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stare at the Sartan in dismayed confusion, the truth thundering around him like the fearsome storm that rages perpetually on Arianus.
    “I … I'm not on Arianus, am 1?” Alfred squeezed the words out of the tight feeling in his chest.
    “No. What put such an idea into your head? You are on the world of Chelestra, of course,” said Samah sternly, his patience starting to wear thin.
    “Oh, dear,” said Alfred faintly, and in a graceful, spiraling motion, he slid gently and unconsciously to the floor.
    1 Since the Sartan language is magic in and of itself, Sartan have two names: a private name which is magical and could possibly give another Sartan power over them and a public name that tends to nullify magic.

MY NAME IS GRUNDLE . 1
    When I was a child, that is the first sentence I ever learned how to write. I'm not certain why I wrote it down here, or why I begin with it, except that I have stared at this blank page for a long time now and I knew that I had to write something or I would never write anything.
    I wonder who will find this and read it? Or if anyone will. I doubt that I will ever know. We have no hope of surviving our journey's end.
    (Except, of course, the perverse hope that a miracle will happen, that something or someone will come to save us. Alake says that to hope for such a thing, especially to pray for it, is wicked, since if we were saved our people would suffer. I suppose she is right, she being the most intelligent among us. But I notice she continues to practice her exercises in summoning and conjuration and she would not do so if she was practicing what she counsels.)
    It was Alake who recommended that I write the account of our voyage. She says our people may find it, after we are gone, and take some comfort in it. Then, of course, it is also necessary to explain about Devon. All of which is true, butI suspect she gave me this task so that I would leave her alone and quit pestering her when she wanted to practice her magic.
    And I suppose she's right. It's better to do this than to sit and do nothing except wait for death. But I have my doubts that any of our people will ever see this. I think it will more likely be some stranger.
    It's odd for me to think a stranger may be reading this after I am dead. Odder still to find myself sharing my fears and doubts with a stranger, when I can't share them with those I love. Perhaps that person will be from another sea-moon. If there are other seamoons, which I doubt. Still, Alake says it's sinful to think that the One might have made us and no one else. But we dwarves are great doubters, suspicious of anything that hasn't been around at least as long as we have.
    I doubt that our deaths will accomplish anything.
    I doubt that the Masters of the Sea will keep their word. Our sacrifice will be for nothing. Our people are doomed.
    There. I've put it down at last. I feel better for it, though I will have to make certain now that Alake never sees this journal.
    My name is Grundle.
    It came much easier that time. My father is Yngvar Heavy beard, Vate 2 of the Gargan. My mother is Hilda. In her youth, she was said to be the most beautiful woman in all the seamoon. Songs have been made of
my
beauty, but I've seen a portrait done on her wedding day; I'm plain, compared to her. Her side whiskers came almost to her waist and were the honey color, which is extremely rare and prized among dwarves.
    My father tells the story that when my mother stepped out onto the field of contest, the other contenders took one look at her and walked off, leaving her the unchallenged winner. My mother, I am told, was extremely put out at this, for she had practiced long at the ax-throw and could hit the targetfive times out of six. If I had stayed on Gargan, they would have been holding the marriage contests for me, since I'm near the end of the Time of Seeking.
    That blot is a tear. Now I'm certain I can't let Alake see this! I wasn't crying for myself, mind you. I was crying for