The Companions

Chapter 11

Although be bounced and jostled inside the sack, which withstood his repeated efforts to tear a hole in it so that he could see out, Caramon didn't sense he was in any immediate danger.

The Majere twin guessed he was being transported a great distance away from the minotaur prison, although who his rescuers were and why they had taken him remained a puzzle. As glad as he was to be free of the minotaurs, Caramon fretted about leaving Sturm behind, and he realized that he was someone else's prisoner now. In effect, he had traded one captivity for another.

His uneasiness wasn't relieved, over the course of the next two hours, by the distinct impression that he was being swept through the air. Caramon could feel no hard surface beneath or on either side of the burlap sack. The only noises that reached his ears sounded like nothing so much as the steady beating of wings and the occasional caw of a giant bird.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, the young warrior seemed to remember having heard a similar cawing once before.

Eventually Caramon had the sensation he was descending from a great height, a descent that ended with the burlap sack, with him still curled up inside, bumping and scraping along rocky ground. Moments later, someone tugged the sack open. On wobbly legs, Caramon stepped out.

A spectacular sight greeted him.

He stood on a ledge in a high-walled canyon that wound out of sight to his left and right. The sides of the canyon were honeycombed with dozens of caves stretching as far as the eye could see. And perched in front of the caves, as if to greet him, were hundreds of an ancient and wondrous folk whose remote civilization few humans ever had been privileged to glimpse.

A welcoming committee of these fantastical "bird-people" stood with Caramon on the ledge. They were a mix of hawk and human, walking upright on long, sinewy legs that ended in birdlike talons. Huge feathered wings sprouted from their backs and attached to their arms and hands. With growing excitement, Caramon thought, Why, they look just like…

… like the broken man back in the prison cell. These were his people! Those terrible wounds on his back and shoulders, Caramon now realized, must have been where the minotaurs had ripped off his wings.

The bird-man nearest Caramon was the one who had rescued the Majere twin from captivity. He was taller than Caramon, and leaner. His bronzed face, quite human in appearance, was fiercely handsome. Rather than hair, flowing golden feathers grew from his head. Fine brown pinfeathers covered his chest. He wore no clothing other than a waistcloth of leather.

"Who are you?" Caramon asked his rescuer.

"In your language," the bird-man said with pride in the common tongue, "I am Cloudreaver."

Caramon fumbled for the proper words. "What are you?"

Cloudreaver frowned and stepped aside, gesturing with his wings to one of the bird-people behind him. His pebble-black eyes watched Caramon haughtily.

Following Cloudreaver's gesture, Caramon saw an elder whom he had not noticed at first. Others grouped protectively around this venerable bird-man who shuffled forward on clawed feet to meet Caramon. In spite of his odd gait, he moved with dignity and grace.

The elder bird-man's feather hair was silver white and streamed down to his chest. Many year of exposure to the sun and elements had darkened and lined his face. In spite of his apparent age, muscles rippled across his chest and in his sinewy legs.

Slightly bent over, his head cocked to one side, the elder bird-man approached Caramon with a glimmer of warmth in his clear yellow eyes. "We are the kyrie," explained the elder, his speech clipped but precise. "I am Arikara-in your tongue, Sun Feather, leader of the people who inhabit the skies."

"Kyrie?" questioned Caramon.

Sun Feather cocked his head, peering at Caramon. "A proud and long-lived folk," the kyrie leader said softly. "You have not heard of us?"

Caramon glanced at the hundreds of feathered kyrie who gazed at him from the high safety of their respective aeries. They murmured amongst themselves; some of them pointed at him. Raistlin may have mentioned the kyrie once. His twin read so many books, it was hard for Caramon to keep track. The burly warrior shook his head from side to side in response to Sun Feather's question.

"That is to be expected," said Sun Feather, placing a huge wing over Caramon's shoulder and leading him gently toward a shelter dug out of the canyon wall.

Caramon hadn't spotted the cave before, perhaps because the hide that draped the entrance was the color of sandstone and blended in with the canyon wall. Some of the other kyrie followed, including Cloudreaver, another elder whose face was dotted with sun spots, and two females, one young, another older, both dressed in leather skirts and vests decorated with quills and beads.

The entrance opened onto a spacious cave that vaulted upward into a high dome. Dried grass and twigs covered the floor of the tamped-down earth. A central fire pit, filled with heated rocks, gave off warmth. Weapons and cooking utensils hung from pegs in the walls. Animal furs, more than sufficient to ward off the desert night cold, were stacked near the threshold.

