blindfolded  respectively, gallantly
 waved  their good  spirits. ъainspot  looked sodden  and for-
 lorn under his cloud, but avowed that he felt well.
   Sighter  cleared  his  throat  and arched  an eyebrow  in a
 maddeningly superior way. "It is evident  that the  closer we
 get to the obelisk, the more intensely  the neutral  power of
 Lunitari infects us," he said.
   "Let's push on," said Sturm.
   They  continued  on  for  about  an  hour, when  they came
 upon a path, cleared from the strange  jungle. And  where the
 cleared path met the horizon, there stood a tall spire  - the
 mysterious  obelisk  of  Lunitari. They  were still  some ten
 miles  away,  but the  land sloped  downward toward  the obe-
 lisk at an easy grade. There were no other features  to over-
 shadow it.
   "Looks like we're expected," said Sturm.
   "The Voice?" Fitter wondered.
   "Who else?" Sighter replied. He hooked his thumbs under
   his suspenders. "If I'm right, we're going to meet a very

 remarkable  being.  Someone  who'll  make  all the  other won-
 ders of Lunitari seem like cheap carnival tricks."
   The obelisk  grew from  a slim  red line  to a  robust tower
 five hundred feet tall. It had a curiously striped appearance,
 caused  by  thin  black  bands  that  alternated with  the red
 stone of its walls. The closer the explorers came,  the higher
 the grand tower seemed to thrust into the sky.
   Cutwood  broke  the  long  silence.   He  said,   "Have  you
 noticed how the plants lean  toward the  tower?" It  was true.
 All of them, even the spiny puffballs, were bent so  that they
 faced the great obelisk.
   "Like lilies turned to the sun," surmised Kitiara.
   They  halted fifty  yards from  the base  of the  obelisk. The
 red  marble  sides  were  beautifully  dressed   and  squared,
 unlike  the  crude  masonry  of  the  tree-men's  village. The
 black  bands  between  the  courses of  marble were  mortar of
 some  kind.  On  ground  level, facing  the explorers,  was an
 open entrance, a  notch cut  in the  smooth stone.  Inside was
 only darkness. At regular intervals, the obelisk's  walls were
 pierced by long, narrow windows.
   "What  do  we do  now?" asked  Fitter in  a very  small voice.
   Come closer!
   Sturm  and Kitiara  stepped back,  reaching for  their weap-
 ons. "Who said that?" called Sturm.
   I, the Keeper of the New Lives, said  a soothing  bass voice
 within their own heads.
   "Where are you?" Kitiara demanded.
   In the edifice before you. Come closer.
   "We'll stay right here, thank you," said Cutwood.
   Ah, you are afraid. Is mortal flesh so  dear that  you would
 ignore the opportunity to feast your eyes on  a rare  and won-
 derful  sight,  namely  myself?  That  the  humans   would  be
 afraid I did not doubt, but I expected better of you gnomes.
   "We saw a colleague die not  long ago,  so you'll  excuse us
 if we're a bit cautious," Wingover said.
   You require proof of my good will? Behold.
   A  small shape  stirred in  the dim  doorway. It  emerged into
 the light of day, stopped and waved. It looked like Stutts.
   "Gears  and  sprockets!"  Fitter  crowed,  dashing  forward.
 Of  course,  he   dragged  ъoperig   with  him.   Cutwood  and

