Seventh day after Sun's Height, 30016 DC

Ensa had been fascinated by the glimpse of history visible in the crypt. With her night sight she'd seen much better than the others the general shape of the hallway and rooms – hollowed out of Graveisle's rocky core hundreds of years ago. She'd also been able to pick out the names on urns, spotting the names that were found again and again as generation after generation of some families lived and died on Goldisle. The pattern would be even more obvious if she inspected the crypt of a smaller, more isolated island, she realised. Perhaps it would be worth paying a visit to Whaleisle's crypt…

Then she remembered what she'd come here for. A little bubble of excitement burst inside her stomach, and Star shifted on her shoulder.

'Sabra?' she asked. 'Which is Northisle's crypt?'

The monk inclined her head. 'I'll show you. This way.' She turned and walked down the gentle slope towards the easternmost of the tiny grey buildings that housed the crypts, bright hair blazing in the sun.

Northisle's crypt was even further underground than Graveisle's. Ensa watched her feet as she descended the narrow, worn staircase, only too aware that to trip could be fatal. The crashing of the waves gradually changed into a booming echo as they went down, and Ensa realised excitedly that they were travelling right underneath the sea bed.

But by the time they reached the bottom, the noise of the waves had died away altogether, and they were encased in the deathly hush of the crypt. The cold air smelt faintly dusty, but neither this nor the shadows where the torchlight began to dim bothered Ensa, used to navigating in an underground environment. She peered forwards, where she could just make out the far end of the crypt's main hallway. 'Which way, Sabra?' she asked, quietly.

'Forwards.' Sabra led the way, bringing flickering orange shadows to the grey picture that Ensa saw. As they walked down the hallway, Ensa right on Sabra's heels with her excitement, she could see that this crypt was constructed in the shape of a T – at the end a second long hallway ran crossways to the one they were in. But directly ahead of them, Ensa could see that an area had been hollowed out of the rock wall, and a waist high, rectangular slab of stone lay in the space created.

'Sabra,' she said, pointing. 'Is that –?'

'The tomb of Shadryan Eladrissinel. Yes.'

Ensa couldn't help it. She broke into a run, Star digging her claws through the fabric of her robe as the rat attempted to keep her balance.

By the time the others caught up with her, Ensa was bending over the tomb, running her fingers reverently over the intricate carvings. Carved into the stone by a great craftsman – long dead himself now, whoever he had been – were the forms of trees and rocks and towers, a dragon on a mountain peak and an angel in a cloud. But all the carvings drew the eye inwards towards the central figure: an elf, a book open in one hand, the other raised to cast a spell. Ensa ran her eyes over the words carved above the figure's head in bold, curving runes. 'That's him,' she said. 'Loremaster Eladrissinel.'

Tynan frowned. 'Can you read that?'

Ensa nodded. 'It's ancient draconic – most mages know it. Lots of spells and magic texts are written in it. I read it quite well.' But she was distracted, and didn't wait for Tynan to acknowledge her answer. 'So how can I find him, Sabra?'

The monk smiled. 'Try asking.' She raised her calm voice and called, 'Master Shadryan!'

'Looking for me, Sabra? Nice to know I'm remembered.' The voice was parchment thin, barely above a whisper, and sounded old as ages. The cold, hissing quality of it made all the hairs on Ensa's neck rise, and Star on her shoulder quivered and pressed herself against the half-orc's neck.

Then the owner of the voice came towards them, through the elaborate tomb, and the rat squealed and disappeared down the back of Ensa's robe. The figure was undoubtedly an elf, wearing a sumptious robe, but none of them could tell what colour it had originaly been. All the colour seemed to have been drained out of the elf, so that he was bleached into a palette of greys, almost transparent where the torchlight touched him. Ensa, recovering from the shock of his appearance – it was, after all, not unlike what she saw with her darkvision – noticed that as he moved forwards he didn't take steps, instead gliding towards the group. She felt a tiny breath of icy air against her face.

'That's right,' Sabra said, her serene face and voice not at all altered by the ghost's appearance. 'There's someone here who'd like to ask you a couple of questions.'

