"I thank you for the thought, but I am too old for that," she said.

"Hardly, and not at all too old to inspire it. When I dream of swimming under the sun or the stars, I dream of-"

"Yes?"

"You."

"Flatterer."

"Only clear-sighted."

Haimya turned her head to kiss Pirvan lightly on the cheek and ear, then settled back into his embrace.

In truth, Haimya did not look old enough to have a son ready for training with the Knights of Solamnia and a daughter who could wed lawfully. Indeed, they had already received three veiled offers of honorable marriage for Eskaia, not to mention some unveiled and less honorable offers, which Eskaia had so far dealt with herself, without involving her parents in blood feuds.

Pirvan would not see fifty again, and Haimya was only four years younger. This first quest as a family might well be their last, even if they all survived. Rubina, their daughter who had just turned ten, might quest with her brother and sister, but not with her parents, though she had wailed like a dragon with a toothache at being left behind.

And before long, Sir Marod's orders to search the highways and byways of Krynn would go to younger men. Gerik could be one of those, if he could make up his mind whether or not to enter training for the knights. Meanwhile, there was Darin, as firm in honor as he was in muscle, and as fertile in invention as he was terrible in battle.

Waydol had raised his heir well, and the knights would reap the harvest of the minotaur's good work.

"Last load's coming up!" Gerik called from below.

Pirvan gave the hand signal acknowledging the message, then added the one for silence-repeated three times for emphasis. Gerik replied with his own acknowledgment, and Pirvan said no more. His son was sometimes more eager than wise, no rare thing at nineteen, and likely to be cured by both time and Darin's example.

Then the sledge came grating into view, and hard on its heels the watering party, with Gerik even pushing a little to speed matters-until Serafina gave him a glare that would have frozen tarberry tea steaming from the kettle.

Pirvan looked at Serafina's tally board. All the water sacks were filled, and they would have time at dawn to refill any emptied tonight. For one more day, they had repelled the assaults of the desert's arsenal of heat and thirst.

Enough more days of this, and they would be in the borderlands, fit to meet living foes. Pirvan expected to find that almost restful.

Hawkbrother was close enough to the strangers' camp to watch the end of their water-gathering. That and much else he saw proved that they were desert-wise. How had this come about?

Few outside the Free Riders knew desert-wisdom. The plainsmen were accustomed to more water and grazing; their crops grew taller and their herds fatter. They could venture onto the sand, and sometimes return if they were brave and lucky, but not always.

The dwarves in the mountains to the west sometimes came to the very edge of the sand, seeking metal ores for their forges. More often than not, the Free Riders traded with them, dried meat for finished metal, thornberries for dwarf spirits, and so on. The dwarves and Free Riders had no quarrel with each other, and most commonly kept the peace.

The Silvanesti elves were not so well disposed toward the Free Riders, or anyone else, including their Qualinesti and Kagonesti brethren. They were also a long way from the sand. Distance kept the peace between the elven realm and the Free Riders, when willpower would not.

The Free Riders encountered most other folk as sun-mummified bodies or bird-picked, sun-bleached bones on the sand. So it had been with most Istarians, except for a few bold traders (and the tales ran that some of those had desert blood from far-traveling warriors, or the occasional maiden carried off when she ventured too close to the towns). Certainly it had so far been that way with the Istarian tax soldiers.

So what were these folk?

If Hawkbrother had been a wagering man (a nineteen-year-old fourth son had little with which to wager), he would have said that some of these folk were Knights of Solamnia. The Free Riders had had little to do with the knights, save when, generations past, the knights fought "barbarians" for Istar's gold and glory. Many knights or their bones became decorations to distant sand dunes.

But these knights had come at the head of a good company. There were several women among them, all at least comely and one, the youngest, a rare beauty. They also had a score at least of grooms and guards, all of whom carried steel openly and looked as if they could use it.

Entering this camp on his belly, like a slinkersnake, would be a notable feat. So notable, indeed, that if he brought back nothing to prove it, even his being the chief's son would not save him from being named a boaster.

That might end in the shedding of blood, which the Gryphons would better save for greater battles to come.

So he would be sure to bring home something that would end all doubts. The fairest of the women? No, her menfolk would surely pursue until she was safe and Hawkbrother's blood was on their steel.

They had unsaddled and unloaded their animals, but much of their gear was piled close to where the hobbled beasts noisily fed. They had also surrounded the animals and indeed the whole camp with sentries, commanded for now by a giant who was likely one of the knights.

To a Free Rider, all of this was a challenge, not a barrier. Hawkbrother would be in, load an animal with what he could gather up, and ride for his life before the sentries knew what was afoot.

Hawkbrother looked at the sky. Night was swallowing the last of the sunset, and the stars and the moons marched across the zenith and onward to roof the desert. Then he looked back, toward where One-Ear would be crouching, four hundred paces away.

Good. The older warrior could not be seen by anyone whose eyes had not learned the desert. But Hawkbrother could see him plainly enough. The chief's son slid down behind the boulder hiding him from the strangers, and raised his left arm.

