The cataclysm

THE BARGAIN DRIVER

I'll give you the two bronze knives, the string of elven beads, and the silver drinking horn, but that is my final offer."

"Are you mad, Matya?" the grizzled old trader said in exasperation. He gestured to the bolt of fine cloth that lay between them on the counter, in the center of the trading post's one dingy, cluttered room. "Why, this was woven for a noble lord in the city of Palanthas itself. It's worth twice what you're offering me. Nay, thrice!"

Matya watched the trader calculatingly with her bright brown eyes. She could always tell when she was about to best Belek in the driving of a bargain, for his nose invariably would begin to twitch.

"If the doth is so fine, why did the noble lord for whom it was made not buy it?" Matya asked pointedly.

Belek mumbled some excuse, but Matya waved it away with a ring-covered hand. "You may take my offer or leave it, Belek. You'll not get so much as a bent nail more."

The trader sighed, a look of dismay on his haggard face. "You're determined to drive me out of business, aren't you, Matya?" His bulbous nose gave a violent twitch.

Matya smiled inwardly, though she did not let the trader see her satisfaction. "It's simply business, Belek, that's all."

The trader grunted. "Aye, so it is. But I'll warn you, Matya. One day you'll drive a bargain too cleverly for your own good. There are some bargains that aren't worth taking, no matter how profitable they seem."

Matya laughed at that. "You always were a sore loser, Belek." She pushed the goods she had offered across the counter. Belek sighed — his nose twitching furiously — and pushed the bolt of cloth toward her. Matya spat on her palm. Belek did likewise, and the two shook hands. The bargain had been struck.

Matya bade Belek farewell and loaded the bolt of cloth into her wagon outside the ramshackle trading post. The wagon was a colorful, if somewhat road-worn, affair — a wooden box on wheels, painted in countless bright but peeling hues. Hitched in front was a single dun-colored donkey with patient eyes and extraordinarily long ears.

Matya's wagon was filled nearly to overflowing with all manner of wares, both mundane and curious: pots and pans, cloaks and boots, arrows and axes, flints, knives, and even a sword or two, plus countless other objects she had bought, haggled for, or — most of the time — scavenged. Traveling from town to town, trading and striking bargains, was how Matya made her living. And it was not a bad one at that.

Like the wagon, Matya herself was a bit worn with the years. Her long hair, coiled in a thick braid atop her head, had been flaxen, but now was ash gray. Countless days of sun and wind had tanned and toughened her ruddy cheeks. Fine wrinkles touched the comers of her eyes and mouth, more from smiling than frowning, and so were attractive. And, like the wagon, Matya was clad in a motley collection of clothes representing all colors of the rainbow, from her ocean-blue skirt to her sunflower-yellow shirt and forestgreen vest speckled with tiny red flowers. Her willowy, figure had plumped out, but there was still an air of beauty about her, of the simplest and most comforting kind — when her nut-brown eyes weren't flashing fire, that is.

"Let's be on our way, Rabbit," Matya told the donkey as she climbed onto the wagon's wooden bench. "If we hurry, we can reach Garnet by nightfall. There's a merchant there who's an even worse haggler than Belek." The donkey gave a snort that sounded uncannily like laughter.

Matya tied a bright red kerchief over her graying hair and grasped the wagon's reins in her strong, thick fingers. She whistled sharply, and Rabbit started off at a trot down the dusty highway, pulling the gaudily colored wagon behind.

It was midafternoon when she saw the ravens circling lazily against the azure sky not far in the distance. Matya knew well what the dark birds portended: Death ahead.

"Keep those ears up, Rabbit," she told the donkey as the wagon jounced down the heavily rutted road. "There's danger on the road these days."

Matya watched warily as the serene, rolling hills slipped by. Autumn had touched the land with its frosty hand, coloring the plains of southern Solamnia in a hundred shades of russet and gold. The honey-colored sunlight was warm and drowsy, but Matya resisted the temptation to doze, as she might have done otherwise. The land was beautiful, but beauty could conceal danger. She remained wide awake and alert.

The wagon crested a low rise. Below her, the road split, and it was here the ravens circled. The highway continued on to the north, and a second road led east, toward the dim purple range of mountains marching on the horizon. Scattered about the dusty crossroads were several queer, twisted objects. A raven dived down and pecked at one of the objects before flapping again into the air, and only then did Matya realize what the strange things were: corpses, lying still in the dirt of the road.

She counted five of them as Rabbit — eyeing the dead nervously — pulled the wagon to the crossroads. Matya climbed down and knelt to examine one of the bodies, an older man's, dressed in neat but threadbare attire. A crudely made arrow with black fletching protruded from its throat.

"Goblins," Matya said in disgust. She had heard rumors that the verminous creatures were creeping down from the high places of the mountains of late to waylay travelers. By her guess, these had been pilgrims, making for Caergoth, to the south, to visit the temples of the new gods there.

"They found their gods sooner than they thought," Matya muttered. She spoke a brief prayer to speed the dead on their journey, then began rummaging about the bodies, seeing if any of them carried something that might be worth trading. After all, the dead had no use for objects of value. Matya, on the other hand, did.

After several minutes, however, she gave up in disgust. Like most pilgrims, these owned little more than the clothes on their backs. She would not have scorned even these, but they were threadbare and stained with blood. All she had got for her trouble was a single copper coin, and a bent one at that.

"There's nothing for us here," Matya told Rabbit as she climbed back into the wagon. "Let's be on our way. Men riding out from Garnet will find these folk soon enough and lay them to rest — hopefully dead with the goblins."

Rabbit let out a low bray and started into a trot, anxious to be away from the crossroads and the smell of blood. Matya guided the donkey down the east road, but after a hundred paces or so she pulled hard on the reins, bringing the wagon again to a halt.

"Now what on the face of Krynn is that?" Matya asked herself. Something glinted brightly among the nettles and witchgrass to the side of the road. She started to ignore it, flick the reins, and continue on — the hour was growing late — but curiosity got the better of her. She slid from the wagon's bench, pushed through the weeds, and headed toward the glimmer she had seen. The nettles scratched at her ankles, but in a moment Matya forgot the sting.

