Aedon Hall wielded his scythe with unrestrained ferocity as he watched each stalk of corn fall. He loathed every minute he was forced to remain in this part of the field and resolved to make quick work of his task. Every time he caught a glimpse of Dawn Swamp, he felt his ire rekindle. That barren, stinking, morass was going to cost him what remained of his land, and he hated it. To compound matters, nothing of any benefit lived there. Hell, he thought, even the birds stayed away. He let his gaze wander south to where the swamp emptied into the Prail River. A small road formed a rough outline of the swamp before turning east towards his house. He let his gaze linger for a time, and then returned with renewed vigor to the harvest.

He was not a large man, but his long slender arms possessed a strength that belied their appearance. His face had always seemed too long for his head, and his hair was a dirty, matted brown that hung along the side of his head, framing its utterly smooth top. He was tall enough that few men in the area could look him in the eye, and his skin was a deep weathered tan. With his penchant for not bathing, he looked more like the earth than the man working it. His long practiced strokes tore through the corn in less time than even the fastest farmhand, and it was because of this that he had left his harvest so late in the season. It was a gamble, but he needed every ear of corn he could wring from this year's crop. His daughter, Mika, seemed to understand his urgency because she was swinging her own scythe with as much exuberance, if not as much efficiency.

He ceased his efforts momentarily and watched her. She went about her work with a broad grin, and it amazed him that she could take pleasure in such an onerous task. Like her looks, she had inherited that spirit from her mother. It was a good thing too, he decided. The less she took from him, the better, and that was a fact. She was tall for eleven, and her hair, too, was brown. Unlike his, though, it possessed a natural luster that seemed to reflect the sunlight. Her skin was clean and a lighter brown than his. Like her mother, she had piercing blue eyes. She noticed his scrutiny and turned her dazzling smile on him. In a moment, her smile disappeared, and she pointed toward to road.

“Papa! There's a man coming!” She screamed.

Aedon looked with alarm in the direction she was pointing and changed the grip on his scythe to one more threatening. Strangers were uncommon in this area and less seldom trustworthy. He did not know how he had not seen the man coming. He silently berated himself for letting his guard slip. Even so far from the corrupt and dangerous intrigues of the capital, people were attacked, and property was damaged. He looked down at Mika and gestured with his free hand.

“Mika, get to the house,” he ordered in a low, harsh voice. “Cut straight through the fields, and don't stop till you're there.”

“Yes, Papa,” she said immediately and tore off for home.

Dismissing Mika from his mind, he turned his full attention to the approaching man. At this distance, the face was indistinct, but he had long, unkempt gray hair and sported an enormous belly. He was short and walked with the assistance of a thick crutch. It looked as though it had been struck from a tree and placed immediately under his arm. The man walked directly up to Aedon. Without preamble, he spoke.

“You are Aedon Hall?” the stranger asked, his tone suggesting more statement than question.

Aedon did not speak. He just clutched the scythe and nodded. It unnerved him that this stranger knew who he was. He was on the verge of opening hostilities when the man pointed behind him. He noticed that Mika had not made it more than a few steps before the stranger arrived. She was now staring with curiosity at the man. He ordered her home once more.

As she moved to obey, the stranger bellowed, “Excellent, we have business to discuss!”

The two men spoke in hushed tones, and as the conversation wore on, Aedon decided he did not like this man. A less intimidating figure he could not recall. He could not put a reason to his dislike. For all the deference the man displayed, though, there seemed to be something superior to his speech. It rankled. Finally, he lost control of his temper.

“Listen old man! I don't know what it is you want exactly, but if you want to buy a pig, I have one to sell. If not, then be gone before I loose the hounds!”

The stranger withstood the outburst with a smile and replied calmly.

“Let us have none of that. I know very well there are no hounds, and you misread the situation. I do not wish to purchase swine today. It is that that I require as payment for my services.”

Aedon threw up his hands in disgust and stalked toward the man. Violence was written in every line of his face as he felt the familiar flush of rage beginning to take hold. As he came within striking distance of the man, something amazing happened.

There was a slight shimmer to the air and, where once was an old man, stood the image of wrath incarnate. The figure was easily eight feet tall. His gray hair was now the color of molten gold, each strand writhing like serpents. The crutch that had moments ago supported the dumpy old frame was transformed into an enormous broadsword gleaming in the sunlight. The figure pointed the sword at him and spoke in a whisper that was so powerful it hurt to hear.

“Do not take me for easy meat dirt farmer! There are forces at work that you can scarcely comprehend. Can you not recognize the harbinger of doom as he stands before you? Must the pall of understanding fall upon thee only after my blade? It is time to gather your courage, for danger comes swiftly to you and yours!”

Aedon dropped his pitiful weapon and backed away from the looming figure. He fell to his knees and, for a time, the only words he could utter were, “Droia...a Droia.” Finally, he looked up from his muttering to see the fat old man standing before him once more. In his stupor, he did not notice a small stone slip from the man's hand.

