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seal the Waymeet-the Last Mythal of Aryvandaar.”
    “These three pieces could be anywhere?” Donnor asked. “Where do we begin?”
    “The place where Sarya Dlardrageth last employed the crystal. The Gatekeeper’s Crystal often leaves at least one of its shards near the place where it was last used. It’s not much, but it’s a start.”
    “Back to the High Forest again.” Maresa shook her head. “You don’t let the moss grow under your feet, do you, Araevin?”
    “We’ll retrace our steps through the portals back to Myth Glaurach. I don’t think that Nar Kerymhoarth is more than two days’ ride from there.” Araevin glanced at each of his companions, and added, “It may be a long, dull, or dangerous task to reassemble the Gatekeeper’s Crystal. None of you should feel obligated to come with me.”
    “Is this the best way you can think of to slip a knife between Sarya’s ribs?” Maresa asked. Araevin nodded. “Then I’m in.”
    “And I,” said Donnor.
    “Sildëyuir is in your debt, Araevin Teshurr,” Nesterin answered. “I will help you.”
    Araevin looked to Jorin. The Aglarondan shrugged. “I haven’t traveled these lands before. I have a notion that
    I’d like to see more of the west, or wherever your search leads you.”
    “Thank you, my friends,” Araevin said. “We’ll set out first thing in the morning.”
    He raised his goblet to his companions and drank deeply; the others followed suit. Briefly, he explained as much as he felt comfortable telling them about the Waymeet and the crystal. He glanced at the door often, expecting Ilsevele to appear at any moment, but still she did not come. Finally, it grew late, and the companions said their goodnights to one another.
    The innkeeper showed Araevin to his room, and Araevin spent some time double-checking his belongings, making sure that he was ready for another long journey. Then he stretched out on the bed to rest, slipping in and out of Reverie. He did not need as much as he used to—an odd side-effect of the telmiirkara neshyrr, one that he just as soon would have done without, since it left him wakeful and alert most of the night. Eventually he found himself simply sitting at the window seat in the little room, gazing out over the sleeping town while he grappled with wheels, fonts, and bonds of magic in his mind, reflecting on the artifices of high magic he had encountered in the last few tendays.
    Shortly after midnight, his reflections were disturbed by the lonely clip-clop of a horse’s hooves in the street outside his window. He shook himself and looked down. A rider in green approached, riding a small dapple-gray mare. The rider stopped before the Oak and Spear, and drew back her hood. Ilsevele shook out her copper-red hair and turned her face up to him.
    “Keeping watch for me?” she asked with a small smile.
    “Simply taking in the night,” he told her. “I’ll be down in a moment.”
    He slipped down from the window seat, pulled on his boots, and headed down the stairs to the dark and empty common room. Ilsevele came in a moment later, still dressed in her riding cloak.
    “Do you want me to rouse the innkeeper?” Araevin asked. “It’s late, but they might have something you could eat.”
    “Don’t trouble the fellow. I am not hungry.” She hesitated in the doorway, studying the room. “Are the others here?”
    “Yes. We were only waiting for you.” Araevin took her in his arms, and held her close, but she returned his embrace half-heartedly. When he frowned at her, she disentangled herself from his arms and stepped back. “What is it, Ilsevele?”
    “Araevin,” she said, “I cannot go with you.”
    “What? But why?”
    “I have something else I need to do. I am leaving in the morning for the Sembian camp in Battledale. I am going to try to persuade them to make peace with us, so that we can turn our full attention against the daemonfey.”
    “It’s too dangerous,” he said automatically. “You would