Sun Feather took aside the two females and gave them some instructions in a language that Caramon could not decipher.

Cloudreaver bade Caramon sit near the fire pit. The other elder, whom Cloudreaver introduced as Three Far-Eyes, sat opposite their visitor. Cloudreaver took a place next to Three Far-Eyes.

Sun Feather sat down next to Caramon, moving gingerly. He picked up a stick and prodded the ground with it. It took Caramon a moment to realize he was outlining a rough map. "Centuries ago the kyrie inhabited many of the islands of Ansalon," Sun Feather told Caramon. "We migrated around the world, never content to stay in one place. Our long flights over the oceans were made possible by a magical device called the Northstone. Because we grew to depend on the Northstone, we lost many of our natural instincts, including the ability to navigate. Then we lost the Northstone, and it fell into the possession of our dire enemies, the minotaurs."

The female kyrie hovered in the background, apparently busy with preparations for a meal. Now the older one circled behind the three male kyrie and Caramon, distributing stone mugs of a pale, flecked liquid. Caramon cupped his in both hands, sipping eagerly. The warm broth was like nothing Caramon had ever tasted before-rich, flavorful, and instantly nourishing. He could feel it course through his body, refreshing him and sating his hunger.

The kyrie leader's face hardened with bitter memories as he continued his chronicle. "Gradually we gathered here," Sun Feather related, "most of us on the island of Mithas, other clans scattered on nearby islands. Although we can still take long, soaring flights, we no longer cross the oceans. Without the Northstone, we are stranded in this part of the world. We live here"-he gestured broadly-"as best as we are able, as peaceably as we are allowed."

Caramon had countless questions he wanted to ask. He sputtered out two: "What do you want with me? Why did you rescue me from the dungeon in Atossa?"

Cloudreaver answered before Sun Feather could. "I saw you and your friend nearly drowning in the Blood Sea. I did what I could to alleviate your plight."

Caramon's eyes widened. "So that was you!" he exclaimed. "You dropped some kind of bread to us."

"It was my own ration," said the kyrie mildly.

Impulsively Caramon reached across and clasped the kyrie's hands. "You saved our lives," the Majere twin said warmly. "Then you risked your own to help me escape from prison." The young warrior spoke passionately, his words heartfelt. "I owe you more than I could ever hope to repay."

Cloudreaver looked a little uneasy at Caramon's effusive display of emotion. Sun Feather beamed. "Cloudreaver is my son," said the kyrie elder proudly. As Caramon gazed at the bird-man who had gone to such lengths to rescue him, Cloudreaver lowered his eyes. All the earlier traces of arrogance had vanished.

"I have two sons," added Sun Feather. "My firstborn…"

His voice faltered. "My firstborn. Morning Sky, is the one who was… with you… being held prisoner in Atossa." He bent his head sorrowfully.

Caramon didn't know what to say. Finally he had learned who the broken man was. Bowing his head, he was overcome with emotion at the realization that the man was Sun Feather's firstborn. Morning Sky. Did Sun Feather know how close his son was to death? How Morning Sky had been tortured and abused by the minotaurs? Did Sun Feather know how brave and resolute his son was? How, even in his brief conversations with Caramon, he had shown no fear of his fate?

Silence settled over the room, then was broken by the plaintive weeping of one of the females.

"We know how the minotaurs are treating Morning Sky," said Sun Feather softly. "We know that he has been tortured to the point of death. We have little hope of ever seeing him free, among us, again."

It was as if the leader of the kyrie had read Caramon's mind. Noticing the warrior's questioning glance. Sun Feather pointed to his head, and Caramon remembered what the broken man had said about telepathy.

"But why couldn't you have freed your son instead of me?" asked Caramon earnestly.

"My son is chained constantly," replied Sun Feather in an even voice, "except when he is permitted to eat. Otherwise he would kill himself. The minotaurs know that about kyrie, even if they know little else about our kind. It is a disgrace for a kyrie to be captured alive."

Caramon drank from his cup of broth. It didn't seem right. He was free, while Morning Sky was being tortured and beaten in prison. "Maybe," the human warrior ventured, "if we were to storm the dungeon…"

"It would be suicide for all involved," put in Three Far-Eyes, speaking for the first time. The old one's face was somber. "We are a courageous people, but we are not foolhardy."

