our journey, and then the next day, we shall head south, toward the higher elevations, where we shall seek the home of the villichi and lay our petition before them. Have faith, my people, and be strong. What we do, we do not only for ourselves, but for all the generations yet to come. Sleep well tonight, and when you dream, dream of a new dawn for our people, and for our benighted world. I wish you peaceful slumbers.”
Slowly, the tribe dispersed to their tents, but Mira lingered for a while by the fire, staring thoughtfully into the flickering flames. She wondered, as she often did, what the future held in store for her. She was young, not yet sixteen summers, small and delicate for one of her race, with long, silvery hair, sharp features, and light-gray eyes. Each year, throughout her childhood, she had asked her mother, Garda, when she would grow tall like the others of her tribe, and each year her mother had laughed and said that soon she would start shooting up like a desert broom plant after a monsoon. But in recent years, her mother had stopped laughing when she asked that question, and soon Mira realized that she would never grow any taller than she was now. She would remain slight and unattractive, a runt among her people, and doubtless it was foolish of her to think of being chosen, by anyone, much less by Kether. And if she were not chosen by someone of her tribe, then who else was there?
Her mother was already asleep when she returned to their tent, but though she tried to move quietly, she still woke her when she came in.
“Mira?”
“Yes, Mother. Forgive me, I did not mean to wake you.”
“Where have you been?”
“Sitting by the fire and thinking.”
“You spend much time alone these days, with just your thoughts for company,” her mother said with a sigh. “I know it has been hard for you, my child. Ever since your father went away, I have tried to raise you by myself as best I could, but I know you have been lonely for having been denied a father’s love. Forgive me.”
“It is not your fault, Mother.”
Garda sighed once more as she lay upon her bedroll. “Yes, it is,” she said. “Perhaps I should have known better. Your father was not of our tribe, and I knew when I met him that he would not remain with us. He was much like Kether: he, too, was driven to wander, searching for meaning in his life. He never told me he would stay, and I never asked him to. Our time together was brief, but at least I shall always have you to remind me of the love we shared.”
“Do you think that he may ever return?” asked Mira.
“I used to ask myself that question all the time,” her mother said. “And now?” For a moment, her mother remained silent. Then, in a soft voice, she said, “And now, I no longer ask it. Go to sleep, Daughter.”
Mira remained silent for a long time afterward but when her mother’s steady breathing told her that she was asleep, she quietly got up again and went outside. Sleep eluded her. Somehow, she felt restless, and she did not know why. She walked out to the edge of the cliff near which they had camped and stared out at the desert to the west, illuminated in the light of the twin moons. In the distance, she saw the smoking mountain, and at its foot, she saw the moonlight reflecting off the Lake of Golden Dreams. It was there that Alaron had fought his final battle, and it was somewhere nearby that he had died.
It did not look very far away, not for an elf. Though she was small, she was still a Moon Runner, and she thought that she could reach the lake in a matter of mere hours. She knew she should not leave the camp, for they were in unknown territory, but she felt a pull that drew her toward the distant lake. It was a site important to the history of her people. How could she not see it close at hand? And its water looked so welcoming… it had been a long rime since she had bathed. Moistening her lips, Mira gave a quick glance over her shoulder. The camp was quiet, and the fire was dying down. She turned and headed toward the ancient trail that led down