 Wingover  stumbled  after  them,  while   ъainspot  wandered
 over in a fog, with Sighter chuckling at his side.
   "Wait," said Sturm. "It could be an illusion."
   But it was not  an illusion.  The gnomes  engulfed Stutts,
 yelling   with   unrestrained   delight.  Birdcall   and  Flash
 appeared  in  the  door  and  leaped  on  the  pile   of  happy
 gnomes.  After  a  heartily  bruising hello,  Stutts extricated
 himself from the  press and  toddled to  Sturm and  Kitiara. He
 shook  Sturm's  hand  solidly and  expressed concern  for Kiti-
 ara's bandaged shoulder.
   "It is you," she said, pinching his ear.
   "It is,  and I  am quite  well, thank  you. We've  been waiting
 for you all for days."
   "What  happened  to  your  stutter?"  Sturm  asked. Suspi-
 cion made him blunt.
   "Oh, that! It's gone, you  know, poof!  The Keeper  says it's
 due to the leveling effect of the magic forces present on Luni-
 tari."  Stutts  peered  behind   the  humans.   "Where's  Bell-
 crank?"
   Sturm laid a hand on the  gnome's shoulder.  "I fear  that we
 have grave news, my friend."
   "Grave? How - ?"
   Are your fears alleviated? intruded the voice.
   "For  now,"  Kitiara said.  "May we  have our  flying ship
 back, please?"
     Don't be so hasty! We've not been properly introduced.
 Please come in, won't you?
   "Explain later," Stutts said quickly.  He took  Kitiara's and
 Sturm's  hands  and  led  them  to  the  door.  "We've  had the
 most  tremendous  adventure  since  you  left  to  prospect for
 ore," he reported. "The Keeper has treated us marvelously."
   "Who is this Keeper? Where is he?" asked Kitiara.
   "Come and see for yourselves."
   Stutts let go of  their hands.  Sturm and  Kitiara stepped
 through  the  deep  door-notch  into  the shadowed  interior of
 the grand obelisk.
   Sunlight filtered  down from  the slit  windows higher  up in
 the obelisk. In  the center  of the  floor, illuminated  by the
 sunlight,  sat the  flying ship  Cloudmaster. The  ethereal air
 bag had shrunk to half its previous size, just  a soft  lump in

  many  folds  of  loose  netting.  The   wings  had   been  detached
  from  the hull,  no doubt  to allow  the craft  to fit  through the
  door  in  the  obelisk.  The  leather  wings  were   neatly  folded
  and lying  on the  red marble  floor beside  the ship.  Clicking in
  the   darkness   beyond   the   Cloudmaster  proved   the  presence
  of Micones.
     Inevitably,  the  warriors'  gazes  were  lifted by  the soaring
  hollowness  of  the  interior.  As Sturm  and Kitiara  raised their
  eyes,  they  saw  a  series  of ledges  and horizontal  pillars set
  into  the  immensely   thick  walls.   Perched  about   fifty  feet
  above the floor was the occupant of the obelisk, the Keeper.
     A  dragon.  Where  blades  of  sunlight  struck him,  his scales
  shone greenish gold.
     No  dragon  had  been  seen  on  Krynn  in  centuries,  so long,
  in fact, that  their actual  existence was  a sorely  debated point
  among   historians,  clerics,   and  natural   philosophers.  Sturm
  believed   from   boyhood   that  there   had  been   dragons,  but
  face  to face  with a  living example,  he felt  so much  fear that
  he thought he'd faint.
     Be  a   man,  a   knight!  he   admonished  himself.   Men  had
  faced  dragons  before.  Huma  had  done  it.  So   while  Sturm's
  head  swam  from  this  newest  and  greatest revelation,  he kept
  his feet firmly under him.
     Kitiara,  too,  was  stunned.  Her  eyes  were  huge  and  white
  in  the  dim  light.  She  recovered   more  quickly   than  Sturm,
  however, and said, "Are you the Keeper who spoke to us?"
     Yes.   "Or   do   you   prefer   spoken  language?"   asked  the
  dragon.  Its  voice  was  not  as  booming  as  Sturm  had expected
  it to be; considering its size (thirty-five feet from nose to tail)
  and the distance to it, it was quite soft-spoken.
     "Spoken  is  best.  That way  I can  be sure  of what  I'm hear-
  ing," answered Kitiara.
     "As  you  wish.  I  do  enjoy  speaking,  and  I've gone  such a
  long  time  without  having  anyone  to  speak  to.  The  ants, you
  see,  respond  best  to  telepathy."  The  dragon shook  its broad,
  angular head with a  noise of  clanging brass.  It lifted  its feet
  off the ledge  and dropped  to a  lower perch  with a  single fluff
  of its wings. The breeze washed over the amazed explorers.
     "Where   are   my   manners?   I   am    Cupelix   Trisfendamir,
  Keeper  of  the  New  Lives  and  resident  of  this  obelisk." The