In the fading light, the jewel on the wide arm ring winked three times-two long, one short. A long moment, and the reply came-the same signal, then two short flashes.

One-Ear knew what Hawkbrother planned, accepted it, and would be ready. There would be no need to use the jewels again, or the whistle at all.

Apart from the speaking jewel bracelet and the whistle, which could mimic the calls of scores of desert animals and birds, Hawkbrother was clad and armed lightly. He wore a loincloth and a headband, with the Gryphon sign dyed into the leather, a weighted sash, and a dwarven-made dagger in the Solamnic style.

He had not, however, even thought his death song, let alone sung it. He had no intention of dying tonight.

For that matter, Hawkbrother's voice was such that anyone who heard him singing would seek his life, to return a decent and wholesome silence to the desert night.

Chapter 2.

Pirvan had intended to make camp so that the people and the mounts were hard beside each other, inside a single ring of sentries. But, close to the canyon rim, there was no level spot large enough.

The knight chose the next best solution-one spot for the people, another for the animals, and the animals closer to the canyon rim than the people. This put the people, sentries and sleepers alike, between the animals and the desert. Raiders might get in, but they would be hard put to get out safely.

"Of course, they might think to drive the animals over the edge of the cliff to make us stay here, until their friends came," Gerik said.

He barely even whispered. Sound carried far in the windless desert night. Doubtless anyone within miles had seen them, but there was no need to cry their presence all night, like a seller of hot nuts in the streets of Istar.

Both knights and Tarothin nodded approvingly at Gerik's words. Pirvan's son had all the wits needed to make a good knight, as well as the skill in arms. He even had the firm notions of honor.

All he lacked was the wish.

"True," Darin said. "But we have left the beasts hobbled or tethered. Cutting that many leather thongs would attract the sentries. The desert folk are shrewd and cunning, but they are not shadow mastiffs."

A gloom passed across Tarothin's face. It was not the square face of old times, nor was it set on the same broad, level shoulders that had allowed the wizard to keep order in his father's inn as a young man. Tarothin had seen more years than Pirvan, and weathered them less well. The wounds from working potent spells-whether his native magely magic or the clerical spells he'd learned for healing-left no scars showing outside; all the hurts lay within. But they were real enough, and took something out of a wizard that no healer could put back.

Pirvan recognized that look. "Let's go see if any of the beasts need your services, my friend," he said, taking Tarothin by the arm. It was not the best pretext, as the Red Robe's healing spells were potent only for humans.

"The horses and mules looked healthier than most of us," Tarothin muttered, but followed Pirvan's lead. In moments, they were out of easy hearing of the others.

"I feel magic close at hand," the Red Robe said.

"What kind?"

"It's so weak that I can barely sense it at all, let alone tell what kind."

Pirvan declined to rejoice. Though weak spells could mean a weak mage, unable to harm a fly even if he wished it, they could also be the probings of someone exceedingly skilled and quite deadly. The shadow mastiffs that Darin had mentioned could be utterly silent as they followed a trail-then give voice as they leapt to surround the prey and rip its throat out.

Pirvan felt sweat prickle around his own throat. The sensation made him still more uneasy. This was hardly the first time he had made himself and Haimya into bait to draw an enemy from his lair, even into a trap.

But it was the first time Gerik and Eskaia had been part of the bait.

One more change, to add to all the others that come with being a father, he thought, even for parents of children in whom anyone can take pride? What was it like for those who must endure all the changes and yet see their children falter and fail?

So far, the True Gods had kept Pirvan from finding out. He hoped and prayed they would continue to do so.

Meanwhile, there was the mysterious weak magic Tarothin had discovered, the kind of problem Pirvan and Tarothin had solved more times than they could count on both hands.

A falling star flashed across the sky, for a moment outshining even the brightest of the fixed stars. Pirvan studied the constellations. All were in their places; no disorders in the heavens portended disorders on Krynn. Lunitari was also well risen; the red moon would strengthen a Red Robe like Tarothin.

"Can you listen-forgive me if that's not the best word-for the source of the magic?" Pirvan asked. "Can you try to locate it?"

Tarothin's wrinkled face acquired yet more furrows as he frowned. He ran his fingers over his bare and parchment-hued scalp, as if hunting for the hair the years had taken.

"I can try, but not without danger or with certainty of success." Tarothin had grown more modest about his powers of late, but they were not declining. The Red Robe would be the first to tell Pirvan, if it were so. "Danger, if the source is living, detects me, and strikes back-by magic or by common means. Failure, if the source no longer lives or is not in a single place."

"Old magic?" The chill of the desert night seemed to strike deeper into Pirvan. He reined in his imagination.

Tarothin nodded. "No one knows what lies beneath this desert now. Oh, we know who lived here in the ages before it was desert-mostly elves and ogres. But even the elves know little of the magic of their distant ancestors. Only the gods know who wrought what, how long ago, and how much might have outlasted the living spellcasters."

The chill would not ease, but Pirvan chose to ignore it. "The Desert-the Free Riders-"

Tarothin laughed softly. "You're doing better each day."

