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  “WHAT?” All three companions demanded, simultaneously.

  “But-- but-” Toli spluttered, not knowing how to begin.

  “Some Wise One ye turned out to be!” Granite mocked. Standing up, he headed straight for the door. “I have nae the patience fer this and if ye've any sense, the pair of ye'll leave with me right now!”

  With that, the dwarf stormed out.

  “Go keep an eye on him, please, Toli,” Eilidh asked her friend. “I'll be out shortly.”

  “Alright, Eilidh,” the hobbit agreed, reluctantly. “I-” she began, but seemed to think better of it and simply left. “Poor Toli,” Eilidh sighed, shaking her head. “Time was when you couldn't shut her up. Now she barely says two words. She lived in Merlyon a long time. She lost a lot of friends thanks to Niltsiar's temper tantrum!"

  One last time, she appealed to the Wise One, “Is there really nothing you can do?”

  “I don't have the patience for this,” he said. “Charming!” Eilidh gasped, furious. “Well if that's your attitude, I won't bother you any further!” She threw her bag of Kij vine cuttings on the table. “Enjoy your tea.”

  She turned to leave.

  “Eh? Oh, no, wait!” the Wise One stopped her. “I didn't mean that! I was just thinking out loud about what your dwarf friend said. `I don't have the patience for this`.”

  Eilidh narrowed her eyes, catching something in the sage's voice. “What about it?” she asked, half returning to her seat.

  The sage waved it aside. “Oh nothing really. I was just thinking that...”

  “Yes?” Eilidh moved a step closer.

  “Well, it seems to me that patience is a great key, too, is it not?”

  Eilidh sat down again. “Alright, you've got me alone and you've got my attention. So let's get on with this, shall we? Now that you've got what you wanted.”

  The Wise One smiled a crooked smile. “Is that what I wanted?”

  Eilidh folded her arms, defensively. “Oh no, I'm not playing that game. You're trying to teach me something. That much I get. I'm listening and ready to learn.” “Ready, are you? Ah, not quite, young lady. Not quite.” He wagged his finger, sternly. “You came in here twice burdened. Two bags you had in your possession; one you have given to me, the other you cling to still. What I have to teach can be learned only with both hands free.”

  “But I'm not carrying anything else,” protested the confused Catalyst. “In one hand you carried the bag of kij vines - thank you, by the way - and in the other you carried something considerably weightier: Preconception. With a heavy dose of expectation, too, I'd say. Be honest with yourself, Eilidh. What did you think I was going to tell you? How to forge a great sword imbued with Ancient magic? Or perhaps I'd produce a magic ring from beneath my hat and tell you to drop it into a volcano? Maybe I know the location of a powerful ancient object - a cup, a chalice that could set everything right with a single drop of its contents?”

  Eilidh blushed. The Wise One was right. She did have a lot of preconceptions and expectations. “Do not blame me because I have not fulfilled an image that only ever existed in your mind. I have no obligation to live up to your expectations. `Wise One` is a preconception in itself. It is others who have given me that appellation. For myself, I am simply `me`. I recognise the threat of Niltsiar for what it is and what knowledge I possess I am willing to use to defend this world, because in doing so I protect my own life and the things that I value.”

  “Enlightened self -interest,” Eilidh agreed. “The cornerstone of reason. Your life is the most precious thing you own and therefore it is rational to protect it. You are but one man with an impressive but ultimately finite knowledge. To listen and learn from you makes sense; to expect you to snap your fingers and produce a nice, tidy solution is unrealistic and irrational. I understand. When I first came here, I was seeking knowledge. Then I grew impatient and started expecting answers instead. Consider my preconceptions dropped. What knowledge do you possess that might help us?”

  “There is no ring of power, no grail cup, no object in this world - or any other as far as I know - that can defeat Niltsiar," the Wise One told her. "There is no magic wand, no enchanted staff and no spell that will stop her.”