 gnomes had retreated behind the humans when the dragon
 appeared. Now they spread out and began to bombard him
 with questions.
   "Keeper of what new lives?"
   "How much do you weigh?"
   "How did you get here?"
   "How long have you been here?"
   "Do you have any raisins?"
   The  dragon  was amused  by this  barrage, but  he dismissed
 the gnomes with a wave of one giant  foreclaw. "You  are Kiti-
 ara  Uth  Matar  and  Sturm  Brightblade,  are  you  not?"  he
 asked.  The  two  nodded dumbly.  "Your small  friend, Stutts,
 speaks  very  highly  of  you   both.  Apparently,   you  have
 impressed him with many sterling qualities."
   "Apparently'" said Kitiara dryly.
   "I have  only the  evidence of  Stutts's impressions.  Be that
 as it may, I am very glad you are here. 1 followed  your prog-
 ress along the trail I had the Micones make -"  Cupelix tilted
 his  burnished  head  and  peered at  Sturm with  dagger eyes.
 "Yes, Sir Knight, the trail was deliberate."
   "You read minds," Sturm said uncomfortably.
   "Not deeply.  Only when  a thought  is so  clearly on  the tip
 of one's tongue."
   Stutts  introduced  his  colleagues  to the  dragon. Cupelix
 exchanged  witty banter  with each  one, until  Sighter's turn
 came.
   "You are a bronze dragons" questioned the gnome.
   "Brass, if you must  know. But  enough of  these trivialities!
 You have  come a  long way  and labored  hard to  recover your
 flying  craft.  Now  that  you  have found  it and  each other
 once more, enjoy a moment of repose at my expense."
   "We'd rather be on our way," said Sturm.
   "But I insist," said the dragon. He slid along the edge of his
 perch, his rear legs gripping  the stone  ledge and  his wings
 flaring  out  for balance.  Cupelix worked  his way  around to
 just over the door - the only way out.
   Sturm  didn't  like  what  was  happening. By  instinct, his
 hand  strayed  to  the  pommel  of his  sword -  which changed
 to  a  chicken  drumstick  when  he  touched  it.  The  gnomes
 looked popeyed, and Kitiara's jaw fell open in surprise.

   "Please excuse my little joke," said Cupelix. In the  wink of
 an  eye,  the  poultry  leg was  gone and  the sword  was back.
 "Your  weapons  are  unnecessary  here.  That  was just  my way
 of  showing  you  the  truth  of it.  Men so  often have  to be
 shown the truth before they believe something. r,
   "And  now,"  said  Cupelix,   drawing  himself   erect.  "Let
 there be victuals!" His eyes flashed with  an inner  light that
 seemed to leave bright sparkles in the  air. The  sparkles col-
 lected in the  open space  before the  bow of  the Cloudmaster.
 When  they faded,  they left  behind a  broad oak  table groan-
 ing under the weight of food and drink.
   "Eat, my friends. Drink, and we shall  tell each  other tales
 of  great  doings," intoned  the dragon.  The gnomes  fell upon
 the table with squeals of delight. Kitiara eyed the pitchers of
 foaming  ale  and  sauntered  over.  Though  the  spear  plants
 could taste like any food  she wished,  Kitiara had  missed the
 sight of real  food. Only  Sturm remained  where he  stood, his
 hands folded at his waist.
   "You do not eat, Master Brightblade," said Cupelix.
   "The fruits of magic are not fit victuals," Sturm said.
   The reptilian nostrils twitched. "You have poor manners
 for one who styles himself a knight."
   Sturm  answered  carefully.  "There  are  higher  directives
 than  mere manners.  The Measure  tells us  to reject  magic in
 all its forms, for  example." The  brass jaws  widened, reveal-
 ing saber-sized teeth and  a forked  black tongue  flecked with
 gold. For a second, Sturm's  heart contracted  to a  tight knot
 in his  chest, for  he knew  he could  not withstand  this mon-
 ster's attack. Then, he realized Cupelix was grinning at him.
   "Oh,  how  boring it  has been  these centuries  past without
 creatures  to  dispute  with!  Bless  your  stiff  neck,  Sturm
 Brightblade!  What  pleasure  you  give  me!"  The  jaws closed
 with  a  metallic  clank.  "But  come  now,  surely   you  have
 heard of Huma the Lancer?"
   "Of course."
   "He got along  quite well  with some  types of  dragons, did
 he not?"
   "So  the  histories  say. I  can only  point out  that while
 Huma  was  a  brave warrior  and a  great hero,  he was  not a
 model knight."

