upwards, the air in the words sustaining him after belief falls to the floors of the waters that never were, for somewhere the Old Man is saying, is saying belief is a facet of crystal that turning, catches the light and bends it to shapes and mirages, bends it to foxfire that lies at the heart of the crystal, where nothing lies but the light that is damaged and broken beyond those things you remember, my son, you remember, and Riverwind, doused and redeemed by the words, by the saving air, is saying, old man, I have passed this, too, I am learning this mapless country. Learning until the red of the moon, the silver, combine in the air and the light was gold as the perfumed candles of Istar, forgotten perhaps terrible, and Goldmoon walks like a leopard there at the edge of hearing and faith saying

Lie down, give this away at once, give this away before it begins, our darling, our young one, for you can learn all of this mystery, all from this mystery dry grass and dark and yearning, the source of the children blossoms for you in the winter. lie down, my love, lie down.

Still he walks toward the daughter of the chieftains, and still she recedes, the story of days and of years circles like diving water and Old Man, he whispers. Old Man, I am learning this mapless country, but still she recedes into the arms and the keeping of son after chieftain's son rising like skins of the dead spangled in stars forever before him, forever embracing her as she turns, her eyes green steeples of light, her eyes his eyes in the twisting moon, as she smiles, as she gives him to warriors, and Old Man, he whispers.

Old Man, I am giving this knowledge away, this terrible dream of the staff is a terrible dream when the staff surrenders, and under the moons he follows his losses until his skin turns against him, dappling, gold upon black upon gold, his strong hands remember a nest of knives and the front of the head bows down to the hot wind to the choir of leopards and in her golden throat in the throat of her numberless chieftains the blood is dancing is rising like a mirage like a thermal, and there are no words for this as he dreams this dream and the throats unravel. Forward he moves, remembering nothing, no movement and cry of the People no hunt at the head of the movement no horizons no crossing moons of the naming nights.