Raz was floating in darkness. Looking around, he thought, “Where am I?” Every direction he turned was nothing but emptiness. How long had he been here? The last thing he remembered was that he had been lying in a bed...where was that? His memories seemed to be fleeting at best. Images flooded his thoughts: A girl with purple hair. His grandfather’s kind face, tears in his eyes. Why was he crying, again? A bearded man. Face hooded and hidden. Flashes of light followed by explosions and destruction. What happened? Who is that man? Why does he frighten me?

Suddenly, a light appeared in the darkness; a small pin prick in a sea of nothing. What is that? Raz tried to focus, and to his surprise, the light moved closer. He could make it out now. A small sphere, with golden light emanating from it. I know what that is, he thought. Raz did not know why, but he felt the need to go to the light. He reached out a hand, willing himself toward it. The sphere began to spin, flashing like a pulsar in the night sky. With each rotation, Raz found himself being pulled closer and closer to it, until he could start to make out objects within. Closer. Is that a room? Closer. Are those people? Closer. What am I looking at? He was so close now, he could have reached out and touched the floating orb.

As if looking through a window, Raz saw a small sitting space that he recognized right away as the living room at his grandfather’s cottage. Gazing around, Raz was startled to see that he was suddenly staring at himself, sitting in a leather chair by the fireplace, a large leatherbound book on his lap. What am I seeing? he thought. Then he saw the other person in the room; it was his grandfather. Glasses sat slightly crooked on his face, sitting at a small desk, rifling through layers of random stacked papers. He’s alive! Joy and relief flooded through Raz. All that mattered to him now was getting to the room. He reached out and grabbed the orb. A flash of blinding light, and Raz found himself no longer floating in the darkness, but inside the room, except he was looking at...himself, reading in the chair. He tried to speak, tried to move, and was unable; he felt paralyzed. What is happening? he thought.

Then, the “Other Raz” spoke: “Grandpa, where did you get this book?”

“Last year, on my trip to France,” the words were coming from Raz, but they were in his grandfather’s voice. Raz suddenly realized that HE was his grandfather and was seeing this memory through his eyes. He remembered this conversation. It had taken place just a few months ago, during the summer.

“It’s really cool. Its tales were written specifically about Merlin and his adventures before the time of Camelot,” replied “Other Raz.”

“You don’t say,” his grandfather remarked, his voice trailing off, half listening.

“Yeah, it gets into some pretty specific details of his travels, actually. Like how he met the Lady of the Lake. Reads more like a history book than a story.”

“Interesting,”  his grandfather replied distractedly, still focused on the pages in front of him. “Let me know if you figure it out. We could go meet her...” he trailed off. Grandpa looked up briefly at “Other Raz” and winked.

“Well,” sighed “Other Raz,” ignoring his grandfather’s attempt at humor, “it says he traveled north over a great body of water to a large peninsula, to a tower on an island in a lake, where the Lady dwelt.”

“And?” Pelias responded. “What does that tell us?”

“The original tales were from France, not Britain, so we know we are starting there. And earlier it mentioned Carhaix as the city he was studying in. Do you have any maps here, Grandpa?” inquired “Other Raz.”

“Yes,” his grandfather replied, blinking hard as to clear the distracted fog from his mind. He was paying more attention now. “On the bookshelf in the corner next to the fireplace.”

Raz watched as “Other Raz” arose from his chair, strode over to the bookshelf his grandfather mentioned, rustled through some pages scattered on his desk, and returned to the table where his grandpa was sitting. Placing the map on the table in front of him, he pointed to France and said, “Carhaix must be the modern city of Caihaix-Plouguer in Northern France. So if Merlin traveled north from there,” he asserted and drew an imaginary line from Carhaix to lower Great Britain, “the large body of water would have been the English Channel, and he would have ended up in Cornwall. Hmmm…there is no mention of Cornwall in this book,” he said, looking discouraged.

“Well,” his grandfather chimed in, “when this book was written, Cornwall probably did not exist under that name. Is there mention of any other places he traveled?”

Retrieving the book from the chair he had been reading in, he flipped through a few pages, stopping on one, he said “Just somewhere called Celliwig,” He glanced at Grandpa to see his reaction. “But that name sounds made up.”

“Actually, it isn’t!” His grandfather said, excitement in his voice. His grandfather always relished a quality mystery. “Celliwig was, in fact, Cornwall! There is your peninsula, Raz.”

“Other Raz” grinned for a moment, but then his face dropped, and he said, “Doesn’t really narrow it down though, does it? Cornwall isn’t exactly a small place, is it?”

“Still, it’s a good start,” his grandfather replied, reassuringly. “Keep reading and if you find more, we can try to piece together the clues...just for fun,” he added with a wink.

Raz watched as “Other Raz” shrugged his shoulders and walked back to the chair where he had previously been reading.

