The short sword on Link’s back jostled wildly as he leaped from step to step down the tower’s length. Anyone less limber would have had to descend at a much slower pace, using the narrow crevices that honeycombed the bronze-like metal sheathing the entire structure.

Link, however, took one-legged jumps from one small platform to the next, his eyes fixed on the distant and now-shrouded palace whenever it came into view. The sound of that familiar-yet-mysterious voice calling him, along with seeing the golden light swallowed by that fog of evil, compelled him to act as nothing else could. He needed to reach the voice, to protect it, to free it from the clutches of the monstrosity that threatened to drown it.

Link hit the ground at a roll, from which he rose ready to sprint north. He had just readjusted his belongings in order to do so when a different voice halted his headlong charge.

“Ho there, young one!”

And there, descending from the sky like some ill-proportioned bird, was the old man. His arrival, Link realized, was made possible by the curious contraption held fast by his upraised arms. It was comprised of wood and cloth, two pieces of the former holding a stretched-out portion of the latter between it. The result was some kind of man-made wing that kept the old man somewhere comfortably between flying and falling.

The absurdity of it all temporarily cooled Link’s white-hot rage, and the old man didn’t hesitate to take advantage upon landing.

“My, my…” he mused, looking up from the young man to the tower’s great height. “It would seem we have quite the enigma, here.”

Eager to be off, Link merely shrugged, already half-turning to begin his journey north. “I don’t know how it got here,” he said truthfully, if absent-mindedly. He was not sure he felt comfortable disclosing the secrets of the Sheikah Slate just yet. Besides, he needed to go. The voice -- her voice -- was waiting.

“I am sure you saw,” the old man said loudly enough to momentarily arrest Link’s attention, “other towers like this one erupt across the land. It is almost as though,” he added, with a swift and unmistakable glance at the slate hooked onto Link‘s belt, “they are linked, all awoken as one.”

He knows, Link thought, which led him to wonder what else the old man knew. And, at this point, was there anything to be gained from not telling him the truth? Looking at him, however, Link couldn’t help but feel another surge of trust. Those amber eyes were filled with knowledge, his very presence radiating a calm he had not felt himself since awakening.

“This,” Link said, pointing to the slate on his belt, “activated the tower. I don’t know how it did or why I have it, but it has guided me thus far.” Link did not add that he had been asleep for one hundred years. One incredible fact at a time.

“If you do not mind me asking,” the old man began, and he seemed truly uncertain as to whether he should voice the question at all. “Did anything… odd occur while you were atop that tower?”

“Surely you saw that thing around the castle…” Link began.

“I could hardly have missed it,” the old man interrupted wryly. “Nor would anyone within eyesight of the place. Was that all that happened, then?”

Link’s mind raced. The old man had already addressed the towers, as well as his slate. That only left...

“I… I heard a voice,” Link admitted. It seemed there was no point in keeping anything from this omniscient old man. But if he already knew the answers, Link suddenly and angrily wondered, why was he bothering to ask the questions?

“Well now, a voice you say?” the old man mused. “And did you happen to recognize it?”

Link was nonplussed. Could this vagabond know the identity of the girl that not only spoke to his mind, but also hinted at who he truly was?

Link’s bright blue eyes met that all-knowing gaze of amber.

“I… I recognized it, but I don’t remember who she is,” he said, again truthfully. Admitting his lack of memory was both relieving and heartrending.

“I see,” the old man said, and his voice matched the pity in his eyes. “Well, that is unfortunate.”

Unfortunate? Link’s anger returned as quickly as it had gone. Though he could defend his life, he could remember it less than a toddling babe, who at least recognizes its name and the people most important to it. If the old man knew who he was, then why was he so backward in coming forward?

And again, before Link could give voice to his emotion, the old man timely interrupted his raging river of thought.

“I must ask you,” he said, again with that searching gaze, “do you intend to make your way to the castle?”

Link recalled why he had raced to the bottom of the tower so quickly in the first place, and he turned to face the now shrouded palace. Looking to the spire where the golden light had winked out, he felt his rage cool and solidify into resolve.

“I do,” he said while still gazing north. “I do not know why, but there lies my journey’s end.”

“I felt you would say as much.”

Link turned at the old man’s response and found within those knowing eyes something different from the casual friendliness or searching expression he had seen before. Instead, above that great white beard and large nose, he saw purpose, which hardened as that gaze shifted from Link to the fortress visible over his shoulder.

