legend in almost every part of the continent. It is being told
among the elves of Silvanesti, the people of Solamnia, and
the Plainsmen who have returned to Que-shu. But we could
find no verification of it. Even the kender, Tasslehoff
Burrfoot, who goes everywhere and hears everything (as
kender do), could discover no first-hand information
regarding it. The story is always told by a person who heard
it from his aunt who had a cousin who was midwife to the
girl . . . and so forth.
I even went so far as to contact Astinus, the Historian,
who records history as it passes before his all-seeing eyes.
In this, my hope to hear anything useful was slim, for the
Historian is notoriously close-mouthed, especially when
something he has seen in the past might affect the future.
Knowing this, I asked only for him to tell me whether or not
the legend was true. Did my twin father a child? Does he or
she live still on this world?
His response was typical of that enigmatic man, whom
some whisper is the god Gilean, himself. “If it is true, it will
become known. If not, it won’t.”
I have agreed to allow the inclusion of the legend in
this volume as a curiosity and because it might, in the
distant future, have some bearing upon the history of Krynn.
The reader should be forewarned, however, that my friends
and I regard it as veritable gossip.
– Caramon Majere
Twilight touched the Wayward Inn with its gentle
hand, making even that shabby and ill-reputed place seem a
restful haven to those who walked or rode the path that led
by its door. Its weather-beaten wood – rotting and worm-
ridden when seen in broad daylight – appeared rustic in the
golden-tinged evening. Its cracked and broken
windowpanes actually sparkled as they caught the last rays
of dying light, and the shadows hit the roof just right so that
no one could see the patches. Perhaps this was one reason
that the inn was so busy this winter night – either that or the
masses of gray, lowering clouds gathering in the eastern sky
like a ghostly, silent army.
The Wayward Inn was located on the outskirts – if the
magical trees deemed it so – of the Forest of Wayreth. If the
magical trees chose otherwise, as they frequently did, the
inn was located on the outskirts of a barren field where
nothing anyone planted grew. Not that any farmer cared to
try his luck. Who would want anything from land
controlled, so it was believed, by the archmages of the
Tower of High Sorcery, by the strange, uncanny forest?
Some thought it peculiar that the Wayward Inn was built
so close to the Forest of Wayreth (when the forest was in
appearance), but then the owner – Slegart Havenswood –
was a peculiar man. His only care in the world, seemingly,
was profit – as he would say to anyone who asked. And
there was always profit to be made from those who found
themselves on the fringes of wizards’ lands when night was
closing in.
There were many this evening who found themselves in
those straits apparently, for almost every room in the inn
was taken. For the most part, the travelers were human,
since this was in the days before the War of the Lance when
elves and dwarves kept to themselves and rarely walked this
world. But there were a few gully dwarves around; Slegart
hired them to cook and clean up, and he was not averse to
allowing goblins to stay in his place as long as they behaved
themselves. There were no goblins this night, however,
though there were some humans who might have been taken
for goblins – so twisted and crafty were their faces. It was
this large party who had taken several of Slegart’s rooms
(and there weren’t many in the small, shabby place), leaving
only two empty.
Just about the time when the first evening star appeared
in the sky, to be almost immediately overrun by the
advancing column of clouds, the door to the inn burst open,
letting in a chill blast of air, a warrior in leather armor, and