They’re built wrong for dwarfs. What are they after? Mendrion wondered. He would have asked the Gryphon’s Claw, but the talisman lay in his pack within his tent. He wanted to avoid the attention he would attract by going after it. He glanced at Siggorund, who watched the searchers steadily.

The noise of shouting brought them about. A group of the wiry figures had found their tents and extinguished fire. Siggorund, who had grabbed his sword upon rising, drew it from the scabbard. The warrior stepped forward and faced the intruders, his massive weapon raised. The small men hesitated and then backed down.

They had scarcely retreated to the edge of the camp when one sounded a hunting horn. The cries around them intensified. Mendrion raced to his tent, grasped his pack, and stumbled backward. Watching him intently, the intruders nevertheless made no move to stop him. Siggorund picked up his own satchel from where he had lain in the open. He motioned Mendrion to follow him, and they plunged into the forest.

Instantly, horn blasts rang in the air. Shouts and footfalls followed them. Mendrion scrambled up the mountain slope right behind Siggorund, who chose a path through the remains of fallen boulders. The warrior skidded to a halt, spun, and grabbed Mendrion by the arms. A thick finger pointed toward a gap between two large stones. Mendrion could see nothing beyond the gap—a perfect hiding place? He told himself later that he should have known better than to go into a dark hole, but he did it anyway.

Crouching, the Seer squeezed into the gap while Siggorund kept watch. Panic seized Mendrion when he realized that the hole opened into a cave barely big enough for him to sit in. He fought to turn around.

Suddenly the ground gave way.

Mendrion fell for a moment and then grunted when he hit solid rock. Dirt and pebbles rained down on him. Coughing against thick dust, he rolled onto his knees. Blackness and the smell of old dirt encompassed him. He strained to look up, but nothing appeared. He swore his eyes were wide open, and briefly he thought he had gone blind.

A light flashed and then burst into the cavern. Mendrion threw an arm over his eyes. When he could at least squint, he looked around again and saw a halo around him. He glanced up to find Siggorund looking down at him and holding a torch. The warrior was perched on the edge of a hole in the ceiling. Siggorund dropped the torch onto the floor of the cave, glanced over his shoulder, and then launched himself over the edge.

Even the expected grunt never came, reminding Mendrion of the warrior’s mute state. Siggorund stood, gave Mendrion a cheerful smile as he brushed cavern dust from his arms, and picked up the torch. The light barely hinted at a wall around them, though one end stood dark. Beams shored up the sides and ceiling, so someone had been here at some point. The pair moved forward and found that the darkness opened into a tunnel. Mendrion hesitated. That passage could end in ten feet, but it could also extend for miles and branch in numberless directions.

Far-away shouts from the hunters urged them to move ahead. May as well, Mendrion thought. We can’t get back out the way we came in. He tried not to think about what would happen if that was the only way out.

But there had to be a different way, a more established way. As they walked, the Seer realized that patterns in the layer of dust beneath their boots hinted at geometric impressions in the floor. Doorways—indeed, stones arched over the openings—marched past at regular intervals on either side. Occasionally, a larger hole suggesting a tunnel appeared. Surely a numerous people had lived here once. But where was everyone? Mendrion strained his ears for sounds of the inhabitants, but he heard only the scrape of their boots on stone and the creak of Siggorund’s leather and plate armor. They had stayed in the main tunnel the entire time, but it gave no illusion of stopping short of the far side of Gryphon Mountain. Mendrion wished he could see farther than the glow of the torch about them.

See. Of course.

“Hold on,” he said to Siggorund, and the warrior turned toward him. Mendrion reached into his satchel and took out the Gryphon’s Claw. “I should have thought of this before,” he said to his friend. Siggorund just watched him.

Mendrion looked at the glass nestled within the claw and asked, “How can we safely leave this cave without our pursuers finding us?” The glass flared, and then Mendrion’s view sped along the corridor, past two large shadows, and into a vast chamber. Swinging to the left, the magic raced along the wall and then up a set of stairs. The Seer was trying so hard to pay attention that he found himself forgetting everything. He looked at Siggorund and gestured with the Claw. “Straight ahead.”

Perhaps another hour passed—but then, who could tell?—and Mendrion began feeling weary. After all, the intruders outside had roused them before they could fall asleep. Siggorund glanced over at him just as he rubbed at one eye, and immediately he stopped. “No, I’m fine,” Mendrion insisted without firmness. Siggorund shook his head and led the way into one of the rooms.

The chamber contained a few pieces of furniture, all obscured by a thick layer of dust. Siggorund covered his mouth with his beard and brushed the dust from a couch. Then he gestured for Mendrion to take it. Too tired to argue, Mendrion wrapped himself in his cloak and lay down. In moments, he was asleep.

When Siggorund roused him, they reentered the passage and pressed on. Mendrion felt better, but he had no way to tell how much time had slipped by.

An hour or two later, the passage opened into a massive chamber. Mendrion’s stomach dropped away when he noticed that the cavern lacked a floor. A ledge hugged the wall all the way around. Several arches of stone lifted from the walkway around the room and converged in the center. Something in that convergence seemed to draw him—he felt an inexplicable need to investigate.

He took a step toward the nearest arch, but then he remembered that he and Siggorund were trying to escape their pursuers. They had to find their way out of the tunnels before they could be cornered. Visualizing what the Claw had shown him, Mendrion led his companion along the wall, looking for an exit where stairs led upward. They passed a couple of doorways that led to blackness. The next one matched the route the Claw had shown him.

Mendrion looked over his shoulder at the center of the chamber. Something was there, something important to him. He was suddenly certain of it.