"Why, 'tis a knight 1" she gasped aloud, staring at the man who lay, unmoving, in the weeds at her feet.

The man was clad in armor of beaten steel, but his visage was more that of a shiftless vagabond than a noble knight. His eyes were deeply set, his features thin and careworn, and the mouse-brown moustache that drooped over his mouth was coarse and scraggly.

Whether he was, in truth, a knight or a looter in stolen armor, it didn't much matter now, Matya thought. His hair was matted with blood, and his skin was ashen with the pallor of death. She said the familiar words to appease the spirit of the dead, then knelt beside the corpse.

The steel armor alone would be worth a fortune, but it was terribly heavy, and Matya was not entirely certain she would be able to remove it. However, the knight wore a leather purse at his belt, and that boded well for Matya's fortunes. Deftly, she undid the strings, peered inside, and gasped in wonder.

A woman's face gazed out of the purse at her. The tiny face was so lifelike that, for a moment, Matya almost fancied it was real — a small, perfect maiden hidden within the pouch.

"Why, it's a doll," she realized after a heartbeat had passed.

The doll was exquisitely made, fashioned of delicate bone-white porcelain. The young maiden's eyes were two glowing sapphires, and her cheeks and lips were touched with a blush of pink. It was a treasure fit for a lord's house, and Matya's eyes glimmered like gems themselves as she reached to lift it from the purse.

A hand gripped her arm, halting her. Matya froze, biting her lip to stifle a scream. It was the dead man. His fingers, sticky with dried blood, dug into the flesh of her arm, and he gazed at her with pale, fey eyes.

The knight was very much alive.

"Tambor…" the knight whispered. He lay slumped against the wheel of Matya's wagon, his eyes shut. "She sings… Tambor…" His mumbling faded, and he drifted deeper into a feverish sleep.

Matya sat near the small fire, sipping a cup of rose hip tea and watching the knight carefully. Twilight had descended on the grove of aspen trees where she had made camp, transforming all the colors of the world to muted shades of gray.

Tambor, Matya thought. There's that word again. She had heard it several times in the knight's fevered rambling, but she did not know what it meant, or even whether it was the name of a place or a person. Whatever it was, it was important to him. As important as that doll, she thought. Even now, in his sleep, the knight clutched tightly at the purse that held the small porcelain figurine. It had to be valuable indeed.

While Matya was not one to go out of her way to help others when it was unclear what — if any — reward she might gain from it, neither was she without a heart. The knight would have died had she left him there by the road, and she would not have wanted that weighing on her conscience to the end of her days. Besides, she suspected there was a good chance the knight would die regardless of her aid, in which case the doll would be hers, free and clear. Either way, it was worth her while to help.

Getting the knight into her wagon had been no simple task. Fortunately, Matya was a strong woman, and the knight had roused himself enough to stumble most of the way with her help. She had hoped to make Garnet by nightfall, but she had tarried too long at the crossroads. Shadows were lengthening, and the town still lay many leagues ahead. Knowing night was not far off, fearful of Rabbit stumbling into a hole or missing the trail in the dark, she had made camp in the grove of aspen by the road.

She had tended to the knight's wounds as best she could. The cut on his scalp was shallow, but he had lost a good deal of blood from it. More troubling had been the wound in the knight's leg. She had found the broken shaft of an arrow embedded in the flesh behind his knee. Goblin arrows were wickedly barbed, Matya knew, and there was only one way for her to remove the arrow tip. Steeling her will, she had pushed the broken shaft completely through the flesh of his leg. Mercifully, the knight had not awakened. Blood flowed freely from the wound, which she had deftly bound with a dean cloth. The bleeding soon stopped.

The night deepened, and the stars came out, one by one, like tiny jewels in the sky above. Matya sat by the fire to eat a supper of dried fruit, nuts, and bread, regarding the knight's sleeping form thoughtfully through the back of the wagon.

If he still lived when she reached Garnet the next day, she would leave him at one of the monasteries dedicated to the new gods — if the brethren would accept a Solamnic Knight into their sanctuary, she amended. There were many who frowned upon the Knights of Solamnia these days. Matya had heard tales that told how, long ago, the knights had been men of greatness and honor, who had protected all Solamnia against creatures like goblins. Matya, however, was not certain she believed such tales.

Most Solamnic Knights she had ever heard of were little more than fools who expected others to be impressed simply because they wore ridiculous suits of rusting armor. Some folk even said it was the knights themselves who brought about the Cataclysm, the fiery destruction that had rained down upon the face of Krynn more than half a century ago, bringing an end to the Age of Might.

"Not that I think the Cataclysm was really such a terrible thing," Matya said to herself. "I daresay I wouldn't make as good a living as I do if these self-important knights still patrolled the highways. And while times may be hard, it only means that people will spend more dearly for the sort of things I can bring them in my wagon. If anything, the Cataclysm has been good for business, and that's all that matters to me."

With a start, Matya realized that the knight had heard her talking, was watching her. His eyes were pale, almost colorless.

"To whom do I owe my life?" he asked her.

Matya stared at him in surprise. Despite his unlikely looks, the knight's voice was resonant, deep and almost musical, like the sound of a hunting horn.

"My name is Matya," she said briskly, recovering her wits. "And as for what you owe me, we can discuss that later."

The knight inclined his head politely. "I am Trevarre, of the House of Navarre," he said in his noble voice. "For your assistance, I thank you, but if it is a reward you seek, I fear we must discuss it now, not later." He gripped the wagon's side and tried to pull himself up, heedless of his injuries.

"What are you doing?" Matya cried.

"Leaving," Trevarre said. A crooked smile touched his lips, and determination shone in his deep-set eyes. "You have been more than kind, Matya, but I have traveled day and night to reach the end of my journey. I cannot stop, not yet."