The old elf's head twisted towards the little group, a sharp darting movement like a lizard. 'Which is it?' he hissed, sharply. 'Which of them thinks that he's worthy of my words? The elf, is it?' He floated forwards, and Emlyn leapt aside to avoid the ghost's touch as he passed through the space where the young fighter had been standing to face Shadow. 'I might tell you something, young elf,' hissed the loremaster, with what looked almost like a grin on his face. 'If you're clever enough.'

Shadow faced him steadily, apparently entirely unmoved by this. Sabra, standing beside the tomb with the torch, said calmly. 'It isn't he who wants your knowledge.'

'No?' The ghost whirled round to look at her. 'Then who is it?'

Sabra laid a hand on the half-orc's shoulder. 'It's Ensa Dragontongue here.'

The old ghost's eyes narrowed. 'A half-orc won't ever be my inheritor,' he hissed.

Ensa frowned indignantly. 'Why not – if I'm clever enough?' she demanded. 'Anyway, I don't want to be your inheritor. I only want to know about the Dead that Walk.'

'And why should I tell you, I who am Walking myself?' The cold whisper sliced through the air. Ensa could feel Star trembling against her back. She gathered her wits to find an answer for this, but it seemed to be only a rhetorical question. The loremaster's ghost prowled away, back to his own tomb. When he turned, he spoke not in Common, but in the heavy, hissing syllables of the draconic language. 'Tell me, half-orc, why do they call you Dragontongue?'

Ensa could see the blank faces of the others, but answered steadily in the same language. 'Why do you think? It's not such a common accomplishment, among those with orcish blood.'

'So I know.' The ghost's eyes glittered blackly. 'But I do not think you are a usual orc.'

'I'm not an orc!'

The old loremaster smiled, a thin, secretive smile. 'So vehement.' He paused, and then snapped suddenly. 'And don't believe I've failed to mark the little familiar shivering under your robes. So tell me – are you a good wizard?'

Ensa bit her tongue before she answered, then said honestly. 'Not as good as I will be.'

'Good answer,' hissed the ghost. 'There is always more to know. But if you want to have my knowledge you must find my writings.'

'I can do that,' said Ensa, 'if you tell me where they are.'

'Can you? Can you? Better people than you have searched before. Searched for my precious, precious book…'

'Tell me where to look,' Ensa repeated, 'and I'll find it.'

'Oh no.' The ghost drew back with a silent swish of his robe. Ensa noticed how it didn't even shift the dust on the floor of the crypt. 'No, no, that would be too easy. Anyone might get their hands on it. No, I have to find a worthy successor. You'll find my book – if you're clever enough…'

Ensa's mouth dropped open. 'Do I not even get a clue?'

'Yes, you get what all the others got. For more than a hundred years I've been giving it to those who asked, but they never found it, not one of them was clever enough…' He trailed off. Just as Ensa felt she might be going to explode with impatience at the obsessive old ghost, Shadryan Eladrissinel drew himself up to his full height, his feet floating off the ground to bring him level with Ensa's face. 'Remember,' he hissed,

'A house as old as ages, a path as old as time

Blessed are those who come there, though some come there in crime

Eleven guide their footsteps, yet some go walkabout

And far more dwell within than can ever live without.'

The old ghost smiled slyly. 'Remember!' he said, again, beginning to drift away, back through the solid stone of his tomb's wall.

Ensa blinked, dragging a piece of parchment and a stick of charcoal out of her pocket to scribble the words down, then realised that the loremaster's ghost was leaving. 'What? That's it? Hey, wait!'

'Wait? What for? Does it mean anything to you?'

'Not yet,' Ensa admitted. 'But I've barely had time to think about it. It will.'

The old loremaster's face paused for a moment in its steady journey away. 'I like you, half-orc,' he said, in that knife-sharp, cold voice, but faintly, as though his voice was fading as he passed further away. 'I've a mind to help you a bit more.'

'Yes?' Ensa bent forwards eagerly to catch his words.

Despite its faintness, she could hear the spiteful laughter in the ghost's voice. 'There are three ghouls behind you.'

AN: I apologise for the bad poetry… make that extremely bad poetry… however, I hope the sense of the riddle is clear enough. (Or, you know, not clear enough, as the case may be...)