Clerist Tower. He'd come to Palanthas after his encounter with Merinsaard mainly to rest and get his mind calm and focused again. While there, Sturm heard gossip that some knights were gathering at High Clerist for a conclave. He was certain his father's trail would lead there.

Zerla was talking to him, and Sturm snapped out of his daydream.

"The good-looking ones are usually taken," she was say ing. Zerla wiped the table under his cup of sweet cider. "Are you married?"

"What? No, I'm not."

The maid brightened. "Where are you from?"

"Solamnia," he said.

"I thought so! I noticed your helmet and mustache. You're a knight, aren't you?" He admitted that he was. "My grand father tells me stories of the old days, when the knights watched over the land and saw that justice was done. I wish

I'd lived back then. I'd have liked to see the knights on their fine horses, armor all polished, doing good for people."

Zerla blushed. "I'm sorry. I'm talking too much."

"I don't mind," Sturm said. "What you said cheers me. I thought most folk had forgotten the Order, or hated it." He finished his cider and put down two Solacian silver pieces.

"The change is for you," he said.

"Thank you!" Zerla swept the cup and coins off the table.

Sturm walked out into the afternoon sunshine. In the days he'd been lingering in the city, other reports had come in via the seaport. Tales of strange marauders in other regions were growing. When Sturm got to High Clerist he would have plenty to tell the other knights.

But here in Palanthas, the threat seemed far away. Chil dren played in the streets, wagons and carts moved goods about from the wharves to nearby shops and markets. The citizens were well fed and well dressed. Yes, the danger of war was far removed from the life of the average Palanthan.

He could see from the high street that puffy white sails filled the bay. Were there gnomes down there? he wondered.

Did a gleaming white elf ship named High Crest ride at anchor beyond the headland? Sturm could not tarry long enough to find out. Too long he'd allowed himself to be diverted by other matters. The time had come to shoulder the responsibility of his knightly name. The burden of duty was as heavy as the armor Sturm now wore. His father's armor, and the Brightblade sword that hung by his side.

Sturm rested his right hand on the pommel and let his eyes linger on the polished plate of his armor. He took a deep breath and walked down the street.

So it was south to High Clerist. Nearly a year had passed from the time he'd said good-bye to Tanis, Flint, and all his friends in Solace.

And Tervy.

And south again. Abanasinia and Solace. In due time, his old friends would be gathering at the Inn of the Last Home.

They would want to hear about what had happened to him and Kitiara. How could he tell them? How could he explain to Tanis? And what of her brothers? Would they understand any better what Sturm himself did not? So many questions troubled Sturm as he walked the sunny streets of Palanthas.

A cloud passed over the sun, and Sturm looked up. Dark er clouds than that were coming. He could shout it from the rooftops, but the Palanthans wouldn't heed him. Life was good, why worry about war? Weren't the mountains high?

Was not the bay patrolled by Palanthan galleys, armed and ready? Palanthas was safe, absolutely.

But mountains and warships were no impediment to evil.

The seed of that insidious force lay in every heart, in every act of greed and hatred. The land and the sea were merely highways over which ideas flowed as readily as the trade winds, and now the sky was open, too. The gnomes had proved that.

The cloud moved on. Sturm shaded his eyes from the sun's glare and listened for the sound of beating wings.