"Why, you knights are greater fools than the tales say," Matya said angrily, hands on her hips. "You'll only kill yourself"

"So be it," Trevarre said, shrugging as if this prospect did not disturb him. He grimaced, breathing hard, as he slid from the wagon and balanced on his good leg. "I must go on" He took a step onto his injured leg. His face went white with pain. He groaned and slumped to the ground.

Matya clucked her tongue, helped him sit back up against the wagon wheel. "I don't think you're going anywhere, except to a monastery in Garnet — or the grave, if you try that again" She poured a cup of water from a goatskin and handed it to him. The knight nodded in thanks and drank it down.

"You do not understand, Matya," Trevarre said, an intent look on his weathered face. "I must journey to Tambor. I have received a plea for help. I cannot refuse it."

Matya scowled. "Why ever not?"

Trevarre sighed, stroking his scraggly moustache. "I do not know if I can make you understand this, but I will try. I am a Knight of the Sword, Matya." He rested his hand against his steel breastplate, decorated with the symbol of the sword. "This means I cannot live my life as other men do. Instead, I must live by another, higher standard — by the Oath and the Measure. It is written in the Measure that there is honor in aiding those who cry out in need. And, by the Oath, I swore that my honor is my life. I will fulfill my quest, Matya." A faint light glimmered in his pale eyes. "Or die trying."

"And what reward will you get for performing this 'honorable' task?" Matya asked with a scowl.

"My honor is reward enough."

Matya sniffed. "This 'Oath and Measure' hardly sounds practical. It's rather difficult to eat one's honor when one gets hungry." She paused a moment. Her real interest was in the doll, but she couldn't think of how to ask about it without rousing the knight's suspicion. Maybe, if she could keep him talking about himself, he'd tell her what she wanted to know. "And how is it you came to hear this plea for help, Knight? How do you know it's not simply a trick to lure you into a den of robbers?"

"I know." The crooked smile touched Trevarre's lips once again. "By this, I know." He slipped the porcelain doll from the leather pouch.

Matya was thrilled. She had not thought to get another glimpse so easily. Seeing it closely now, Matya realized the doll was even more beautiful than she had thought. She clasped her hands behind her back so she would not be tempted to reach out and touch its smooth surface.

"Passing fair, would you not say?" Trevarre said softly. Matya could only nod. "It is a most remarkable thing. I came upon it some days ago, by the banks of a stream that flows from the mountains. It lay in a small boat woven of rushes, caught in a snag by the shore." He slipped the figurine back into its pouch. "By it, I learned of a maiden who lives in a village called Tambor. She is in dire need. The code of the Measure is most clear on this. I must go to her."

Matya raised an eyebrow. It was a peculiar tale. She guessed Trevarre had stolen the doll and simply was making up the story. After all, he looked more like a thief than a knight, despite his armor. If so, stolen goods were fair game. Ask any trader.

"How is it you learned of this maiden?" she asked, hoping to trip him in his lie. "Was there a message in the boat?"

"No," the knight replied, "not as you mean, at least. You see, the doll is magical. Each night, when Solinari rises, the doll speaks with the maiden's voice. That is how I heard her call for help."

Matya laughed aloud, slapping her knee. "A wondrous tale indeed, Trevarre, but I believe you have taken up the wrong vocation. You should be a storyteller, not a knight."

Trevarre's expression became grave, serious. "You must know, Matya, that on his life a Knight of Solamnia cannot speak falsehood. I can understand why you do not trust in magic. We knights do not think much of sorcerous powers either. But wait until Solinari is on the rise. Perhaps you will change your mind."

Matya studied the knight attentively. His was not exactly a trustworthy face, despite his pretty voice. Still, there was something about the intentness of his pale eyes.

"Perhaps I won't," she said.

It was nearly midnight. The knight had slipped into a doze, less fitfully this time, and Matya rummaged through a wooden box in the back of her wagon. The light of a single candle illuminated scrolls and parchments. Finally, she found what she was searching for — a bundle of yellowed sheets of vellum.

Matya untied the bundle's silken ribbon and unrolled the sheets, spreading them out on the lid of the box. They were maps, rendered in fading ink. A kender had given them to Matya some years ago in exchange for a silver knife. It had proved to be one of the few unprofitable trades Matya had ever made. She soon had learned that the maps contained many mistakes. They showed land where there were seas, mountains where there were deserts, and populous cities in which no one lived. She should have known better than to trust a kender. They were little tricksters, all of them. Still, poor as the maps were, they were the only maps she had, and she was curious about something.

She shuffled through the maps until she found one that had SOLAMNIA written on the top. The mountains were missing, and the map showed Caergoth to be an inland city, while Matya knew very well that it stood on the coast. Some features had been added to the map in a bold, scrawling hand, and Matya suspected these were the kender's own additions. Among other things, the kender's scrawls showed the highways leading to Garnet and Caergoth, and the crossroads as well.

"Now where is it?" Matya muttered, running a finger over the yellowed, cracking vellum. "It has to be here." Then she found what she sought. Written in small, faded letters was the word TAMBOR. By the markings on the map, the village of Tambor was no more than ten miles north and east of the crossroads. "But that would put it in the foothills of the mountains, though this map shows southern Solamnia to be nothing but plains," she added in disgust.

The kender had written something beside the spot marked TAMBOR. She had to squint to make out the scrawling words. They read, DEESTROYD IN KATAKLISM. Matya mumbled an oath under her breath.

If this was true, then the village the knight sought had been destroyed more than fifty years ago. So much for his plea for help! A liar, as she'd suspected. She didn't know why that hurt her.

Trevarre called out. Matya hastily put away the maps. She found the knight still sitting by the wagon wheel. The porcelain doll stood on the ground before him.

"It is almost time," he said, nodding toward the west. A pearly glow had touched the distant horizon. Solinari, the largest of Krynn's three moons, soon would rise.

Matya sat on a fallen log near the knight, eyes on the doll. While she did not believe Trevarre's story, she was curious to see what he would do when the doll failed to speak.

"Wait," Trevarre said softly. "Just wait."

Matya sighed, resting her chin on a hand, and waited. This was rapidly growing tedious. Finally, a thin, silvery sliver of Solinari lifted above the far-off horizon.

