Sir Wick’s quest for the Winsome Scale began with a choice: to wander aimlessly, seeking that which no one had ever found; or to journey to the house of one who might share wisdom. He chose to seek wisdom, for even if he who gave it could not direct him to the Scale itself, still wisdom was always a useful thing to have. So it was that he hurried to the house of Absyll Skwall.

Absyll Skwall was a wizard, and his house was called Tempist. This house was really a tower, and it stood on a strange and wild hill that marked the frontier between three Places – Shining, Shifting, and Deeping, which was the commonest name for the Place of Water. This hill was made of light shot through with veins of water and air, and Shining glowed behind the tower like a bright sunrise, or at times like a silver moon, and sometimes like a rippling midnight aurora. Above and about the tower was a great dome of air, blowing currents of light and water this way and that like clouds, or perhaps letting tiny motes of light and water drift lazily like unfixed stars or faerie lamps. Before the tower was a wide sea of water, whose depths glittered with pockets of light and roiled with bubbles of air. Sometimes this sea was was mirror smooth, and sometimes it rose into rolling waves filled with light and the rushing of wind. To either side of the hill rose a great forest, with trees of light, air, and water, all glittering or shifting or dripping one next to the other.

But if it seemed that Tempist was a place where water mixed with light, light mixed with air, and air mixed with water, this was only an illusion, for this was the Time of Separation, and though the stuff of the Places might mingle, still they could not mix. Each Place had its own deserts and shadows and seasons, but they were all made of the very stuff of the Place itself. Shining had its shadows, though they were made of light, and Deeping had its deserts, though they were vast and watery. Even so, if the light of Shining, the air of Shifting, and the water of Deeping never mixed, still they swirled around each other, rising in great towers of spinning light and air and water, or else they rushed in powerful torrents, or fell like a misty rain to run in rivulets back into the weird cove that lay spread out below the hill where stood Tempist. This cove was not a safe, sheltered place, but a deadly, swirling vortex where the stuff of light, air, and water frothed and roared in a lovely, frightening display. No boat would dare its surface, and no one who fell in had ever climbed out again.

No one knew why Absyll had chosen to build his house in such a place, but those who gave it any thought guessed that it was a place of great power, where secrets of Shining, Shifting, and Deeping might be revealed to those who knew how to watch. To what purpose Absyll would watch for such secrets was anyone’s guess, and the guesses were many. Was he wise and gentle, seeking a way to bring peace to the different Places? Or was he crafty and dangerous, seeking only the power of the Places for his own advantage? Or was it something else altogether? His manner gave little indication, for one moment he was gentle and calm, but he could become wrathful and dangerous with little warning. Even so, his wisdom was deep, and if he could be wrathful, he was still generous.

While Absyll was the master of Tempist, he was not really its keeper; that duty and power fell to his wife, Lady Glacia, who was born of Shining. Unlike Sir Wick, who was a gentle glow, Lady Glacia was a killing glare, like a midday sun on a sheet of polished ice, and her heart was just as cold. She was lovely to look upon, but the blood of those who looked too long might freeze. Likewise, though her hands were lovely and delicate, their touch could numb even the flesh of a Burning Duke. Deadly though she was, she was a gracious hostess, and she would often intervene on the side of mercy when her husband’s mood turned stormy. She was not herself given to violent tantrums, but her demeanor was one of icy calm so cold that it could be just as fatal as Absyll’s fury. So perhaps her mercy was not born so much of compassion as it was of propriety – killing a guest would be the very definition of rudeness, after all. But if a visitor was not received as a guest but as a prisoner, well … the rules of hospitality did not apply to prisoners.

So it is clear that Sir Wick’s choice was not the easy one, for he could not depend upon a warm reception from either Absyll or his wife. He could hope, but not depend, for Lady Glacia had proven herself no kinder to her fellows from Shining than she did to travelers from any other Place. Only those from Glooming could count upon her cruelty, but if they were greeted as guests by Absyll before she found them, they could expect mercy from her even if Absyll’s mood became deadly.

Sir Wick felt the risk was worth the reward, and so to Tempist he went. His journey was not arduous, though it was not quick, and eventually he climbed the road that wound round the hill of light and stood before the wide door of Tempist, where hung a horn. He put the horn to his lips, and blew as mightily as he thought was polite. Presently there came to the wide door a servant, who peered at him and asked him his name and his business.

Sir Wick smiled kindly at the man, and said, “I am Sir Wick of Swift, and I am questing for the Winsome Scale.”

The servant shook his head sadly, and said, “I am sorry, sir knight, that your quest has led you to Tempist, for the Winsome Scale is not here; neither can my lord or lady tell you its whereabouts, for not even they know that secret. And if they do, it must be that they wish to keep it for themselves, and so they will not give it to you. No, good knight, you have wasted your time in coming here, and risked your life into the bargain; my lord is in a black mood this day, and will surely clap you in irons in the dungeon if he should learn of your presence here. Then my lady will freeze your flesh to ice with glance, and whisper such things to you that shall set your blood afire until your flesh melts and runs like water from your bones. I have enough to do already without gaining another skull to polish and dust.

“Please, noble sir, turn back to the road and leave Tempist before my lord Absyll finds you.”