"What about the tunnel?"

Cloudreaver scoffed. "The tunnel is tight and narrow. It would take hours to squeeze even a small attack force into the prison through the tunnel, and there would be no fast way out. We would have a dozen guards to contend with, as well as the chains and bars of my brother's cell. We have thought about all of this. We have discussed it, argued about it, and come up with nothing."

The kyrie frowned, a shadow darkening his face. "No, there is no way out for my brother. He is doomed."

From the other kyrie came murmured assent. Caramon sat silent for a long time. "Why do they torture him?" the young human from Solace wondered aloud.

"We have pitted ourselves against the minotaurs for hundreds upon hundreds of years," answered Sun Feather. "Over time, we have gathered in these and other mountain enclaves, living far away from the minotaur cities. Although we roam the valleys, foraging food and hunting small animals, we always retreat here. While the bull-men are adept in land battle or at sea, they are oafs when it comes to exploring the mountains. They cannot climb the high peaks to drive us out. To them, we are an alien presence in the midst of their homeland. To us, they are a scourge upon the earth. As they are determined to hunt and destroy us, so too are we sworn to kill them whenever they cross our path.

"In recent months," Sun Feather continued, "minotaur contingents have penetrated our territory and become more intrepid in locating our aeries. The bull-men have successfully raided some of our smaller outlying settlements, vanquishing our warriors, butchering scores of our women and young. It is said that, in some instances, they have been aided by scaly flying creatures who scouted the terrain in advance and carried weapons and supplies."

"Dragons?" It was Caramon's turn to scoff. "Everyone knows there are no dragons in Ansalon. That is nighttime talk for children, for fables."

"Not dragons," Cloudreaver cut in vehemently. "Flying creatures of a type that has not existed before this time."

Caramon looked skeptical.

"Of course we have no proof," said Sun Feather. "There are no surviving eyewitnesses. The minotaurs kill every kyrie and burn everything, leaving only scorched earth. They rarely take prisoners." He paused, allowed himself a sip of hot liquid, and continued, choosing his words carefully and controlling his emotions. "My son, Morning Sky, is one of the exceptions. He was captured at an outpost that he commanded. They realized he is of high rank, possibly noble lineage. From him, they demanded information about our number, our customs and rituals, the whereabouts of our sanctuaries."

This soliloquy seemed to have exhausted Sun Feather, whose face sagged and shoulders drooped. He put down his cup of broth, then clasped his hands together and nodded to Cloudreaver.

"They have not tortured any information out of him," spat Cloudreaver, "nor will they get any, no matter how devious their cruelty. Morning Sky will expel his final breath without telling them so much as his name."

Caramon looked into Cloudreaver's pebble-black eyes, grim and fatalistic, like his brother's, the broken man's. Sun Feather reached over and touched his son on the wrist. The older female kyrie came over and whispered something in Sun Feather's ear. The elder kyrie nodded.

"And what about you, my son?" asked Three Far-Eyes gently, breaking the silence. "What is your name? What is your story?"

Caramon told them, leaving nothing out. The trip to Southern Ergoth, the magic storm, the capture of Tasslehoff, his and Sturm's trial at sea, their imprisonment. Although the kyrie were exceedingly interested in the role the minotaurs played in Caramon's curious saga, they could add little to the mystery of why the minotaur kingdom would be so preoccupied by a single kender, much less the herb, jalopwort.

"Except," pointed out Three Far-Eyes, "do not forget one thing. Jalopwort is common on Mithas and Karthay, but quite rare, if not altogether absent, from other parts of the world. And like other things on Mithas, the minotaurs define it as their own, sacred, with certain ritualistic uses."

Sun Feather nodded sagely.

Time passed. Now the young female kyrie-her face strikingly beautiful, her red hair flecked with gold-brought out cups and bowls, setting them before Caramon and the others.

Following the example of the kyrie, Caramon dipped his fingers into a basin of cool water, then washed and dried his hands. From the serving bowls, he chose an assortment of nuts, berries, and greens. The older female appeared behind his shoulder and ladled several small cubes of raw red meat onto his plate.

After some minutes, during which they all ate hungrily, Cloudreaver spoke. "A sentinel stays in the tunnel at all times," the young kyrie said, returning to the topic of his brother. "He watches over Morning Sky, hoping against hope for some change in his circumstances.