Sparing a glance at Siggorund, the Seer strode to the closest bridge. Abruptly, his stomach clenched at the thought of crossing the open space. If he lost his balance and fell, Terla would be looking for another Seer. Mendrion scrutinized the span of stone, looking for cracks or other hints of weakness. He saw none.

He thought better of bidding Siggorund to wait for him here. Should he slip, Siggorund couldn’t help him from the ledge. “Come,” he whispered. The warrior’s brow wrinkled and his head cocked slightly, but he came to Mendrion’s side. The Seer proceeded across the bridge, which was twice his shoulders’ width and had no railing or balustrade. Slowly, they crossed the chasm to where a pillar rose at the center.

As the torchlight fell upon the end of the bridge, it revealed an eagle’s head and beak, then a lion’s legs and body. Finally, when they stood before it, they saw a pair of wings half unfurled behind the beast. Despite the statue’s age, the carving of feathers and fur had lost no detail. Mendrion had never seen a gryphon, had only heard tales of them, but if the real thing was more majestic than this figure, they surely ruled over all creatures. He stood in awe, looking up at the fierce, proud expression, and the eyes seemed to peer back and delve into his mind as surely as the former inhabitants of the caves had cut away the stone of the Mountain.

He almost felt … acceptance? Approval?

The halo of the torch hinted at the forms of three other gryphons, all sitting with their backs to a raised platform. Mendrion carefully moved to his right and up a set of short stairs that brought him level with the gryphon’s heads. An ornate stone gazebo sheltered a pedestal. At first, Mendrion thought the pedestal stood empty, but even before Siggorund’s light fell over its surface, a stone at the top glowed blue of itself. The Seer felt an energy emanating from the stone. His skin prickled.

A hum drew his attention to his satchel. He drew out the Gryphon’s Claw. The glass flared pale blue and went dark once more.

Mendrion looked back at the stone nestled in the top of the pedestal. He still felt the energy coming from it. He wanted to put his hand on it, but his complete lack of knowledge of the consequences stopped him. Mendrion looked at Siggorund, who watched him with that intent gaze, but the warrior made no move to discourage or urge him.

“We had better move on,” Mendrion said. “I’ll find out what this thing is when we’re not being hunted.” They returned to the stairs leading out and left the chamber.

The Seer consulted the Gryphon’s Claw one more time to be sure of the way out. They traversed another tunnel and emerged through an old, short door hidden behind tangles of brush and vines. The sun had just set, dusk falling again on the land, and the travelers could see the flicker of distant torches below them. “We’ve lost them—for the time being,” Mendrion whispered. Siggorund nodded, and they continued their ascent of the north slope of Gryphon Mountain.

Mendrion thought of the way he had been drawn to that stone in the cavern. And of how he had felt when looking at the gryphon statue. He would be blind if he thought it wasn’t tied to his being Seer of Gryphon Mountain, but beyond that…. The cavern had been empty of anyone who could have told him what that stone was—or his feelings.

At least there was Terla. If anyone could tell him what it was all about, she could. If he made it back. Who were those who pursued him and Siggorund? They were built wrong for dwarfs, and he was on good terms with the White Forge Kindred. Something was going on that he didn’t even vaguely understand.

He took some courage in the fact that he and Siggorund had discovered the cave at the moment they needed to escape the eyes of their pursuers. Perhaps the Mountain had sheltered him, literally and figuratively. But he couldn’t spend his entire journey escaping and hiding.

At some point, he would have to take on his opponents and get some answers.

They had nearly reached the bottom of the slope, the first leg of Mendrion’s journey almost over, when Siggorund left him to further forage and help replenish their supplies. As he walked alone, the Seer saw the glow of firelight below. As twilight was approaching, he thought to secure lodging for himself and Siggorund. He soon came upon a small cottage that looked like nothing more than a large, overturned bird’s nest with a roof of shingles. A large pile of uncut wood stood to one side, but from the look of the ax buried in a nearby stump, the woodcutter had been absent for at least several years.

Wary, Mendrion crossed the grassless area fronting the place and knocked on the door. A woman’s voice yelled, “What do you want?”

“Lodging for me and my companion, good woman,” Mendrion replied.

The door opened less than a foot, and a stooped old woman in a shabby robe peered at him. “Who’s your invisible friend?” She hitched up her rope belt.

“He’ll be coming soon,” the Seer said. “He’s gathering some food. If you like, we can contribute something to your meal.” He gestured toward the bubbling pot in the fireplace behind her.

She grunted. “Well, that’s fine and all, but I can’t offer anything in the way of lodging. I’ve barely room to turn around in here. What brings you to my door, anyway? This is hardly the beaten path.”

Having not decided what to tell people when they asked this, Mendrion said, “My name is Mendrion. I am sent by Terla to visit the inhabitants of the Mountain.” It was true enough.

“Ah, Terla. If she sent you … Very well, come in, come in.” She pushed the door open, and he slipped past her. The woman closed the door behind him.

She hadn’t been exaggerating about the space. Any surface, including the floor, was nearly covered with books, earthenware, loose parchment and scrolls, bolts of cloth, and assorted other items. “Please, sit down,” the woman said, removing a stack of books from a faded red velvet chair. Mendrion took it.

“May I ask your name?” he said.

“Syrid,” she answered. She moved to the fireplace to tend to the pot. Steam erupted from its contents as Syrid lifted the lid with a cloth and began to stir. “Strange for Terla to send you, you know. She usually would do such a thing herself.” She cast a sideways glance at Mendrion. “Did she send you for something in particular?”

