The Ring of Winter

Nine

Artus held the torch up to the tunnel’s low ceiling. With his dagger, he probed the packed earth. It looked promising. A few hours of hard work and he might be able to loosen some of the larger stones, perhaps even bring the walls down. The trick would be blocking the passage without burying himself, too.

“We could help, you know,” Byrt offered brightly. “Wombats are constructed rather well for excavation. It’s our lot in life, really—a burrow here, a furrow there.”

“Thanks, but no thanks,” Artus murmured.

The wombats had been following him for hours, though they had little choice in the matter. Grumog’s tunnel had proved impassable, leading as it did to an underground lake. In silent frustration, Artus had returned to the pit and crawled through the hole Byrt had so helpfully widened during the battle. That was, after all, the only way left to explore.

Artus had done his best to keep the wombats at a distance. That proved simple with Lugg; the brown-furred creature trundled along, minding his own business. Byrt, however, was annoyingly curious and insufferably cheerful. He blurted out a constant stream of questions and inane comments. Still, Artus suspected a keen intelligence lurked behind those vague blue eyes.

“This isn’t the place for bringing the house down, you know,” Byrt offered, expression blank as ever. Artus, engrossed in studying the balance of stones in the wall, ignored him completely. The little wombat tugged on the explorer’s boot. “I don’t believe you heard me, old man. I said—”

“I heard you,” Artus sighed. He leaned back against the cool stone wall. “Look, I don’t have anything against you two, but I really don’t want anyone tagging along with me. I have important things to do.”

“As do we,” Byrt said sincerely. “We need to find a way out of this jungle. You actually don’t think we’re locals, do you?”

Raising one eyebrow, Artus studied the gray-furred creature. With all the other strange things he’d encountered in Chult, he had, as Byrt suggested, simply dismissed the unique duo as yet another example of bizarre local fauna. “If you’re not Chultan, what are you?”

Lugg opened his mouth to speak, but Byrt launched into a complicated tale of thievery and kidnapping on the high seas. The brown wombat shook his head and sat in the shadows, brooding.

“Where we’re from, Lugg was a passable second-story man,” Byrt began theatrically, “and I was a … well, let’s just say I made my living as a jack-of-all-trades. A year ago a ship out of the City of Splendors found our island—a happy little place off Orlil, just prefect for wombats. Lugg was burying some loot on the beach when the captain of this pirate ship came ashore. Thinking Lugg would make a wonderful addition to Waterdeep’s zoo, he grabbed the poor fellow. When I tried to rescue my comrade—as I am wont to do now and then, being the valiant sort—I was snatched, too.”

Lugg snorted. “There you go, rambling on again. That’s what got us into all this trouble, if you ask me. You don’t know when to be quiet!”

The comments went unchallenged, and Byrt continued blithely on. “The ship was bound first for Refuge Bay, but by the time we sighted this dreadful place, the captain had decided to strand us. That dashed poor Lugg’s hopes for a life in show business, and I had left off pining for home and rather looked forward to seeing a city larger than fifty wombats and the occasional odd platypus—though, to be perfectly blunt, I’ve never met a platypus who wasn’t rather odd.”

“Awright,” the brown wombat grumbled, “that’s enough of that. You want I should fill in the rest of the story? I could finish this yarn in ten words or less, I’ll bet.”

The vacant look fled Byrt’s eyes for just an instant. Then he shrugged. “If you’d rather continue, Lugg, by all means do. Your storytelling is better than any sleeping draught, and I need a bit of a snooze. In fact, we could all use a good sleep, if we’re to spend much more time in this dratted jungle….”

When Lugg sank back into the shadows, Byrt nodded his approval. “Thank you for that vote of confidence, old man. All money will be gladly refunded if we fail to please.” Sidling up to Artus, he continued the tale. “Now listen, for this is where the story gets interesting, like the part of a mystery where the prime suspect is discovered head-down in a vat of malmsey.” Byrt grinned, but failed to notice his audience did not share his amusement.

