stilled her mind as she had learned in ranger training, determined to chose her own words.

“Relax,” Damar smiled again. “You’re as paranoid as I am, girlie.”

“Is that flattery or condemnation?” She stood suddenly as though to challenge him.

“Nope. Just fact. Though,” he dug his fingers into his beard to scratch his chin, “I must say that it is far from fetching in one so young.”

“I’m not so young,” she glared at him.

“Yeah,” he chuckled softly. “Me, neither.”

“Quit mocking me.” She said it flatly, forcing herself to a normal tone while wondering what it was about this man that set her on edge.

“Beg pardon.” He shrugged and smiled again, stirring the now-steaming stew.

Belkynn’s stomach growled loudly, and both laughed as it seemed to echo through the cave. She sat back down and studied the other’s face while he served the meal.

“What’s your pa want you to do in Mists?” Damar muttered it as though to himself and concentrated on eating as though forgetting she were there.

“A race of beastmen lurks there,” she said carefully. The stew was surprisingly good, warming her from the belly outward. She felt her temper even with each bite.

“He told me that I must face their champion. That I alone can save Dreydillon from their invasion. That I must seek our allies beyond the Mists and bring them to Dreydillon.”

“So why bother me?” Damar avoided looking at her now. She wondered why. Gazing at him, she noted a slight bend in his nose where it had been broken at one time. Small scars lined his cheeks and chin beneath the beard. It was a pleasing face, she decided, neither as fierce or ancient as the legends told. Strong, high cheekbones. High brow, exaggerated by the pull of his braids. Full red lips over a smile full of healthy teeth. His jaw line was the slightest bit soft, but his chin was strong.

“Isn’t that obvious?” She handed her bowl to him, gesturing for more stew. She watched as he took the bowl and filled it again. His every action seemed full of deliberation. Though he didn’t look it here in the cave, he had moved against the troll as though born to war.

“I don’t trust the obvious,” Damar muttered. He reached something from a hide pouch at his waist and popped it into his mouth. Then, apparently recalling his manners, reached another and offered it to her. She gazed down at the small button mushroom.

“Marlbutton?” She reached out and took it from him. “I’ve never . . .”

“Only eat half,” he smiled again, looking even more boyish than before.

“I value discipline,” she muttered, holding it out for him to take back.

“So do I,” he said. He raised his head and stared into her eyes. “Right behind knowledge, passion, freedom, and marlbuttons.”

“He said you could teach me to breathe in the Mists,” Belkynn squirmed under Damar’s gaze. A feeling she thought herself immune to rose within as though to push her into his sapphire eyes.

“I can teach you far more than that, Belkynn Kallon,” Damar snapped his head to the side as though he’d been slapped. She shuddered with relief as he released her from his gaze.

“I have no desire to be a Luminary,” she said vaguely, turning her attention back to the stew.

“How’s the fit?” He asked suddenly.

“Fit?” She stared blankly.

“Your outfit,” he nodded at her clothing. “I rushed it more than I’d care to.”

“Great,” she said. She noticed now how well it fit, how it subtly moved with her. And how soft and lovely it felt on her skin. “What is it?”

“Skulkrist hide on the outside,” he replied, something like pride in his voice. “The lining is all spider silk.”

“Spider silk?” She repressed a shiver at the thought of spiders creeping all over her skin.

“Wonderful stuff, spider silk.” He nodded sagely and gazed into the stones—which dimmed slightly like a fire being banked. “Great insulation. Keep you warm or cool in extreme weather. Also help your skin breathe in toxic waters or vapors.”

“Thank you, then,” she said, feeling that it was important but not knowing why.

“We’ll start your training when your muscles heal.” His tone brooked no challenge, but she was in too much of a hurry to leave him unchallenged.

“I’m the best Ranger of my generation,” she told him. She was appalled to find that it felt like a boast. Too many of her elders and trainers had agreed on the matter for her to be bragging; nevertheless, she felt petty saying it to the old hermit.