  “Are you saying it's hopeless?” Eilidh asked. “There you go again,” the Wise One tutted. “Preconceptions and expectations. Why should the world work according to what you hope? Reality is reality. Hoping that there are only three enemy soldiers over the next hill will not help you if, in reality, there are three thousand. Wishing you had a magic sword with a pretty name that could cleave Niltsiar in two, will not make one appear in your hand. If you are to stand any chance of finding a way to stop Niltsiar, you must let go of your futile hopes, your wishes, your expectations. You muststart with what exists and go from there. Hope is not a strategy.”

  “Hopes are merely wishes and reality does not change because one might wish it were different,” Eilidh agreed. “Another central tenet of reason that I have lived by all my life. Strange that I should forget it now.”

  “Never mind, my girl,” the Wise One soothed. “It is a stressful situation, after all.” “But that's when reason becomes the most essential and valuable tool. It's the thing that guides our actions. It requires us to use our heads, to think. To accept what our senses and our minds tell us, and ignore unfounded beliefs and fantasies. The application of clear, rational thought is the greatest and most important weapon we can ever possess. I won't forget again, I promise.”

  “Good, because in this one respect, you and Niltsiar are both operating on a level playing field.” He held up a finger for emphasis. “No matter how powerful she is, she must deal with the same reality that you do. Nothing can change that. She cannot do the impossible.”

  “Now, you tell me something,” continued the Wise One, changing tack. “You said in your account that you invoked the name of the Du y Khariaon more than one occasion. Do you really believe that's you?” Eilidh raised her eyebrows. “Now who's got the preconceptions and expectations? If you're looking for some grand leap of faith that I'm the legendary Du y Kharia, come to save the world at the time foretold in prophecy, I'm afraid you're going to be disappointed.”

  “So you think you're not the Du y Kharia. And yet you claimed you were.” “So I lied and how can I possibly live with myself?” Eilidh finished, sarcastically. She shrugged. “If telling a lie will save the world, I'll tell it and sleep very well, thank you. But no, I'm neither dismissing nor embracing the title. It's just a title; an appellation like `Wise One`. My belief or otherwise does not change reality. If invoking that title will open doors for me, then it's a tool like any other and I will use it as I choose. My life is not governed by some title handed to me by fate; there is no such thing as prophecy; I am nobody's Chosen One. I am the one who chooses my path. My future is my choice, no-one else's!

  "Choice: that's another great key, I suppose,” she considered. “A key to what, thoug h? OK, so we don't have an object or spell that can stop her. We don't have a ship than can take us to the moon, either. Listing things we don't have isn't very helpful. So what will be helpful? Where do I go from here?”

  “Good points, rational questions, all of them,” the Wise One approved with just a hint of pride. “Very well. There is one final quest for you to undertake, Eilidh, should you `choose` to accept it.” Eilidh ignored the friendly jibe. “If you are willing to take on the mantle of Du y Kharia, then perhaps you should choose to do what the legend says: determine the location of the Well of Life - the source of all magic on Majaos. Find it and travel there.”

  “And do what?” “I have no idea,” The Wise One admitted. “Perhaps you will be inspired. As you have said: you must choose your own future. I have advised you as best I can, but I have no right to tell you what to do. I merely offer a suggestion.”

  Eilidh knew this was a silly question, but she asked it anyway. “I don't suppose you know where it is, the Well of Life?”

  “It is not a
physical location. It is a place of pure magic. You will get there by means of an Inter- Realm Gateway.”

  “What's that?”

  The Wise One gave a wry smile. “No idea; I just made it up. I wanted something better than `magic door`.”

  “Well whatever you want to call it, do you know where that is?”

  “It's at the central convergence of all magical nodes.”

  “Did you make that up, too?”

  “Certainly not!”

  “So what does it mean?” “I'm sorry, my dear, but I've told you: I don't have all the answers. I cannot lead you from A to B to C. Your friend - Rochelle is it? - has some Ancient magical texts. Perhaps you will be able to figure it out from those references.”

  “Research. The quest for knowledge,” Eilidh accepted. Getting up out of her seat, she said, “Well, if there's nothing more, I'd better go. I've got a lot of studying to do.”

  “Actually, there is one small detail you should probably be aware of...”