Mendrion grew uncomfortable with her somewhat direct questioning, and the heat from the pot seemed to flood his face. For a few moments, the only sound in the chamber came from Syrid’s ladle hitting the sides of the pot. Terla had warned him not to volunteer his new position, but here there seemed nothing for it, and likely no harm would come from it.

“I am here to take her place,” he said slowly. “The Mountain is letting her go.”

“Ah,” Syrid replied. She lifted the ladle to her lips and slurped at the soup. “Hmmm, needs a little something else.” She rummaged around in a cabinet, took out a small pouch, and threw a pinch from it into the pot. “There,” she said. Syrid ladled some soup into a bowl and gave it to Mendrion with a spoon.

“Thank you,” he told her. She watched as he spooned the first few bites. Suddenly his stomach burned, but the sensation turned to a sense of deadening that moved outward to his limbs. His vision clouded. “What are you doing …?” he gasped. “I mean you no harm.”

“No, neither do I mean you harm. But you have something I want.”

Mendrion gripped the chair’s armrests and tried to stand. However, something held him in the chair as surely as if he were chained to it. And it wasn’t whatever Syrid had fed him.

“You won’t be going anywhere until you comply,” Syrid said, her voice gone hard. “That chair won’t let you go until I tell you that you can leave. A useful piece of magic, that is.” She leaned close. “Give me the Gryphon’s Claw.”

Mendrion shook his head slowly. “No, I won’t.” He felt any further resistance to be beyond his strength.

“Then I’ll take it,” Syrid spat. She leaned toward him and grasped his satchel. Mendrion tried to grapple with her, to force away her arms, but his muscles failed him. Syrid hadn’t to look long before she found the Claw. She stood holding it with both hands, a gleam in her dark eyes.

Rubbing his eyes and forehead, Mendrion fought to move. He fought to think. What would he do without the Gryphon’s Claw? Without it, he was no Seer. He was completely at Syrid’s mercy; if she decided to slay him, he would be unable to stop her. He didn’t completely believe that she wouldn’t harm him.

Syrid gazed at the Claw and moved to the center of the chamber. “Now,” she hissed. “you will give me what I ask. Show me…” The sharpness abruptly left her countenance, and her mouth quivered. “Show me why my son had to die!”

The old woman thrust the Claw upward. Mendrion watched through the haze in his vision. To his view, the Claw didn’t respond.

“Show me!” Syrid cried, shaking the talisman before her. “Why did that wretch lead him to his doom? He had only given her his heart!” Still nothing.

Syrid shrieked, a piercing and at the same time guttural sound. One hand squeezed the Claw until the knuckles were white and the tendons stood out. Then she dropped it and sank to her knees. Her hands covered her face, and sobs shook her shoulders.

To Mendrion’s surprise, his senses began to return. Syrid must not have used much of the ingredient that numbed him, or its potency was low. Either way, his mind started to race. “Your son,” he said. “What happened to him?”

The woman lowered her hands and glared at him. “He was led to his death by the woman he loved. He warned her not to cross Durgul’s bridge, and when she did, he followed. And the troll cast him into the chasm!”

“Annfalys,” Mendrion said.

“Yes, Annfalys,” Syrid repeated. “And I gave her what she deserved.”

“What did you do?” the Seer asked. “You transformed her into a hawk? But she is still at the bridge …”

“That is the curse I placed upon her,” Syrid explained, rising. “To spend the rest of her days lying to men and leading them to Durgul’s Bridge. To never have a life like that which she took from my son.”

Mendrion nearly called her crazy, but he stopped himself. He was already subject to her whims, and commenting on her mental state would only worsen the situation. Obviously, she had made some hasty choices in her grief.

“But shouldn’t the target of your anger be the troll? It is he who slew your son, not Annfalys.”

Syrid turned and paced slowly to the other end of the chamber. “Please lift the curse,” Mendrion continued. “I met Annfalys and nearly met my death because of your curse on her. But she defended me. When she became a hawk, she turned and fought against Durgul so he would stop his attempts to cast me from the bridge.”

“So she saved you, but not my son, did she?” Syrid hissed, the wrath returning to her face.

“The blame lies with Durgul, not with Annfalys,” Mendrion repeated. “She made a mistake, but Durgul is the one who delivered the killing stroke, so to speak.” Running out of things to say to persuade her, Mendrion feared she would force him to try to learn from the Gryphon’s Claw something that it probably would not show him, which would increase her sorrow and anger.

He thought of the woodpile outside and the unused woodsman’s axe. Her son’s axe.

“Syrid,” Mendrion said in as tender a tone as he could manage, “your woodpile is yet large. The work is undone. Allow me to ready it for your fireplace. I give you my word as a servant of Gryphon Mountain that I will not leave until the task is finished.”

She frowned at him briefly, but again her expression softened. She waved her hand and murmured, “Yes. Yes.”

Mendrion felt the chair’s grip on him release, and he rose. He said, “I’ll take this back, if you have no objection,” and picked up the Gryphon’s Claw. Syrid barely watched him, her eyes wistfully directed to one side. “I imagine the axe will need sharpening. Do you have a whetstone?”

Syrid pointed him to a small shed on the premises. He found the whetstone and sharpened the axe blade. With sleeves rolled up, Mendrion took a length of wood and began to cut.

And that’s how Siggorund found him. When Mendrion explained the situation, the warrior located a second axe in the shed and joined him. They chopped wood through most of the night and resumed in the morning.

Finally, that afternoon, they finished the task and stretched a length of old canvas over the pile. Syrid greeted them at her door and said, “I don’t know how to thank you.”