The doll began to sing.

Matya stared at the porcelain statuette in shock. The maiden's lips moved. A sweet, wordless song drifted upon the night air. There was no doubt but that the song came from the doll.

Matya shot a look at Trevarre. The knight's pale eyes were triumphant. The song continued, a sad melody that tugged at Matya's heart. Finally the sweet music ended, and the doll spoke.

"Please, come to me, whoever finds me," it said, its voice cool and lilting but filled with sorrow as well. "I beg you. Come to the village of Tambor. I need help desperately. Please"

Solinari lifted full above the horizon, and the doll fell silent. Matya's eyes glimmered as she stared at it calculatingly.

"An enchanted doll!" she said to herself. "Why, it is worth a king's ransom."

"Do you believe my tale now?" Trevarre asked, a slight smile beneath his mousy moustache.

Matya nodded. "I believe you." She was glad to believe in him, too, but she didn't tell him that.

"I have something to ask of you," the knight said. "It appears my legs are set on betraying me. I cannot journey to Tambor on foot, but your wagon could carry me. Take me there, Matya. Take me to Tambor, please."

"And what would I gain for my trouble?" Matya asked coolly.

Trevarre reached inside the collar of his woolen cloak and undid the clasp. He held it out to her. "Will this do?" The clasp was fashioned of finely wrought silver, inlaid with pearl and lapis lazuli. Matya appraised it with a practiced eye. The jewel obviously was quite valuable. By any measure, the trade would be a good one, but it was not enough.

"Give me the doll as well," Matya said crisply, "then I will take you to Tambor."

Trevarre gazed at her for a long moment, but Matya did not so much as blink. Finally he laughed. "You drive a hard bargain, I see. It appears I have little choice but to accept. Very well, I will give you the doll — but only after we reach Tambor."

"Agreed," Matya said, her eyes flashing. She took the jeweled clasp from his outstretched hand and spirited it away to a pocket in her dress. 1 will keep this as assurance." She knew that Trevarre likely would be distressed when he found Tambor in ruins and his quest proved a folly. However, if he was a man of honor, he would keep his word. The doll would be Matya's. I'll take you to Tambor, Knight."

She spat in her hand and held it out. Trevarre looked at her in puzzlement for a moment, then nodded solemnly and did the same. They shook hands firmly. The bargain had been struck.

Matya and the knight set out with the dawn, traveling east down the road to Garnet. The mountains loomed high before them, like great gray giants. Their summits were already dusted with a coating of snow, bespeaking the winter that soon would blanket the rest of Solamnia.

Matya studied the kender's map as Rabbit plodded on, pulling the wagon along the jouncing road. The map was terribly faded and crumbled a bit each time she touched it, but Matya could make out the line of a faint road leading south from the place marked Tambor. If the kender had drawn in the highway to Garnet at all accurately, they ought to reach the road to Tambor sometime around midmorning.

"'Two giants point the way,'" Trevarre said. Matya looked questioningly at the knight, who was propped up on the bench beside her. "That was the sign the doll spoke of that would guide me to the village," he explained. "I imagine it means two mountains, or some such thing."

"You were going to try to find the village with directions like that?" Matya asked.

Trevarre only shrugged.

"Humph!" Matya snorted. "If this maiden of yours was going to all this trouble to get rescued, she might have given you dearer instructions."

Before Trevarre could reply, one of the wheels hit a deep rut, and he winced as the wagon lurched roughly. He was in better shape today than he'd been the night before, but his face was still pale, and the roughness of the wagon's ride obviously was causing him pain. He did not complain, however.

Midmorning passed and noon approached, and still Matya saw no sign of a road leading north from the highway. Finally she pulled on the reins, and Rabbit came to a halt. "It's time for a rest," she said.

She fastened a feedbag over Rabbit's muzzle, then found food for herself and Trevarre. A jumble of massive, oddly shaped granite boulders, warmed by the sun, lay next to the road. The two sat on these as they ate a meal of cheese, bread, and dried fruit. When they had finished, Matya checked Trevarre's bandages. "Your hands are gentle, though your tongue is sharp," said the knight, smiling at her. Matya blushed, but ignored him and nodded in satisfaction. The knight's wounds had closed, and none of them showed signs of festering.

"We had best be on our way," she said, eyeing the sun, which now shone directly overhead. She helped Trevarre stand, offered him her shoulder to lean on. He smelled of oiled steel and leather, not an unpleasant scent, she thought, as the two started making their way back to the wagon. Suddenly Matya froze.

"What is it?" Trevarre asked, looking quickly about in alarm. "Goblins?"

"No," Matya whispered. "No, it's a face."

She pointed to the boulder Trevarre had been sitting on. They had not noticed it earlier, because the shadows had obscured it, but with the sun directly overhead, Matya now saw it as plain as day. The boulder was carved in the face of a man.

The carving was weathered and cracked — it must have been ancient — but Matya still could make out the proud, kingly features, the aquiline nose, and deep, moss-filled eyes. Looking around, she saw that other overgrown boulders were parts of a man — one shaped like a hand, another like a shoulder, still another like a boot.

"It is a statue," Trevarre said in amazement, "a gigantic statue. It must have fallen over years ago, by the looks of it, probably in the Cataclysm."

"Wait, there are two of them," Matya said, pointing to another broken boulder, which was carved in the form of a regal-looking woman.

"The two giants," Trevarre said. "It seems the maiden's directions were not so inadequate after all."

The road beyond the ruined statues was all but hidden by a tangle of willows and brambles. Matya doubted that anyone had come this way in a long time. The way was passable but overgrown and rutted. Trevarre winced each time the wagon's wheel hit a bump, but he said nothing.

"He has courage, if not sense," Matya told herself. She glanced at him, and for a brief moment her hard expression softened. She found herself wondering just how. old Trevarre was. He was not a young man, she suspected, despite his foolhardiness.

The narrow road wound across the rolling foothills, over grassy knolls and through groves of aspen and fir. In places the trail was so faint Matya could hardly see it, and several times it ended abruptly, only to be found continuing a hundred paces to the left or right. It was almost as if the land itself had shifted beneath the road, breaking it into pieces.

