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arts, exploring this or that scroll or book, looking for something to keep me interested. I have grumbled at the meaninglessness of it all and now, suddenly I have a chance to join my friend in a worthwhile venture.”
    He turned back to Calistrope. “We go together, you and me.”
    Calistrope found himself quite overcome. His eyes filled with tears and he breathed deeply until his emotion was under control. “I don’t know how long Ponderos and I have known one another, no doubt it is indexed in our memories but it does not matter greatly. What does matter is what Ponderos has done for me. Before Ponderos, I was introspective, I considered the company of others to be a waste of time, only my own experiments had value, only my own conclusions were valid.”
    “Aha,” said someone. “And Ponderos—for all his size—has changed him not one iota.”
    Calistrope heard but made no direct comment. “Ponderos showed me a larger world than the one in which I lived. He showed me that not every thought which is different to mine is as inconsequential as a mayfly’s.” Here he glanced at Hadrice—the one who had made the interjection—and turned back to the larger audience again.
    “I thank you all,” the Mage looked around the gathering. “For your gifts, for your support,” he moistened his lips from a goblet of wine. “These fine examples of the magician’s art which I have asked for were not selected idly. And like Voss’ globe of cold light, all have a certain rare aspect in common.” Again he looked around.
    “There are many places where the ether is thin, others where we have detected great vacuoles extending for leagues. Places where it is difficult or even impossible to perform wizardry and where magical entities cannot endure. These gifts all have their power locked within. They do not rely upon invocation; they don’t need to be within a region of rich ether. Issla’s gift in fact is so bereft of magic that it will soak up whatever it can find,” Calistrope sat down. “Thank you,” he said again then embarrassed at the length of his address he grew morose and silent.
    Voss now stood. “And I thank you, too. Calistrope’s words are of great interest. His thought processes are often a source of irritation to us; often he comes to disturbing conclusions via routes which are hidden from his fellows. He is even known to have a certain antipathy to sorcery and an inclination toward technology. He is, therefore, a natural choice for this quest.”
    Voss lifted his cup. “I give you—the Mage, Calistrope.”
    There were more speeches, their eloquence growing with the consumption of wine. As the subjects veered farther and farther from the matter in hand, Calistrope left the table and went out again onto the balcony. Out here, the air was clear and cold; frost glittered on the stonework. Beyond the nearer spires and minarets of Sachavesku, the smoothly heaving expanse of Mal-a-Merrion stretched and drew the eye to those enigmatic lavender mists which hid its more northerly reaches.
    Sermis had indeed spoken the truth when he had said “if.” The Mage by no means thought of himself as invincible. Even with the full panoply of sorcerous power as protection, he could meet his end upon that broad lake as easily as in some far off exotic region. Had anyone asked him, Calistrope would have admitted freely that he was afraid. Still, as Ponderos had expressed it, his life had been bounded for far too long by the mundane, by the known. He looked forward to the future not only with a frisson of fear but with a renewed interest. Maybe with Ponderos accompanying him there would be no point in consulting his early memories.

Chapter 3
    Mornings… the last morning had dawned nearly two millennia ago—the day the world stopped turning, But even so, the bell rang the midnight chime from Cristoline’s Tower, and every hour thereafter until the great bell at Barto’s took over at midday and chimed the remaining