“A generous heart you have!” he exclaimed. “A memory of flowers grows here. Nothing brings to mind the memories so much as fragrance.”

“Please. Keep it all, to enjoy,” I offered him, and he beamed with delight, his black eyes shining.

He made tea with a rare caution, crumbling the herbs to powder and then steeping them in a tightly covered container. When he removed the lid and the fragrance of the tea steamed up, he laughed aloud in delight, and, just as people do when a small child laughs, Thick and I joined in for sheer pleasure in his enjoyment. There was an immediacy about him that was very charming, so that it was almost impossible for me to find the focus to worry and fret. He shared out the tea, and we drank it in tiny sips, savoring both the fragrance and the flavor. By the time we were finished, Thick was yawning prodigiously, which somehow increased my own weariness.

“A place to sleep,” our host announced, and gestured Thick toward his own bedstead.

“Please, we have our own bedding. You need not give up your bed to us,” I assured him, but he patted Thick on the shoulder and again gesticulated at the bed.

“You will be comfortable. Safe and sweet the dreaming. Rest well.”

Thick needed no other invitation than that. He had already taken off his boots. He sat down on the bed and I heard the creak of a rope framework. He lifted the coverlet and crawled in and closed his eyes. I believe he went to sleep in almost that instant.

I had already begun to spread out our bedding near the fire. Some of it was the Fool's Elderling-made stuff, and the old man examined it carefully, rubbing the thin coverlet between his finger and thumb wistfully. Then, “So kind you are, so kind. Thanks you.” Then he looked at me almost sadly and said, “Your path awaits. May fortune be kind, and the night gentle.” Then he bowed to me in what was obviously a farewell.

In some confusion, I glanced at his door. When I looked back at him, he nodded slowly. “I will keep the watch,” he assured me, gesturing toward Thick.

Still I stood staring at him, confused. He took a breath and then paused. I could almost see him pushing his thoughts into words I could understand. He touched both hands to his cheeks and then held his black palms out to me. “Once, I was the White. The Prophet.” He smiled to see my eyes widen, but then sadness came into his dark gaze. “I failed. With the old ones, I came here. We were the last ones and we knew it. The other cities had gone empty and still. But I had seen there was still a chance, a slight chance, that all might go back to what had been. When the dragon came, at first he gave me hope. But he was full of despair, sick with it like a disease. Into the ice he crawled. I tried. I visited him, I pleaded, I . . . encouraged. But he turned from me to seek death. And that left nothing for me. No hopes. There was only the waiting. For so long, I had nothing. I saw nothing. The future darkened, the chances narrowed.” He put his hands together and looked through their cupped palms as if peering through a crack, to show me how limited his visions had become. He lifted his gaze back to me. I think my confusion disappointed him. He shook his head, and then with an obvious effort, pushed on. “One vision is left to me. A tiny peer . . . no! A tiny glimpse of what could be. It was not certain, ever, but it was a chance. Another might come. With another Catalyst.” He held a hand out to me, formed a tiny aperture with his fist. “The smallest chance, maybe there is. So small, so unlikely. But there is that chance.” He looked at me intently.

I forced myself to nod, though I was still not certain I understood all he told me. He had been a White Prophet who failed? Yet he had foreseen that eventually the Fool and I would come here?

He took encouragement from my nod. “She came. At first, ‘She is the one!' I think. Her Catalyst she brings. Hope comes to me. She says she seeks the dragon. And I am a fool. I show her the way. Then, the betrayal. She seeks to kill Icefyre. I am angry, but she is stronger. She drove me out, and I had to flee, by a way she cannot follow. She thinks me dead and makes all here her own. But I return, and here I make a place for myself. To this side of the island, her people do not come. But I live and I know she is false. I want to throw her down. But to be the change-maker is not my role. And my Catalyst . . .” His voice suddenly went hoarser. He spoke with difficulty. “She is dead. Dead so many years. Who could imagine that death lasts so much longer than life? So, only I remained. And I could not make the change that was needed. All I could do was wait. Again, I waited. I hoped. Then I saw him, not white, but gold. I wondered. Then you came after him. Him I knew, at first glance. I recognized you when you left the gift for me. My heart . . .” He touched his chest and then lifted his hands high. He smiled beatifically. “I longed to help. But I cannot be the Changer. So limited what I may do, or down it all falls. You understand this?”