“As I was saying, about a year ago we were left here to sweat to death—or be eaten by a monstrous lizard, a pack of wild-eyed goblins, or whatever else took a fancy to us. We’ve also had our share of problems with the Batiri, by the way. We barely managed to escape being their catch of the day, served in a yam sauce with a side of leeks.” He shuddered at the thought.

“For a year we’ve had no supplies and only our wits to rely upon for survival. I, of course, am managing just fine with those restrictions, but Lugg here is at a bit of a disadvantage. It’s been a heroic struggle, of course, and so far we’ve remained unvanquished. However, I believe it’s time we got out of the jungle and continued on our trek around the world. All this sight-seeing has made us unhappy with our island, and now we’d like to see what the rest of the world is like.”

“Sorry,” Artus said, “but I can’t help you. I don’t know when I’m leaving, and I can’t take responsibility for your safety right now.”

“But you got to leave this godsforsaken place sooner or later, right?” Lugg asked hopefully. For the first time, his somber mood lightened.

“I don’t want—”

“Yes, Lugg,” Byrt interrupted. “He doesn’t want any companions just now, wombatlike or otherwise. It was really rude of you to presume so.” He turned to Artus. “Let me make up for my muddle-headed friend’s bad manners. I will do the digging and close off the tunnel between us and the goblins. Shan’t take long, but we’d better move up the trail a ways. There’s a perfect spot not too far along. I noticed it when we passed through earlier.”

“Is the opening to the surface far from there?” the explorer asked suspiciously.

“Actually, yes, very far. It will be quite a toddle—a day or so, I should think—to the portal by which we entered this dismal path.”

Artus pondered the alternatives for a moment, then said, “Fine. Let’s get this over with.”

If possible, Artus’s concession made Byrt even more cheerful. The little gray wombat chattered incessantly as they trudged through the murky tunnel. Lugg, too, seemed heartened by the explorer’s acceptance. He still walked with his head down, his eyes half-lidded, but there was a bit of a spring in his step that hadn’t been there before.

Finally they came to a spot where the passage narrowed. The way was so restricted Artus had to extinguish the torch for fear of burning himself or filling the tight tunnel with smoke. Relying only on his dagger for light, he barely managed to squeeze into the gap on hands and knees. He had never been too keen on close places, but this stretch of tunnel made him border on panic. As he struggled along, the passage narrowed more and more, as if the earth itself were tightening a stony fist around him.

It seemed to take forever, but at last the passage began to widen again. Artus found he was sweating and even trembling a bit by the time the ceiling was high enough for him to sit up straight. “All right,” he said, wiping his forehead, “now what?”

“Now you move down the tunnel a bit, and we see if we can burrow our way to victory,” Byrt said glibly. “There is mostly packed earth up above. A few well-placed tunnels will probably finish closing off that narrow section.”

Artus had his doubts, but did as the wombat asked. Even if Kaverin caught up with him now, this spot would be easy to defend since the goblins would have to climb through one at a time to get at him.

As he took up position farther down the tunnel and settled in to wait, Artus’s stomach reminded him noisily that he hadn’t eaten in some time. He fished through his pockets and came up a single strip of dried beef, mangled and dirty. At that moment, the jerky bore a striking resemblance to the finest steak Artus had ever eaten. He had the stringy strip halfway to his mouth before his years of traveling stayed his hand. Byrt had said the exit was a day away. While they might stumble across something edible, it was unlikely. Best save the meager ration until later.

Artus turned his attention to taking inventory of the wounds he’d gathered in the last few days. His head ached from the three lumps, though the rain in the goblin camp had washed most of the blood away. His jaw throbbed from Kaverin’s stone-fisted punch. That was likely bruised, too. He touched it tenderly and found the cheek swollen and warm. Correction: definitely bruised. He had lots of scratches and a few small cuts across his chest from falling atop the junk heap, but nothing serious. His hand was scraped raw from his fall into the pit. All in all, he was in great shape, considering the events of the past few days.