As the hills slipped away to either side, Matya began to feel a growing sense of unease. The land around them was strangely silent. There are no birds here, she realized with a start, here where the meadows should have been filled with birds.

It was late in the afternoon, and the amber sunlight had grown heavy and dull, when the wagon crested a low ridge. Below lay a small, grassy dell, and in its center stood -

"Tambor," Trevarre said triumphantly.

Matya shook her head in astonishment. She had expected to see a pile of ruins in the dell, the burned-out husks of a few cottages perhaps, and some crumbling stone walls. Instead she saw a prosperous village. More than a score of well-tended cottages lined a main street, busy with people, horses, chickens, and dogs. Smoke rose from a low stone building — probably a smithy — and a mill's waterwheel turned slowly in a small stream.

"You have kept your end of the bargain, Matya," Trevarre said solemnly. "Now it is my turn." He handed her the leather pouch that contained the doll. Matya gripped the purse with numb hands.

The kender had been wrong, she told herself, that was all. Tambor had NOT been destroyed in the Cataclysm. Matya didn't know why she was surprised. Still, there was something about this that did not seem entirely right.

"What is such a prosperous village doing at the end of such an overgrown road?" she asked herself, but she had no answer. Not that it mattered. She had the doll now. That was all she cared about.

"I can walk the rest of the way," Trevarre said, starting to climb down from the wagon, but Matya stayed him with a hand on his arm.

"I know it's hard, but try not to be a fool, Knight. I'll take you into the village. I'll need to stay here anyway. It's growing late. I'll set out again in the morning."

Matya guided the wagon to the banks of the stream. A small stone bridge arched over the clear, flowing water. A young woman stood on the far side of the stream. She was clad in a gown of flowing white, and her hair was as dark as jet. She was beautiful, as beautiful as the porcelain doll.

"My knight, you have come to me!" the woman cried out. Her voice was the doll's sweet voice. Matya thought this odd, disconcerting, but it didn't bother Trevarre. His pale eyes shining, he slipped from the wagon and limped across the stone bridge, ignoring the pain of his injury. He knelt before the young woman and kissed her fine-boned hand.

Matya scowled. He never kissed my hand, she thought sourly.

"I am Ciri," said the sweet voice. "Welcome, Sir Knight. My deliverance is at hand."

Ciri led Trevarre and Matya around the edge of the village. "Quickly," she said softly. "The fewer the folk who see us, the better."

Matya wondered why, but it wasn't her place to ask. Trevarre tried to walk faster, but it was clear his wounded leg was causing him great pain. Ciri laid a fine hand on his elbow, and the grimace eased from the knight's face. He walked more easily with her hand on his arm. Matya noticed that Trevarre seemed to have taken more than a passing interest in Ciri's lovely face. "I'll warrant he's more interested in her looks than his honor," she muttered, suddenly annoyed for no particular reason.

As they walked, Matya looked at the village in the ruddy light of the setting sun. Nothing appeared out of order, but something was not right. You're tired, Matya, that's all, she told herself. Tomorrow you'll ride into Garnet and leave this knight and his foolishness behind. That thought should have made her feel better, but it didn't.

Ciri led them to a small, thatch-roofed cottage standing slightly apart from the others. She looked about to make certain no one was watching, then opened the door, gesturing for Trevarre and Matya to enter.

The cottage was warm and neatly kept. A fire burned on the fieldstone hearth, and the wooden floor had been scrubbed clean. Ciri bade them sit down. She filled a wooden cup with crimson wine for each of them. Matya raised the cup of wine, then set it down without drinking it. It had a funny smell to it. Trevarre, however, drank deeply, thanking the woman for her hospitality — all politeness, as his Measure called for, Matya supposed with a frown.

"And now, my lady, you must tell me why you have called to me," Trevarre said. Ciri smiled at him, a sweet, sorrowful smile. "And I hope your reason is a good one," Matya noted, crossing her arms. "It was no mean feat getting this knight here, I'll tell you"

Ciri turned her gaze toward Matya for a moment, and suddenly her smile was neither sweet nor sorrowful. 'Tor that, I do thank you, my good woman," Ciri said. Matya could not mistake the coldness in Ciri's otherwise lovely voice. It was clear that Matya's presence had not been expected; neither was it wanted.

Ciri's gaze turned soft again as she regarded the knight. Matya scowled, but she said nothing. If the young woman feared competition for the knight's attention, then she was as much a fool as Trevarre. There was little room in a bargain driver's life for love. Such fancies dulled the sharp edge Matya depended on for her livelihood. Besides, there was nothing about the knight she liked, even if his pale eyes were strangely attractive and his voice DID remind her of a trumpet's call.

The gloom of twilight descended outside the cottage's window. Ciri began her tale. "I fear the fate that lies before me is dark, my knight. A terrible wizard — my uncle — means to force me to marry him, against all propriety and my own wishes. He is a mage of great power, feared by all the folk of Tambor, and even beyond. He is away now, gathering components for his magecraft, but when he returns, he will compel me to wed. You have arrived none too soon, my knight."

"Well, why don't you simply run away?" Matya asked. Ciri gave her another chill look. "I fear it is not so simple. You see, my uncle dabbles in the black arts, heedless of the peril to his soul. He has cast an enchantment upon me. I am unable to leave the village. The banks of the stream are as far as I may tread. Should I take but one step beyond, I would perish."

"But what of your father?" Trevarre asked. "Will he not protect you from your barbarous uncle?"

Ciri shook her head sadly. "My father and mother both died many years ago. There is no one here to protect me. That was why I wove the boat of rushes and sent the doll down the waters of the stream, hoping someone might find it and hear my plea"

"How does the doll speak with your voice?" Matya asked, not caring if she aroused more of Ciri's displeasure.

"It was but the echo of my voice," Ciri explained, her eyes on the knight. "The doll is a magical thing. My rather brought it all the way from Palanthas for me when I was a child. If you speak to it, or sing it a song, it will echo your words back to you with the rising moon, exactly as you spoke them."

