no lobes. Upon each cheek were three scars, mystic
symbols whose meaning was not lost upon the witch.
The mute made a sign to his companions, and the one
to the far right seemed to nod. It was difficult to judge,
he was clothed in an all-concealing robe, with a deep
hood revealing no features. Both hands were hidden in
voluminous sleeves that were kept together. As if speak-
ing from a great distance, the cloaked figure said, 'We
seek a reading of signs.' His voice was sibilant, almost a
hiss, and there was a note of something alien in it. One
hand appeared and the witch Pulled away, for it was
misshapen and scaled, as if the owner possessed talons
covered with snakeskin. She then knew the creature for
what it was: a priest of the Pantathian serpent people.
Compared to the serpent people, the moredhel were held
in high regard by the witch.
She turned her attention from the end figures and
studied the one in the centre. He stood a full head taller
than the mute and was even more impressive in bulk. He
slowly removed a bearskin robe, the bear's skull providing
a helm for his own head, and cast it aside. The old witch
gasped, for he was the most striking moredhel she had
seen in her long life. He wore the heavy trousers, jerkin,
and knee-high boots of the hill clans, and his chest
was bare. His powerfully muscled body gleamed in the
firelight, and he leaned forward to study the witch. His
face was almost frightening in its near-perfect beauty.
But what had caused her to gasp, more than his awesome
appearance, was the sign upon his chest.
'Do you know me?' he asked the witch.
She nodded. 'I know who you appear to be.'
He leaned even farther forward, until his face was lit
from below by the fire, revealing something in his nature.
'I am who I appear to be,' he whispered with a smile. She
felt fear, for behind his handsome features, behind the
benign smile, she saw the visage of evil, evil so pure it
defied endurance. 'We seek a reading of signs,)' he
repeated, his voice the sound of ice-clear madness.
She chuckled. "Even one so mighty has limits?'
The handsome moredhel's smile slowly vanished. 'One
' may not foretell one's own future.'
Resigned to her own likely lot, she said, 'I require
silver.'
The moredhel nodded. The mute dug a coin from out
of his belt pouch and tossed it upon the floor before the
witch. Without touching it, she prepared some ingredients
in ,a stone cup. When the concoction was ready, she
poured it upon the silver. A hissing came, both from the
coin and from the serpent man. A green-scaled claw
began to make signs, and the witch snapped, 'None of