"We speak to him only a little, always furtively. It would not be wise to take chances. When Morning Sky is able, he speaks to us. Even if the minotaur guards overhear a few words, they do not understand our native language, so they think it is delirium. That is how we were able to tell Morning Sky about the two humans who had been captured and brought to the prison. After talking it over with him, we decided to risk liberating you."

"Why?" asked Caramon thoughtfully.

"For one thing, I saw how you behaved toward my brother," answered Cloudreaver.

"You saw me?"

"I was in the tunnel. That close to my brother, I could see through his eyes, through the walls of stone. My heart beats with the same rhythm as his. My head shares his thoughts.

I listened to your words and saw and believed you to be a good and compassionate human."

Caramon was silent. He was thinking about his own brother, Raistlin. Wasn't it that way between him and Raist? That they could see with each other's eyes sometimes? That their hearts also beat as one?

"We do not have much experience with humans," interjected Sun Feather diplomatically. "I myself have never before been face-to-face with one in my three hundred years of life on this earth."

"Three hundred years!" exclaimed Caramon. The young warrior knew that dwarves and elves were long-lived, but already Sun Feather had lived more than three times the span that Caramon would in his time.

"Yes," admitted Sun Feather, chuckling. "I am old and past my prime. When I am gone, it will be up to Cloudreaver-"

"Father!" cried Cloudreaver, bringing up his arm and making an angry gesture.

The female kyrie looked upset. Three Far-Eyes dropped his glance. Sun Feather looked chastened.

"Cloudreaver is right," the leader of the kyrie said in a low voice. "It is not right to speak of Morning Sky as if he is already dead. Morning Sky is the firstborn and blood heir to the leadership. But-" His voice broke.

Three Far-Eyes hastened to change the subject. "Most of the humans we know of," said Three Far-Eyes softly, "are brigands or slaves. But our legends tell us that humans can be intelligent and sensitive and loyal. Besides, we felt that it was worth the risk to bring shame down on the bull-men. They will be greatly dishonored by news of an escape from their prison at Atossa."

"Won't they punish Morning Sky?" worried Caramon.

'They will never execute my brother," said Cloudreaver grimly. "They will keep him alive as long as they can."

After the meal was over, the female kyrie brought out pipes, chewing tobacco, and a bowl with thick, cut-up pieces of some kind of gummy root. Cloudreaver chose a long-stemmed pipe, filled it with some substance from a pouch, and puffed on it contemplatively. Three Far-Eyes chewed on tobacco. Sun Feather reached for the root, and Caramon politely followed suit.

Outside, darkness had fallen and quiet reigned. Inside the cave, the elder female moved about the room, reaching for a half-dozen small spheres set into the wall, which by her touch were magically lit and cast a pale blue light.

Caramon chewed on the root meditatively. It had a mild, pleasant taste. The day had been a long and arduous one. His body ached, and his mind as well.

As he chewed, a tingling sensation flowed through his body. Caramon felt his muscles relax. His mind floated free. No longer did he feel weary and sad.

His thoughts flitted to Raistlin. He wondered where his twin brother was, and whether Raist had any inkling of where Caramon was.

He worried about his brother. Kitiara had pounded it into his head that it was his job to worry about his twin brother, although Caramon knew that at this moment, Raistlin was probably worrying just as much about him. Caramon sincerely hoped he was a good representative of the human race for those kyrie who, like Sun Feather, had never met a human before. Surely Raistlin would have better understood the situation and been a more impressive representative of humankind.

Caramon wondered about Tasslehoff. Poor Tas. Likely the kender was dead. What could the minotaurs have wanted with him? Something obscure and unpleasant, Caramon felt sure. Tas wasn't in the prison, nor was he in Atossa, or surely the kyrie would have taken note of him, Caramon thought. Kender do not tend to blend in to the background.

The young warrior looked around at the kyrie in the cave, nodding at him. He wondered if they could read his thoughts. At that moment, he felt almost as if he could read theirs. He sensed their profound despondency over Morning Sky, and at the same time, their stubborn resiliency as a people. They were a remarkable race. He felt proud to be in the company of the ancient kyrie.

Caramon's mind wandered to Sturm. Sturm wouldn't be so comfortable here, high up in the mountains, eating a fine repast and chewing this agreeable after-supper root-not if his friend Caramon was the one who had been left behind in prison.

The minotaurs might not take out their frustration on Morning Sky, Caramon realized with a jolt. But they might-probably would-torture Sturm.