Matya's eyes glittered brightly. This was better and better. The doll would be almost beyond price. almost, that is. Matya always had a price.

"And how can I break this grievous enchantment?" Trevarre asked earnestly. He was good at this knightly business, Matya had to admit, despite his sorry looks. Ciri stood and walked to the window, gazed through it sadly a moment, then turned to the knight.

"There, in the center of the village, stands a shrine. In that shrine is an altar carved of marble. The altar is the focus of all my uncle's dark powers. I know, for I have seen him work his wicked spells there. From it, he draws his strength. But the magic of the doll has the power to counter it. If one who is strong of heart sets the doll upon the altar of his own free will, the enchantment will be broken."

"And what will happen to the doll?" Matya asked suspiciously.

"Its magic will be dissipated," Ciri answered. "It will become an ordinary doll and nothing more."

She walked to Trevarre then, and he rose to meet her. She laid a hand gently upon his breastplate. Matya could see the pulse beating rapidly in the man's throat. It was clear Trevarre was not immune to Ciri's bewitching beauty. Another weakness of knights, Matya thought acidly. Not that she cared one way or the other, she reminded herself.

"Will you do this task for me, my knight?" Ciri pleaded. "I cannot break the enchantment with my own hand, and there is none in the village brave enough to defy my uncle. Will you help me?"

Trevarre sighed and glanced at Matya. "I would, with all my heart, that I could do this thing, my lady, but I fear I cannot. You see, I have given Matya the doll in payment for bringing me to this place. On my honor, I cannot ask her for it back"

Ciri's face twitched. She shot Matya a look so filled with malice that Matya shivered. Then, aware of the knight's eyes on her, Ciri's sweet, sorrowful look had returned to her lovely face. She bowed her head.

"Then I am doomed, my knight."

"No," he said, with a fierce smile. "No, I cannot think that. I am no sorcerer, but I expect there is another — albeit cruder — way to free you." His hand moved to the hilt of the sword at his hip. "I will stand before your uncle when he returns, and I will demand a duel. The enchantment will be broken when your uncle lies dead at my feet. Won't that solve your problem, my lady?"

Ciri sighed. "My knight, you are indeed brave," she murmured. "So very brave."

Matya noticed, however, that Ciri did not answer Trevarre's question.

Matya awoke in the gray light before dawn. Ciri had provided her a bed. Trevarre slept soundly on a bed of furs before the cottage's hearth. Matya looked around the cottage, but Ciri was nowhere to be seen.

Just as well, Matya thought. This way she would not have to bid the strange young woman good-bye.

Matya knelt beside the sleeping knight before she left. His careworn face was peaceful in slumber, his brow untroubled.

"I hope you find your honor truly reward enough, Knight," she whispered softly. She hesitated a moment, then reached out a hand, as if to smooth his mouse-brown hair over the bandage on his head. He stirred, and she pulled her hand back. Quietly, Matya slipped from the cottage.

"Trevarre has what he wants," she reminded herself, "and so do I."

The ruddy orb of the sun crested the dim purple mountains to the east as Matya made her way through the village. A few folk already were up at this hour, but they paid her no heed as they went about their business. Once again, Matya had the feeling there was something peculiar about this village, but she could not quite fathom what it was. She hurried on toward her wagon and the restless Rabbit.

Then it struck her.

"The shadows are all wrong!" she said aloud.

Her own shadow stretched long before her in the low morning sunlight, but hers was the only shadow that looked like it was supposed to look. The shadow cast by a twostory cottage to her left was short and lumpy — much shorter than she would have expected for a building so high. She looked all around the village and saw more examples of the same. Nowhere did the outline of a shadow match that of the object that cast it. Even more disturbing were the villagers themselves. None of them cast shadows at all!

Her sense of unease growing, Matya gathered up her skirts and hurried onto the stone bridge. She suddenly wanted to be away from this troubling place. She was nearly across the bridge when something — she was unsure exactly what — compelled her to cast one last glance over her shoulder. Abruptly she froze, clapping a hand over her mouth to stifle a cry.

The village had changed.

Well-tended cottages were nothing more than broken, burned stone foundations. The smithy was a pile of rubble, and there was no trace of the mill except for the rotted remains of the waterwheel, slumped by the bank of the stream, looking like the twisted web of some enormous spider. There were no people, no horses, no dogs, no chickens. The dell was bare. The dark ground was hard and cracked, as if it had been baked in a furnace.

Matya's heart lurched. She ran a few, hesitant steps back across the bridge, toward the village, and she gasped again. Tambor looked as it had before, the villagers going about their business. Blue smoke rose from a score of stone chimneys.

Perhaps I imagined it, she thought, but she knew that wasn't true. Slowly, she turned her back to the village once more and walked across the bridge. She looked out of the comer of her eye and again saw the jumbled ruins and blackened earth behind her. Slowly, she began to understand.

Tambor HAD been destroyed in the Cataclysm. The people, the bustling village, were images of what had been long ago. It was all illusion. Except the illusion was imperfect, Matya realized. It appeared only when she traveled toward the village, not away from it. But how did the illusion come to exist in the first place?

Resolutely, Matya walked back across the bridge. She found that, if she concentrated, the illusion of the bustling village would waver and grow transparent before her eyes, and she could see the blackened ruins beneath. She walked to the center of the village, toward the single standing stone of pitted black basalt. This was the shrine of which Ciri had spoken. At the base of the standing stone was an altar, but it was not hewn of marble, as Ciri had claimed. The altar was built of human skulls, cemented together with mud. They grinned at Matya, staring at her with their dark, hollow eyes.

"Did you really think I would allow you to leave with the doll?" Ciri spoke behind her in a voice cool and sweet.

Startled, Matya turned around. She half expected to see that Ciri had changed like the rest of the village. The woman was as lovely as ever, but there was a hard, deadly light in her sapphire-blue eyes.

Ciri gazed at Matya, then understanding flickered across her face. "Ah, you see the village for what it is, don't you?"