“This plateau is completely isolated,” the old man began before his eyes returned to meet Link’s. “We are surrounded on all sides by cliffs made steeper by the ancient walls built to protect this place.

“The temple you saw earlier,” the old man added, noting Link’s questioning look, ”was once the most sacred place in Hyrule. Only those permitted by the Goddess Hylia and her appointed servants were allowed to enter. The plateau walls once ensured the hallowed nature of the temple remained intact.”

Link nodded, though part of his attention had turned inward. The Goddess Hylia. That name brushed another long-dormant corner of his memory, like fingers only just removed from the back of his neck.

“There is no way down,” the old man continued. “If you were to descend as you are now, well… no death could be more certain.”

“Is my journey over before it is even begun, then?” Link asked helplessly. The swirling evil around the castle seemed to mock him, now.

“Never fear, young one,” the old man exclaimed kindly. “With a paraglider like mine, you can leave the plateau easily enough.”

Relief surged into doubt’s place, and Link looked eagerly at the bundle of wood and cloth the old man had set down upon landing.

“Worry not. I will happily agree to give you my paraglider,” the old man reassured him before adding, “but not for nothing.”

Link had started toward the “paraglider,” but he came up short to look at the old man. He had not expected this. In their brief interactions thus far, the old man had been nothing but forthcoming in giving aid. Why would he require a form of payment now?

“I have nothing save a fallen foe’s blade and a morsel of food,” Link confessed sadly, “which is more than I possessed when we first met, sir.”

“I have no interest in Bokoblin weapons or rations,” the old man said cheerfully. “No, what holds my interest has yet to be obtained, and that will be my fee. Service in exchange for the paraglider.”

Fair enough, Link thought. “What did you have in mind?” he asked, wondering what sort of service an old man spry enough to fly a paraglider would need.

The old man turned to face southward, and Link’s gaze followed his raised and pointed arm.

“Do you see that structure there?” he asked. “The one shining with a strange light?”

And sure enough, at the top of a snow-capped mountain dominating the plateau, Link noticed a small mound that shone with the same orange light emitting from the newly risen towers. Link could not see much else to it, but nodded to show he had seen it.

“It began glowing at the exact moment those towers rose up from the ground,” the old man explained conversationally, though Link thought his gaze again flickered toward the slate hanging from his belt. “I would think such a place might house some sort of treasure, wouldn’t you? Treasure for the paraglider. A fair exchange, I believe.”

“How can you be certain that treasure lies within that place?” Link asked warily.

“Call it an old man’s intuition,” came the chuckled reply. Link saw the amber eyes twinkle merrily. “I will make the journey with you since you are new to this place. I ask only that you retrieve what is within when we arrive. What say you?”

What could he say? Link looked over his shoulder at the castle once more, searching for the pinpoint of light that had beckoned his attention — and memory — from the top of the tower.

“Very well, sir,” he said, then turned to face the old man. “Treasure for this paraglider of yours. It is agreed.”

The old man had assured Link that the journey to the mountain’s summit would take no more than a day’s walk. The snowy peak stood on the northern side of the plateau, by far the highest point in the area. Link would have preferred to hasten, but the old man interrupted their trek every so often to educate his young companion.

There was nothing, it seemed, the white-bearded one did not know. Before the land began to rise toward their destination, they had sidetracked into the fringe of the Forest of Spirits — Link had briefly consulted his slate, which now labeled everything within the newly revealed region on his map. There, the old man had retrieved a bow hidden beneath the half-exposed roots of a great hornbeam tree. He had allowed Link to get the feel for the hunter’s weapon and, as he had with the stick and sword, Link surprised himself with his own familiarity in its use. It took him only three tries to down the wild boar on which they now feasted by a low fire as night drew its long cloak over the sky.

They had camped, Link noted, halfway up a narrow rise between the Temple of Time and what the old man — and the Sheikah Slate — dubbed “Mount Hylia.” The air had grown noticeably cooler, prompting the old man to provide a thick doublet that (Link wondered at this, too) fit the younger traveler perfectly. Their camp lay situated in a small cluster of trees not far from where they had first met, well within view of the ruined temple.

The pair had already eaten their fill and, bellies full, settled against trees on opposite sides of the fire. The old man revealed a well-used wooden pipe from his supplies, which he puffed contentedly. Link lifted his blue-eyed gaze from the flames to his new companion.

“What kind of treasure are you hoping to find?” he asked with sincere curiosity.

Three prolonged puffs rose from the bowl of the old man’s pipe before he deigned to answer.

