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. Caliban had died, but not at
Glenshadow's hand. He had killed himself, rather than
accept defeat. Glenshadow had seen the manner of it.
The black-robed mage, with his own two hands, had
torn out his own heart.
Even across the miles now, he felt eyes upon him and
knew that he was seen. Caliban's magic lived, and was at
work.
The wizard on the mountain raised his eyes toward the
skies. "Hear me Gilean, gate of souls," he said, his voice
like the mountain wind. "Hear me Sirrion Firemaster.
Hear me Chislev, whose carven creatures see what is to
see. World-tree Zivilyn, and Shinare by whose color the
wilderness man shone, hear me. Hear me all who seek
balance in a struggling world, who yearn for order in a
plane whose name is chaos. Two things more do I ask in
this life: to see the death of he who died before... and
first, to see what Chane Feldstone sees when he holds
Spellbinder and Pathfinder and looks toward Thor-
bardin."
Sighing, the mage looked across distances toward the
place where the dust plumes blew. He knew what the
thing was that Kolanda Darkmoor had raised from her
breastplate -- the thing he had thought was an amulet. It
was what remained of Caliban. It was the wizard's heart.
The Wanderer felt eyes upon him, and sensed a build-
ing of magics. He turned his eyes toward the place the
wooden horse had shown him, and muttered a transport
spell.
Winds whipped about him on the mountainside, and
then there was only the wind
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