“Annfalys—” Mendrion began.

Syrid held up a hand. “Already done. She is free. She may never realize what happened to her, but if you ever meet her again … tell her I regret my hasty actions.”

“Of course,” the Seer promised. “I’m glad we could come to an agreement.”

“You are both welcome here should you come this way again,” Syrid said.

“Thank you. I hope only that you will offer me a different chair,” Mendrion said. Syrid huffed a brief laugh, the quickest of smiles crossing her wrinkled face.

“Very well, Seer,” she replied with a nod.

As Mendrion and Siggorund walked away from the old woman’s hut, the Seer glanced over his shoulder. Syrid stood on the threshold, staring at the pile of freshly cut wood. Mendrion guessed he would return this way sometime during his life on Gryphon Mountain, and given his first visit to Syrid’s hut, he felt unsure how comfortable he would be about that. He put his hand inside his satchel to reassure himself that the Gryphon’s Claw lay safely inside it. Syrid’s attempt to use the talisman had showed him something about it: Either it wouldn’t work if taken from him, or it worked for no one but the Seer. He was inclined to believe the latter.

He also decided that it was safer to keep Siggorund with him for the rest of his journey. With the warrior’s silent but reassuring presence at his side, Mendrion began his climb of the Mountain’s north face.

When he came to the first snowdrift, he stopped. Glad he didn’t have to go any farther—the snow looked as if it would slide out from underneath his feet as soon as he stepped on it—the Seer turned around. His eyes widened, and his mouth likewise dropped open as if to participate in the feast of grandeur before him.

The Mountain’s slopes dropped away below him, and he could see above the nearest trees, revealing the land about him for miles to the north, west, and south. The rich plains reached to the horizon, the nearest dwellings of its inhabitants barely visible. Sunlight glittered on the surfaces of rivers and lakes as on the scales of blue serpents.

Briefly, Mendrion thought of what it would be like to establish himself as king over the lands he could see, with Gryphon Mountain as his palace and throne.

The rocks under his feet jolted loose, and Mendrion pitched sideways to catch himself. He hit the ground rolling. With trees, sky, and earth spinning across his vision with dizzying speed, he tumbled downward. An aspen trunk stopped him but drove the breath from his lungs.

After he had regained his breath, Mendrion stood. His ribs complained with every movement. He sat and breathed slowly to give the pain time to fade.

Travel down the slope was faster than the journey up—too fast for Mendrion’s taste. He remembered his fall with a sinking stomach every time he began descending at an unsafe speed. After a couple of days, he saw below him a castle built on a massive shelf. He approached it but soon realized that it had been uninhabited for some time. Ivy climbed the walls, doors sagged and rotted, and flagposts stood bannerless.

Full of questions about who had built the castle and where they had gone, Mendrion reached the main archway and slipped between the rusting gates. The only movement in the courtyard was the stirring of field grasses and flowers as a breeze passed through. Mendrion feared to encounter another troll or anything as malicious without prior warning, so he called out. “Hello!” His voice echoed and dissipated.

Curiosity urged his feet forward, and he crossed to the main doors and entered the castle to search for clues about the history of the place.

The doors led to the great hall. Left behind from banquets held long ago, tables and chairs stood scattered and empty. Faded tapestries stirred slightly. Mendrion stepped carefully as if to avoid alerting any ghosts that walked the halls.

His heart jumped into his throat when he saw a man standing in a shaft of light thrown by the sun through a hole in the roof. The figure was dressed in a combination of leather and plate armor, a horned helmet atop his head. “Hello,” the Seer said hesitantly. “Are you the lord of this castle?” The man shook his head.

Then, turning, he beckoned for Mendrion to follow him.

The Seer went. They traversed dimly lit corridors and chambers, the air and surfaces thick with dust. Mendrion covered his face against the stale taste. Tempted to glance around and memorize their route through the castle, he found it more important to keep an eye on his guide. The stranger walked with shoulders slightly slumped, but he moved at a steady pace. The large broadsword strapped to his back left no doubt that he was a warrior, but his manner so far had suggested that he meant Mendrion no harm.

At length they reached a door that looked to be intact and solid. The warrior produced a ring of keys and unlocked the series of padlocks and bolts on the door. Because he had no clue as to what waited beyond, Mendrion hung back. His silent companion pushed the door open and beckoned again as he entered the next chamber. The Seer cautiously came after.

The scene before him stopped him dead. He and the warrior stood on a wide porch overlooking a treasure hoard—just piles of gold and jewels nearly covering the floor of a chamber in which Terla’s cottage could have fit. Having been a cooper and lived among the common class of people all his life, Mendrion had never imagined that one person could own the wealth he now saw.

The warrior walked slowly to a pillar to the left and slumped to the floor, one leg drawn up to his body and the other outstretched. His dejected posture resembled that of a longtime prisoner in a dungeon.

Mendrion had no idea why the warrior had brought him here. He looked around at the treasure and noticed a beautiful sword lying near the steps leading down from the porch. He moved forward and bent to pick it up. Suddenly the warrior was there, grasping his extended arm. The grip was not harsh, and when Mendrion looked at him, he simply shook his head without expression. Then he let go and gestured toward the porch.

The Seer ascended the steps and sat on the stones. The warrior looked at him and gestured with both arms as if including the room. Then he drew his sword and adopted a battle-ready stance for a few moments. “You guard this treasure?” Mendrion asked. The other man nodded. “Then why did you bring me here?” he added without thinking.

No response. The warrior resumed his seat against the pillar. Mendrion began to think that the man was a mute. How long had he lived here, guarding this castle and treasure to no purpose, with not even his own voice to keep him company?