"I must go back," declared the human from Solace suddenly, startling the kyrie by breaking the harmonious silence that had prevailed in the cave. Caramon set his jaw. "I must go back and rescue my friend Sturm."

The faces around him were disapproving. "That would not be wise," said Sun Feather.

"Foolish," said Cloudreaver, putting down his pipe.

"I–I-" Caramon faltered. He didn't possess the eloquence of his twin. "I must go back," Caramon repeated. "Sturm Brightblade would surely try to rescue me. No risk would deter him, not a hundred, a thousand, minotaurs. He'd consider it his honor-bound duty. I can only try to do what he would, under opposite circumstances."

"But how can you get inside the prison?" asked Three Far-Eyes sympathetically. "And, what is more important, how would you get out?"

Caramon had no ready reply. He addressed Cloudreaver. "You say you keep a sentinel in the tunnel at all times?"

"Yes," responded Cloudreaver. "Day and night."

"Then I will hear his reports, watch, and wait. I will seek my opportunity. Even if nothing changes, I must still try something."

Everyone kept silent. Caramon looked at Sun Feather, waiting for the leader of the kyrie to speak. The elder's face was unreadable.

"I will go with the human!" said Cloudreaver unexpectedly.

Sun Feather appeared shocked. "You cannot, my son! Already you have taken too many risks. You have not only your own future but also the future of the entire race to consider."

Cloudreaver's eyes were hard, stubborn. "I will not take any risk that you wouldn't take yourself-if you were not old bones." Although Cloudreaver's words struck his father with the force of blows, Sun Feather's eyes shone with unmistakable pride. "I admire this Caramon," said Cloudreaver. "I should like to help his friend as I helped him."

Caramon reached over and clasped Cloudreaver's hand. This time the kyrie put his other hand on top of Caramon's in a gesture of solidarity.

Three Far-Eyes spoke up. "If Cloudreaver goes, others with the appetite for fighting the minotaurs should have the opportunity to go with him. The human should be brought to the Warrior Society."

Cloudreaver looked grateful for the words. Although Caramon didn't know what the Warrior Society was, the fervor in the old bird-man's voice surprised him.

For long minutes, Sun Feather stared at Cloudreaver as father to son. "You must do what you feel you must do," Sun Feather said heavily at last. The leader of the kyrie sighed. "But you must do nothing rash-and you will not be doing anything tonight. Agreed? So, it is time to sleep, and in our sleep to dream the things we hope to do."

Taking the signal from Sun Feather, Three Far-Eyes and the young female kyrie left the cave. Cloudreaver hesitated and gave Caramon a friendly nod, then he, too, left. Sun Feather placed a winged arm on Caramon's shoulder as the Majere twin rose to leave.

"You will sleep here," said Sun Feather. He gestured toward the corner, where the older female kyrie had lingered and was setting up a thick pile of furs.

"But this is your dwelling," protested Caramon, "and I have brought you nothing but heartache."

Sun Feather shook his head. "You have brought nothing that was not here before you arrived," said the elder kyrie, "and as long as you stay among us, I wish that you would take this cave as your place to eat and sleep. It is cold in the mountains at night, and you are not as accustomed to the conditions as we kyrie."

Caramon opened his mouth to object, but Sun Feather raised a hand. "I am welcome anywhere among my people," the leader of the kyrie said, "and will not want for a place to eat and rest. And some nights I like to have the excuse of the open sky." His dark face wrinkled into a smile. "Even though I am old bones."

Caramon didn't protest further. In truth, he was happy for the comfort of the cave.

For the next several days, Caramon lived as one of the kyrie in their cave city among the sheer cliffs that girdled the high valleys in the far north of Mithas.

Taller and leaner than Caramon, Cloudreaver could easily carry the warrior, grasped in his taloned feet, while flying from plateau to plateau. Everywhere he went, Caramon was an object of curiosity among the kyrie, though he was invariably greeted with warmth. While the females, especially, gossiped and chattered about him in their kyrie tongue, most of the bird-people switched to Common in his presence. They overwhelmed him with their hospitality. Many of them already seemed to know the story of his escape, and his connection with Morning Sky.

Some of the kyrie caves were huge and able to house dozens of families, Caramon noted, while some isolated families chose to camp in sunlit hollows at the base of cliffs. The occasional wood beams or ladders Caramon noticed had been borne through the sky from miles away, Cloudreaver told him. Wood didn't grow at this altitude and was quite a luxury, and therefore a measure of status.

