He was fatally wrong. His grandsire and High One, Var, had retained some measure of fire-making ability: Newdawn inherited the gift in full -- with no control. Gifted also with his grandsire's sensitivity, the lad was unprepared when his first full-fledged hunt led him over ground covering the site of a magicked massacre. Mind open to feel his prey's death, Newdawn accidentally linked to the pool of magic -- and to the hate and terror and pain of that time. Under the impact, his gift exploded into wildfire, setting all around him into flames -- brush, trees, grass -- and elves. Cliffclimber survived, but Silverbranch died.

Without Nightblade's intervention, Newdawn would have killed himself. Brought back to the Isle and healed, the lad set himself to learn to control his unwanted and feared ability. For seventeen years, he failed. And for seventeen years, his father brooded over his lovemate's horrific death that had been caused by his unwanted son. It took a rockshaper's skill and determination, finally, to teach Newdawn control. And his father, in an act of reconciliation before he left the Isle forever, to give Newdawn back his oldest dream. (Wildfire!)

Learning to transform clay into pottery, Newdawn took the new name of Fireclay. Lifemated to Nightblade, the gentle, gray-eyed firemaker became one of the Isle's artists, replacing the older, heavier rock-shaped utensils with beautifully-crafted ones of lighter clay. While most of the Isle has forgotten the threat his talent posed, Fireclay never will. Any more than he may never learn not to fear his fire.