Hunger pulled at his stomach, and the warrior seemed to have withdrawn into his own thoughts, so Mendrion drew some food out of his bag. When he began eating, the warrior stirred. His head turned ever so slightly, and Mendrion saw his right eye fix on the strip of meat in the Seer’s hand.

Mendrion held out a second strip. “Would you like something to eat?” he asked.

A marked change came over the warrior. His eyes grew wide, and he slowly rose to his feet. As if waking from sleep, he stretched his thick arms to either side, his eyes closed and a small grin showing through his beard. His eyes opened, and he took the food. He looked at it for several moments and took a bite. He seemed to savor the first bite, and then he wolfed down the rest.

When his eyes opened, Mendrion saw in his expression the purest joy he had ever seen in a human being. The warrior leaned down and offered his hand. Mendrion took it. The warrior hauled him to his feet and gave him such an embrace as would make a bear envious. After releasing him, the warrior opened his mouth; his joy was briefly replaced by disappointment.

At his silent bidding, Mendrion left the trove. The warrior led him back to the courtyard. To the Seer’s surprise, his companion walked along with him to the front gate. They paused there, and Mendrion offered his hand. “I am Mendrion,” he said. “The Seer of Gryphon Mountain,” he added hesitantly, not accustomed to the title yet.

The warrior nodded firmly. He took a stick and wrote in the dirt to one side. “Siggorund,” Mendrion read. “Your name?” The other man nodded. Certain now that his friend couldn’t speak, the Seer said, “I am on a journey around the Mountain to become acquainted with it and its people. I thank you and shall remember you.” Siggorund lifted his arms toward Mendrion and then gestured forward. Then he took a couple of steps.

“You… want to come?”

Siggorund nodded. “What about the castle? The treasure?” He glanced around to reassure himself no one overheard his mention of treasure. Siggorund made a dismissive gesture toward the castle and resumed walking down the slope.

Mendrion gave one more glance to the castle. Siggorund obviously didn’t care much for the castle or treasure, though he was its guard. But the Seer took comfort in the fact that he now had a traveling companion—one with a large sword and a strong arm. He sensed he had done something for Siggorund, something that had changed the warrior’s life, but it would be difficult for Siggorund to tell him anytime soon.

For now, Mendrion would take his friends where he could find them.

“Nothing, really,” Mendrion answered, “except she’s waiting for me to finish the journey around the Mountain. I suppose I shouldn’t stay long, since I’m sure she would like a rest from whatever being Seer entails.”

“She’s been here long enough,” Brilg said. “She can stand to wait a few more weeks. I can’t imagine that being the Seer is such a chore that she can’t wait to begone.”

“How long has she been the Seer?”

“Long enough that I can barely remember the previous one,” the dwarf answered. He closed one eye and pointed a thick finger at Mendrion. “And don’t be asking how old I am, for that’s manners not fit for a goat.”

Brilg showed him the namesake of the tribe: a white anvil and a furnace built of white stones inside a cave. The steam and smoke from the forge escaped through a hole in the roof. Several dwarfs worked on iron and steel tools and weapons. As they labored, they sang in time to their hammers’ pounding. Brilg offered to tell the story of the White Forge the next time Mendrion visited. “It’s not a tale told lightly—there must be plenty of feasting along with the telling,” he said.

The morning Mendrion left, half the settlement saw him off, it seemed. He felt a little embarrassed to be the focus of so much attention. At least it was good attention. Brilg warned him about a bridge somewhere ahead. “An ornery troll lives up there,” he said. “Best to avoid the place. You can go around—just stay this side of the gorge, and eventually you’ll come to a waterfall. Go behind the waterfall, and you’ll come out on the other side. That’s not an easy path, either, but it’s better than taking your chances with the troll.”

Mendrion continued his journey up the slope. From here, the snowline was invisible over the humps and shoulders of the Mountain, but the Seer knew which way was up, and he would know the snowline when he came to it.

Not long after his midday meal, Mendrion came upon a young woman in a small clearing. She sat on a log, knees drawn close to her and hands covering her face. He knew something must be wrong for someone like her to be out here alone, and not dressed for travel, for she wore a gown woven for a lady of a king’s court. As soon as he drew near to ask if she needed help, she lowered her hands, revealing an otherwise lovely face ruddy from weeping.

“My lady,” Mendrion said, “what is the matter? Is there something I can do to help you?”

“Good sir,” she answered, “I seek herbs to mend my father’s health. I have wandered looking for them, but I have found nothing. I must return to my father and confess my failure. But I have become lost. My father’s cabin stands on the other side of the gorge, but I cannot find the bridge to get back to the other side.”

“You came by the bridge? Isn’t there a troll there?”

“I saw no troll,” she replied. “Can you help me find the bridge again?”

Mendrion wondered at her story. Brilg wouldn’t lie to him, and perhaps the troll found this woman too lovely to cause her distress. Cautious, he agreed to help, and she leaped up with joy. “Thank you!” she cried. “Now I can see my father and attend to his last needs.”

They traveled on. The young woman said little, gazing straight ahead most of the time. Worry wrinkled her brow but a little. Eventually, Mendrion asked her name. “Annfalys,” she said. “What is yours?”

“Mendrion.” Annfalys smiled and nodded once at him, then resumed her quiet demeanor. It was quite different than the way he had found her, but he supposed his agreement to help had changed her mood.

Another half-hour of travel brought them to the brink of the gorge. The footbridge of rope and wood planks stretched across the chasm not far from where they emerged from the trees. “Thank you,” Annfalys said again. “Please, accompany me the rest of the way?” She hastened ahead without waiting for an answer.