But Sir Wick would not leave, and neither would he even agree to spend that night in the woods and return in the morning in the hopes of finding Absyll in a better mood. His heart told him the way to the Winsome Scale lay through Tempist, and none of the servant’s pleas could sway him. Gently he insisted that the servant bring him to Absyll, for perhaps a visitor might change his mood.

The servant shook his head but did as he was told, and led Sir Wick through the halls of Absyll’s house. Finally they stopped before a magnificent door. “I shall inform my lord of your visit, good sir,” said the servant, before knocking and entering. A few seconds passed, and though the servant had closed the door, still Sir Wick heard a furious bellowing from the chamber. The door was as thick as the span of the knight’s hand, but it seemed as if he stood in an open archway so clearly could he hear Absyll’s rage.

The door flew open with such suddenness that Sir Wick feared it would be torn from its hinges, and there stood Absyll himself, green hair and beard whipping about in his anger, glaring at his visitor. He trembled in fury, and nearly threw himself upon Sir Wick, who moved only to bow before standing still and quiet.

“What’s this? What’s this? The Winsome Scale? You disturb me with a fool’s errand, even after my man told you I knew nothing of its whereabouts? The cheek! The gall! I’ve no time to waste on idiots and fools who chase after the unattainable! Not today, and not tomorrow. Not now! You should have listened to my servant and slept in the woods, for tomorrow I should certainly have received you as a friend and given you what aid I could! But now I shall give you only chains and cold stone, and let my wife give you the cold comfort of her company. Ha! We’ll see how well you like that, foolish, impertinent knight! Away with him! Away!”

Sir Wick was taken with such speed to the dungeons that the tower seemed to melt into mist around him. One second he stood in a fine hall with thick carpets and beautiful tapestries, and the next he stood barefoot in a dark cell, bound in chains. His arms and armor had been taken, and he was left only with the token of his gentle lady’s favor: a thin braid of her hair tied into a band he wore on a finger of his right hand. He looked at that finger and the favor it carried, and raised it too his lips. The gentle scent of flowers filled his nose, and its touch was like silk on his kiss. He closed his eyes to the sight of his dark, dingy hole, and saw only the face of his lady. His heart filled with such love and courage that he couldn’t help but smile, even in the midst of cold stone etched with misery. Soon he laughed with joy, and opened his eyes to look upon his predicament with happier eyes, for even great problems seem less when viewed with a light heart.

It was not so small a cell as he had first believed, but the shadows fell in such a way as to deceive a quick glance. The walls were bare stone, but many chains hung from heavy iron rings set in the stone. He was himself bound to one of those rings, with just enough chain to allow him to lie down if he wished. The floor was likewise bare stone, but here and there sat clumps of moldy straw, and with a little effort he was able to stretch and gather enough to himself to make a more comfortable bed, which he promptly sat upon. He raised his ring to his lips again, and laughed at the chains and the stone, and at the heavy iron-bound door that sealed him in. He laughed, and shook his head at his plight.

“What manner of man are you,” asked a soft voice from an especially thick shadow, “that you can find humor in such a place as this? Are you mad, or do you know some secret that no other prisoner here knows? Do you know a way to escape this place?”

Sir Wick regarded the shadow with a smile, and said, “No, my friend, I am not mad, and the only secrets I know are the ones I have brought with me. I have never thought to use them here, but I can use them here as well as anywhere.”

“And what secrets are those?” asked the voice. “Do you know the words to unlock your chains? Can you convince the walls to open and let you pass? Or do you know something to frighten the guards with, so they will spirit you away before Glacia comes for you?”

Sir Wick shook his head, and answered, “No, I know none of those things, though I would dearly like to. I know only that I have sworn myself to a lady, and that I love that lady and that she loves me in return. I know that I shall escape this prison and that I shall finish my quest, though I do not know how I know. It is enough to know, and to trust that I know.”

“You called me your friend,” said the voice, “and I will gladly take that title if I may return the same to you. We are lost here together, you and I, and a friend can be a great treasure in a place such as this, more valuable than food and drink, perhaps. May I call you my friend, sir?”

Sir Wick smiled and nodded, and answered, “It would please me to have a friend here, where I seem to have none. Yes, you may tell everyone in every Place that Sir Wick of Swift is your friend.”

The voice in the shadow was silent for a moment, and when it spoke again it was with a hint of cautious hope and, thought Sir Wick, trust. “And likewise you may tell your fellows that Peregrine is your friend, if you wish, though you might be wise to keep such a friend as I a secret.”

Then the voice left the thick shadow, and Sir Wick saw that it belonged to a small fellow, a penniless wanderer born of Glooming. He also saw that this little fellow was not bound in chains, but that he walked freely about the cell. Peregrine smiled warily, and said, “You say that you do not know how you shall escape this prison, only that you shall, and that you shall return to the lady you love. Well, I shall tell you something I know, my friend.

“It is just as well that you do not know the words to unlock your chains or let you pass through walls, for Absyll has enchanted them all to prevent just such a trick. Neither can you frighten the guards, for they are both too frightened of and devoted to their master to betray him.”

Peregrine’s wary smile became warm. “There is only one way to escape the dungeons of Tempist alive, and it is our good luck that I know the secret of it. If you wish,” he said with a wink, “I shall tell you how.”