The Oath and the Measure

was dark and her back lithe and straight.

Evanthe called for her, and the smaller nymph turned elegantly and raced into the forest, the branches of aeterna she had touched erupting in white and golden blossoms.

Of course, neither Vertumnus nor Jack Derry, who stood in the clearing above the ministering druidess, saw the ancientness of the woman in front of them. Hollis knelt gracefully over the wounded lad, her flawless features knit with concern.

'Can you save him, Mother?' Jack Derry asked, and the woman lifted her eyes.

'You've done well to bring him to me this quickly,' she observed. 'You have done your part well, Son. Now is your father's part, and my own.'

'You have found peace from the lightning, then?' Jack asked, his voice thick with concern.

'There are times,' replied the druidess, 'when the law bows down to the spirit and the heart. The treant will mend and the law survive.'

She smiled at Jack and returned to the lad. Over Sturm she hovered, spreading out her arms so that her cloak encircled him. 'Bring forth the owl first,' she whispered.

The bird blinked and hopped comically from Vertumnus's shoulder, and spreading its wings, it glided silently through the clearing to a perch in the branches above the unconscious youth.

'Now,' Hollis breathed, and Vertumnus lifted the flute to his lips. Carefully at first, then more and more playfully and recklessly, he followed the song of the owl with a tune of his own, his fingers flickering over the stops of the instrument. Hollis lifted a yellow, spongy mass of lichen to the nose of the sleeping lad, and in the air above Vertumnus, a strange swirl of mist and light resolved itself into a blue sign of infinity as the first of the three dreams passed over Sturm, and the healing began.

He dreamt that he lay in the mist-covered branches of an oak.

Sturm breathed deeply and frowned. He looked around for Vertumnus, for Ragnell or Mara or Jack Derry. But he was alone, and even from this lofty vantage point, a good forty feet from the floor of the forest, he could see nothing but green and mist.

Dressed in green, he was, in a tunic woven of leaves and grass.

Something told him this was not the Darkwoods.

'Even more,' he whispered, 'something tells me I have not wakened.'

Quickly he said the Eleventh and Twelfth Devotions, those that guarded the sayer against ambush in the country of dreams, and descended the tree cautiously, his eyes on the shifting ground below. Halfway down, at a safe but uncomfortable height, he dangled from a thick, sturdy branch, then let himself go, trusting in the odd physical safety of dreams.

He was right. Buoyed by a warm wind, he floated onto dried grass and aeterna needles as though he had descended through water. To his astonishment, he was dressed once more in his hereditary armor, carrying his shield and sword.

'What is the lesson in this?' he asked aloud. For the ancient philosophers said that dreams answered questions. Quickly Sturm looked for omens-for the kingfisher that presages a rise to the Order, for the Sword or the Crown.

'Green,' he concluded, sitting heavily at the foot of the oak tree. 'Naught but green and green upon green.'

He propped his chin in his hands, and suddenly a horse whickered from behind a thick stand of juniper. Instantly alert, his sword drawn against monster and adversary, against all stealers of dreams, Sturm moved like a wind toward the sound… and the branches moved past him and through him, and he did not feel them pass.

He stood at the edge of a clearing dominated by a pair of tall hewn rock towers. The walls around the daunting black stone structures formed an equilateral triangle, at each corner of which a small tower sprouted like a menacing black hive.

'Wayreth!' Sturm whispered hoarsely. 'The Towers of High Sorcery!' To which, it was written, one could come only if invited.

'But why?' Sturm asked. 'Why am I set in this country of wizards?'

He heard the voices then, saw Caramon and Raistlin ride out of the trees and stop unsteadily before the towers, their roan horses dancing skittishly. They were at a distance, and it was impossible to hear them, or to see the looks on their faces, for that matter. But a low, soft voice murmured in Sturm's ear, as though it read from a high romance, from a saga or ancient tale.

He whirled about and faced Lord Wilderness, who pointed back to the Tower, the twins, and continued the story.

'The fabled Towers of High Sorcery,' Raistlin said in awe.

The tall stone towers resembled skeletal fingers, clawing out of the grave.

Cautiously, reluctantly, Sturm turned back to the dream scene unfolding to Vertumnus's narration. When Lord Wilderness spoke, Sturm saw Caramon and Raistlin move their mouths to the words of the Green Man.

'We could turn back now,' Caramon croaked, his voice breaking.

Raistlin looked at his brother with astonishment.

Raistlin turned to Caramon. Sturm shook his head violently, struggling to clear it of cobwebs and dreams and dark, insinuating words.

For the first time since he could remember, Vertumnus continued, Raistlin saw fear in Caramon. The young conjurer felt an unusual sensation, a warmth spreading over him. He reached out and put a steady hand on his brother's trembling arm. 'Do not be afraid, Caramon,' Raistlin said. 'I am with you.'

Caramon looked at Raistlin, then laughed nervously to himself. He urged his horse forward.

Mechanically, as though guided by the words, Caramon and Raistlin turned, spoke, and then, as Vertumnus told the rest of the story, Raistlin stepped inside and vanished, leaving a shivering Caramon behind at the tower gates.

Sturm's heart went out to Caramon, alone at the edge of the mystery. In his twin's absence, half of the big warrior lay buried in shadow, and there was something unsubstantial about those broad shoulders and thick arms.

'He's… he's like a worn banner!' Sturm whispered, and beside him, Vertumnus resumed the story. Eventually Raistlin walked from the tower into the dreamlight, and Caramon rose to greet him. It was no longer Raistlin, but a young man twisted and submerged and broken who raised his hands, pointed his thumbs toward his approaching brother… and…

Magic coursed through his body and flamed from his hands. He watched the fire flare, billow, and engulf Caramon.

Sturm cried out and shielded his eyes. It couldn't be! Nor could it be prophecy! Raistlin and Caramon were in Solace. Nothing would send them to Wayreth, if Wayreth would even have them.

And Raistlin. Raistlin would never…

Vertumnus's hand rested on his shoulder.

'Do not be afraid, Sturm,' Vertumnus whispered, clutching Sturm's arm. 'I am with you. Do not hide from me.'

Sturm pulled away from Lord Wilderness, whose grip became more insistent, more painful.

'Do you understand, Sturm?' Vertumnus whispered, and his breath smelled of cedar. 'Do you understand now?'

Then Sturm felt himself rising. The branches parted at his ascent, and suddenly he was borne on a cool, fresh breeze into the autumn sky, where the blue sign of infinity twinkled above him, and he fell into bright, dreamless slumber.

'Now we send him the second dream,' Hollis urged, brushing her dark hair from her dark face. 'For the boy will live now. Of that I am assured. He has risen from the thickets of death, and he will live now. The ravens will decide how he does so.'

The ravens had circled overhead throughout the first song and infusion, boding softly. Now the three birds