Ganelon shook his head as if that might disperse the fog of confusion clouding his thoughts. It didn't. "Who are you?"

"You already know that, too," the stranger replied. "I'll give you a hint anyway."

He held out his gloved hands. The mask was gone. In its place he held a leather case, the same pale hue as his clothes. Even before the stranger let the case drop open like a well-read book, revealing the silver tools aligned so precisely within, Ganelon knew that he stood face to face with the Bloody Cobbler.

The Cobbler was a legend in Sithicus, a phantom who stalked through camp tales and bad dreams. He meted out rough justice to those who betrayed their callings. If the stories were to be believed, men and women who steadfastly refused to walk their intended paths through the world could expect a midnight visit from him. With his silver tools, he would slice the soles from their feet and use them to shod someone else, someone who only needed to be prompted back onto a road they truly wished to follow.

Bodies turned up now and then with parts of their feet missing, but it was easy for the skeptical to dismiss the damage as a scavenger's handiwork. When someone suddenly switched careers, answered a calling that had long beckoned him, no supernatural agency had to be involved. After all, never remembered the Cobbler's visit-though Ganelon realized now that the phantom could have visited them nonetheless.

"Your repair was a bit more complicated than I'd anticipated," the Cobbler offered. His eyes twinkled with a mischievousness Ganelon found disarming, despite the menace of the gore-flecked knives in the case. "I should have realized that some of the more serious debilities of the, er, donor would carry to you. The brace will allow you to walk your road with a surer gait." "Why?" the young man stammered. "Why choose you? Because a life of adventure was the destiny you desired," the Cobbler replied. "It was a life you deserved."

"No," Ganelon said. "Why do this at all? What are you?"

"That sort of curiosity could get you in trouble," the Cobbler said darkly. "It killed the man for whom that brace was first crafted."

"Tell me anyway. I have to understand at least that much to be able to go an."

A satisfied smile lit the Cobbler's face. "Just the attitude I'd expect from a traveler on your lonely road," he said. Brushing back his cloak, he settled against a tree. "The best way to explain my purpose is to tell you a little story. You've no doubt heard variations on this unpleasant epic before, but never the truth.

"Once," he began grandly, "a long time ago, there was a knight of great renown. The man was graced with an agile intelligence and a strength of limb that perfectly suited him for his role as a champion of virtue. He possessed wisdom enough to recognize his destiny." The Cobbler laughed, the mirth tainted with a surprisingly potent bitterness. "A blind man could have recognized this knight's destiny-to lead his land, perhaps even the entire world, into a new era ruled by the just. Of course, you know the identity of this fabled warrior. He is the father of this black place."

"Lord Soth," Ganelon offered tentatively.

"Just so," the Cobbler replied. "But this was in the days before he died for his sins, when a heart still beat within his chest. He was a good man then, who saw the road to glory stretched out endlessly before him and chose instead to tread the gutter alongside."

A burst of icy air swept from the moonshadow of a twisted oak. "That tale outstrips your talent as a storyteller," said the death knight as he stepped from the darkness. "It also takes far longer to tell than you have life to live."

Ganelon prostrated himself before Lord Soth. The Cobbler remained where he was, leaning idly against a tree. He crossed his arms over his chest and shook his head. "You never were a fair judge of talent," he said. "Just consider your success with seneschals."

"There is a difference between bravery and foolishness," Soth rumbled. "Let me teach it to you."

The death knight traced a glyph in the air, watched as it took fire and flew toward the Cobbler. But the magical symbol passed right through the man's pale form. It struck the tree, which began to shudder. Its branches curled, fingers clenching into a fist. A sound went up from the trunk like an agonized groan.

"I learned all the lessons you had to offer quite a long time ago," the Cobbler said. "If you let me bid my friend farewell, I will demonstrate how well I mastered them."

Soth moved between the Cobbler and Ganelon. "I will deal with this spy, too," he said, "and without the lenience I showed him when Azrael first brought him to me."

"You mistake him for someone else," the Cobbler said. "It's the brace that fooled you. Ho, Ganelon! Let your sovereign see your face."

The young man looked up at the death knight, and saw those burning orange orbs regard him from within the tasseled helmet. "I am your loyal subject," Ganelon said. "I'm a worker from Veidrava." "What are you doing here?" Soth asked. The Cobbler answered for him. "Hunting for his ladylove," he said. "Surely that is a pursuit that can draw some sympathy, even from you." He chortled. "Especially from you."

Soth stepped aside and waved Ganelon away. The Cobbler extended a gloved hand to the young man. "I can tell you where to start your search," he said as Ganelon got to his feet, "but you must swear never to reveal the information to anyone."

"Of course," Ganelon replied quickly.

The Cobbler frowned. "It'll have to be more formal than that, I'm afraid. What should you swear upon, though?" He regarded Soth coldly. "The Measure, perhaps?"

The reference to the code of conduct of his former order surprised Soth. The death knight regarded the cloaked figure more intently.

"I swear upon my love for Helain," Ganelon offered.

"Perfect," the Cobbler said. He leaned close, the scent of roses clinging to him still, and whispered, "Continue north, to the Iron Hills. The place where she is heading is the first thing in the hills touched by the morning sun."

Ganelon thought to ask for better instruction, for a weapon, perhaps, but one glance at Soth told him that he was lucky to escape this meeting with his life. He hurried off into the night. The Cobbler could hear the steady clank of his brace long after the Fumewood had swallowed his form.

"Alone at last," the Cobbler said. "This meeting has been a long time coming."

"You know my history," Soth said, "so you must serve Kitiara."

"The White Rose," the Cobbler corrected. "I have other names for her, too, ones you could never use."

Soth snorted his derision. "Are you her lover, then? She's had many, boy. All dead by her treachery."

"You're one to speak of treachery," the Cobbler said. "How many thousands of lives are on your conscience?"

"None," replied Soth. "To feel guilt I would have to believe what I have done is wrong. I do not."

The Bloody Cobbler scrutinized the master of Nedragaard, as if his pale blue eyes could see beyond the death knight's blackened armor. "You remember all that you have done and been?"

Soth did not reply. He had pieced together most of his past through the power of the Lake of Sounds. In fact, he had been at the lake, listening for those still-elusive fragments of his history, when the Cobbler spoke his name. "I remember that I am at war with the White Rose," Soth said after a moment. "I know what I will do in the days to come to defeat her."

"You forfeited your title to the future when you abandoned the path of the Rose Knights and allowed the gods of Krynn to wreak havoc on the world. The past is all you have," said the Cobbler. He gestured to the blackened rose on Soth's partially melted breastplate. "You wear its symbol. That cold that chills your bones is its breath, the dead sigh of a million misused lives. They all have claims upon you."