Chapter I

The old woman hobbled her way down the roughhewn cobbles of Olten, leaning heavily on a knob- headed cane. She passed the noisy tavern and turned into the apothecary shop. The ancient crone was too tall to be a Dreywoman, but her height went unnoticed as she walked hunched in upon herself, huddled in her worn shawl against the morning’s chill. She haggled with the apprentice over the price of the herbs and other ingredients she sought and went away satisfied that she had gotten the better of the youth. Painfully, her limbs twisted with age, she made her way into the poorer section of the city. She had a small room in a squalid house that catered to the less desirable element among the citizenry. Here, no one asked questions. Closing the door, she heaved a sigh of relief as her crippled limbs untwisted and she rose to stand at her full height. The Old One was small for a human but would tower over even the tallest of the Dreyfolk. She flung off her shawl and moved to the fire. Zyalia reached into the package she had just purchased and sprinkled a handful of fine, grey dust over the smoldering remains of the dungfire in the hearth. Flames leaped from the embers, and she peered into their depths looking for a glimpse of The Triumph, the small ship that was carrying her companions to Drey.

Satisfied with what she saw, she let the fire die down and readied the kettle. While the t’sayne brewed, the old woman busied herself with her herbs, mixing together a potent blend for the spell she needed to perform after moonrise. Her muscles were sore and cramped after days of having to move about the city in her guise as a cripple. Flying hadn’t helped her soreness either, and she’d done much of that lately. After nearly three centuries of disuse, her ancient wings resented the efforts she’d been forced to exert, complaining loudly in the aching shoulders of her human form. “I suppose there’s no help for it. Just getting old, too old for this sort of thing, really, but who else is there?” she muttered to herself in the empty room. She arranged herself as comfortably as she could in the small, Drey-size chair in front of the fire and sipped at her t’sayne. “Now, if only that fool halfelf listens to his own wisdom,” she muttered again. Catching herself, she let out a chuckle. “Talking to myself like a witless one. Ah, me! As my sire said often enough, we pick the wisest with whom to converse.” Setting down her cup, she drifted off, to nap until the moons rose over the city.

©2005 by Trish Reynolds