“Awright,” Lugg said wearily. “That’s taken care of that.” The brown wombat was covered in dirt, and his muzzle was scratched and grimy.

“Oh?” Artus said. He stretched and sat up straight. “I didn’t hear anything.”

As he hurried up the tunnel, Byrt said, “All in good time, as they say. We did our best not to bring the roof down around our round little ears. We’re wombats, you know, not earthworms.” The gray creature went puffing right past Artus. “I wouldn’t dawdle, friends. Wombat construction—or should I say demolition—is not the most exact of sciences.”

Artus and Lugg gathered themselves quickly, but not quickly enough. A grating roar filled the air, the sort of sound that makes teeth lock together and hackles rise. Then the ground lurched and a cloud of choking dust rumbled up the tunnel. Fine grit settled over the explorer and the larger wombat, leaving them gasping for air.

“Rather an improvement, I would say,” Byrt noted wryly. He had apparently outdistanced most of the disturbance, though his gray fur would have hidden any dirt that settled upon him. “Now we look like a team—birds of a uniform gray color, or something like that.”

Artus abruptly turned around. “Wait!” Byrt shouted. “No offense intended. Really!”

“You’ve done it again,” Lugg grumbled, watching Artus disappear into the dust-choked tunnel. “Just like aboard the Rampage. You talked and talked and now ’e’s ’ad it with us. Probably went back to the cave-in to bury ’imself rather than listen to you any more.”

The little wombat was berating Lugg for his sour mood when Artus reappeared a short time later, coated even more heavily with the gray soot. He was coughing, and the dirt had stung his eyes red. With knees stiff from long walks and little restful sleep, Artus kneeled down in front of Byrt. “Thanks for taking care of the tunnel,” he said sincerely. “It will take Kaverin days to dig through that mess.” The explorer smiled. “I don’t know if I should pat you on the head or shake your paw.”

“Either will do,” Byrt said. “I’m actually quite easy to get along with, you know.”

Artus smiled and patted the wombat on the head. When he looked around, the explorer found that Lugg had trundled ahead before he could be treated to the same.

“This happened only a short time ago,” Kaverin noted flatly. He wiped the grime from his hands, stared at the pile of rock and earth blocking the tunnel, and stood a moment in thought. “Cimber might have killed Grumog with that blasted journal of his, but he didn’t do this on his own. Not in so short a time. There is definitely someone—or something—down here helping him.”

“No one else alive in tunnel!” shouted Balt. “Grumog chow everyone we toss.”

The goblin general was failing miserably at keeping his rage under control. Upon the discovery of the paper-choked god, Queen M’bobo had intimated it was somehow Balt’s impiety that had caused this disastrous turn of events. It was now Balt’s task to bring Artus back to the village for punishment. Only in that way would the spirit of Grumog be appeased. If he failed, the general would be the premiere sacrifice to the next god they found.

“The tunnel back by that monster’s corpse was widened by something with claws, like a badger,” Kaverin explained. He thought it likely Balt couldn’t remember the disgusting contents of his last meal let alone the events of that evening, but he needed to keep his would-be allies mollified. If that meant droning on, simply to lull the goblins with his lilting voice, so be it. “Cimber is many things, but a werebadger is not one of them.” He turned and raised one jet-black hand to Skuld.

At the gesture from Kaverin, the silver-skinned giant bowed and gave his two torches to Balt. He set to work clearing the debris, crushing the smaller stones to dust, breaking the larger rocks into gravel.

“Let’s leave my manservant to his task,” Kaverin said. “Besides, I think it’s time I interviewed your village elder.”

They walked back to a wide spot in the tunnel. There, the goblins had set up a crude command post, complete with supplies that consisted mostly of baskets full of small, chattering rodents and shrieking monkeys. The doomed animals seemed to sense the gruesome fate awaiting them—to become live meals for Balt and the dozen warriors accompanying him. The general ordered the goblins lounging around the boxed lunches to begin the grueling task of hauling away the dirt and broken rocks Skuld was digging from the cave-in. They grumbled as they formed a ragged bucket brigade, toting sad-looking pails that leaked more than they carried.

