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. Glenshadow shivered, drew his bison cloak more
tightly around his shoulders, and again touched the ice
with his staff. This time the image that appeared was of
the valley from which he had come. Chane Feldstone and
the kender stood at the edge of a patterned ice-field and
looked eastward.
"Toward shattered Zhaman," the mage whispered. "He
follows Grallen's path, toward the resting place of Gral-
len's helm."
He started to turn away from the pool, then stopped.
Another vision had formed there, coming without call.
In inky blackness swirled indistinct shapes, coalescing at
the center in a pattern that become a face... or not
quite a face, just the ghostly outline of one; but one that
Glenshadow had seen before, long years ago.
And a voice as dry as dust - a voice that seemed shriv-
eled with hatred and age - hissed from the image. "He
seeks me, does he?" it said. "The puny red-robe would
try again to do what he thought he had done before'
Hee-hee. He asks the ice whether I know there is an ob-
stacle in my way. A puny obstacle it is, too. A dwarf.
Only a dwarf. Did I know before, he wonders? No mat-
ter. I know now." Giggling, the dry voice faded and the
ice cleared. Long after the vision was gone, Glenshadow
knelt by the ice, shaken and unsure
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