The source of light came from a lantern. Arkaden narrowed his eyes at a young girl who sat crosslegged at the edge of the river. The still waters lapped at the hem of her pink dress.
She lifted the latern at Arkaden’s peering face.
“You wont get far with that map,” she said.
“Who are you?”
“I can help you know,” she ignored his question, “if you solve my riddle.”
The girl’s black eyes challemged him.
“Okay. What would it be?”
The girl let out a squeel of delight setting the lantern beside her.
“Yes! When is a door and not a door?”
Ardaken scratched his head, “you mean what are doors made of?”
The girl repeated her riddle.
Ardaken rolled the question in his mind and the hooded figure’s fair warning came to him.
If this girl is Aliana, he stood a fighting chamce.
“When is a door and not a door? When its ajar.” He said.