“That place,” he said with his eyes still on the fire, “was built by an ancient people called the Sheikah. Have you heard of them?”

“Only in reference to this,” Link replied, again pointing to the slate at his hip. “The voice told me it was called a Sheikah Slate, but why or what that means, I do not know.”

The old man nodded, then gestured with his pipe toward the slate.

“Legends say the Sheikah are Hylia’s servants, appointed as representatives of the Goddess to serve all of Hyrule’s people. It is they,” he added with a nod towards the still-glowing tower they had left that day, “who built those towers and the shrine to which we journey.”

Link let his eyes fall back to the fire, allowing his physical gaze to relax while his mind searched for anything familiar in the old man’s tale. “Sheikah” meant something, but, like the girl’s voice and the name of this goddess, he did not know how or why it would resonate with him.

“A shrine?” Link asked suddenly. “How do you know that is what it is? And if it is a shrine, why would treasure lie within?”

“I tell you what the legends have told me,” the old man chuckled. “The Sheikah’s ways were ever mysterious, but their work is recognizable to those who know what to look for. The symbol on the top of the shrine matches that of the thing you carry at your waist.”

Link frowned and looked down, seeing the tear-drop eye symbol of the slate staring back up at him. Once again, he felt that the old man knew more than he was letting on.

“So the… Sheikah… made this, then?” Link asked, lifting the slate from its belt hooks.

The old man gazed at the slate now laying in Link’s hands and shrugged.

“I would be shocked if they hadn’t,” he said. “Many legends vary, but that symbol has always been tied to the Sheikah. Their great power and knowledge saved this kingdom from peril time and time again in ages past.”

“You say legends,” Link said while fingering the slate in his hands. “Do the Sheikah no longer exist?”

Again, the old man delayed in answering, the smoke from his pipe emphasizing his silence.

“The Sheikah were legends because they wished to be so,” he said finally. “Their service was ever done in secret, devoid of desire for praise, prize or recognition.

“This was not solely out of humility mind you,” the old man added with a wry smile. “The Sheikah were, as I said, appointed servants of the Goddess Hylia. Their secret technologies were deemed sacred, and they guarded this knowledge as avidly as a mother bear protects her cub. Entire generations lived and died without knowing the Sheikah, though they were alive and well, still serving Hylia in their own way.”

Link gazed at the slate, which up to this point had shown him where he was and, briefly, where he must go. It offered none of the latter information at this point. The map, for the time being, was just a map, and still a largely incomplete one at that. There was no doubt, however, that it was an example of the “secret technologies” the old man had described.

“So what was their purpose, then?” Link pursued. “Why were the Sheikah entrusted with an entire nation? What creates the need for that kind of duty?”

This was the longest interval yet between question and answer, and Link wondered what knowledge the old man was hesitant to share. Whatever he says, these are more than tales told over the fire, he thought.

The old man ultimately exhaled a great cloud of smoke, then pointed across the fire to the north, toward the distant fortress. The red-black cloud, dully visible even at night, still swirled around its lower levels,.

“That,” he said coldly. “Calamity Ganon.”

A brief but violent flash of red flared in Link’s mind, and once again he felt the urge to tear something apart. Calamity Ganon. He struggled to remain aware of his surroundings, to tame whatever it was that raged inside him. He blinked and tried to focus on the old man, who was continuing his tale.

“One hundred years ago, that vile entity brought the kingdom of Hyrule to ruin.” For the first time, Link sensed bitterness from the old man’s voice. “It appeared suddenly and destroyed everything in its path. Countless innocent lives were swallowed up in its wake.”

Link’s eyes did not betray him. The old man’s eyes were gleaming with unshed tears. But why? he wondered. If the tragedy he described occurred a century ago, the old man would not have been alive to witness the catastrophe he described. Suddenly, however, a different question snared his mind’s attention.

“What stopped it, the Calamity?” Link asked, leaning forward.

Another drawn-out silence, another cloud of smoke.

“That, my boy,” he said with a sad smile of what Link almost took for pity, “is a tale for another day. You take the first watch. These old bones of mine need all the rest they can get before we set out again on the morrow.”

Link nodded without responding, watching the old man settle down to sleep. Then Link stood, stretching to restore blood flow to stiff limbs, and picked up the bow and quiver before beginning a slow circuit around the camp.

The old man’s tale was certainly compelling. Link did not doubt its truthfulness, only its completeness. It seemed as though he had not intended to bring up this Calamity Ganon at all, that he had only done so to satisfy the bare minimum of Link’s curiosity.

