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"All right," the kender agreed. "But you'll have to wait
until I make a new pouch to keep all my things in. I've
got some pretty good stuff in that pouch, and I don't
want to lose any of it."
For a moment there was silence, then the silence
seemed to weep a thin, bitter wail of frustration.
"Look, I don't know what all this is about," Wingover
said, "but I'd sure like to have a serious talk with some-
body."
"You will." A new voice spoke - a voice as cold as
winter's frost. "Tis time you knew where you're going,
man of the far places. Not that you've a choice, any more
than anyone else."
No one, apparently, had seen him arrive. But he stood
among them now, tall and thin, leaning on his staff. Be-
neath his bison cloak, the hem of his faded red robe iden-
tified him.
"A wizard," Wingover muttered.
"There you are," the kender grinned.
"Glenshadow," Chane Feldstone growled.
By reflex, Wingover's flinthide shield drew across his
breast, and the wilderness man glared at the wizard
across its notched edge. "What's that about having no
choice? I make my choices, wizard."
"The moons have made an omen," Glenshadow
breathed. "One here has a mission, stamped upon him
by Lunitari. Others are chosen to accompany him, and a
magic beyond magic binds the bargain
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