This left one lone Batiri, snoring loudly as he slept against a large barrel of water. When Kaverin shook him, the old goblin snorted awake and looked up at the human. His old eyes were bluish white, and his toothless mouth worked continually, like a cow chewing its cud.

From the way the goblin stared at him, Kaverin was certain he was being sized up as a potential meal. “The queen sent you here so we could talk,” he said curtly. “I need to know about any human cities nearby.”

The goblin nodded and said, “Old stories about great Tabaxi village, about Mezro, eh?” He chuckled. “Bring lots of food here, Mezro. Lots of humans try to find it. Batiri find them first.”

Kaverin leaned forward. “Yes, Mezro.” The word had a magical quality coming from his thin lips, like the name of a long-cherished lover. That fabled city, lost to modern man, had drawn Theron Silvermace to Chult. Perhaps the mysterious natives who had aided Rayburton in saving him from the Batiri had come from there. A magical city would be a fitting hiding place for the old explorer and the Ring of Winter. “Is it near here?”

Again the old goblin chuckled. “No one seen Mezro, not since long time.” The lids of his eyes drooped. “They hide it years and years ago so Batiri not eat them. Only witch doctor … T’fima … only he know Mezro…” Then the goblin was asleep again, dreaming of the various explorers that had crossed his plate because of the lost city.

Kaverin let the doddering creature sleep. Taking a cup of water from the barrel, he considered the old goblin’s revelation, then walked slowly to Balt’s side. “Do you know of a Tabaxi sorcerer named T’fima?” he asked. Neither his voice nor his eyes betrayed his excitement.

The goblin general blanched. “We not bother Ras T’fima. He too powerful for us.”

“I doubt that very much, Balt.” Kaverin smiled wickedly. “But I don’t think we need disturb him, just watch his camp. If your elder is correct, and this Ras T’fima knows where Mezro is hidden, he may just lead us right to it.”

Artus and the wombats moved on at a steady pace, but as Byrt had anticipated, the trek to the first opening lasted quite a long time. Luckily, fresh water pooled in many places along the way—often clean and clear—so they could satisfy their thirst. Food was another matter. By the time they had traveled for a few hours, the wombats were almost as hungry as the human. The dried beef was long gone; dusty though it was, to Artus it had tasted like the best venison served in Suzail. Still, the meager portion had done nothing to curb the ache in his stomach.

“The first edible thing we see is doomed,” Byrt said as they came to the side tunnel leading to the surface.

The main path continued on, wide and straight, but they didn’t give it a second look as they hurried up the sloping spur. Gray light bled sullenly through the leaves and vines covering the jagged crack that served as entrance to the tunnel. The rain had stopped during the night, but a steady patter of water fell from the leaves and the roof. The tunnel opened onto the side of a low mound. Pushing the foliage aside, Artus found himself with a good vantage of a gently sloping hillside.

Byrt tried to muscle past, but a well-placed leg stopped him dead. “See here,” he began. “I only—”

“Quiet,” Artus hissed. He let the leaves fall back over the opening. “There are a dozen goblins moving through the underbrush out there, a hunting party of some kind. Back into the tunnel.”

After a quick and quiet descent to the main tunnel, Artus looked dazedly at his companions. “They look like Batiri. Have we gone in a circle somehow?”

“No, no,” Byrt said, swallowing the mouthful of leaves he had bitten. “There are Batiri all over the jungle, like sand fleas at a beach or civil servants at a cheap pub. It’s said among the locals that you can’t fall out of a tree without landing on a goblin….”

The weight of exhaustion pushed down on Artus, a feeling compounded by the drain of hunger, “I hate to say this, since I’m almost ready to eat the next beetle that crawls across the floor, but we’d better keep moving. The sun is coming up, so the goblins will be looking for a hiding place. They might stumble across this cave.” He shuffled a few steps down the tunnel, using the unstrung bow as a staff. “I’m not strong enough to fight one goblin, let alone a whole hunting party.”