Matya nodded silently, unable to speak.

Ciri shrugged. "It is just as well. It makes things easier. I'm glad you know, in fact."

"What do you want from me?" Matya asked.

"To strike a bargain with you, Matya. Isn't that what you like to do above all things?"

Matya's eyes narrowed, but she said nothing.

"You have something I want very much," Ciri said softly.

"The doll," Matya said, eyeing the woman.

"You see, Matya, despite the illusions I have used to mask the appearance of the village, much of what I told you last night was the truth. An enchantment does prevent me from leaving the village, and only the doll can break it."

"How is it you came to be here in the first place?" Matya asked.

"I have always been here," Ciri said in her crystalline voice. "I am old, Matya, far older than you. You see me now as I was the day the Cataclysm struck the face of Krynn, more than half a century ago."

Matya stared at her in shock and disbelief, but Ciri did not pause.

"By my magic, I saw the coming of the Cataclysm. I prepared an enchantment to protect myself from it." A distant look touched her cold eyes, and her smile grew as sharp and cruel as a knife. "Oh, the others begged at my door for me to protect them as well. The same wretches who had mocked my magic before wanted me to save them, but I turned my back on them. I wove my magic about myself, and I watched all of them perish in agony as the rain of fire began." Ciri's face was exultant, her fine hands clenched into fists.

Matya watched her with calculating eyes. "Something went wrong, didn't it?"

"Yes," Ciri hissed angrily. "Yes, something went wrong!" She paused, recovered her composure. "I could not have foreseen it. The power of the Cataclysm twisted my magic. The enchantment protected me, as I commanded, but it also cursed me to remain here alone in this ruined town, not aging, not changing, and never able to leave."

Matya shuddered. Despite herself, she could not help but pity this evil woman.

"I want to be free of this place — I will be free of this place," Ciri said, "and for that I need the doll."

Matya was no longer afraid. Magic was Ciri's element, but bargaining was Matya's own. "And what would you give me in exchange for the doll?" she asked. "It is worth a lot to me."

"I made that one, and once I am free I will have the power to make more," Ciri replied. "I will fashion you a dozen such dolls, Matya. No one in Ansalon will be wealthier than you. All you have to do is give the doll to Trevarre. HE wants more than anything to rescue me, to preserve his precious HONOR". She said this last word with a sneer. "He will place the doll upon the altar, and I will be free. And so will you. I swear it, by Nuitari."

"And what will happen to Trevarre?" Matya asked, as if she didn't much care.

Ciri shrugged. "What does it matter? You and I will have what we want."

"I'm curious, that's all," Matya said, shrugging.

"You'll find out anyway, I suppose," Ciri replied. "He will take my place in the enchantment. He will be imprisoned within Tambor even as I am now. He will not suffer, however. I will see to it that HIS soul is destroyed. The empty husk of his body will dwell here until the end of all days." Ciri arched her eyebrow. "Are you satisfied?"

Matya nodded, her expression unchanging. "I'll need to think this bargain over."

"Very well," Ciri said, annoyed, "but be swift about it. I grow tired of waiting. Oh, and if you are thinking of warning the knight, go ahead. He won't believe you." The enchantress turned and stalked away, vanishing among the ruins of the village.

Matya retrieved the leather pouch with the doll from its hiding place in her wagon and tied it to her belt. She sat for a time on the wagon's bench, alone with her thoughts, then finally made her way back to Ciri's cottage. Like all the others, this building was in ruins. The roof was gone, and two of the walls had fallen into a jumble of broken stone.

Trevarre had risen and was in the process of adjusting the straps of his ornate armor. He looked up in surprise.

"Matya. I did not hear you open the door."

Matya bit her tongue to keep from telling him there WAS no door.

"Have you seen Ciri this morning?" he asked. He ran a hand through his lank brown hair.

"I saw her out in the village," Matya said, afraid to say more.

"Is something wrong, Matya?" Trevarre asked her, frowning.

Matya's hand crept to the leather purse. She could have everything she had ever wanted, if she just gave Trevarre the doll. He would take it. She knew he would. As unlikely as Trevarre looked on the outside, the heart that beat in his chest was a knight's, true and pure. He would break the enchantment, and Ciri would be free. She had sworn her oath by Nuitari — a vow no sorcerer could break. Matya would be rich beyond her dreams. It would be the greatest bargain Matya had ever struck.

Her hand reached into the pouch, brushing the smooth porcelain. "I wanted to tell you…" She swallowed and started over. "I just wanted to tell you, Trevarre.. "

"Go on," he said in his resonant voice, his pale eyes regarding her seriously.

Matya saw kindness in his gaze, and, for one brief moment, she almost imagined she saw something more — admiration, affection.

Matya sighed. She could not do it. How could she live with herself, knowing it was she who had silenced Trevarre's noble voice forever? She could strike a bargain for anything — anything but another's life. Belek had been right. There were some bargains that weren't worth making.

"There IS something wrong," Matya blurted. "Something terribly wrong." She told Trevarre of her conversation with Ciri. "You see, we must leave — now!"

The knight shook his head.

"She is evil!" Matya protested.

"I cannot believe it, Matya."

"What?" she said in shock. Although Ciri had warned her, Matya still was shocked. She had given up the greatest bargain of her life, and now he claimed that he didn't believe her? "But what reason would I have to lie to you, Trevarre? Has her loveliness made a slave of you already?" Her voice was bitter.

He held up a hand. "I did not say that I do not believe you, Matya. I said that I cannot. I cannot believe evil of another without proof." He sighed and paced about the ruined cottage, which to his eyes still looked warm and hospitable. "How can I explain it to you, Matya? It has to do with the Measure I swore to uphold. Ciri sent out a plea for help, and I have answered it. Yes, she is lovely, but that is hardly the reason I cannot heed your warnings, Matya. She has shown me nothing but courtesy. To leave without aiding her would be a grave dishonor. And you know — "

"Yes, I know," Matya said harshly. " 'Your honor is your life.' But what if she tried to harm you?"