The tough, clever kyrie had devised ingenious ways of surviving in a region that was hot and parched by day, cool and dry by night. Rainwater was precious. What little that fell was diverted into holding pools at the bottom of the canyons, with only a small supply kept high near the cave cities where moisture evaporated quickly due to the constant onslaught of sun and wind. The kyrie had dug irrigation canals and built dams from the rocky ground, the canals deep to reduce the amount of water exposed to the sun, and narrow so they could be covered during cold nights.

Jackrabbits, cottontails, mule deer, and rodents provided the kyrie with meat. These were hunted daily by males to whom that duty had been delegated. While not a farming people, each kyrie family kept a small garden fed by irrigation. The garden supplemented their diet of meat with cactus fruit, nuts, beans, and seeds. On forays into the valleys, they collected wild grains. A lean, lithe race, the kyrie ate little-only one full meal a day.

Caramon asked Cloudreaver about the magical blue orbs that he noticed everywhere, which provided illumination inside the caves at night. As Cloudreaver explained it, many of the kyrie had modest magical skills. As a people, they were especially renowned for their ability to communicate with and cast spells over animals. But the magically inclined among them who were most revered were those who could predict or alter the weather. In any case, the blue-light orbs were a very simple spell, Cloudreaver said.

While the men took charge of hunting, the women occupied themselves with pottery-making, leatherwork, and the etching of shells. Whereas humans tended to carry their belongings in pouches and rucksacks, many of the kyrie had small baskets slung at their sides. These might contain anything from dried fruit to family artifacts to small weapons. The traditional weapon, which didn't fit into a basket, was a curved club, carved of wood, called a stryker. Many of the males who went off hunting carried bows and arrows as well as their strykers.

Caramon noticed there was a steady coming and going of the young males. They flew magnificently, these young, strong kyrie, like great eagles, covering ground rapidly, beating their huge wings. Some arrived fresh from hunting, the carcasses of animals slung over their shoulders. Others were obviously scouts and messengers.

The scouts and messengers reported directly to Cloudreaver. Some of them pointed at Caramon, speaking rapidly in the kyrie tongue. Some of the young bird-men looked at him haughtily, as Cloudreaver once had, and Caramon guessed they were arguing with Cloudreaver in their native language.

Although Caramon pressed Cloudreaver to learn what they were saying, the son of Sun Feather was evasive. Caramon figured that was his royal prerogative, but he was anxious about Sturm and wanted to know what, if anything, the kyrie had reported about the Solamnic. More than once Cloudreaver asked the human warrior to remain patient.

After four days among the kyrie, Caramon, well rested, leaner, and tougher, was still far from patient.

"Where is Atossa from here?" Caramon asked Cloudreaver, standing on the ledge where he had first arrived.

Cloudreaver pointed south. "A hundred miles."

"I could return there and take a turn as sentinel in the tunnels," pressed Caramon.

Cloudreaver put his hand on the shoulder of the anxious warrior. "No, my friend," he repeated. "Soon. Your friend is still alive. My brother is still alive. But you must be patient. We must wait a little longer for something to happen."

That night, Caramon was in the cave that Sun Feather had ceded to him, lying on his back, ready for sleep, when Cloudreaver came for him.

Caramon started as the son of Sun Feather entered. His kyrie friend was strangely daubed with paint, ornamented in beads and shells. Cloudreaver brought out a blindfold. Although Caramon felt uneasy, he let the kyrie tie it around his eyes so that he couldn't see where he was being taken.

Then Caramon felt the by now familiar sensation of being lifted up and borne through the air, but only for a short distance this time. When the blindfold came off, Caramon was in another, larger cave with about a dozen male kyrie who were garbed and decorated like Cloudreaver. Some of them he remembered meeting. Others he had never seen before.

They sat cross-legged in a circle. As Caramon, guided by Cloudreaver, joined the group, one of the male kyrie got up and came over to him, daubing his face with ash-gray, zigzag lines and draping him with ceremonial feathers and jewelry. This kyrie Caramon knew to be Cloudreaver's friend. His name was Bird-Spirit.

The bird-men linked hands and began to chant in the kyrie tongue. Caramon was seated between two kyrie he did not know. Looking around, he realized that Cloudreaver was gone. The kyrie gripped his hands. Although the young warrior had no idea what the kyrie were chanting, Caramon felt himself drawn into their solemn ritual.