As his circuit took him to the northern side of the camp, Link found himself staring once again at the distant castle still half-shrouded in the residue of the evil. He supposed he should be grateful for everything the old man had told him already, but he could not help feeling his answers had only produced more questions. What exactly was this Calamity? What had contained it, if not necessarily conquered it? And why did its mere mention affect him so?

Link shook his head, willing himself to pay attention to his watch. The old man had said bokoblins -- the pig-like creatures he had battled earlier -- roamed the plateau in small packs. They had already come across one of their abandoned camps while hunting in the forest. Link’s nose wrinkled at the memory of the stench, and his grip tightened on the bow he now held half-drawn and ready to loose at the drop of a hand.

“A story for another day.” Link would complete this night’s watch with every attention to detail -- details, he ruefully acknowledged, remembered by unconscious instinct -- but he was eager to hear the answers the morrow would bring.

The old man was careful to remain lying still even as his mind raced. He had known the boy would remember little before his time in the Chamber of Resurrection, had anticipated such a setback well before Link had plucked up the courage to approach his camp on the hillside. He was shocked, however, to find the boy bereft of all but his most instinctual knowledge. This was unforeseen. The question now was whether it mattered.

He hoped not. The old man had witnessed Link’s brief skirmish with the bokoblins. He smiled at that. It was brief because the boy had made it so, with all the skill and ease one could hope to see after his memory-crippling sleep. That much should, he hoped, be enough to see him through the morrow.

The old man frowned to himself. He could prepare the boy more if he wished. He knew -- by second-hand knowledge, at least -- what lay in wait in the shrine. But that, he had been instructed, would defeat much of the shrine’s purpose. No, better that the boy earn whatever stripes come his way.

Unnaturally quiet footsteps sounded nearby, then receded back into silence. Again, the old man grinned. Link remembered more than he knew, even if it wasn’t nearly enough.

Link’s eyes opened just as the rising sun began peeking over the crumbling walls of the Temple of Time. The early morning sky was a sequel of the previous day: blue with only the occasional cloud in sight. Looking around, he saw that the fire was not only doused but spread and covered. What few traces of their stay that remained were quickly being dispersed and hidden by the old man.

Link rose quietly, retrieving his sword and bow before realizing the latter was not his. The old man, however, had noticed and merely said with a chuckle, “You’re more than welcome to carry it, lad. I’ve enough to lug up the mountain without stringing a bow to my back!”

Link nodded gratefully. Shouldering the bow felt as natural and right as carrying a sword, and he was glad to be doing both. Looking toward their intended path helped Link understand the old man’s generosity. The steepest part of the climb remained, with snow and ice-covered boulders making the journey even more daunting. His companion still carried the iron lantern and pole, his own haversack of rations and the paraglider.

Under the morning daylight, Link could see a small waterfall cascading from halfway up the mountain, feeding a modest river that appeared to run westward off the plateau.

“Will we need to cross that?” Link asked as he checked his belongings.

“No, thank Hylia,” the old man answered as he finished breaking camp. “There is a path around the left side of the water that will take us up the mountain. It’s a good climb, but the distance is agreeable. We should reach the shrine by noon.”

Link nodded and, once the old man was ready, accompanied him up the pass. Link was as grateful as the old man that a river crossing was not required. The rise of the land, combined with the plateau’s additional height, had completely changed the climate on this portion of the plateau. Chunks of ice covered still recesses of water along both banks, while a thin fog hovered over the eddying currents in the middle.

“This,” the old man said after an hour’s worth of trudging up the path gave them a bird’s eye view of the river, “is called the River of the Dead. It is so named for those who fell fighting alongside the Goddess in a great battle against evil.”

“That took place many ages ago,” he added after seeing Link’s questioning look, “when Hyrule was young and man unlearned in the art of war. The Goddess sent man skyward for safety, remaining behind with the other races She had created to return the forces of darkness to whence they came. Though Hylia’s power was great and they were ultimately victorious, many of those with Her fell to the enemy’s sword. That waterfall and its river, legend says, are Hylia’s tears, forever weeping from Her mountain as a memory and tribute to those who died fighting at Her side.”

The old man stopped to take advantage of a flattening in the path, where he found a small rock on which to sit and gather his breath. Link looked at him, wondering at the richness in detail of this story compared to the halting and reluctant tale shared the night before. Well, he thought, I might as well see where this leads.

“Other races?” Link asked. “What do you mean?”

