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. "You are the scribe - the historian?"
"Indeed," I replied, not surprised to find that this was
the priest of whom I had been informed. Something in the
force of his gaze, in the depth of his voice, told me I faced
an extraordinary person. "I am Foryth Teel, but I was
supposed to be met by my colleague, Tyrol Deet."
"Alas," answered the priest. "I am sad to bring you
unhappy tidings. The young scribe was taken by fever
shortly after he wrote you. He was a strong lad, and held on
for several days, but, in the end, to no avail."
"He's dead?" I asked, astonished. The news struck me
with unexpected force. Deet was not a close friend of mine
- we barely knew each other - but it was as if a promising
lead had drawn me this far, only to vanish before my eyes.
"I see the news has affected you grievously," observed
the priest, his tone sympathetic. "Would you want to see
where he is buried? We have given him the full honors of
the
church, though, of course, he was not an initiate." "Yes . .
. yes, I should like that," I replied. The priest led me
through the streets of Halcyon - which then, alas, were
dark beneath the same gray overcast that so thoroughly
blankets Ansalon these days. We passed from the town
and climbed a smooth dirt track that progressed into the
surrounding hills.
Erasmoth has an elegance about him - a grace, if you
will - that made me feel immediately at ease. His hair is
dark and long, combed back to his neck, and shows traces
of silver at the ears
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