The chanting continued for a long time. In spite of himself. Caramon felt himself being lulled to sleep. When he jerked his eyes open, he saw that the others, too, had closed their eyes. The kyrie were deliberately trancelike. Someone had lit sticks of incense, and a pungent odor, accompanied by curls of smoke, filled the cave.

All of a sudden the chanting stopped, and Cloudreaver appeared from a dark corner, carrying a large, heavy wooden box. This he carefully placed in the center of the circle. All eyes followed his every movement as the kyrie leaned over, opened a latched lid, and pulled out-Caramon caught his breath-a rare sea dragon.

The sea dragon was large, resembling a giant turtle with a lizardlike head, a thick dark shell, webbed toes, and massive, paddlelike flippers. Caramon knew that these ferocious creatures, not true dragons, were legendary for attacking ships. Rarely were they caught alive. Although it could breathe either air or water, it couldn't survive long without being immersed in water. As large and fierce-looking as this one was, it moved its head and tail ponderously outside its element.

Cloudreaver held it up and made a show of handing it to Bird-Spirit, who sat opposite Caramon in the circle. The head of the sea dragon thrashed, its powerful jaws snapping at the air. For long minutes, Bird-Spirit held the sea dragon over his head, chanting and murmuring while the savage creature did everything possible to twist out of his grip and lunge at him.

Bird-Spirit handed the sea dragon back to Cloudreaver, who passed it on to the next kyrie, and so on around the circle until Cloudreaver brought the huge creature to Caramon. The others watched him intently. Close up, the sea animal was revolting. It shrieked and thrashed, lashing out with its jaws. Fearful, Caramon hesitated for just a moment, then reached out and took the sea dragon from Cloudreaver.

Following the example of the others, Caramon held the sea dragon above his head, keeping silent while the other kyrie chanted for him. The Majere twin held the creature aloft until his arms ached, then lowered it, returning the sea dragon to Cloudreaver.

Cloudreaver met Caramon's eyes and passed the sea dragon on to the next kyrie.

After the sea dragon had gone around the circle, the chanting rose as Cloudreaver held the creature down in the center. He pulled out a long, sharp knife, and as the creature flopped around, trying to escape, Cloudreaver plunged the knife into the animal's back again and again, penetrating the shell.

Bird-Spirit rushed forward with a bowl, collecting the sea animal's spew of blood and body juices.

After some time, the creature lay still. One of the kyrie lifted its body back into the box and dragged the box off to one side.

Again Cloudreaver turned to Bird-Spirit first, this time offering the knife to his friend. Bird-Spirit took the knife and cut himself across the top of the forearm, a gash that dripped blood. Cloudreaver caught some of the blood in the bowl, then took the bowl from Bird-Spirit and passed it around the circle.

One by one the others cut themselves and dripped their own blood into the bowl containing the vital juices of the rare sea dragon.

When the knife came to Caramon, he looked up and met Cloudreaver's eyes once more. Without knowing why, but trusting the rituals of this good and honorable race of bird-people, Caramon cut himself on the forearm. Inexperienced, he cut himself rather deeply, and after blood spurted into the bowl, he had to grip his arm to stem the flow.

Cloudreaver was the last to cut himself.

Everyone kept silent now. The chanting had stopped. Nobody moved.

Kneeling in the center of the circle, Cloudreaver was the first to drink from the bowl. He started forward to hand it to Bird-Spirit, then had a second thought. The son of Sun Feather, the brother of Morning Sky, the heir to leadership of the kyrie turned and brought the bowl to Caramon Majere.

If the truth were known, Caramon was sickened at the thought of drinking the mixture, but he had come this far. He would do what was asked of him. Gripping the bowl with both hands, he put the slightly warm liquid to his lips and gulped some down.

Glancing up, he saw approval in Cloudreaver's eyes. Around the circle, he saw nodding faces.

Around the circle the bowl went.

Caramon was not the only warrior to be sickened that night by the sea dragon ritual. Within minutes of drinking the mixture of blood and sea dragon juices, he had rushed outside to vomit repeatedly in the darkness.

Afterward, with a wry grin, Cloudreaver told Caramon that that was no dishonor. Caramon had purified himself, and now he would be considered one of them, an honorary-for he was not a kyrie-member of their Warrior Society.