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name Seregil had remembered. Slanting sunlight reflected back from the white expanse before him, bright enough to make his eyes water. Frozen waves, wind scoured out of the hardpack, thrust glistening up through the fresh powder to cast shadows as blue as the sky overhead.
    Seregil’s heavy outer garments kept the worst of the biting cold at bay, but his nose and cheekbones were already numb. His breath condensed with every exhalation, freezing in a glistening rime on the fur edging of his cap. Untangling the snowshoes, he checked them for damage and quickly strapped them to his boots. His thick gloves were cumbersome, but it would be courting frostbite to remove them even briefly.
    With firmer footing on the snow now, he set out for a nearby rise to get his bearings. Anyone backtracking his trail would discover that he had more or less fallen from the sky, but that couldn’t be helped; he was, after all, supposed to be a wizard.
    From the top of the rise he spotted thin columns of smoke marking a village a few miles away on the western slope. Farther down the valley he could just make out a second village. The first was closer to the “horns of stone,” so he headed west.
    He was still nauseated and the thin, frigid air cut at his lungs, making dark spots dance in front of his eyes. Setting himself a steady pace, he marched along until he struck a trail leading toward the village. He was within half a mile of it when a pack of children and dogs appeared, running out to meet him.
    Seregil paused, leaning on his snow pole with a grin of relief. Dravnian hospitality was legendary among those few who knew of it. Members of a neighboring village were greeted as family,which they often were. Anyone from beyond the limiting peaks was regarded as a veritable marvel. Goats were probably already being slaughtered in his honor.
    “May I visit your village?” he asked in Dravnian as the children crowded excitedly around him.
    Laughing, they shouldered his baggage and led him in. Dogs barked, goats and sheep bleated from their stone enclosures. Villagers hailed him like some returning hero.
    The little settlement was made up of a collection of squat towers, round two-story affairs of piled stone topped with conical felt roofs. The main doors were set high in the upper level and reached by a ramp when the snow was not piled up to the doorsill. At the center of the village stood a tower broader than the rest. A sizable crowd had already collected outside, hoping for a look at the newcomer.
    The Dravnians were a short, broad-set people with black, almond-shaped eyes and coarse, dark hair that they wore slicked back with liberal applications of oil. A few among them, however, had lighter hair or finer features that spoke of mixed blood—probably Aurënfaie, since few others found their way to these remote valleys.
    The headman of the village was one of these half castes. As he stepped forward, smiling broadly, Seregil saw that the man’s eyes were the same clear grey as his own.
    “Welcome in this place, Fair One,” the fellow greeted him in a patois of broken Aurënfaie and Dravnian. “I am Retak, son of Wigris and Akra, leader of this village.”
    “I am Meringil, son of Solun and Nycanthi,” Seregil answered in Dravnian.
    Grinning, Retak lapsed back into his native tongue. “We’ve not seen one of your tribe since my grandfather’s time. You honor our village with your presence. Will you feast with us in the council house?”
    “You honor me,” Seregil replied, bowing as gracefully as his thick clothing allowed.
    The upper level of the council house, used as a communal storehouse, was floored over except for the large central smoke hole. Rough stone steps led down to the lower chamber, where a huge fire of dried dung chips had already been kindled in a fire pit surrounded by thick carpets and bolsters. Women bustledexcitedly around a cooking fire across the room, preparing the ritual meal.
    Seated at the central fire with