Then, like someone had changed the view of his lens, the whole room began to shift out of focus. When the focus returned, he was no longer in his grandfather’s sitting room. He was now standing on a small boat, crossing what looked like a lake in the middle of a clearing in the woods. It was fall, and as the leaves from the trees were turning the brightest of orange, the setting sun was just disappearing over the tree line. Once again, Raz could not speak or move, like he was watching this from another’s eyes. Just like the sitting room before, he was a passenger in the mind of someone else. He saw a small island ahead, where a large stone tower, reminiscent of a medieval castle, sat alone. Based on the direction the boat was taking him, Raz knew this must be his destination. He saw a gold ring on his hand. A ring with an engraved crow and a red jewel inset where its eye should have been. Raz realized he was once again, in his grandfather’s mind.

Where is this place? Raz thought. Then, as if answering, his grandfather’s hands reached inside the traveling cloak he was wearing, and removed a rolled up parchment. Unrolling it, he saw it was the map the other Raz and his grandfather had been looking at in the sitting room while trying to discern the location of “The Lady of The Lake” moments ago. His grandfather rolled the parchment back up and, as the little boat reached its destination, put it back into his cloak. He stepped off the boat and onto the little island, looking up towards the top of the tower. He approached a large wooden door, except Raz noticed there was no handle. His grandfather pressed against it, but it did not move. Stepping back, his grandfather raised a hand, and golden streams weaved their way from his fingertips towards the door, climbing around it like a web, illuminating it in golden light. In the center of the door, what looked like an ancient rune began to form in the same gold color as the ribbons emanating from his grandfather’s hand. He heard a loud click, and the door creaked open, revealing nothing but darkness within.

Crossing the threshold, his grandfather reached into his pocket and removed a small white crystal. Holding it aloft, it began slowly glowing brighter and brighter, until the circular room he was in was bathed in white light. Just ahead of him were large stone stairs, spiraling up into the darkness the light did not reach. Slowly, he began climbing the stone steps. After a few minutes climb, the light no longer penetrated the darkness below him as he continued his ascent. All he could see were the stone steps, and the smooth boulder walls, curving as he climbed. Then, the light began to show a landing in front of him. Stepping onto the landing, the light showed nothing but a solid circular stone wall.

There was nothing here. His grandfather walked across the landing and began running his hand along the stone surface. Raz knew he was looking for something, but had no idea what it could be. His grandfather suddenly stopped, keeping his palm against one spot. The same golden light that his grandfather had used to unlock the door below, began crawling outward from his hand. Once again, what looked like an ancient rune began to form, then the golden outline of a door appeared against the previously flat stone surface. He pressed against the golden door. A loud clunk, followed by stone sliding on stone filled the empty corridor. Raz was looking through his grandfather’s eyes, into a large circular empty room. In the center of the room was a small empty pool, set into the stone floor. The walls were covered in the same strange runes that had appeared on both the lower and upper doors in the tower.

His grandfather walked around the pool, examining it as he did so. At one point, he knelt down and touched his finger to the water, swirling it around for a moment, removed his finger and touched it to his tongue. His grandfather then spat, as if trying to get a bad flavor from his mouth. What on earth is he doing? Raz thought.

“So, that is how you were able to gain such power,” his grandfather spoke to himself, breaking the silence as the sound echoed around the room. “How did you manage this? It is beyond anything I have ever seen or even read about.”

Raz remembered how often his grandfather spoke to himself while working out a problem. But what was he trying to work out? Who had been here?

His grandfather stood and walked towards the walls, and started examining the runes adorning them. As he got closer, Raz could see that these runes were not like the ones on the doors before. These were actually carved into the stone itself. His grandfather ran his hands across their rough surface. Stepping back, and looking them over, he said “So, you used these to keep her imprisoned here. Where did you learn such ancient magics?”

Who had been trapped here, and where are they now? Raz thought.

His grandfather saw something else on the wall that got his attention. Walking over to it, Raz could see a small circular indentation in the stone surface. His grandfather ran his index finger around the edge of the depression. “Interesting,” he said to himself. But whatever ‘interesting’ was, he never got the chance to finish, as suddenly the sound of the door at the base of the tower closing, echoed up from the darkness below. His grandfather jerked his head toward the noise, and just as he did, the world went out of focus. When it returned, he was no longer in the stone room, but running through a forest at night.

He could hear his grandfather’s hard breathing. Twigs and branches whipping his face and arms as he ran. He could hear the crunching footfalls on the dry leaves behind him, getting closer and closer.  Whoever it was, he knew they would be on them soon. Then the forest opened, revealing a stream with rushing water. His grandfather stopped, leaning on a tree at the edge of the clearing, catching his breath. The footfalls of his pursuer slowed and stopped, only feet behind him.