  “Go on.”

  “Niltsiar will be seeking it, too. The Well of Life is the object of her obsession.”

  Eilidh gasped. She could scarcely believe she had almost left such a fundamental question unasked. “What does she want, Wise One?” “What she has always wanted: Life Infinity. Just as you know three states of magic: Life Potential, Life Calling and Life Gift, there is believed to be a state of magical being beyond the Gift. It is called Life Infinity and that is what Niltsiar seeks.”

  “But she's already so powerful, what does she need more for?” “This is not merely more power. It is i nfinite power. Eternal, everlasting, unchanging, inexhaustible. It has always existed and always will exist. And Niltsiar wants to join with it, absorb it, take its power into herself. She must be stopped, Eilidh! You cannot allow her to do it! Everything depends on it! Do you understand, Du y Kharia?”

  “Yes, sir,” she replied. “I understand. Thank you.”

  Eilidh made for the door, and then paused, half turned back and smiled. “I must disagree with you over one thing, though,” she said.

  “Oh? What might that be?”

  “Your title is well-earned. You most definitely are the Wise One.”

  The sage smiled back, but when the Catalyst had stepped outside to rejoin the world, his smile faded. Slumped in his chair, he murmured softly, “No, my dear. I am a foolish old man. Had I been wise,” he said, bitterly, “I would have seen my daughter for what she was from the beginning, instead of what I wished her to be. Maybe then I could have prevented all of this. As it stands, it is left for the Du y Kharia to clean up the mistakes I made. Me. The oh-so Wise One.

  “The great Merlyn.”

  Chapter 2

  Loric hated to admit it, but he was definitely flagging now. They had been flying for hours on end; he had never been in the air for so long before. The Elder, on the other hand, looked like she could keep this up all day. He wasn't sure what he was supposed to be getting out of this, apart from aching muscles. If it was like his experience with the Elder Dragon of Fire, though, he would probably have to figure it out himself, so he saw little point in asking. They had been talking as they flew, about this and that. Small talk mostly, inconsequential things. They talked about the war, too. How could they not? Loric was pleased that `Air` - as she liked to be called, apparently lacking a name per se - did not consider herself aloof and above such concerns. She was certainly very different from `Fire`.

  The weather deteriorated, some distance into their journey. The wind speed cranked up and the temperature dropped markedly until they were rushing headlong into a blizzard. To Loric, it felt like hitting a wall of solid ice. Still, part of him was secretly relieved. Surely, now, they would have to stop. By the time the storm had passed, he would be ready to go again.

  Loric grew heavy and white with snow and he began to panic.

  “Air!” He yelled out over the wind. “We have to stop!”

  “Nonsense!”

  “My wings -the snow!”

  “Many untrue things are said about the cold,” Air answered him.

  “But our wings will freeze up!”

  “Nonsense,” she repeated. “Just shake your wings periodically - they will ice up less quickly each time. Flying warms them. They will not freeze.” She was right: they did not freeze. In front, Air beat her wings on and on, up and down, their great, steady strokes mesmerising Loric and hauling him on through the wind when he thought he could go no further. Life became a cycle of wingbeats, repeating themselves endlessly in this eternal cloud of snow. For a breath or two, Loric feared they had become trapped inside a whirlwind and were merely flying around in circles over the same patch of land. Not that he could see any land.

  By some miracle, the two dragons left the blizzard behind at last. Although it snowed still, the sky lightened, the wind dropped and the air relaxed around them. The ground reappeared as a pale, featureless blur, some unfathomable distance below. Returning, too, was the horizon - a faint but visible reminder of the world around which they flew - the world to which they had been safely returned. With the sky now a bright grey and the falling snow a gentle caress on their hides, the pair alighted upon a long crevice, there to rest awhile. There, a new dawn greeted them and Loric was astonished to discover they had been flying all through the night.