"That would be different. Then I would know she is evil. But she has not. Nothing has changed. I will help her break the enchantment that keeps her here in this village if it is at all in my power to do so."

Trevarre fastened his sword belt about his waist and walked to the door of the ruined cottage. Before he stepped outside, he laid a gentle hand upon Matya's arm. "I doubt that it matters to you," he said hesitantly in his clear voice, "but, to my eyes, you are every bit as lovely."

Before Matya could so much as open her mouth in surprise, Trevarre was gone.

Matya stood in silence for a long moment, then muttered angrily under her breath, "The Solamnic Knights aren't fools. They're idiots!" She stamped out of the open doorway after Trevarre.

Ciri was waiting for her.

"Do you have an answer for me, Matya?" Ciri asked in her lilting voice.

Trevarre stood before the enchantress, the wind blowing his cloak out behind him. He would not raise a hand against her, Matya knew. What happened next was going to have to be up to her.

"The answer is no, Ciri," Matya said calmly. "I won't accept your bargain."

Ciri's eyes flashed, and the wind caught her dark hair, flinging it wildly about her head. Anger touched her lovely face. Trevarre, startled, fell back before her fury.

"That is a foolish decision, Matya," Ciri said, all pretext of sweetness gone from her voice. "I will find another who will break the enchantment for me. I'll have the doll back! You both will die!"

The enchantress spread her arms wide, and the wind whipped about. Dry dust stung Matya's face. Trevarre looked around, shock on his face. The illusion had vanished. The evil-looking ruins were laid bare and undisguised.

Ciri spoke several strange, guttural words. Instantly the swirling wind was filled with dead tree limbs and dry, brown leaves. As Matya watched, the broken branches and leaves began to clump together, growing denser, taking shape.

"Trevarre, look out!" Matya cried out in terror.

The dead, brittle branches and dumps of rotting leaves had taken the shape of a man. The tree creature was huge, towering over the knight. It reached out a bark-covered arm that ended in splintery claws. Its gigantic maw displayed row upon row of jagged, thorny teeth.

Trevarre drew his sword, barely in time to block the creature's swing. Branches and splinters flew in all directions, but the knight stumbled beneath the blow. His face blanched with pain; his wounded leg buckled beneath him. He was too weak to fight such a monster, Matya realized. One more blow and he would fall. Ciri watched the battle with a look of cruel pleasure on her face. The tree monster roared again, drawing back its arm for another bone-crushing blow.

Matya drew the doll from the leather pouch and stared at it. She hesitated for a moment, but the sight of Trevarre — standing before the monster, his face grim and unafraid — steeled her resolve. Regretfully, she bade her dreams of wealth farewell… and hurled the doll at the altar.

Too late Ciri saw Matya's intent. The enchantress shrieked in rage and reached out to catch the doll. Her fingers closed on thin air.

The figurine struck the altar and shattered into a thousand pale shards — dirty, broken bones. The wind died as suddenly as it had started. The tree monster shuddered and collapsed into a pile of inanimate wood and leaves. Trevarre stumbled backward, leaning on his sword to keep from falling. His face was ashen, his breathing hard.

"What have you done?" Ciri shrieked, her sapphire-blue eyes wide with astonishment and horror.

"I've given you what you wanted," Matya cried. "You're free now, Ciri. Just let Trevarre go. That's all I ask."

Ciri shook her head, but her lips moved wordlessly now. She took a few steps toward Matya, each one slower than the last. Her movements had become strangely halting, as if she were walking through water, not air. The enchantress reached out a hand, but whether the gesture was one of fury or supplication, Matya did not know. Suddenly, Ciri shuddered and stood motionless. For a moment, the figure of the enchantress stood there among the ruins, as pale and perfect as a porcelain doll. Her eyes glimmered like clear, soulless gems.

Then, even as Matya watched, a fine crack traced its way across the smooth surface of Ciri's lovely face. More cracks spread from it, snaking their way across Ciri's cheeks, her throat, her arms. As if she had been fashioned of porcelain herself, Ciri crumbled into a mound of countless fragments, a heap of yellowed bones — all that was left of the enchantress.

The doves were singing their evening song when the gaudily painted wagon bounced past the fallen remains of the gigantic statues and turned eastward down the road, heading toward the town of Garnet. Matya and Trevarre had traveled in silence most of the way from the ruined village of Tambor. The knight, still recovering from his wounds, had slept the better part of the day. Matya was content to occupy herself with her thoughts.

"You gave up your dreams to help me, didn't you, Matya?" Trevarre asked.

Matya turned her head to see that the knight was awake, stroking his mousy brown moustache thoughtfully. "And what reward do you have to show for it?"

"Why, I have this," Matya said, gesturing to the jeweled clasp she had pinned to her collar. "Besides, I can always find new dreams. And I am certainly not ready to give up bargaining. I'll make my fortune yet, you'll see."

Trevarre laughed, a sound like music. "I have no doubt of that"

They were silent for a time, but then Matya spoke softly. "You would do the same again, wouldn't you, if you heard a call for help?"

Trevarre shrugged. "The Measure is not something I can follow only when it suits me. It is my life, Matya, for good or ill. It is what I am."

Matya nodded, as if this confirmed something for her. "The tales are right then. The Knights of Solamnia ARE little better than fools." She smiled mischievously. "But there's one more bargain that must be struck."

"Which is?" Trevarre asked, raising an eyebrow.

"What are you going to give me in return for taking you to Garnet?" Matya asked slyly.

"I'll give you five gold pieces," Trevarre said flatly.

"I'll not take less than fifty!" Matya replied, indignant.

"Fifty? Why, that's highway robbery," Trevarre growled.

"All right," Matya said briskly. "I'm in a kindly mood, so I'll make it twenty, but not one copper less."

Trevarre stroked his moustache thoughtfully. "Very well. I will accept your offer, Matya, but on one condition."

"Which is?" Matya asked, skeptical.

A smile touched Trevarre's lips. "You must allow me this." He took Matya's hand, brought it to his lips, and kissed it.

The bargain had been struck.