    Cupelix  burst  out  laughing;  it sounded  like a  chorus of
  mighty gongs.  "Do as  you please,  then! I  would not  want to
  be  responsible  for   undermining  such   formidable  virtue!"
  With  that,  Cupelix  sprang  from his  stand and,  beating his
  wings furiously, flew up to the highest recesses of  the hollow
  obelisk.
    Sturm  went  to   the  sumptuous   table.  The   gnomes  were
  gorging  themselves   on  baked   apples,  dove   stuffed  with
  bacon  and  chestnuts,  wild  rice  with  saffron,  whole sweet
  onions  glazed  with  honey,  venison  steaks,  blood  pudding,
  pickled eggs, breads, punch, wine, and ale.
    Kitiara had taken her injured arm out of its sling and let it
  rest on the table. With her coat falling  off one  shoulder and
  the flush of new ale on  her cheeks,  she looked  quite wanton.
  She  sniffed  when  her  eyes  met  Sturm's,  and she  popped a
  whole pickled egg in her mouth.
    'You're  missing a  feast," she  said after  swallowing. "The
  old emperors of Ergoth never ate so well."
    "I  wonder what  it's made  from?" Sturm  said, picking  up a
  warm roll and letting it fall back into  its tray.  "Sand? Poi-
  sonous mushrooms?"
    "Sometimes  you  are  tiresome  beyond belief,"  said Kitiara
  and  quaffed  a  three-gulp  swallow  of  ale.  "If  the dragon
  wanted to kill us, he could do it without resorting to the sub-
  tleties of poison."
    "Actually,"  Cutwood  said,  leaning  across  the  table  and
  spewing  bread  crumbs  with  every  syllable,  "brass  dragons
  traditionally are not aligned with evil."
    "Have  we  nothing  to  fear   from  this   creature?"  Sturm
  asked the table at large. He  glanced up  at the  darkness that
  held  the  dragon,  and  lowered his  voice. "Our  ancestors on
  Krynn  fought  long  and  hard  to  eliminate dragons  from the
  world. Were they all wrong?"
    "The situation  here is  completely different,"  said Stutts.
  "Lunitari is this dragon's home. He has  taken a  kindly inter-
  est  in our  plight. We  shouldn't refuse  his help  because of
  ancient  prejudices  that  have no  application at  the present
  time."
    'What does he want from us?"
    "He  hasn't  told  us  yet,"  Stutts  admitted. "But  he, ah,

 won't let us leave."
   "What do you mean?" Sturm said sharply.
   "Birdcall, Flash, and I wanted to go searching for  you. We
 rerouted  the  engine  control  sufficiently  to  make  short
 ascents - hops, really - but Cupelix refused to allow  us out
 of the obelisk. He claimed it  wasn't safe,  and that  he was
 taking steps to bring you all here."
   "Well, we're here now," said Kitiara, reaching  for another
 broiled dove. "And we'll soon be on our way."
   "Will  we?"  Sturm asked,  craning his  neck again  to peer
 into the dim heights of the obelisk. "Now that he has us all,
 will he let us go?"

                     Chapter 20

                     A New Age

   Aften Kitiara and thee gnomes had their fill, they stole
 off to the  Cloudmaster for  a nap.  Only Stutts  remained with
 Sturm.  The two  of them  strolled around  the interior  of the
 vast obelisk, and Sturm related the story of Bellcrank's death.
 "It  was  pure  chance that  Bellcrank died  instead of  Kit or
 Sighter."  They  paused  in  their  walk  as  Stutts  plucked a
 handkerchief  from  his  vest  pocket and  dabbed at  his nose.
 Sturm  told  of  ъapaldo's  death,  and  how they  placed Bell-
 crank in the middle of the mushroom garden.
 "He   and   I   were  at   gear-making  school   together,  you
 know," Stutts said softly. "I'll miss him  a great  deal." They
 passed  under  the  bow  of the  flying ship,  and Sturm  saw a
 smooth  round hole,  eight feet  wide, bored  in the  hard mar-
 ble floor. He asked Stutts what it was.