“There is something else I must clarify,” the man said quietly. “I am not here to save you; I am here to save her!”

He shouted as he spoke the last word and hurled a small stone at the ground behind him. Where it struck, the crops burst into flame. Aedon jumped up and, though the fire reduced the corn to ash instantly, he felt no heat. When the fire consumed all available fuel, they vanished in a cloud of dust to reveal Mika crouched within a ring of ash.

Aedon watched in disbelief as Mika jumped up, words spilling from her in a torrent.

“That was amazing! How did you know I was hiding there? Can you teach me that? Why do I need saving? When can...”

“Enough, child,” the old man interrupted loudly. “I knew you were hiding there because I am perceptive, that seemed more amazing than it was, and yes, I can teach you.”

This was too much for Aedon. He fell to his knees once more. The world seemed to recede, and he watched events unfold as though he was a far away spectator. He heard his daughter's words as though they were echoing through a massive cavern.

“Wait, you didn't answer my last question!”

Aedon watched as the man struggled through the remaining corn to reach him. His crutch tangled in the stalks, giving the impression of a bungling fool. The entire time he never stopped his conversation with Mika.

“I did not answer your last question, child, because this is not the appropriate place to do so.”

The confusion on Mika's face was evident even in his diminished state, and knowing his daughter, he was sure more questions were in the offing.

“At least tell me what per-perc-percep...” Mika said, stumbling over the unfamiliar word.

“Perceptive means that I know how to pay attention to my surroundings,” Reka interrupted impatiently. “Something you should be doing as well.”

He reached Aedon and placed a firm hand under his arm. “Now come over here and help. We must get your father home, and get something strong in him.”

Aedon allowed himself to be hauled to his feet and took an unsteady step. Apparently, his inquisitive daughter had more to say on the matter before she would consent to help.

“What is your name? I keep calling you old man in my head, but I don't think that’s right.”

Aedon was forced to stop as the man turned to Mika and actually chuckled.

“You are quite right. You should not call me old man. For one thing, I am not old, and for another, my name is Reka.”

Mika's eyes lit up at the name, and she spoke again.

“Hello Reka, my name is Mika. I guess you must already know Papa.”

“Well,” Reka said cautiously, “I know of him, and that knowledge did not come easy. Now we must be off. Take his other arm, that's a good girl.”

Aedon allowed himself to be led, his daughter on one arm, the stranger on the other, to the house. Through the seemingly incessant nattering, he was sure he had heard something about a stiff drink. That seemed an excellent idea to him. The fat old man was puffing hard at his side as they walked. Aedon felt like his mind was working just as hard to keep up with events. Suddenly the import of events hit him, and he stopped dead in his tracks. He was walking next to a Droia! Almost as soon as he had this revelation, his thoughts slipped away, and he was suddenly somewhere else entirely.

The tent flap opened without assistance, and a man of average height stalked in. The sudden light filling the dim interior made it difficult to distinguish features, but the large gold necklace hanging low to the man's chest announced his identity as well as any herald. Aedon quickly snapped to attention and offered a crisp salute.

“Droia Taian, welcome.”

The man swept past him without so much as a glance. He immediately began speaking to the occupant of the desk in the rear of the tent. Aedon did not try to hear what was being said. It was not his place to intrude on the captain's privacy, and he was not interested in anything the Droia might have to say. Soon the voices grew louder, and Aedon heard the Droia scream, “LIAR.”

The tent was blown from its pegs by an unnaturally strong gust of wind. It churned and rotated until it was a full-blown cyclone. Aedon gripped the center mast with all his strength as debris tore at his body. Just as his grip was about to falter, the wind subsided. He fell to the ground, a bloody ruin. His last sight before he lost consciousness was that of Droia Taian walking calmly away from the wreckage.

Aedon shook his head as the memory faded and realized he was standing at the door of his home. Apparently, he had been there for some minutes, because his two companions were both staring at him. Mika's look was all daughterly concern, but Reka's was one of severe impatience.

“May we go in,” Reka said, “I would like some dinner, and we need to discuss the price of my hire?”

Aedon spluttered, “Price of your hire? I have already agreed to give you my prize sow!”

Reka snorted in disgust. “The sow is for the trouble this business has already cost me, not to mention the two stones I have already been forced to waste.”

Aedon had no idea what the man was talking about, but he knew better than to argue with a Droia. He opened the door and spoke in a formal tone.

“Please, Master Droia, enter and rest easy in the comfort of our hospitality. Your road has been long, and the journey is not yet done.”

This time it was Reka's turn to pause in amazement. He responded automatically.

“The journey is never done, and the road is ever my home.”

Aedon ignored the look of open shock on Mika's face as he allowed the stranger to enter the house first.

