It all began with the gruesome murder of Ondel the Archwizard, whose various pieces were found on many stoops, porches, and thresholds up and down Shadowdale.

Or perhaps it began with the finding of the legendary, long-hidden hoard of Sundraer the She-dragon.

Or then again, mayhap it started the night Indarr Andemar's barn exploded in stabbing lightnings and balls of green flame that soared up to try to touch the stars.

Or the morning the best woodcarver in Shadowdale, Craunor Askelo, discovered his wife was not his wife and that for years he'd been sleeping with something that had scales and claws when it wanted to.

Or a handful of days after Vangerdahast, the Royal Magician of Cormyr, had stood inside a dank stone castle sally chamber, seen the Knights of Myth Drannor provided with new mounts, armor, weapons, and much spending-coin by his command, gestured in the direction of the rising portcullis, and given them a firm order of his own: "Tarry within Cormyr no longer!"

Days that had been spent riding and discovering just how hard new saddles can be-and, despite what they looked like on maps, how astonishingly large the wilderlands of northeastern Cormyr were.

Not for the first time, Semoor rolled his eyes and asked, "Gods, will these trees never end? "

"Picture each of them as a willing wench, arms and lips opening to welcome you," Islif told him, her saddle creaking under her as she turned to smile. "And the ride will seem less endless."

Semoor closed his eyes, growled appreciatively a time or two, then opened them again to favor her with a sour look. He shook his head. "My aching shanks remind me that this is not the sort of ride I'd prefer to be endless."

"You fail to surprise me," Jhessail said in acid-laced tones of mock disapproval, running fingers through her red hair to rid it of some of the clinging road dust. A small cloud obligingly swirled away in her wake, causing Doust-who was riding there-to wince even more than she did.