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glared at them by way of reply, then started forward again. Soon enough, they followed.
    The humans had the good sense to let me be for most of the journey, my mood having transformed itself to match our surroundings. Some time later, however, Evelyn caught up with me, a question on her lips.
    “The big guy—Baranak—said most of your kind had been killed. How do you know the one you seek is still alive?”
    “I don’t,” I answered. “But we are about to find out.” I pointed through the dense branches to a row of tiny lights sparkling just ahead.
    Ten more minutes of tramping through slime brought us out of the dense growth and into a broad clearing, its central area dominated by an ancient stone castle complete with blazing torches along its walls and a drawbridge over a nearly dry moat. Weeping willows stood along the periphery of the clearing, doing their best to contribute to the gothic atmosphere. Somewhere to my left, predictably, a wolf howled. I made to approach the bridge, but before I’d taken half a dozen steps, a voice sounded from high above.
    “From the look of you,” the voice said, “you have come by the long way.”
    I gazed up at the figure leaning over the wall and waved once.
    “It seemed wisest,” I replied, deadpan.
    “In these times of uncertainty, I would say you acted properly.” His voice was rich and deep, with a hint of age to it—surely chosen for effect. After a moment, he added, “You didn’t do it.”
    “Your wisdom remains undiminished,” I replied. “I did not.”
    The rain drizzled harder, and I called back to him, “So, may we come in?”
    But he was gone from the wall.
    I frowned, but cheered up immensely as the broad wooden door across the bridge opened, seemingly of its own accord.
    “His castle seems to be welcoming us, anyway,” Evelyn noted.
    “There’s little difference,” I replied, directing them all to cross the bridge.
    The interior of the castle’s main hall displayed treasures from a multitude of places and times, and the humans reacted to the sight precisely the way I’d expected. They gawked and stared. For my own part, I was somewhat disappointed; at some point in the past thousand years, Malachek had apparently grown weary of the more bizarre features of his residence and removed them. No longer did stairways and halls perform impossible right-angle turns into nowhere. It seemed his fascination with Escherian architecture had ended, though I was certain surprises aplenty remained for the unwary within his domicile.
    “Greetings!”
    At the top of a set of grand but quite normal stairs stood the god of wisdom in all his glory. He was, of course, just as I remembered him from so long ago: tall and slender, with an aquiline nose, and wearing the same brown tweed suit of indeterminable vintage in which I always pictured him. His silver-gray hair, long in the back, was partially covered by a hat that still dripped rainwater, but as he descended the steps he quickly removed it and bowed.
    “Welcome to the house of Malachek,” he said with stiff formality.
     
    Malachek.
    In the months and years before the revolt, many of the others had come to him, soliciting his views on the growing conflict. Those who had not already made up their minds one way or the other looked to him for guidance and advice. Given his Aspect, this was hardly surprising. Knowing he therefore could have a potentially significant impact on the outcome, or at least on the disposition of the factions, leading figures from both camps visited his estate, hat in hand, seeking his blessing.
    He met all entreaties with stony silence.
    Oh, he could hold forth on nearly any other subject for hours, if given the opportunity. His expertise in so many fields was unrivaled. But with regard to the dispute between the faction nominally led by Baranak and my own, Malachek always walked a strictly neutral path, consorting with both, favoring neither. Not once did he publicly state a position