“I’d say you’re the best in a couple generations,” Damar nodded, respect and sincerity matched in both tone and gaze. “None other has gotten a weapon to my throat. Ever. Not even Beugafyell of the Fulcrum—and he’s the best in history. At least by the Ryllidan Canon . . .”

“Then what training . . .”

“You’ll need to know everything I know about the arts of war, Belkynn Kallon.” He cackled suddenly. At first, she thought the mushrooms had bent his mind. But after he subsided into tears, she considered that perhaps it was the isolation of being a hermit.

“What weapons do you favor?” He asked, intense gaze sober and searching again.

“All the usual Ryllidan arms,” she replied, shrugging.

“How many ways can you kill a man?” The corners of his mouth bent into a sneer, twitching toward a smile that would have made him look maniacal. He held his hands out and curled them into fists.

“I know at least a hundred,” she said. “I can make up more if I need to.”

“Oh,” his grin turned maniacal now. Her heart skipped. “You’ll need to, alright. You’ll need to.

“How many ways do you know to save a man?”

“Save a man?” She leaned away from him slightly, rocked by the contrast of questions.

“Yes. Save a man. You’re thinking to be a hero of the Mantoli, aren’t you?”

“If She-Who-Dreams finds me worthy,” she nodded.

“Mantoli is one hand full of this and one full of that,” he said cryptically, bobbing his hands as though measuring some unseen substance. “It is not Mantolian to know more about killing than about healing. Or to think more on war than on peace. Or to kill when death is not necessary.”

“Not necessary?” She stared at him blankly. Legend had this man as one of the fiercest killers in history, both by hand and by sorcery. In truth, no one in his right mind would think to bother Damar. It was generally thought to be a very good thing that he had lost himself to the world. Why would such a man speak now of sparing an enemy?

“How many men have you slain?” His eyes bored into hers, at once gentle and savage, indomitable and afraid, sensitive and untouchable.

“I have yet to slay a man,” she said quietly, noting the softness that came into his eyes.

“What have you slain?”

“Demons at Elder Uffern,” she said.

“What else?”

“Game mostly,” she told him. “And two trolls.”

“Virgin,” he snorted. “Not yet blooded.”

“What has that to do with . . .” she blushed furiously, suddenly on her feet and leaning toward him in a threatening posture.

“No . . .” he blushed now. His face turned nearly purple. He burst out laughing, and she wanted more than anything to smash his teeth out. “Not that way . . . not what I meant. None of my business, that. I’m old enough to be your father . . .”

“No you’re not,” she blurted, shocked at her own reaction.

“Moot points, all.” He waved a dismissive hand.

“Back on track. Let’s get back to the business at hand.” He sat back down and sipped from a jug of water she hadn’t noticed earlier.

“We have no time for training,” she told him.

“We have no time for dying,” he rebutted her, drinking now from the flask.

“What’s in that?” She nodded toward the flask.

“Wine.” He handed it to her.

“No, thanks,” she pushed it back toward him.

“Oh. Right.” He rolled backward, stood quickly and disappeared for a moment, returning quickly with a wine sack made of skulkrist hide.

“Do you skin only skulkrist?” She asked, taking the skin from him and sniffing the spout.

“Stupid lizards,” he chuckled. “Plentiful as vermin and useful as clean water. Maybe more.”

“We don’t find them that often in Temlacaer,” she said. She trickled a little of the wine into her mouth and tasted its earthiness.

“This isn’t wine,” she wrinkled her nose at its potency.

“Yes. It is,” he nodded, tapping an index finger to his head. “I know a little about it. This one’s made of black berries and a local grape so deep a red it’s almost black.”

“Tastes too . . .” She shook her head, at a loss to describe it.

“It’s aged very near perfection,” he grinned. “Store it in fissil barrels—tastes better than what passes for oak ‘round here.”

