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Somebody had joined him.

That somebody was Estond, sorcerer apprentice to Kotiri Swaine's brother, Jao Swaine. Estond was Alar's friend, and one of the few friends the young man had ever known. Estond did not mind Alar's lack of ability.

Estond was stout, and had a thick patch of hair that fell all over his face. He brushed aside the mop of hair and smiled back at Alar.

‘I have to go,' he said, refusing Alar's offer to sit. ‘I came here to give you this.' He placed a fat book on the table. By the looks of it, it was hundreds of years old.

‘What is this?' Alar asked curiously. He opened the book.

‘You'll know soon enough,' Estond replied. ‘I'm in a hurry, Alar. No time. Good day!'

Alar swallowed his food, and leafed through the book, gently handling the yellowed pages. It was the history of the race of Winkas, who had once lived with the sorcerers of Itika. A race long forgotten, who had vanished from Itika after helping the sorcerers win the historic Battle of Scars, fought to drive out a fanatic cult from Itikan soil. The Winkas had then been thrown out of Itika by the victorious Itikans, as the prejudice against non magical beings prevailed even then, and the Itikans had no mercy for even those who had aided them in war. History had not been kind to the Winkas, and they were forgotten.

****
It was past midnight, and Alar's eyes burned with the strain of reading for hours. Alar snapped the book shut, his mind racing.

The Winkas, the book had said, were human like in appearance. Their distinguishing features were their long, lean fingers, and their sparkling, emerald green or sapphire blue eyes. They were also known for the mark of a bird on their right shoulders, the trademark of the Winkas. Some Itikans are descendants of Winkas, though they hold no features of that original, proud race of warriors, who had not a drop of magic in them.

Alar stared at his chipped mirror. The candlelight danced off his clear eyes. His sparkling sapphire blue eyes.

Swallowing, he ripped off his shirt sleeve, and gazed at the faint mark on his right shoulder. His guardian had told him it was a deformity well worth one who could not spell cast, and Alar had been ashamed of it. Until now.

I am of Winkan descent! He focused on the bird on his shoulder.

He turned around, half trembling. He could not reveal what he knew, though Estond had guessed his lineage. But Estond was prudent, and would not spread the word.

Alar had a turbulent night. He was standing by the Crags, shivering as the icy winds swept his face. He saw the pained, helpless shade of Kotiri Swaine.

Alar jolted awake. There was only one place in Itika where no one dared search. The Crags. Somehow, Alar knew that was where the sorcerer was. Maybe he had a glimmering of magical power after all.

He left his village the next night.

****
Two days Alar traveled the rough terrain of Itika. His food supply was almost over. His feet ached and his body cried out for rest. The nights were cold. Alar dragged his feet over miles of land, ignoring his exhaustion.

And when he finally saw the ominous Crags, all his will seemed to ebb away.