  Air, her breath billowing around her, announced, “Well, that went well. Yes, very well indeed. We've been flying for eighteen hours straight and we're right where we're supposed to be.” Loric nearly choked. “What?!” he demanded. “Where exactly is `here`, then? We could be anywhere after a night like that! As for which way to go now, which blob of snow do you suggest we head for?” Loric knew he should probably be careful about being too belligerent. After all, he needed to pass the Penta Drauka. But it was difficult to place his confidence in the Elder Dragon of Air's flying masterclass, when inside the first day she had got both of them hopelessly lost.

  “We go that way,” Air declared, unperturbed, pointing her wing in what seemed to Loric to be some random, unspecified direction. All he could tell was that it was more-or-less exactly the same direction in which they had been flying when they landed.

  “So we've been going the right way all along, then?” Loric said incredulously. “I don't believe it. Even if we were, it would have to be pure chance.”

  “Not chance,” Air disputed. “Only skill.”

  “Well if it's skill, stop messing around and tell me seriously. Which way now? Really.”

  “This way. Really.” Loric felt the Fire Rage start to build. He didn't have time for this foolishness. This so-called Elder was obviously far too young and she didn't have a clue what she was doing. Something must have gone wrong at the moment of her transformation. He was wasting his time here when Callie needed him. He would just have to find a way to help her without completing the Penta Drauka. He still had the Fire Rage. Maybe that would help him kill that dragon predator. He should go back there right now...except, of course, he didn't have the first idea which way that would be.

  Ai r regarded him curiously, head cocked to one side. “You don't believe me? You think I'm incompetent, or perhaps just joking? Well, I never joke about flying. It's the thing that makes me the dragon I am. As for competence, why don't you reserve judgment until you undertake my lessons? After all, if you flew off now, you could end up anywhere, couldn't you? You would be at least as likely to be further away from your intended destination as closer. So, since you have nothing better to do right now, why not stick around and see what I have to teach?”

  Loric suppressed his anger, acknowledging that in this, at least, she made sense. “Alright,” he acquiesced. “But at the first sign of clear weather, if I'm not satisfied with your...`lessons`...I will strike out on my own.”

  “You are free to do so,” Air assured him, “But you know the consequences.”

  “Yeah, yeah, I fail the Penta Drauka and am forever barred from trying again.” “And you lose everything you have alrea
dy gained,” she reminded him. “So if you're coun ting on that Fire Rage of yours to help you, I suggest you forget it now, because you will forget it later anyway if you leave me without a passing grade.”

  Loric had forgotten about that detail. Damn that was annoying. Who in the Abyss thought up these rules, anyway? He wondered. “In a way,” Air continued, “you are right to doubt. No rational, thinking dragon should accept everything he hears on faith. You require proof, some evidence to back up my claims. But it is only fair that you should give me the benefit of the doubt and allow me to present my case. Now, you see that ridge over there,” she indicated a low line of snow in the distance.

  Loric nodded.

  “Fly there.”

  Loric opened his mouth, but Air cut him off. “Don’t ask why, just do it. And count your wingbeats.” Loric shrugged once, and then took off, flapping his way across to the waiting ridge, and alighting before returning at more-or-less the same pace. When he landed beside Air once more, he announced his tally. “Sixty-eight strokes there, seventyfive strokes back.”

  “Agreed,” Air said. “Now watch me and count my wingbeats as I fly.” Without another word, she beat upwards with powerful, fluid strokes and then set off towards the same ridge. As instructed, Loric counted the steady, rhythmic strokes of this mixed-up silver-blue-sapphire dragon. Even before she reached the turning point, he was intrigued by the regularity of those wingbeats, the constant, consistent angle her wings made against the clouds. A few breaths later, Air returned and landed beside him. “Well? How many?”

  “Fifty-seven there; the same back.”

  “Agreed. Now, watch me again.”

  She repeated the exercise a total of three times, and each time the result was the same: Fifty-seven strokes there, fifty-seven strokes back.

  “The rhythm, the power of each wingbeat it's exactly the same,” Loric realised. “Precisely so. That is the first part of good navigation, and the first lesson of good flying. A dragon whose rhythm is good knows exactly how far he has travelled each time he beats his wings. Counting beats gives you distance, Loric. That's why I know where I am. Always.”