Sturm came nearer, and saw that the tallest man was his father. Sturm's heart raced. He held out his hands to Angriff

Brightblade for the first time in thirteen years. The old war rior lifted his head and stared right past Sturm. They can't see me, Sturm thought. Was there a way he could make him self known?

"We should not have come here, my lord," said the other standing man. "It's dangerous!"

"The last place our enemies would look for us is in my own sacked castle," replied Lord Brightblade. "Besides, we had to get Marbred out of the wind. The fever has settled in his chest."

Father! Sturm tried to shout. He could not even hear him self.

Lord Brightblade squatted by the man on the ground. His breath had frozen on his beard, making it as white as

Marbred's. "How do you feel, old friend?" Sturm's father asked.

Marbred wheezed, "Fit for any command of my lord."

Angriff squeezed his old retainer's arm, stood, and turned his back on the sick man.

"He may not last the night," he said. "Tomorrow there may be only you and I, Bren."

"What shall we do, my lord?"

Lord Brightblade reached under the tattered layers of cloak and blankets that hung from his broad shoulders. He unbuckled his belt and brought out his sword and scabbard.

"I will not allow this blade, forged by the first of my ances tors and borne with honor all these years, to fall into the hands of the enemy."

Bren grabbed Lord Brightblade's wrist. "My lord – you don't intend – you can't mean to destroy it!"

Angriff pulled six inches of the sword from its covering.

The fitful firelight caught on the burnished steel and made it glitter. "No," he said. "As long as my son lives, the Bright blade line will continue. My sword and armor will be his."

Sturm felt as if his heart would burst. Then, suddenly, the pain caused by the scene was replaced by an odd lightness.

It stole into Sturm's limbs and, though he tried to hold him self in the vision, to keep everything in sharp focus, the image faded. The fire, the men, his father, and the sword of the Brightblades wavered and dissolved. Sturm's fingers clenched into tight fists as he tried literally to grasp the scene. Sturm found himself clenching the nap of Kitiara's fur coat.

"I'm all right," Sturm said. His heart slowly resumed its normal rhythm.

"You were very quiet this time," she reported. "You stared into space as if you were watching a stage play in Solace."

"In a way, I was." He described his father's vigil. "It must be the present or the recent past," he reasoned. "The castle was in ruins, but my father did not look so old – perhaps fif ty years. His beard had not grayed. He must be alive!"

Sturm became aware that he was lying on his back and moving. He sat up hastily and almost fell off the gnomes' cart. "How'd I get up here?" he asked.

"I put you there. You didn't look as if you could make it on your own," said Kitiara.

"You picked me up?"

"With one hand," said Wingover. Sturm looked down.

All the gnomes but Sighter were on the poles pushing the cart along. He suddenly felt embarrassed' to be such a bur den to his companions, and jumped off the cart. Kitiara slid down, too.

"How long was I out?" Sturm asked.

"Better part of an hour," said Sighter, referring to the stars. "The visions are getting longer, aren't they?"

"Yes, but I think they're triggered when I'm reminded of something from the past," Sturm said. "If I concentrate on the present, perhaps I can avoid episodes like this."

"Sturm doesn't approve of the supernatural," Kitiara explained to the gnomes. "It's part of his knightly code."

Krynn was now high overhead, and the terrain around them was as bright as day. No plants grew in the brilliant light, however; all was cold and lifeless under the planet's clear glow. Sighter led his colleagues in another long discus sion. Kitiara and Sturm were trailing behind the cart," so no one saw the ditch until the front wheels spilled into it. The gnomes on the front pole – Cutwood, Fitter, and

Wingover – fell on their faces. Roperig, Rainspot, and Bell crank struggled to keep the heavily laden wagon from turn ing over. Kitiara and Sturm rushed in and steadied the sides.

"Let it roll down," Kitiara said. "Let go."

Rainspot and Bellcrank stepped back, but Roperig did not. The cart bounded down the side of the ditch with the humans running alongside and Roperig bouncing painfully against the push-pole.

"What's the matter with you?" Bellcrank said, when the cart halted. "Why didn't you let go?"

"I-I can't," Roperig complained. "My hands are stuck!" He wallowed to his feet. Dust poured from his pockets and cuffs. His stubby fingers were firmly attached to the push pole. Rainspot tried prying his colleague's fingers free. "Ow, ow!" Roperig yelled. "You're tearing my fingers off!"

"Don't be such a crybaby," said Sighter.

"Cutwood, did you put glue on this end of the pole?" asked Rainspot.

"Absolutely not! By gears, I would never do that without telling him first." Cutwood's invocation of the sacred word

'gears' proved that he was telling the truth.

"Hmm." Kitiara drummed her fingers on the cart wheel.

"Maybe it's more of this crazy Lunitari magic."

"You mean I'll be stuck to this cart forever?"

"Don't be distressed, master. I can saw this pole off," Fitter said. He patted his boss on the back consolingly.

"Rot," said Bellcrank. "If Master Brightblade will lend me his knife, I'll scrape your fingers off in no time."

Roperig blanched. "You will not!"

"Then we can saw very carefully around your fingers."

"No one's going to cut or saw anything," Kitiara said. "If this stickiness is related to my strength or Sturm's visions, then you ought to give some thought to how it works before you start hacking away on a fellow's fingers."

"Quite so," said Sighter. "Now, could it be more than coincidence that we acquire abilities connected to our life's work I Rainspot makes rain, Lady Kitiara grows mightier as a warrior – and Roperig, master of cords and knots finds himself bound by his own hands. It's as though some subtle, yet powerful, force were enhancing our natural attributes."

"Roperig can probably free himself if he wishes to," said

Kitiara. "Just as Rainspot can wish for his rain."

"All I wanted to do was keep my grip when we slipped in the ditch," Roperig said glumly.

He screwed his eyes tightly shut and wished hard.

"Harder! Concentrate!" urged Sighter. Cutwood whipped out his magnifying glass and peered intently at Roperig's stuck hands. Slowly, with faint sucking sounds, his hands peeled off the cart pole.

"Ow, ow!" Roperig whimpered, waving his hands about.

"That stings!"

The cart was shoved to the top of the gully rim. The gnomes passed a water bottle around. Fitter handed it to

Kitiara, who had a short swig before offering it to Sturm.

He held it a long time, staring at the ground and not drink ing.

"Now what?" she said, taking the bottle back.

"This magic worries me. Couldn't we refuse it somehow, give it back?"

She pushed the plug back into the bottle. "Why should we? We ought to get used to it, learn to control the effect."

Kitiara flexed a hand into a fist. She could feel the strength within her, like the warmth of sweet wine in her veins. It was intoxicating, that taste of power. She looked Sturm in the eye. "If we return to Krynn penniless, weaponless, and armorless, I hope our powers remain."

"It isn't right," he said stubbornly.

"Right? This is the only right that matters!" The water bottle exploded when she crushed it in her fingers.

Little Fitter stooped to get the glazed shards. "You broke the bottle, lady," he said. "Did you cut yourself?"

She showed him her undamaged hand. "A lot of things may get broken around here before I'm through," she said angrily.