I saw then that it was not merely a hut, but that the side toward us contained a stone altar, only partially protected from the elements by protruding stone walls. Next to the rough wooden crucifix on the altar was a reliquary, a shining box where the saint’s relics would be kept. From where I stood, it looked as though it was made of pure gold. It was indubitably made in the shape of a giant toe.

I hung back, having no intention of going down on my knees before the preserved toe of a long-dead saint who had not even had the sense to ask a wizard for help against a dragon.

Joachim rose again after a minute. At the same time, I caught a flicker of motion in the shadows beyond the hut. I turned toward it quickly, hoping it was the great horned rabbit-or, even better, the wood nymph.

Instead it was an old man in a coarse brown robe that reached to his ankles. Below the robe, his feet were bare; I noticed that he himself had very large and horny toes.

This, then, was the hermit. My eyes had become adjusted to the dim light in the grove, and I could see that the hut, beyond the altar, would make an adequate shelter for someone who had deliberately given up comfort. The old hermit had a ropy beard that reached nearly to his knees and a beatific smile that he turned on both of us.

“Greetings, my son,” he said to me, and “Bless me, Father,” to Joachim and knelt before him.

Joachim blessed him in evident embarrassment and helped him back to his feet. “I should rather kneel to you, Father,” he said. “Priests who are busy with the sins and affairs of the world have much to learn from hermits whose days are spent in contemplation and prayer.”

The hermit looked at him more closely. “You’re the Royal Chaplain, aren’t you? I thought I recognized you.”

Joachim beckoned to me. “Let me present Daimbert, Royal Wizard of Yurt and my close friend.”