Not wanting her to travel alone in case she would lose herself a second time, Mendrion followed. “We should be careful,” he warned as he caught up. “I’m told there’s a troll—”

By now, Annfalys was stepping onto the bridge. She moved almost heedlessly. The Seer paused just long enough to glance around and assure himself that no troll was nearby. Then he gripped the ropes of the bridge and moved forward. His stomach tossed as the bridge shook, but he hurried to catch up with Annfalys.

He had nearly reached Annfalys as he came halfway across the bridge. He stopped dead as her form flashed and diminished. In her place, a falcon flapped its wings and swung away from the bridge. It glided to the edge of the gorge and alighted. One of its golden eyes stared at Mendrion.

Mendrion hardly had the time to wonder what had happened when the bridge began to sway. At the same time, a rough and frighteningly elated laugh rang across the gap. Mendrion looked backward and saw a great hand holding each side of the bridge and pulling at it, first one way and then the other. The Seer’s stomach sank before lurching again. He had found the troll—rather, the troll had found him.

The bridge swung wider and wider. Mendrion thought he was going to pass out or lose everything he had ever eaten into the gorge. He shut his eyes and waited to be flung into space.

A sudden drop made him think that the bridge had come loose and would carry him to his death, but the ropes held. A falcon’s cries cut the sky, accompanied by roaring from the troll. Mendrion threw a glance over his shoulder and saw the troll stumble into view. The falcon that had been Annfalys flapped her wings and clawed at the face of the troll, who in turn swung his great arms about to protect himself.

Mendrion took this opportunity and stumbled toward the far side of the chasm. When he reached it, he turned around to watch the battle and get a better look. In an instant when the falcon swooped away and circled back, Mendrion had a glimpse of the troll’s thick horns and jutting jaw.

To Mendrion’s surprise, the bird streaked toward him, let out a cry, and winged away toward the wood from which he and Annfalys had come.

“She never did that before!” bellowed the brute. “Wretched girl!”

His curiosity getting the better of him, Mendrion shouted, “Did what?” He figured he was safe on this side of the gorge anyway.

The troll’s eyes narrowed, and he didn’t answer for a moment. “Attacked me!” he yelled then. “She turns into the bird, but she always flies away so I can shake people off the bridge!”

“Are you mad?” asked Mendrion. “What did you have against me?” Remembering with a chill the sound of the troll’s laugh, he added, “Do you throw people from the bridge for fun?”

The troll laughed again, that same dreadful sound as before, and Mendrion had his answer. The mortifying fear he had felt as the brute had tried to throw him turned to anger. He decided that since he was safely away from the bridge, he wouldn’t press his luck and instead walked away.

“Ha! Come this way again! You will remember Durgul the next time, eh?”

Unfortunately, I’ll probably have a hard time forgetting you today, Mendrion thought.

As the bridge receded behind him, he also kept thinking of Annfalys. From what Durgul said, the Seer hadn’t been the first person to be led into danger on the bridge. Why would she deceive him and lead him there and then save his life? Was she some kind of sorceress to be able to change her shape?

These and other questions ran repeatedly through his mind, but he had as many answers as he had nerves left. Perhaps he would learn more in the course of his journey; in the meantime, Terla had given him a task. It would take him long enough to climb Gryphon Mountain four times without detours.

As he walked, he wondered what he had gotten into. He had seen something when he first came to the Mountain—whether it was induced by a person, the Mountain itself, or something he had eaten, Mendrin was uncertain. Perhaps he had been dozing on his wagon when it happened, and it had really been a dream. But Terla seemed to know just what he was talking about when he described the vision to her. That could mean that she had somehow reached out to him and triggered the vision in his mind. She could be some kind of sorceress.

Though she had not told him much about the Mountain or being the Seer at all, however, Mendrion sensed that Terla was genuine. So if, in fact, Gryphon Mountain was capable of calling to him, then he could be needed here for some reason.

He supposed that after climbing the mountain four times, he would know.

A particular part of his conversation with Terla ran repeatedly through his mind:

“If I start, can I back out?”

“If you start, you won’t want to.”

Since he still had nothing but questions, Mendrion decided instead to study the scenery and the path he took. If he were going to take up residence here, he needed to know his way around.

Mendrion had just rounded the half-dozenth bend when a rough voice said, “I’ve never seen you before. New here?”

He looked around and quickly spotted a stout figure sitting on a rock. A wide, dark brown beard covered half the bluff face and most of the broad chest. A thumb tipped back his leather helmet so he could peer the better at Mendrion. “Well?”

The former cooper had met dwarfs in his time, so he knew one when he saw one. “Yes. My name is Mendrion.”

“Mendrion, eh? Where you headed?”

“May I ask who you are before I tell you my business?”

The dwarf grunted. “Fair enough. I’m Brilg. I’m waiting for my nephews to meet me.”

“I’m… on a journey.” Mendrion couldn’t think of anything else to say, given that Terla had advised him not to volunteer what he was.

“Up the mountain? There’s not much there but—”

A shout interrupted him. “Uncle, Uncle!” Puffing through his yellow beard, a second dwarf emerged from a grove, going full bore. He skidded to a stop next to Brilg and spared hardly a glance for Mendrion. “Uncle! Hendrif fell over a cliff! He needs help!”

“Of all the boneheaded…” Brilg leaped up and followed the younger dwarf back toward the trees. Mendrion followed in case he could somehow assist them.