Artus thought only about food as he trudged along. At least, that was all that occupied his thoughts until they came upon a stretch of tunnel limned in a strange gold radiance. It sparkled like the purest sunlight, and when Artus stepped into the glow, his hunger-induced thoughts of steak and ale and fresh-baked pics were replaced by other, more jumbled notions.

Confusion began to tug at the corners of Artus’s mind, and his thoughts turned to his plight. The explorer pictured himself lost beneath the surface of Chult, in a maze of tunnels that had but two exits—the one at the Batiri camp and the other they bad been forced to pass by. The images grew more vivid. He saw himself shriveled from hunger, dazed from lack of water. And for what? He looked around at the golden tunnel walls.

Suddenly Artus was twenty years old again and here to rescue someone. That’s right. The tunnel led under the jail in Surd, where his father was being held before his execution. The Sembians never took pity on highwaymen, especially those who preyed upon merchant caravans. Besides, hanging the notorious Shadowhawk would gain the local lords favor with the country’s overmaster.

This was the third time in as many years Artus had found himself breaking his father out of jail. Shadowhawk, indeed. The old man might have been a real threat to travelers in Cormyr and Sembia a decade ago, but not now. He was getting too slow for all this “robbing from the wealthy” stuff.

“It’s a good thing no one at the temple of Oghma knows about you, Father,” Artus grumbled. He prodded the ceiling with his staff. Yes, he might want to start digging here. “The loremasters just wouldn’t understand how I could let you keep on robbing merchants, They aren’t too open-minded, not like Nanda… .”

Artus stopped digging into the ceiling with the unstrung elven bow and put his hand to his forehead. Nanda hadn’t crept into his thoughts for years. He’d been married to her for only a few months, just after he’d turned twenty. It was a whirlwind romance, ending in a union approved by neither his parents nor her guardian. That had made it all the more attractive to both of them. Sadly, those few months had turned out to be the worst of Artus’s life, especially after he discovered his new bride’s secret devotion to Loviatar, the Goddess of Pain.

No, he wasn’t here for his father, and Nanda had left him fifteen years ago. He wasn’t even in the Heartlands now. The thoughts swirled in his mind. Chult. He was lost somewhere in Chult.

Dazed, Artus looked around the tunnel again. “What am I doing here?” he hissed.

“Looking for the Ring of Winter,” someone said.

Artus looked down, wondering how the wombats knew about the ring; he hadn’t told them about it—at least he didn’t think so. “How do you know that?”

He found his two companions in complete disarray. Byrt’s eyes were closed tightly and he was walking in a circle, whistling a cheerful tune. Lugg had collapsed onto his side. His eyes were open, but he seemed stunned.

“This is a sorry-looking group, though I’m not one to judge, I suppose.”

Pontifax cleared his throat, trying to draw Artus’s attention. He stood farther up the tunnel, ghostly and pale, just as he had appeared in the Batiri prison. The explorer took a step toward his old friend, and the phantom backed away. “This way,” Pontifax said. “Gather up your two furry cohorts, and come this way.”

“Wait,” Artus said. “Why are you here?”

“There’s no time,” the ghost wailed.

“Was your death so—”

Holding up a transparent hand, Pontifax replied, “All that matters right now is that you keep moving down the tunnel. You’ve got to get out of this golden light. It’s some sort of enchantment, a wall of confusion.”

That would explain my jumbled thoughts, Artus decided, but not the ghostly mage’s presence. But before he could question Pontifax further, the phantom mage disappeared. The explorer paused for a moment and stared at the spot where Pontifax had been. He tried to piece some reasonable explanation together, but found it increasingly difficult to concentrate.

He lifted Byrt—who was still walking in a circle, oblivious to the phantom Pontifax and everything else around him—and tucked the wombat under one arm, along with the unstrung bow. Then he leaned down and grabbed Lugg by the ear. The brown wombat followed along docilely, a blank look in his eyes. It was awkward going. The bow slipped twice and clattered to the ground. Even when it stayed under Artus’s arm, it constantly whacked Byrt on the head. That didn’t stop the gray wombat from whistling, though.

