"Think of your father, and touch it," the old man had commanded.

He'd never been allowed near the family heirloom that the servants called "the Burning Cup" before. More out of curiosity than anything else, Thamalon touched it.

"Uncle," the young man stammered, blinking, "can you count coins at all?"

The great bear of a man belched, waved one blunt-fingered, hairy hand vaguely and rumbled, "By the handful… why?"

"Uncle Roel," Aldimar said in exasperation, "this chest was full a tenday ago! Brim-laden with Chassabra's housekeeping money; the servants' pay for a year. Where is it now?"

Roel belched again, thunderously. "Gone," he admitted sadly.

"Gone where?"

The bearlike man lifted the goblet that was never far from his hand, pointed into its depths, then upended it toward Aldimar. Nothing ran out. It was empty.

Thamalon found himself back in the high gallery, young again and drenched in cold sweat, blinking at the chalice on the table in front of him instead of the empty depths of Roel's unsteadily dangled cup.

Nelember wordlessly handed him a tankard of something warm, wet, and steadying-pheasant broth-and offered the dry words, "Rich fathers always have such easy choices to make, hmm?"

Thamalon stared up at his teacher, then back at the chalice. After a long, silent time, he mumbled, "Just tell me; I'll hear and heed. I'd not touch that again."

The old tutor smiled grimly and said, "Think of it as truth, waiting at your elbow for whenever you disbelieve."

Thamalon listened and learned. Aldimar had been a quiet, studious youth who let his boisterous, hard-riding uncles Roel and Tivamon run the affairs of the Uskevren-until Tivamon was killed in a tavern duel fighting half-a-dozen fellow drunkards, all of different families, and none of them "noble." The day after the crypt had been sealed on his casket, the hitherto-quiet Aldimar firmly set his Uncle Roel aside and assumed control of the family.