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Those nearby laughed, perhaps thinking he posed a riddle. But riddle or no, they were game, and all wanted to take a look. He allowed the amulet to be passed around to those interested in handling it directly, though he kept an anxious eye on it.

While the treelike symbol drew most of the interest but no recognition, an elder wood elf named Yarmarion seemed more interested in the cramped, overlapping inscriptions that ctusted the sides and rear of the stone. He sat alone, smoke curling up from the pipe clamped in one corner of his mouth. He turned the amulet over and over, squinting hard at the miniature text. Yarmarion said, "These writings are in an ancient tongue, one no longer spoken in the world."

"What, the language used by sleeping Relkath?" called the bard who'd sung about the resting god.

Another chimed in, "Would that make it the language of sleep? Sleep that is denied us, which others enjoy so much?" He pointed to the sorcerer's snoring, smiling figure beneath the table. Merriment erupted, but the wood elf holding the amulet slowly nodded, his face a study in consideration.

"Perhaps," Yarmarion replied. He leaned back in his seat and glanced toward the rafters. "The inscriptions remind me of the text I saw once in an old book. Where was I? Oh yes, a library of Mystra near Calimport, right before the agents of Old Night burned it to the ground. What was it about? Something to do with the theft of sleep, ensuring the first mortals would never discover the truth in their dreams."

Several patrons laughed and toasted, "To the first mortals, whoever they are!"

Raidon broke in. "Will dreams show the way to my mother?"

Yarmarion squinted at the amulet and shrugged, "How could elves like us ever know?" He tossed it across the room to the monk. "Sorry, traveler, I have never before seen the primary symbol. But I can tell you this-a potency lies within that stone, slumbering." A potency?

"Powerful magic is wound deep within your amulet. I am not so old that I can't sense sorcery, especially of such strength."

"What kind of sorcery?" Raidon whispered, suddenly wondering if he were channeling Adrik's relentless manner.

Whatever explanation Yarmarion might have provided -was lost in clear, shrill cries of clarions. The clamor sounded from outside.

The bard exclaimed, "The Masters' summons!" The elves and half-elves in the Gteen Man immediately set down their instruments, their pipes, and their goblets; they moved as one to the exit. Raidon followed, asking, "Who are the Masters?" Someone yelled, "The Masters of the Yuirwood, of course!" The explanation did nothing to lessen Raidon's confusion.

Thin, elegant figures streamed into the square from all sides, and on the boughs above, hundreds of elves looked down into the tumult, pointing and gesturing, trying to make sense of the chaos. A shining white figure emerged from the Royal Hall high above. The princess, presumably, though Raidon didn't spare her a glance. He gracefully navigated the congestion and push of bodies, judging and using its tumult to unerringly propel himself, first widdershins and then the other way, to the square's center, where the hotns yet sounded.

Yarmarion followed in Raidon's wake. The elderly elf was more spry than he looked. Raidon worried briefly about Adrik, then shrugged. Nothing was likely to befall a man sleeping on a tavern floor worse than burglary.

A half-elf woman in ragged, blood-stained clothing stood at the square's center, accompanied by elves clad in militaristic outfits of green, gold, and dun. Their clothing was resplendent. From the way the patterns on their clothes shifted and changed, Raidon guessed the colors would blend perfectly into forestlike hues and textures should one of them step into the pathless wild.

Raidon touched Yarmarion on the sleeve. "Are those the Masters of the Yuirwood?"

"Yes. But not the woman. I've never seen her before."

Three of the Masters continued to blow long, shrill notes on brass horns.

"Masters-are