After a time, the golden fight faded and the swirl of confusion subsided from Artus’s thoughts. Soon after, Lugg realized with a start that he was being led along by the ear. With a huge frown, he pulled away from the explorer and hurried ahead. Byrt took longer to recover, but Artus found it hard to tell the difference; the little wombat acted strangely all the time. And when Artus asked Byrt and Lugg about the ghostly visitor who had rescued them, both wombats responded with looks that announced their concern for Artus’s sanity.

Finally the tunnel ended. The floor here was smooth, the walls more carefully hewn from the surrounding stone. A wide crack split the wall before the tired, hungry trio. That meant release and, hopefully, food.

The low-ceilinged cavern they entered was dark and full of debris. A quick look around told Artus the crumbling stones were the ruins of some ancient structure. Ornate columns lay in pieces near the edges of the room. Heavy, square blocks of granite, used as the bases for long tables, cluttered the center. The wooden tops from those tables, and the shelves that had once filled the iron brackets attached to the walls, had long ago crumbled to dust.

“This might have been a library at one time,” Artus ventured. He knelt to study the engravings on a fragment of masonry. The glyphs, which depicted dinosaur-headed men and women, were unlike any he’d seen before.

“Do they serve food in libraries?” Lugg asked, nosing through the rubble.

“No,” Byrt replied. “You get books from libraries, not baked goods. That question makes me wonder if you have lived a tome-free life, old man.”

Lugg snorted. “All the tomes in the world won’t ’elp my stomach now … though I might stoop to nibbling on a picture book of onions and radishes, if one ’appened to present itself.”

They continued on, though the next room and the one following proved to be very much like the first—crumbled columns, topless tables, and empty brackets hammered into the walls. Eventually, though, they came to a stout wooden door, around which a halo of light shone brightly. Artus pushed it open … and what lay beyond took his breath away.

The room was huge and utterly deserted. Thin stone columns stood at even intervals along the walls, supporting globes that burned with a magical radiance. Smaller globes rested upon each of the dozens of tables set in orderly rows across the floor. Books of every sort stood upon sturdy shelves, row after row, more volumes than even the much-lauded library of the Stalwarts held. Artus slipped through the door and grabbed the nearest book. The words were totally foreign to him—a mixture of symbols and picture-glyphs like the ones on the ruined columns.

“I don’t suppose either of you can read?” Artus asked.

“Most certainly I can,” Byrt replied. When Artus held the book down to him, he smacked his lips and sighed. “I stand corrected.”

All the other books on the shelves nearby proved to be written in the same unusual language. Artus was trying to decide which tome to take for more careful study when the door on the opposite end of the room swung open.

Even at such a distance, the stranger’s beard proclaimed him a man, despite the flowing tan robe that hid his frame. Close-cropped and white as snow, the beard met up with the shock of silver hair atop the man’s head, making a bright halo around his darkly tanned face. Engrossed as he was in the large volume open in his hands, he didn’t immediately notice Artus. He read as he walked, shaking his head in vehement disagreement every few steps.

With his nose buried in the pages before him, the silver-haired man walked to a table close to the still-unnoticed strangers and sat down. He leaned toward the glowing globe at the other end of the table and said something Artus could not hear. Four tiny legs sprouted from the globe, and it ran to the man’s side, coming to rest only when it was right next to his book.

It was then that Artus got his first good look at the man. “Lord Rayburton!” he exclaimed. He took a step toward the long-lost explorer, amazement clear in his eyes. “You’re alive!”

The book slipped from the table and slammed to the floor as the silver-haired man spun about. Theron was right—the man was a ringer for the statue in the society’s study. The famed explorer looked no older than that representation, though the sculptor had captured him at the age of sixty, more than twelve hundred years ago.