“I thought perhaps you forgot about me,” his grandfather said, “or maybe just moved on from this.”

His pursuer’s words came slow and deliberate in a deep baritone voice, “You hid yourself from me quite well, Pelias. But I knew you would make yourself known if I was patient.” There was no longer any sense of being out of breath from the chase. His words were slow and methodical. “You know why I am here. There is no reason to have to die.”

His grandfather laughed and said, “We both know I won’t be leaving these woods tonight. Let’s not lie to each other. Not now. Not at the end.” He turned now to face his pursuer. The man’s bearded face was slightly hidden under a hood. Wisps of gray streaked around his temples. Dark tribal tattoos covered his face. Raz knew at once this was Balin. The man who single-handedly destroyed his whole world. He tried to move, to attack, but he was unable, remembering he was not in control.

“Where is it?” Balin asked. He sounded angry to Raz.

“It is not here,” his grandfather replied. “You are too late. It is out of your reach…again.”

There was a flash of blue light, his grandfather was lifted off his feet and thrown back, away from the trees, landing face down into the stream. He turned over on his back facing Balin. The calmness in Balin’s face had been replaced by rage. The woods had grown silent. The temporary light from the attack had diminished and left behind only the soft moonlight. He approached slowly, deliberately. Each footfall crushing the leaves and punctuating his words.

“Where. Is. It?” he demanded again.

“Do what you came here to do, Balin,” his grandfather said. “I will tell you nothing.”

With a gesture of his hand, Balin lifted his grandfather out of the cold stream as though he were on strings, like a marionette. Balin walked close to him. His hooded face so close to his, he could feel the moisture from his breath as he spoke. A rage filled Raz. He wanted to strike out at him, at the man who murdered his grandfather.

“You don’t have to die,” Balin said. “You would not have hidden it far. I have learned much over the last 18 years, Pelias. I have traveled the world, and learned what you tried to keep from me. Your powers are nothing now, compared to mine. You are weak, and I have surpassed you. Now, I will succeed you. All you have done is doom another to your fate.”

“It does not belong to you, Balin,” his grandfather replied sharply.

“IT IS MY BIRTHRIGHT!” Balin’s shout echoed through the woods. For an instant, a manic, twisted look came over his face, but it was quickly gone. Still, the temperature in the woods seemed to have dropped even farther with his words. Raz unconsciously shivered.

“No, it was your birthright,” his grandfather said. “That now belongs to another.”

It’s me, Raz thought. He’s talking about me.

“Don’t lie to me, old man,” Balin taunted. “There is no other. Not anymore. Nor will there be.”

Not any more? What is he talking about? Raz wondered. Did he mean his father?

“Believe what you will, Balin,” his grandfather said. “There is nothing more I can do for you. You have made your choice, and I tire of hearing your prattling attempt at justification. I do not have it, nor will I reveal where it is. Finish it.”

NO! Raz, thought. Please no!

A sinister smile crossed Balin’s face. “As you wish, Pelias,” he said.

Raz knew what was about to happen, and as he watched what he was powerless to stop, he knew his grandfather had sacrificed his own life to protect him.

Balin reached into his cloak and, in one fluid motion, spinning on the spot, pulled out a dagger from under the cloak, and thrust it through his grandfather’s chest. Raz tried to shout, but no sound came. The magics that were holding his grandfather in the air released him, dropping with a splash into the cold stream. Balin walked up to stand over him, crimson stained waters flowing around his black boots, he knelt down, and placed his hands on the hilt of the dagger sticking out of his grandfather’s chest, pulling it free. Raz watched as Balin, black cloak billowing in the moonlight, walked away from him, his eyes closing into darkness.

For what seemed like an eternity, Raz saw nothing but black emptiness. Then suddenly, his grandfather opened his eyes. Raz saw he was still lying in the stream, looking up into the night sky. But now there was a soft blue glow illuminating the woods around him. His grandfather slowly sat up. Looking down at the water around him, he saw that is was swirling and glowing. Then, as if alive, the water began climbing up his grandfather’s body, reaching the gaping wound left by Balin’s blade, filling it with blue glowing water. His grandfather slowly stood, stumbling towards the nearest tree. Leaning against it, holding up a hand, he conjured a glowing green speck of light. It danced this way and that above his palm, like a firefly trapped in an invisible bottle. His grandfather whispered one word to it, “Nyneve.” He then released the conjured firefly into the night sky, and watched it fly up and away, until he could no longer see it. Then he collapsed to the ground into a shroud of darkness.

Raz awoke with a jolt, sat upright, sweating and breathing hard. He was back in the room at Nyneve’s house. His hand flew to his chest, expecting to find a wound from Balin’s knife, but there was nothing. It was a dream, he thought, just a dream. He looked around the room, and saw it. The glass orb on the night stand, the smoke within swirling, emitting a warm glowing golden light.