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The elderly sorcerer, Ambrose, handed his apprentice a small black box and said, “I part with this only because I no longer have any need for it, and because you have proved yourself a worthy successor.”
The twenty-eight-year old apprentice looked the old man in the eyes and noticed how milky they had become. And although he didn’t want to think about it, he knew his master was not long for this world. It was a thought that rendered him misty eyed.
“Thank you, master,” he said, his tone suitably reverent.
Aroth took the black box carefully from the sorcerer’s bony fingers and set it down on the table. In the light of the flickering candles, he removed the lid from the box and reached inside.
“What is it?” he asked as he lifted the purple satin pouch out.
“Be very careful,” said the
