Darkvision

"Mmm." "Damn it." Kiril yelled ahead, "Monolith, Thormud's still not himself. Don't expect any direction from him, if you're waiting for it." The deep voice of the elemental noble resonated back, "Why should I? I am the guide, not he." "All right, rock head, if you're so smart, maybe you should think about that approaching wind devil. We won't survive its outskirts, let alone the column at the center." The elemental stalked down the empty path, but one of its stone arms rose and pointed ahead. Kiril followed the direction of his gesture and saw a tiny cavern mouth, perhaps five hundred paces distant, gaping from the side of the empty stream bed. She shrugged, saying nothing. Truth was, she was slightly embarrassed she hadn't descried the cave mouth herself. She was an elf, after all, and had a reputation to maintain.

The storm stifled the sun as they reached the aperture. They moved through a baleful twilight stained with bloody light. The cave opened out of the flat, eroded face of an ancient riverbank. The cave's sides were crumbled into heaps of crusted dust, but Kiril immediately noticed a suspiciously clean avenue down the center of the cavern floor. More suspicious yet-the flickering illumination of lantern light emerging from what should have been a lonely, black hole.

Someone lived in the cave-perhaps several someones. Prince Monolith reached out and touched the rock above the cave entrance. He held the position briefly, then stepped to the side of the cave entrance and ceased all movement. "Not coming in?" He replied, "I doubt I would fit. Plus, I might frighten the natives." "What kind of natives?" asked Kiril. "Environs as harsh as Raurin are extreme, but mortal flesh, for all its frailty, is surprisingly adaptable. The rock has led me to a colony of dervishes, despite an enchantment of misdirection attempting to lead me astray. But I have a closer association with the world than most." "I hope they're friendly."

"Enter and ask for shelter. I have observed that cultures perched on the edge of wastelands often prize hospitality above all other values." The storm was sweeping down upon them and begi

Xet fluttered around unhelpfully. The lantern hung from the ceiling some thirty feet down the cavern's throat, rusted and battered, but burning a half-full reservoir of oil that smelled pleasantly of cloves. The lantern light revealed the edge of a chamber that widened gradually toward a great wooden gate blocking the mouth of a deeper tu

The great carved door swung wide, and standing in its gap was an elf wearing a long, heavy gown of spun white cloth, over which he wore a larger, looser garment stitched with intricate script Kiril didn't recognize. His face, while certainly that of an elf, was strangely weathered. Despite his fey blood, his skin marked him as one who'd spent a lifetime in the sun. "My name," said the man, "is Essam.

Enter." He moved to the side and gestured inward. Behind him Kiril saw the heart of the dervish community of Al Qahera. The entrance, wide as it was, opened onto a far larger and deeper plaza, enclosed on all sides by stone balconies, galleries, and square tu

Soft sheepskin lay across the floor. A fire in a tiny side alcove burned away the subterranean chill. No smoke lingered in the room-the fireplace was apparently well vented. Kiril wondered briefly how fresh air was drawn in, then shrugged. The elves of Al Qahera had obviously worked it out.