“It’s oily,” she observed. Despite its strangeness, there was something in its ruggedness that appealed to her. Like him. Salty. Full of pepper and mineral and something just beyond definition.

“Good body,” he nodded. “I gave you the stuff with no marlbutton in it. Most folk can’t handle that brew . . . Oh. Wait.”

He left for a few moments again, returning this time with several lumps of something smelly wrapped in cloths and worn skins.

“Cheese,” he said, beaming.

“Where do you get the cream?” She asked.

“Ever try milking a mulegoat?” He asked.

“Mulegoat?” She stared at him. The wide horned ungulates were prized for their meat and horns. What kind of fool would bother trying to milk one?

“Can’t do it,” he giggled a little drunkenly. “Have to convince ‘em you’re a young one.

“Your local matramulegoat are too runty for milk. I get most of it from true goats and what passes for buffalo around here. Kadro mares give great cheese milk, too. But those don’t breed ‘round here. I reckon the trolls keep any herds out of this range.”

“This is . . .” Belkynn made a face as the bitterness of the cheese registered fully. Just a quickly, the tang of sage and rosemary redeemed the cheese to her taste buds. She chased it down with a swallow of wine.

“You taught this in Helion?” she asked. He was obviously gifted with some skill for making both wine and cheese. She wouldn’t have cared much for either, but together they were extravagantly pleasurable.

“No,” he chuckled, his face boyish and open now. “I actually failed all the courses on food and beverages. They have terrible tastes in Helion. Unpalatable food is half the reason I returned here.”

“I’ve heard that,” she grinned. She felt incredibly comfortable. Everything real in the world was right here and now, lit by a sorcerer’s luminorbs.

“I think I need some fresh air.” She rose, slightly wobbly, and gazed around.

“You’ll be too late being polite about it,” he said, jesting. “Your choice—indoor or out in the cold?”

“Not in a cave,” she said, head shaking.

“Your hair’s too short,” he remarked, stepping up and putting an arm over her shoulders.

“What are you doing?” She tried to pull away, but his grip was firm and strong.

Suddenly the dark swirled with impossibilities of eternity. She would have fallen if not for the stone certainty of his grip. As suddenly, her vertigo passed and she found herself under the dusk of a new sunset. She looked him a question. He smiled, then walked to a nearby shrub and untied the sash at his waist. She gaped for a moment before her own urgency compelled her to a clump of trees ten paces away.

“Feel better?” Damar looked up from where he sat on a large stone carving a long, straight ash limb as long as his arm and thick as one of Belkynn’s wrists.

“Much,” she replied, blushing. “Sorry to be so long. I found a nice pool to soak in.”

“That was a happy accident,” he remarked, still carving.

“What are you doing?” She frowned as the failing light cast concealing shadows.

“Fixing your climbing tools,” he mumbled.

“They’re not broken,” she objected.

“True,” he looked up at her, gripping the limb in both fists. “They were made well. Just made wrong is all.” He punctuated the assessment by snapping the limb in two with a twitch of his shoulders and wrists.

“Made wrong?” She glared at him, fury rising at his insult.

“Yep,” he raised his right eyebrow. “Did you make them?

“I did,” she growled.

“Excellent metal crafting,” he smiled. “Handles are the wrong length. Handle for the gwegtvark should be precisely the length of your ulna—your forearm. When you grip the head, it should never go past your elbow—nor short of it. And I generally use the hammer-ended one in my right and the axe-headed one in my left. But that’s personal preference.”

“It’s cold up here,” she said icily.

“Oh,” he blushed brightly. “Sorry. Forgot. Wet hair and all . . .”

He shoved the pieces of wood into his sash and grabbed her shoulders again. He gazed into her eyes as they transported back to his cave. This time there was no vertigo, just a sense of freefall and that sapphire gaze, a gaze that made eternity seem more cozy than overwhelming.

“G’night,” he said as soon as they were back by his strange, stone fire.

“I’ll be ready to start training in the morning,” she told him firmly.