The dwarfs left the copse and crossed a meadow. On the far side, the grasses thinned out, exposing wide rocks like bald heads mostly buried in the mountain. They stopped where the ground fell away in a nearly sheer drop. The younger dwarf pointed downward. As Mendrion caught up, Brilg looked; then his eyes passed over the spray of loose stones nearby. Mendrion surmised that some of the rocks had given way under Hendrif’s feet, sending him down the mountainside.

Mendrion carefully bent over the cliff and saw Hendrif on a shelf about fifty feet down. Hendrif glanced up, eyes wide. “Uncle!” he cried.

“You didn’t listen, did you?” bellowed Brilg. “Your mother will have my hide for dishrags if I don’t get you back in one piece!” He pulled a coil of rope from his pack and lashed one end around a nearby stunted tree. With his back toward open space, Brilg edged down the slope. Mendrion was about to say something about the tree, which wobbled when Brilg tied his knot and looked ill suited to hold any weight greater than that of a squirrel. Before he could say anything, and before Brilg had gone over the edge, the tree lurched outward.

Brilg cried out. Fortunately, the tree held. “Pull me up! Pull me up!” Brilg yelled. Mendrion scrambled to help the blond dwarf pull Brilg back to safety.

“Foolishness,” Brilg muttered. “No sense in both our crowns being cracked.” He peered at the tree and then downward. “How to get down…”

“Let me try,” Mendrion said. Brilg started to say something, but he stopped when he saw him take the Gryphon’s Claw out of his satchel. The blond dwarf let out a startled snarl and made as if to charge Mendrion. Brilg threw out a thick arm and stopped him.

“Hold, Ordrek,” Brilg said without taking his eyes from Mendrion. “Go ahead,” he said to the latter.

Mendrion looked at the Claw and swallowed hard. He hadn’t tried using it before, and it would be more than embarrassing to fail now. Hendrif needed his help.

“Where is a safe path to Hendrif’s location?” he asked, feeling more than a little ridiculous.

Nestled in the claw’s curve, the glass shard flashed to life. In its narrow span, Mendrion saw himself and the two dwarfs standing at the cliff’s edge. His view swung away to Hendrif’s right. Mere yards away, another narrow ledge curved upward. It eventually ran to the top of the cliff back in the direction from which they had come.

“Follow me,” he said to Brilg and Ordrek.

Hendrif yelled out as they disappeared. “Hold on!” Brilg shouted back. Without another word, they came after Mendrion to the place where the ledge began. It was by no means level, and rocks tumbled from beneath their boots as they stepped. All three had to move carefully to stay on. I thought I asked for a safe path, Mendrion thought. But a path was a path.

Soon, they reached the end of the ledge. Hendrif had heard them coming, and he watched them intently. “Now, Mendrion,” Brilg said, “since you’re the one in front, you’ll have to be the one to fetch Hendrif. I don’t suppose you can jump that gap…”

“Absolutely not,” Mendrion said, looking downward for only a second.

“In that case, here’s my rope.” He handed it over. “Toss Hendrif the other end. Crouch down, and we’ll hold on to you while Hendrif swings down and you pull him up.”

Mendrion shouted the plan to Hendrif, who nodded. He caught the end of the rope. “Now, swing down—slowly!” Mendrion grunted as Hendrif simply stepped off the ledge and dropped. Brilg and Ordrek held the Seer fast, and Mendrion managed to pull Hendrif up without falling. Hendrif grasped the ledge; then the others backed up so he would have room to get on. They worked their way back up to the clifftop.

“You,” Brilg said, shaking a stubby finger at Hendrif, “that’s the last time I bring you out to do anything for at least the next dozen years.”

“But, Uncle—”

“Uh!” Brilg interrupted. “That’s enough out of you. I’ll let your mother decide what punishment’s fit for you. I told you to watch where you step.”

“What were you doing, anyway?” Mendrion asked.

“I was teaching them how to find stones that look like basilisk eggs,” Brilg answered. “They were supposed to bring some back—stones, that is—so I could judge their progress.” At Mendrion’s confused look, the dwarf threw out his arms. “Basilisk eggs make a delicious omelet. But if you don’t fool the basilisk into thinking its eggs are still there, you’ll never get away fast enough to avoid a poisonous bite.” He grinned crookedly at Mendrion. “So you’re the new Seer, are you?”

“Well, yes, I am—at least, that’s what Terla says.”

“In my experience, what Terla says is what’s real,” Brilg said. “Ordrek thought you had stolen the Gryphon’s Claw from Terla, but I knew that if you had done so, the Claw wouldn’t have responded to you. Then we would have known for sure that you were an impostor.”

“Sorry!” Ordrek said with a shrug.

Brilg extended a hand. “Welcome to the Mountain.” Mendrion smiled and took it. “Please, come with us and share supper.”

Mendrion accepted, and the dwarfs led him upward to where the slope leveled out. Several low buildings ringed an open area in front of the entrance to a cavern. The dwarfs there, of the White Forge Kindred as Brilg said, provided him with a filling meal and plenty of congratulations on his new place as Seer of Gryphon Mountain. During supper, Hendrif gave Mendrion more than one sheepish look as his mother forced him to wash every piece of earthenware she could lay her hands on. Mendrion felt glad that at least his first experience as the new Seer had ended well and that he was accepted of the White Forge Kindred of dwarfs.

As the sight and sound faded, he was suddenly filled with the desire to find out more about this strange peak.

At first glance, the area seemed uninhabited, so he didn’t know whom he’d ask. But soon he came across a brook that ran directly from the mountain. If I follow this stream, he thought, I’ll run into someone, if there’s anyone to run into. He decided to head toward the mountain first; if he found no one, he would turn around and follow the stream as it swept across the plains.

