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Lasting Gift, a common name for children among Trevenici. The young man had yet to achieve his adult name. That would happen only after he completed the ceremony of becoming an adult, when he would take the name the gods would give him in a vision. This name would be revealed only to those close to him. To all others, the young man would select a name in Elderspeak, a name of his own choosing.
    The pelt bargaining was nearly complete. The peddler had spread a great many steel arrowheads on the counter. The Trevenici was studying them with a practiced eye.
    â€œWe find silver near camp, too,” the pecwae added, as an afterthought.
    â€œDo you mine it?” Wolfram asked.
    â€œMine?” The pecwae didn’t understand.
    Wolfram made a chopping motion, as if wielding a hammer.
    The pecwae shook his head. “The Earth would be angry and that would ruin the magic.”
    â€œThen how do you obtain it?” Wolfram asked.
    â€œMy grandmother sings it out,” said the pecwae.
    â€œEh?” The dwarf thought that perhaps he’d translated the word incorrectly. “Sing? As in yo-yo-yo-heh-heh?”
    â€œYou call that singing?” The pecwae grinned. “It sounds more like the cawing of a crow. My grandmother’s voice is the most beautiful voice in the world. She can imitate the calls of every bird so well that they mistake her for one of their own. She can sing up a wind or sing away rain. She sings to the Earth and the skystone tumbles out into her hand.”
    Wolfram raised an eyebrow. “Just as the words suddenly tumble out of your mouth.”
    A slight flush overspread the pecwae’s cheeks. He grinned, shamefaced.
    â€œRaven—that’s his uncle”—he jerked a thumb at his friend—“told us not to let on that we understood what people were saying. That way, we’d find out if they were trying to cheat us.”
    Wolfram grunted. “Uncle Raven is wise.”
    Of course, Wolfram didn’t believe a word about the grandmother singing the gemstone out of the earth. Still, he knew that pecwae were extremely lazy and would do anything to avoid working at a task. He wondered idly how Grandma really managed to obtain the skystone.
    â€œThis my friend, Jessan,” said the pecwae in introduction, shifting back to the crude Elderspeak, though his eyes sparkled with fun when they met the gaze of the dwarf. “My name Bashae.”
    â€œWolfram,” said the dwarf in Elderspeak. He could have communicated with the two in Tirniv, for he spoke the language of the Trevenici, probably one of the few outsiders on Loerem to do so,almost certainly the only dwarf. Wolfram knew better than to let on that he understood, however. The Trevenici do not like to hear outsiders speak their language, which they consider sacred. Though they make exception for the pecwae, Trevenici will become hostile if they hear an outsider speak the holy words.
    Jessan regarded Wolfram with cool appraisal. He was not friendly, but he was not mean nor distrustful, either. Guarded would be a good word to describe this young man, Wolfram thought. Self-possessed, for one so young. Confident, sure of himself, even in what must be a strange and unfamiliar situation. His face was well-molded, with a strong nose and jawline. His hair was dark red, thick and lank. He wore it twisted into a tail that hung down past the middle of his back. His skin was bronze from having lived most of his life outdoors.
    Though not a warrior, he would be trained for warfare. All Trevenici youth, male and female, are trained warriors. He wore leather breeches. His chest and arms were bare, save for an exquisite necklace of turquoise and silver and a large silver bracelet. His pelts were gone. Tucked into his breeches was a fur bundle, undoubtedly containing the arrowheads his bargaining had won him.
    â€œWe go to Temple now,” Jessan said in pidgin Elderspeak.
    â€œI know the man at the