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not addressed to “Medoriate Prentishun” indicated that the author knew him. He was not a wizard, though the Humans believed anyone with magic carried the title “Medoriate.” And to say he wielded magic was a gross overstatement of his innate abilities. He possessed one item of power—a staff that he could illuminate at best. Whitestar served him better as a walking aid.
    He reached for the staff now, gripping it firmly as he pushed out of his chair. He stared at the empty tray next to the letter—a testament to his antisocial behavior for the morning meal. The one person he should speak to—the one to whom he owed an apology—was not likely in a position to humor his meager excuses. And he had plenty of excuses, enough to make him question exactly what it was he sought to accomplish by overstaying his welcome in this Human castle.
    He rubbed his brow and found himself staring at the letter again. Turning away, he shuffled across the room to where he had left his pipe and filler by the bedside. To where do I go now? I have lied my way into the Belorn library to find that it contains nothing of what I seek. What is the likelihood that The Forging is but a myth that arose with many others from the Humans’ Cataclysm? I am an old man looking for an older book, and to what purpose? Because I feel I have been wronged? Because some ancient account will give me the courage to return to Markanturos to face those who ostracized me? Is there truly any sense in this?
    He lit the pipe and took a few puffs. “I cannot return to Mystland,” he murmured aloud. That much was certain. His entire vocation in medori territory had ended shamefully. He had had a respectful position as a curator of magical antiquities, and he had been passionate about his work. As time passed, however, his unresolved and bitter feelings toward his people had infected his new life. He had grown lazy in his research, uncaring about the history that once captivated his interest. It had become clear that his life was a farce—a solitary Markanturian trying to blend in with Human medori. He knew more of their trinkets and artifacts than they did, but of his own history, nothing was solid. As he came to see it, he was a man without a past, present, or future.
    What was real, what was accessible, was the only escape that brought him solace. In Markanturos, his homeland, it was one of the Sacred Trio: good company, good food, and good wine. The wine had followed him in his travels. It was a reliable companion when he was alone, and he had come to accept that he was always alone. One might argue it was the wine that cost him his position as curator. He did not care to speculate; Mystland had been just another place in which he did not belong. He took what he could carry of his belongings and accumulated funds, and set out for Belorn under the pretense of historical research.
    It was not a complete lie, he reconsidered. His eyes flicked to the letter. “What further insult do they wish to weigh upon me? Did I forget to sign my resignation?” He stomped to the table and snatched up the item in question. He pulled open the paper, and a second sheet fell to the floor. He ignored it and began to read.
    Master Prentishun,
    On behalf of your old acquaintance, I have been employed to escort you, at your will, to the residence of the elusive wizard William. Unforeseen events have left me temporarily indisposed, and I regret that I will be unable to join you for the first stretch of your journey. There will be a caravan leaving from Belorn, destined for Valesage. Your place has been reserved; I intend to meet you when you arrive. Please accept my companion as a gesture of good faith. I look forward to making your acquaintance.
    Regards,
    Hawkwing
    “What distasteful antic is this?” He cast the letter aside, only to be confronted by the fallen page at his feet. “Oh, bother!” He kicked at it, then grunted as he bent to pick it up.
    Greetings, my Markanturian