"I should hope so," Pirvan said testily. "The last thing I want is to be mistaken for an Istarian who repeats the kingpriests' lies about 'the lesser folk.' "

"Especially to be mistaken by one of those folk," Tarothin added.

Pirvan gave something between a sigh and a grunt of impatience. "Those who roam the desert survive well enough."

"We hear only of those who do survive," Tarothin said. "Who knows what might befall whole tribes, of whom word never reaches the outside world? Perhaps the Silvanesti know, but they might as well be on Nuitari for all they tell humans these days."

"All of which is why we are blistering our aging arses riding across this trash heap of the gods," a voice rumbled from just behind Pirvan. He turned to see Grimsoar, and put a finger to his lips.

Pirvan's old comrade muttered something in the tongue of the sea barbarians, and frowned before going on more quietly. "All right, all right. But we are here, and Tarothin is only pointing out new problems that the rest of us might never have worried about if he'd kept quiet. What can he do to get us safely out of the desert, besides what he's said?"

"Nothing," Tarothin said with a grin.

Grimsoar started a roar of laughter, then strangled it at birth, and clapped Tarothin on the shoulder so hard that the wizard staggered. "Still honest as ever, friend Red Robe. Well, I'll sleep no worse tonight for this mystery magic, at least, even if you can't tell me the wizard's name, color, teacher, and what his staff looks like."

"If I could do that from what I have sensed," Tarothin said, "I could probably fly us to the borderlands. Being what I am-well, it grows late. I will keep vigil for a trifle longer, then bind my staff with a light spell to make it wake me if danger threatens. Best put the sentries in pairs, too, if you have not already done so."

"The day I need a Red Robe to tell me how to guard a camp-" Grimsoar began.

" '-is the day Serafina bears three sons at one birth,' " Tarothin and Pirvan finished for him.

"Don't say that too often," the wizard added. "Words like that have a way of turning around when you least expect it and biting you like a serpent."

"For serpents I have a good stick," Grimsoar said. He turned, and threw a final word over his shoulder. "Also for wizards who give unasked-for advice."

Then he vanished toward the camp. After seeing that Tarothin wished to keep vigil alone, Pirvan followed him.

Gildas Aurhinius, Captain of Hosts in the service of Istar, awoke from a dream in which a sand dune had fallen upon him. He could feel the hot sand immobilizing his limbs, squeezing his chest, fighting its way into his nose and mouth to stop his breath- Then he was awake enough to realize that he'd become tangled in the blankets piled on his cot. The desert night was chill. There were more blankets than he'd pulled over himself when he lay down. His servants were as determined as ever to take care of him according to their wishes rather than his own.

Ah, the omnipotence of a senior commander in the field, Aurhinius thought.

Then he realized that he had been awakened by more than blankets. From the camp outside came shouts, curses, more than an occasional obscenity, the braying of asses and mules, and the neighing of horses.

Since he first put on the captain's belt at the age of eighteen, Aurhinius had slept clothed while in the field, with weapons in reach. He still did, although his belt was a good deal longer, his clothing much finer, and his weapons as decorative as they were useful.

He had his feet on the gravel floor of the tent when the flap burst open.

"Ah, Nemyotes. I would have sent for you to explain this uproar."

Aurhinius's secretary nodded. "I would have been here sooner, but en route I gathered that explanation. It is merely another band of tax soldiers joining us. Some of them had been long without wine and stole it from other bands better provided."

Aurhinius rinsed his mouth from the water jug, then spat on the floor. He wished he could have spat in the face of the captains who had so mishandled their men.

"The watch commander asked that his men be allowed to remain on duty even after the change of watch. That will give us twice as many reliable men."

"Did he perhaps ask this after a hint or two that this would please me?"

"I said nothing that a reasonable man could call a hint. Both captains are simply clearheaded men who know what to do when faced with such disorder."

"And green dragons sell their eggs in the public market of Silversmith Square on the third day of every month," Aurhinius said.

Nemyotes had the grace to flush. Aurhinius laughed. "You did well. Just remember in the future not to waste my time explaining that you did not do what you plainly did."

"Yes, my lord."

Aurhinius donned the rest of what would make him look like a general commanding armies and not a sleepy fat old man roused from his bed. Boots, back and breastplate (straps tightened with Nemyote's help), helmet tied under his chin with that touching if impractical gold and silver clasp that was a love-gift from Synia- As Aurhinius buckled on his scabbarded sword and slid his boot dagger into its sheath, trumpets blared outside. He started, then recognized the ceremonial guard-mounting calls. The new soldiers arriving for guard duty were doing so with as much formality as if they were changing the guard outside the kingpriest's gates.

Not to mention as much noise. That should certainly draw the attention of even the most thoroughly soused sell-sword. Once you had such a man's attention, you had begun the process of restoring him to discipline.

The trumpets blew one final flourish, a bit ragged as a few of the trumpeters ran out of breath. Then the drums took their place, beating out a steady, slow march-the one used when the regular foot of Istar was advancing into battle.

"The captain of the relief is a clearheaded fellow, even if you say so," Aurhinius said. Nemyotes covered his embarrassment this time by helping his commander buckle on his white-bordered red cloak of rank.