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who might have been locked in the underground room? Who might have made those figurines and set so much pain
and destruction at play? Who might it be?"
Firekeeper spoke out, feeling confused, "You think this Meddler was there? But you say there is no Meddler, that
this is one of those deities you not believe. Why you say he is there if he is not?"
"What if..." Harjeedian said softly, as if to mute the intensity of his own emotions. "What if we were wrong?
What if the Meddler does exist and we have been so unfortunate as to set him free?"
X
TRUTH HEARD WHAT PLIK SAID, and when the band of travelers stopped that night, accepting welcome in
an outlying temple dedicated to the Wounded Bear, she parted from her companions. They thought she was going to
fish, and so she was, but they might have been surprised in which waters she dipped her paws. First, she did find a
massive, sour-tempered old snapping turtle. She broke open his shell with her powerful jaws, scooped out the red flesh
with velvet paws. Then, having made the waters safer for generations of short-lived fish and insects, Truth climbed
high into the limbs of a tree. There she washed, the rhythmic lapping of tongue against fur soothing her into a state
between sleeping and waking.
This was an old trick, taught to every kitten who showed signs of seeing more than one world, one time. Truth
had disdained it for many years, her gift being so great that she must only adjust her will to have the means of reading
omens open to her. Now she washed, tongue against packed density of fur, almost tasting the dark rosettes against the
golden field. She thought of nothing, focused tightly on one thing.
Meddler... Meddler... Meddler...
She asked for nothing, looked for nothing, but felt in the swirling twists a current that tugged at her, offering her a
look elsewhere in time. When the current ebbed, she opened her eyes, and saw.
***
THE BUILDINGS WERE TALL and very elegant, crafted of a pale blue stone that glittered as some limestones
glitter. Were one to try and carve this stone, however, perhaps to mark it with initials or a personal emblem, they
would find that it was harder than steel. The buildings rose into towers of many shapes: round, octagonal, hexagonal,
rhomboid, triangular, even merely square. Their rooftops were domed or coned or peaked or flat, made of slate or
metal or sometimes of tiles, each tile crafted with a different arcane sign or sigil. No two towers were of the same
height, breadth, or width. This was by design, not by lack of skill.
There was an ordered disorder to this city of towers. One needed to study for many years to understand the reason
for that fitting of shapes and heights. It was said that many who did come to this treasured comprehension put aside
rod, staff, or wand and became instead simple masons, stonecutters, bricklayers, dedicated to the glory that was the
city.
And it was also said that those who came to this understanding and did not retire from the practice of magic
became the most powerful sorcerers not only of the place of blue stone, but of all the world. So it was that many strove
to understand the shaping of the city, desiring to obtain that power for themselves.
See now. A youth comes to this city. He is past the gangly growth of first adulthood, not yet into the strength and
maturity of second. His hair is dark and silken. His eyes are long and appraising beneath lashes merely long. Those
eyes are the same color as his hair. There is nothing remarkable about this youth in this place of marvels, and the
crowd does not part around him. Rather it jostles him, moving him to the shoulder of the road, and there he makes his
way, his eyes never leaving the sparkling blue stone and variety of rooftops.
Why is there a crowd? At first glance it appears to be the usual market vendors, driving livestock, hauling produce
or handicrafts. At second glance this seems less sure. They pass into a gate, but that gate does not admit them to a
market square. No booths are set up, no ropes strung to indicate where goats are being held, where sheep, where cattle.
The herds and carts and wagons pass through one wide gate. Those who drove or hauled or pulled come out another.
Enough time does not seem to have passed to permit a sale to have been made, yet those departing do not look
dissatisfied. Indeed, all look cheerful, or at least content. All of those but those who weep, and there are not over many
of these.
The youth is swept up to the gate. He walks alongside a herd of odoriferous goats, and initially is thought to be
among their keepers.
"I am not," he says, and the goatherd is vociferous in seconding this denial. "I am here to enroll with a teacher."
The youth's boots are dirty, the hem of his traveling cloak soiled to the knee, but the pair guarding the gate, one
each a man and a woman, do not mock him. Instead they indicate a smaller door, one made all of crystal, cut and
faceted with such intricacy that although this portal should be clear it is opaque with rainbows.
"There," the man says.
"Pull the bell-rope," the woman adds.
Then they return to assessing the goods passing through the gate. The youth steps dextrously around a young
white and tan kid with short curling horns and evil yellow eyes, and advances on the door of crystal. He never once
looks back. As he moves forward, the sounds of the mobile marketplace fade away to a silence broken only by the
sound of his own boots on stone.
When he pulls the bell-rope there chimes a cadence so beautiful that some say that those who hear it remember it
ever after with the bittersweet joy with which one recalls a beloved one never quite found the courage to address.
The youth stands and listens with pleasure, but perhaps with a certain degree of apprehension as well. A shadow
darkens the crystal, dimming the rainbows so they frame the shape of a large man.
A deep voice rumbles, "State your business."
"I am here to enroll with a teacher."
"Know first the terms. If you cross this threshold, you will be bound into service. Even if no teacher will take you,
you will still be bound. If your teacher finds you lacking, still you will owe. Only if you find a teacher and pass that
teacher's training will you be free to depart, and even then you will be bound by the codes and regulations of this
place."
"I still wish to enroll."
"Then push open the door and enter. None does so but under his own power so it cannot be said he has been
coerced into this choice."
The youth raises both hands and presses them against the center of the crystal door where there is a smooth place
that seems made for the purpose. A sensation of perfect cold embraces him, but he presses forward. Cold sweeps him
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