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"You have skill at making weapons, Chane," Chiselcut
told him. "Maybe some ancestor of yours was a crafts-
man. It's too bad you don't have a known lineage. But
then, most orphans don't. Keep the dagger, and keep
learning. Having craft is more important than knowing
who you are."
For fifteen years Chane had carried and cherished the
knife, and sometimes at odd moments it seemed to whis-
per to him, "Look at me, Chane Feldstone. I am no ordi-
nary dagger, and you are no ordinary dwarf. See your
reflection in my steel. Perhaps someday your reflection
will tell you who you really are."
He had looked at his reflection and wondered. Even
then, in the years before his shoulders broadened and his
whiskers grew, he had been aware that he looked subtly
different from most of those around him... not quite
typical of the ordinary day-to-day Daewar he met in the
trade centers. In some respects, he even resembled the
Hylar dwarves - not that it made any difference, since
there was no more likelihood of his tracing lineage
among the Hylar than among the Daewar. A foundling is
a foundling, anywhere in Thorbardin.
It was in those years, too, that the dreams began. The
same insistent dream, over and over, sometimes no more
than a week apart. The mysterious place, the mysterious
container, and the old, horned battle helmet that he held
in his hands but somehow never managed to place upon
his head
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