rather, the tower would arrive at Antimodes. One never found the

magicalTowerofWayreth. It found you, or not, as its master chose.

This night Antimodes would spend in the town ofSolace. He might

have pushed on, for the season was late spring, and it was onlynoon,

with plenty of daylight left for travel. But he was fond of Solace, fond of

its famous inn, theInnof the Last Home, fond of Otik Sandath, the inn's

owner, and especially fond of the inn's ale. Antimodes had been tasting

that chilled dark ale with its creamy head in his imagination ever since

he

had swallowed his first mouthful of road dust.

His arrival in Solace went unnoticed, unlike his arrival in other towns in Ansalon,

where every stranger was taken to be a thief or plague-carrier, a murderer or kidnapper of

children. Solace was a different town than most on Ansalon. It was a town of refugees,

who had fled for their lives during the Cataclysm and had only stopped running when

they came to this location. Having once been strangers on the road themselves, the

founders of Solace took a kindly view toward other strangers, and this attitude had been

passed down to their descendants. Solace had become known as a haven for outcasts,

loners, the restless, the adventuresome.

The inhabitants were friendly and tolerant-up to a point. Lawlessness was known to be

bad for business, and Solace was a town with a sharp eye for business.

Being located on a bustling road that was the major route from northern Ansalon to all

points south, Solace was accus tomed to entertaining travelers, but that was not the reason

few noticed the arrival of Antimodes. The main reason was that most of the people of

Solace never saw him, due to the fact that they were high above him. The major portion

of the town ofSolacewas built in the vast, spreading, gigantic branches of the immense

and wondrous vallenwood trees.

The early inhabitants of Solace had literally taken to the trees to escape their enemies.

Having found living among the treetops to be safe and secure, they had built their homes

among the leaves, and their descendants and those who came after them had continued

the tradition.

Craning his neck, Antimodes looked up from the donkey's back to the wooden plank

bridges that extended from tree to tree, watching the bridges swing and sway as the

villagers hastened across on various errands. Antimodes was a dapper man, with an eye

for the ladies, and though the women of Solace kept their flowing skirts firmly in hand

when crossing the bridges, there was always the possibility of catching a glimpse of a

shapely ankle or a well-turned leg.

Antimodes's attention to this pleasant occupation was interrupted when he heard

sounds of shrill yelling. He lowered his gaze to find that he and jenny had been

overtaken by a brigade of bare-legged, sunburned boys armed with wooden swords and

tree-branch spears and giving battle to an army of imaginary foes.

The boys had not meant to run down Antimodes. The swirl

of battle had carried them in his direction; the invisible goblins or ogres

or whatever enemy the boys chased were in full retreat toward Crystalmir

Lake. Caught up in the shouting, yelling, sword-thwacking melee,

Antimodes's donkey, Jenny, shied and danced, wild-eyed with fright.

A mage's mount is not a war-horse. A mage's mount is not trained to

gallop into the noise and blood and confusion of battle or to face spears

without flinching. At most, a mage's mount must accustom herself to a

few foul-smelling spell components and an occasional lightning show.

Jenny was a placid donkey, strong and hale, with an uncanny knack for