Something of his grandmother's blood clamoured within him for a sharper air than the well-warmed chamber of the scholar.

This man, chance met in a tavern, had revealed to him his own heart.
"I am looking for the Wood of Life," he said simply and was amazed at his words.
Battista stared at him with open mouth, and then plucked feverishly at his doublet.

From an inner pocket he produced a packet rolled in fine leather, and shook papers on the table.

One of these was a soiled and worn slip of parchment, covered with an odd design.

"Look," he said hoarsely.