“Watchers! Grasp hands!” commanded Vafi.
“Flohad! Your hand!” said Menegal, groping to the right.
“Here it is, Menegal,” said Flohad, putting forth his hand into Menegal’s unseen one.
“I cannot see you, Wixtil. Where is your hand?” cried Luvilia, fumbling out to the left.

Thirteen years later.

(This story might not be suitable for Children under ten.)

“Get Out!” snarled Raghib, throwing his cup at Qudir.
“Yes, my Lord,” said Qudir, dodging it by an inch, then he turned and walked to the door, opened it and closed it gently behind him.
“Rashad! Where is he? Rashad!!”
“Yes, my Father?” said a man, poking his dark head through the door.

Coming to a halt for evening’s camp, Menegal wearily set himself down on the ground to rub his ankle that had swelled up again. He had walked mainly in silence for the ending of the march for he was thinking about Golwitch. Memories of playing in the lake that was in the valley where they had lived as children came into his mind, and of the hunts they had enjoyed together.

(This story might not be suitable for Children under ten.)

“Where am I?” said Bibi, waking from a deep sleep.
“Thou art in Shamara’s Castle,” said a servant named Atherton, who had a brown bushy beard and strong brow. “Thou hast had a bad beating.”

Going inside the tent of Tanvia, the Greek councilor, he found that Tanvia was talking to Leonidas. The two men were sitting on the ground on a richly colored mat. Tanvia matched it well. His clothes were orange, red, gold and deep blue. His eyes matched the inside walls of the green tent, and his face was smooth and without beard. His hair was shorn short and brown.

(This story might not be suitable for Children under ten.)

(This story might not be suitable for Children under ten.)

When Menegal awoke, it was dawn. He glanced at the tired Hilfarey at his side. Sitting up and trying to rise, he fell backward onto the pallet and realized he could not stand, unless with great pain on account of his ankle.