This first journey was a short one. The brook flowed out of a V-shaped notch in the side of the mountain. A mere hundred yards through the opening, the notch widened to form a glade. In the center, the brook widened into a gentle pool. Perched on the slope to the right stood a cottage.

The cooper eyed the cliff and found where a path descended to the water. He directed his dapple gelding over to a tree and tied him to it. With a deep breath—why did his heart pound all of a sudden?—he climbed the path and came to the cabin’s door. With a hesitant fist, he knocked.

After a few moments, the door opened. Just beyond stood a woman whose long, white hair contrasted with her youthful but weathered face. She had been quite lovely in her younger days, Mendrion judged. “Good day,” he said, stammering slightly. “My name is Mendrion. What… what is this place?” He gestured outward so as to indicate more than the cabin or the glade.

“You mean the Mountain?” the woman asked.

“Yes,” Mendrion answered. “I was on my way to Gweth, and as I passed the mountain, I saw something….” Briefly at a loss for words, he moved his hands outward, imitating the motion of the wings he had seen.

“Come in,” the woman said, waving inward. She stepped aside as he entered and then closed the door behind him. “Please sit.” Her hand lifted toward a pair of chairs in the center of the small room. As Mendrion took one, she asked, “Would you like something to eat?” He shook his head.

The woman sat across from him and said, “I am called Terla. Please, tell me what you saw.”

As best he could, Mendrion described the wings appearing from the slopes of the mountain and the eagle’s cry. He also spoke of the urge to discover more about the peak. Terla seemed not at all surprised by his words. “What do you know of it?” he asked her.

“I experienced the same thing once, many years ago,” she answered, “and I have been here ever since.”

“What does it mean?”

“It means the Mountain wants you here,” she said. “Gryphon Mountain. It means that the Mountain has released me.”

“Released you…? From what?”

“From being the Seer.”

“I’m thoroughly confused,” Mendrion said, slouching in his chair. “I don’t understand what you’re talking about.”

Terla’s smile was gentle. “I know. You responded to what you saw and felt, and that big step means that you can do anything else that’s asked of you.”

“What is going to be asked of me? What is this ‘Seer’ thing? You speak of Gryphon Mountain as if it is a person—as if it has a mind or a spirit. If that’s so, what need does it have for a cooper?”

“There’s more to you than what you have done for a living,” Terla said. “There’s more to you than making barrels. That shall be shown to you.”

Mendrion let out a long breath and met her gaze. “I’m not sure I want to have anything to do with this mountain after all. Maybe being a cooper is good enough for me. Maybe I should go back to my horse and wagon and keep right on going.”

“That is entirely within your rights,” Terla said. “But if you go, you’ll never know what good you could have done.”

“So being this… Seer. What is involved in that?”

“Nothing that I can relate to you in one afternoon. But I promise that you will never regret it.”

“If I start, can I back out?”

“If you start, you won’t want to.”

Mendrion sat there for a long time then, thinking things over. Terla stayed with him, watching him not with anything but what he would call an expectant expression. She had not been trying to convince him; he sensed that anything she had said was merely stating the facts. Part of him wanted to know more about what he would be getting into by accepting this… whatever it was. Another part felt excited at the adventure of settling a new place and discovering something of the unknown. His life had been nothing but ordinary to this point. That was comfortable, but he didn’t have the sense of having accomplished much that meant anything.

At last, his mind mostly made up, he looked at Terla. “I have two questions for you. The first is…” He looked around. No one had appeared in the time he had been here, and the cottage would hardly provide room for more than a couple of people. “Do you ever get lonely?”

“At times. But there are others living on the Mountain, and I get visitors. What is the second question?”

Mendrion took a deep breath. “What do I have to do first?”

Terla smiled. “Get to know the Mountain and its inhabitants.” She drew something out of a pouch at her side. “Take this.” She gave him a sleek, black claw with glass set inside. The entire thing was no wider than his palm.

“What is it for?” he asked.

“It’s called the Gryphon’s Claw. When you need to, ask it a question—anything concerning Gryphon Mountain’s past or present—and it will show you in the glass.”

“Where do I start?”

“That’s four questions now,” Terla responded with a grin. “Choose a side of the Mountain and climb it. Stop at the snow line, then come back down and go to the next face. Go up and then down that one. Do so until you have climbed and descended all four faces of the Mountain. The order doesn’t matter. You’ll learn much. Then climb the mountain all the way to the top. When you have finished, return here.”

“Your instructions are simple, but I get the feeling that following them won’t be quite so easy,” Mendrion said.

“No, but you’ll manage. Don’t go announcing who—or rather, what—you are and that I sent you. Some will figure it out on their own. Take things as they come, keep your head about you, and you’ll be all right.”

“You did this when you came here originally?”

“I received the same basic instructions, and everything worked out. It will be no different for you. If the Mountain has called you, you won’t fall off of it before you’ve done what you were supposed to do.”

Mendrion looked out the window at the fading light. “I’ll start first thing in the morning.”

“You’re free to share dinner with me,” Terla said. “After that, I’m afraid there won’t be anything I can do for you until your task is finished.”

After a brief meal, Mendrion left Terla’s cottage. She permitted him to set up his tent anywhere in the glade that he wished and to let his horse to graze—which he was sure it had already done without waiting for permission. He asked her to look after the dapple and wagon while he was gone, and she agreed.

The following morning, Mendrion packed his supplies. With a farewell to his horse and one last look at the glade, he set out.