   "The  Micones  live  in  a cavern  below," Stutts  said. "They
 enter and leave  by these  holes." He  indicated two  others not
 far  away.  Sturm  stood  on  the lip  of one  of the  holes and
 looked  down.  There  was  a  feeble bluish  glow below,  and he
 could see  the jagged  shapes of  stalagmites. A  faintly bitter
 smell wafted up from the depths.
   "Did the Micones build this place?" Sturm asked.
   "Not as far as I can tell," Stutts replied, resuming his walk.
 "The  Micones are  a rather  new addition  to this  place. Cupe-
 lix hints that he created them,  but I  don't believe  he's that
 powerful.  But  to  address  your  question:  The   obelisk  was
 here even before the dragon."
   "How do you know that?"
   "By  observing  Cupelix.  While  a  healthy adult  specimen of
 a brass  dragon, his  features are  in many  ways molded  by the
 fact that he grew up inside this  obelisk. Notice,  for example,
 his  short  wings  and  powerful  legs; he  spends all  his time
 perching  on the  ledges rather  than flying.  He can  jump tre-
 mendous  distances,  even straight  up." Stutts  stopped, seeing
 that Sturm was studying him. "What?" asked the gnome.
   'You're  so  changed,"  said Sturm.  "Not just  the lack  of a
 stutter; you seem so calm and collected."
   Stutts  blushed  pink  under  his  neatly  trimmed  beard.  "I
 suppose  we   gnomes  must   appear  awfully   disorganized  and
 impractical to you humans."
   Sturm smiled. "Not at all."
   Stutts  returned  the  grin.  He  said,  "Being on  Lunitari has
 changed me - all  of us.  The flight  of the  Cloudmaster, while
 erratic, has been the  first true  success in  my life.  I spent
 years  in  the  workshops  of  Mt.  Nevermind,  building  flying
 machines. They all failed. It  wasn't until  I learned  of Bell-
 crank's  experiments  with  ethereal  air  that  the Cloudmaster
 became  possible."  Mention  of  the  lost chemist  quelled con-
 versation for a moment.
   "Be at peace," Sturm finally said. "He was avenged."
   They passed below the tail of the flying ship. A mixed
 chorus of  snores issued  from the  open portholes.  Stutts ges-
 tured toward the sound.
   "They  are  a  fine  band  of  colleagues,"  he   said.  "They
 deserve to go home to the cheers of all Sancrist."

 "Do  you  think  we'll  ever see  Krynn again?"  Sturm asked.
 "That all  depends on  Cupelix and  what he  wants. I  have a
 theory - "
 A wind flowed over them. With a customary metallic
 ringing, the dragon alighted on the lowest sill, perhaps fif-
 teen  feet  above  Sturm  and Stutts.  The gnome  sidled away
 from Cupelix.
 "I trust you are satiated," Cupelix said to Stutts.
 "The  meal  was  excellent,  as  always," Stutts  replied. He
 yawned.  "It  weighs  a bit  heavy on  my stomach,  though. I
 think I shall join my colleagues." With a polite  nod, Stutts
 returned to the ship. Cupelix loomed over Sturm.
 "So  it  is  you  and  I, Master  Brightblade. What  shall we
 talk  about  l  Let  us  debate  our philosophies,  knight to
 dragon. What do you say?"
 "No magic?"
 Cupelix  laid  a  burnished  claw  on  his  breast. "Dragon's
 honor."
 "How  is  it," Sturm  wondered, "that  you speak  so fluently
 the Krynnish tongue!"
 "Books," replied the dragon. "My nest  on high  is plentiful-
 ly  supplied  with  books  by  authors  mortal  and immortal.
 Now I shall ask a question: What is it you seek from life?"
 "To live honorably and in the manner befitting  an Oath-taken
 knight. My turn. Have you always lived inside this tower?"
 "From  the  days  when  I was  a dragonlet  no larger