The old man paused just as he was about to take a draught from his waterskin, then got on with the task before replying. Link waited patiently. This wasn’t, he realized, the first time his lack of memory had played a part in what the old man chose to divulge. He did, however, reply after finishing his drink and wiping away water droplets that had escaped to the white ocean of his great beard.

“Hyrule is not home to only humans and monsters,” the old man continued. “I said yesterday that the Sheikah watched over all its peoples, and that includes other races as well. There have been many over the ages and many more will likely rise and fall before this world ends, but those who have dwelt here the longest are still living. Among them: the Zora, the Gorons, the Rito and the Gerudo.”

Link savored each name in an effort to unearth anything familiar, but nothing came to him. Still hopeful this line of conversation would yield something useful, he pursued the subject.

“Have they always been allies of Hylia, those races?” Link asked.

The old man, sufficiently rested, rose from his stone seat and set off once more up the snow-covered path, his breath nearly matching his beard for whiteness. Link’s own exhaling created a steady cloud of mist in front of his face.

They had not walked long before the old man answered his question.

“For the most part, yes. The Zora have always been faithful to Hylia and the Hyrulean royal family. River trade strengthens that relationship -- they are a water people, you see,” he added at another questioning glance from Link. “They look as much like fish as they do like Hylians, but their honor in dealings with others is unmatched. Make a friend with a Zora, and you will have the loyalty of not only him, but his family -- or ‘pod’ -- behind you.”

“The others are not this way?” Link asked while wondering how someone could look as much like a fish as a human.

“The Rito are more fierce than loyal, at least toward outsiders,” the old man continued with a slight smile. “They are to air what Zora are to water. They resemble birds, and fly better than most of them. To earn the friendship of a Rito, one must, as they say, “fly with them.” That is, one must risk his life or reputation for another Rito in order to earn his trust.”

Link nodded. Fish and bird people. The old man had already shared too much useful information to be making sport of him now, but this still strained credulity. At least it did, until Link remembered the pig-faced bokoblins he had killed less than a day ago.

“If the sky and sea are spoken for, then, what do the other races claim?” Link asked with true curiosity.

“The Gerudo claim a different ocean of sorts. They dwell in the great desert, and they are the only people -- aside from animals and beasts native to the area -- who can do more than survive in that sun-scorched place. It sounds unappealing,” the old man admitted at Link’s quizzical expression, “but they are as comfortable on the sands as we are on grass. More importantly, their great craftsmanship draws trade from other races.”

“What do they make?” Link queried before drinking from his own waterskin as they walked.

“Almost anything, and all of it of high quality,” the old man replied. “Swords, shields, jewelry, all adorned with gemstones of the highest grade. They know the worth of their work, however, so their prices are steep -- and worth it judging by the number of travelers who brave the desert to purchase their wares.”

Link nodded, thinking a Gerudo sword would be preferable to the plain short blade he currently carried. “And the last?” he asked expectantly.

“The Gorons,” the old man replied, and this time his smile was fond. “They dwell on the volcano to the northeast, which you have no doubt already seen.” He did not wait to see Link’s confirming nod. “A friendlier and more loyal people you will never find, though meeting one is challenge enough. Only a Goron can withstand the heat from Death Mountain, so their interactions with Hylians usually occur while traveling elsewhere.”

“All of these races,” the old man concluded as the path wound around the southern side of Mount Hylia, “fought alongside the Goddess when they were needed most.”

Link decided this was a perfect segué into broaching the subject of the previous night.

“Did they also fight Calamity Ganon a century ago?” he asked as casually as he could.

Link was not surprised to see that the old man clearly was not fooled. The bearded face turned sharply toward him, the amber eyes narrowed as though wondering whether the young man’s query was truly devoid of the information it was asking. Link kept his pace at the same speed, returning his companion’s gaze with a level one of his own. What is it he doesn’t want to tell me? Link wondered for what felt like the umpteenth time. Finally, with their path still spiraling in tighter circles up the mountain, the old man answered.

“All of Hyrule rose in an effort to stop Calamity Ganon’s onslaught,” he said slowly. “Bands of warriors arrived from all four corners of the land, united in purpose even though they could not know what they faced. All that came, met their doom.”

“But what is it, exactly?” Link pursued. “What is Calamity Ganon?”

The old man, slightly ahead of Link on the narrow and snow-covered path, turned and smiled before ending the discussion.

“That, my boy,” he said, his eyes twinkling under the hood of his cloak, “I will tell you after you return from the shrine. We are here.”