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them were mad.…”
    His face was wrung by an ancient pain as his flaming eyes bored into the red-haired man like augurs.
    “Kontovar was destroyed,” he said, still softly, “but only its corpse. Everything which had ever made it Kontovar, the Kontovar Ottovar and Gwynytha carved out of the darkness and brought into the light, had died already. Fire had consumed the Gryphon Throne. Trōfrōlantha, the city of Ottovar and Gwynytha, lay in ruins, the Dark Lords had triumphed, and they were poised to pursue the refugees even here, even to Norfressa, to complete the Dark Gods’ victory. The only hope of those who’d fled was for us to cripple the victors, because we lacked the power to kill them, though we did our best.” He laughed mirthlessly. “Oh, yes, we certainly did do our best! But we couldn’t kill them all. Only the gods themselves know how many of their slaves we did kill, or how many lesser wizards died, but too many of the arch-wizards lived. Hacromanthi they called Kontovar after that—the Grave of Evil—but not even the grave truly lasts forever, and the evil wasn’t dead. It only slept, and that sleep was uneasy.”
    He fell silent, staring into the fire again, and the red-haired man fought to comprehend the impossibility the old man represented. Somehow he couldn’t doubt the word of his strange, shabby-majestic companion, yet it was preposterous. The second most fabled wizard of history wasn’t supposed to be found in a tavern kitchen! And yet…and yet…
    He watched tiny motes of wildfire hang before the wizard’s glowing eyes and knew he heard the truth. And that terrified him to the marrow of his bones, for what conceivable business had he with a man who’d brought death to an entire continent? And then an even worse thought occurred to him. If Wencit of Rūm himself required his services, could he even hope to refuse?
    “And now,” Wencit shook himself, rousing from a moody inspection of the flames, “I’m the last white wizard of Kontovar—may my friends recall me with fondness in Isvaria’s halls! The gods know I gave them grief enough when they were alive!” He smiled at memories, then frowned. “But if their tasks are ended, mine isn’t, and I need your help. I said you were an important puzzle piece, but that isn’t entirely accurate. Or, rather, it’s not specific enough, because the truth is that you’re a key piece. I might almost say the key piece.”
    “But—” The red-haired man swallowed sharply. “I still don’t understand,” he went on, his voice much quieter, almost plaintive, his anger supplanted by confusion. “You’re Wencit of Rūm! Every schoolboy knows the legends about you, the things you’ve accomplished. You can’t need me! ”
    “Wencit of Rūm is my name, not what I am,” Wencit said. “Not necessarily, at least. I’m many things to many people—and for you, at this moment, I’m far more important than a maker of legends.” He snorted in self-derision. “Nor is legend-making all it’s said to be, my friend! They’re uncomfortable things, legends. They’re usually made by people who wish with all their heart they were somewhere else, and any sane person avoids them like the plague. But that’s beside the point, because whatever I am to other people, to you I’m the only man who knows how you fit into the struggles of wizards. I know a path through them, though honesty compels me to warn you that there aren’t any easy roads, and a journey with me won’t be pleasant. Oh, it may have its moments, but you’ll curse me as often as you thank me.” He grinned suddenly. “Bahzell could tell you I’m not the easiest trail companion even under the best of conditions, but you’re committed to a journey, no matter what. Unfortunately, it will almost certainly be a very short trip if you leave this tavern without me. For that matter, honesty compels me to admit that the odds are against survival whatever you do, I’m afraid. The only