travelers who were changed into undead by wraiths.

The result was that Sturm kept his hand on the hilt of his

sword, coldly scrutinizing every person he met with such intensity that most of them figured Sturm himself for a

thief and hurried to get out of his way. Caramon wore a perpetual scowl on his usually cheerful face, thinking

that this made him look mean, though in reality, as Raistlin said, it only made him look bilious.

By the end of the first day, Sturm's hand was cramped from gripping his sword hilt, and Caramon had

developed a splitting headache from keeping his jaw thrust forward at an unnatural angle. Kitiara's ribs ached

from suppressed laughter, for Tanis would not allow her to openly ridicule the young men.

"They have to learn," he said. It was shortly after lunch, and Kit was riding on the wagon's seat between Tanis

and Raistlin. "It doesn't hurt them to develop habits of watchfulness and caution on the road, even if they are

overdoing it a bit. I remember when I was young. I was the exact opposite. I set off from Qualinesti without a

care in the world or a brain in my head. I took everyone I met for a friend. It was a wonder I didn't end up in a

ditch with my silly skull bashed in."

"When you were young," Kit scoffed. She squeezed his hand. "You talk like an old man. You are still young,

my friend."

"In elven terms, perhaps," Tanis said. "Not in human. Don't you ever think about that, Kit?"

"Think about what?" she asked carelessly. In truth, she was not really paying attention. Having recently

purchased a knife from Flint, a fine steel blade, she was engrossed in wrapping the handle with braided strips of

leather.

Tanis persisted. "About the fact that I have lived well over a hundred of your human years. And that I will live

hundreds more."

"Bah!" Kit bent over her work, her fingers quick at their task but not particularly efficient. The braided leather

provided a better grip, but it wouldn't be much to look at. Kit didn't care how it looked. Finishing her task, she

tucked the knife into the top of her boot. "You're only part elf."

"But I have an expanded life span compared to-"

"Hey, Caramon!" Kit yelled in mock alarm. "I think I saw something move over in that bush! Look at that

great idiot. If anything did jump out at him, he'd pee in his pants.... What were you saying?" "Nothing," Tanis

said, smiling at her. "It wasn't important." Shrugging, Kit jumped off the wagon to go tease Sturm by hinting that

she was certain they were being followed by goblins.

Raistlin glanced at Tanis. The half-elf's smooth, unlined face-a face that would not be lined or wrinkled with

age for perhaps another hundred years-was shadowed with unhappiness. He would be still a young man when

Kitiara was an old, old woman. He would watch her age and die, while he remained relatively untouched by

time.

The bards sang songs of the tragic love of elf for human. What would it be like? Raistlin pondered. To watch

beauty and youth wither in those you love. To see them in their old age, in their dotage, while you are still young

and vibrant. And yet, Raistlin considered, if the half-elf should fall in love with an elven woman, he would suffer

a like fate, except that in this case he would be the one to age.

Raistlin regarded Tanis with new understanding and some compassion. He is doomed, the young mage

reflected. He was doomed from birth. In neither world can he ever be truly happy. Talk of the gods playing a

cruel joke on someone!

This brought to mind the three ancient gods of magic. Raistlin felt a twinge of conscience. He had not fulfilled

his promise to them. If he truly believed in them, as he had professed to them so long ago,why was he constantly

questioning and doubting his belief? He was reminded of the three gods yet again when, late in the day, the

companions came upon a group of priests walking down the road.

The priests -twenty of them, men and women-walked down the center of the road in two files. They walked

slowly, their expressions as solemn as if they were accompanying a body to the burial ground. They looked

neither to the right nor the left, but kept their faces forward, their eyes lowered.

The slow-moving column traveling down the middle of the road had the effect-intentional or not-of seriously

impeding the flow of traffic.

A great many people were on the Haven road this day. Flint was just one of several merchants traveling in that