Mika bumbled about the tiny kitchen, hardly paying attention to her task. Her excitement was causing her to be sloppy with the stew. She jumped at the sound of her father's shouts as she once again banged one of the good pots on the counter.

At last, the meal was ready, and she laid it on the table. She placed a loaf of bread beside the pot and began to ladle the steaming concoction into bowls. She noticed a slight smirk from Reka as she served her father first, then him. She was unused to cooking for more than Papa and her, and there was little enough left once the two men's bowls were full, but she didn't begrudge the lack. She was more worried about how this obviously important man would like simple food than how much of it she got to eat.

Reka was very complimentary about everything. He declared the stew a masterpiece of seasoning, though it was just onion and sage. He asked to be introduced to the wizard that had conjured such a perfect loaf of bread. He even managed to say something nice about the foul-smelling brew her father liked to swill.

While his words were perfectly polite, Mika detected a tinge of sarcasm to them. Her papa just sat eating his stew and seemed not to care what Reka might think of it. Eventually, she could take no more, and the anger that had been building for the last few minutes burst from her.

“Stop it!” she shouted. “If you don't like the food, just go ahead and say so! There's no need to make fun of us. I know we're poor, and I don't need you to remind me!”

Reka put his spoon down with a pleased expression, his voice gentle and patient.

“The food is quite good. Better, in fact, than any I have had in a long while. Now that we have gotten that out of the way, perhaps we can discuss something more important.”

Mika sat back down and stared at the man. Not knowing what to say, she muttered, “now that we have gotten what out of the way?”

“I had to know how far you could be pushed and how you would react when you were. It wasn't difficult to make you angry; you will need to work on that. Magic, after all, is about self-control.”

At the mention of magic, her anger faded, and she asked quickly, “why did papa call you Droia?” Reka forestalled her with a gesture.

“There is no time tonight to go into it all, but I will tell a little if you will be quiet and ask no more questions.”

She nodded enthusiastically, and he continued in a lecturing tone.

“Your father called me Droia because that is what I am. Not many people now use the old tongue, and Droia was a bit formal even when it was a widely used title. Your father likely learned it while in the army, and it means wizard, magician, mage, or anyone who uses magic. There are many kinds of Droia because there are many ways to use magic. Specifically, I am called an Amharani Cloiche or Amharani for short. It means simply, one who sings to stones, or stone singer.”

Mika took a moment to absorb this information, and he waited a moment before continuing.

“You see child, magic comes from every living thing, and especially from the earth. Any being able to think is technically able to perform magic, and most of them do on an unconscious level. To do it consciously, though, is very difficult and requires training. Not everyone has the right kind of mind to focus magic properly, and even fewer have the right kind of spirit. It is a tough discipline and one that people fear.”

When Reka paused a second time, Mika could not contain her curiosity and asked, “What does a stone singer do?” She wanted to use the right word but knew she would mangle the pronunciation and didn't want to appear stupid.

It was evident that Reka had noticed her hesitation, and the interruption must have annoyed him because his tone changed dramatically.

“An Amharani,” he said with emphasis on the title, “uses stones to store their magic, either in the form of preordained spells or in raw magical energy. They do this, as the name suggests, by singing to the stone. Almost anything can be enchanted to hold magic, but because stones are the essence of the earth itself, they can hold significantly more. Therefore, stone magic is the most powerful and feared of all magic. It is correspondingly the most difficult to learn, and there are now very few that can do it at all.”

This time it was Reka that paused, and he must have come to some decision because he nodded before he spoke. “This leads me to the answer to your earlier question. I intend to save you because you are one such person.”

Mika was stunned by this revelation. The idea that she could not only do magic but the most potent magic of all was simply unbelievable. She wasn't good at anything. She was merely poor, baby, Mika, who was too terrified of the Dawn Swamp to go with her father to market, and was too stupid to attract the attention of the scholars. Her expression must have betrayed her because this time, Reka nodded more vigorously before continuing.

“If you think that you cannot do magic, you should know that you have already done so. The way you sneaked back without detection was not just luck. You were using magic to cover the noise you were making.”

Mika went more wide-eyed at every word. She had done magic! In her excitement, she again forgot her promise to be quiet and asked, “Can you see when someone does magic?”

“Magic cannot be seen child,” Reka said, smiling. “But it can be sensed by someone familiar with it and worked with it for a long time. Think of it like walking around your house in the dark. You cannot see the furnishings, but because you are so familiar with them, you can sense their location and so, do not bump into them.”

Mika found this explanation made a kind of sense to her. She was on the verge of asking another question when Reka stood.

“No more for tonight, child. It is time for bed, and I wish to be shown to my room.”

Mika suspected this moment was coming, and since the house only had two bedrooms, she knew she was in for a night on the floor. She tossed and turned, trying to find a comfortable position as she thought about the events of the day. With her mind wandering, she fell into a contented and exhausted sleep.