At the commotion, the globe light hefted itself from the table and dashed to safety far away from the noise. “Who are you?” Rayburton demanded. His features were sharp, and his mouth turned down in a frown, but kindness lurked in his clear eyes.

Seeing the apprehension on Rayburton’s face, Artus stopped and looked down at his torn clothes and the dried blood on his injured hand. “I must look pretty frightening,” he said in his best Old Cormyrian. As he put aside the unstrung bow, he added, “I came a long way to find you, sir. My name is Artus Cimber, from Cormyr. I’m a member of the Society of Stalwart Adventurers, an explorer like you.”

“Your grammar is terrible for a native speaker of Cormyrian,” Rayburton noted. “Do you speak Tabaxi?” he asked, switching effortlessly to that Chultan tongue.

Artus could only shrug and shake his head.

Rayburton studied him carefully, his brows knit in consternation. Finally the hard line of his mouth softened, replaced by a smile that matched the kindness in his eyes. “A Stalwart, you say?” He sighed. “I should have known someone from that bunch of well-meaning crackpots would find me one day. You’re a friend of that other fellow, the one we saved from the Batiri when we rescued Kwalu?”

“Yes, Theron Silvermace. He—Crackpots?” Artus stammered. “You founded the society, didn’t you?”

“I let them use my name,” Rayburton said. “Biggest mistake of my life. I never was one for clubs—just an excuse for back-slapping and group inertia. Rather talk about the past than go out and look for it. And the society’s still going you say? Amazing.” He lifted the book from the floor. “How do you know me? A portrait?”

“A statue,” Artus corrected. “In the main library.”

“And how did you get in here?” Rayburton asked. He crossed his arms and leaned back against the table.

Artus had the uncomfortable feeling of being back in the House of Oghma, held captive in the prefect’s study because of some transgression. “Through a tunnel,” he said. “It led into the ruined part of the library… .”

Lugg struggled to the top of a nearby table. He spoke neither Tabaxi nor Old Cormyrian, but he could make himself known quite clearly in the trade tongue known as Common. “Look,” he said, “if you two are going to yap all day, we want to know where the kitchens are.”

From the floor at Artus’s feet, Byrt added his approval. “A meal really is in order. Lugg gets rather cross if he’s not fed regularly. Not that he isn’t cross at other times. You know, bites when tugged and all that.”

“In a moment,” Artus said as he studied Rayburton’s hands. They were wrinkled and beginning to spot with age. Ink stains covered the fingers of his right hand, the sure mark of a scholar or scribe, but there was no ring to be seen.

Artus stepped forward and grabbed Rayburton’s shoulders. “The Ring of Winter,” he said, his eyes gone wild, “You have it. That’s how you made it snow. It kept you alive all these years.”

With one solid shove, Rayburton freed himself. “I don’t have the ring.” For the first time, anger showed on his kindly face. “If that’s what you’re here for, you’ll go back to the society empty-handed.”

Artus felt the world fall away under his feet. Before he knew it, he was sitting on the floor next to Byrt. The little gray wombat looked him in the face, worry in his vague blue eyes.

“But you must have the ring,” Artus whispered. “You’re still alive. It makes the wearer immortal….”

Rayburton kneeled beside the younger explorer. “The ring didn’t keep me alive,” he said. “It was the magic in this place. Mezro has quite a lot of wonderful things in it.”

“Mezro?” Artus managed to gasp. “I discovered the lost city of Mezro?”

Rayburton’s gentle laughter filled the library. “It’s hardly lost to the people who have lived here for four thousand years,” he noted. “But if you want to put it that way, the Mezroans probably won’t mind. I said the same thing when I stumbled across the place, and they haven’t thrown me out yet.”

He looked into Artus’s glassy eyes and mentally catalogued the cuts and bruises on his arms and face. “You’ve had a time of it, eh?” Helping the younger man to his feet, Rayburton added, “The thing for you now is rest, and maybe a surgeon’s attention. After that, we can talk about how you managed to ‘discover’ Mezro.”