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Prologue

Mouldering bone crumbled beneath their boots as Lord Mardus and Vargûl Ashnazai lowered themselves down into the tiny chamber beneath the earthen mound. Oblivious to the pervasive odor of swamp and old death, to the dank earth filtering down the back of his neck and into his hair, Mardus crunched across more bones to a rough stone slab at the back of the chamber. Brushing aside brittle ribs and skulls, he reverently lifted a small pouch from the stone. The rotted leather fell to pieces at a touch, spilling eight carved wooden disks across his palm.

"It appears you've accomplished your purpose, Vargûl Ashnazai." Mardus smiled and the scar beneath his left eye tightened.

Ashnazai's sharp, sallow face was ghostly in the uncertain light. With a nod of satisfaction, he passed a hand over the disks and for an instant their form wavered, giving hint of their true shape.

"After all these centuries, another fragment reclaimed!" he exclaimed softly. "It's a sign, my lord. The time draws nigh."

"A most propitious sign. Let us hope that the remainder of our quest is as successful. Captain Tildus!"

A black-bearded face appeared in the rough opening at the top of the mound. "Here, my lord."

"Have the villagers been gathered?"

"Yes, my lord."

"Good. You may begin."

"I shall make preparations for the safe conveyance of these," Vargûl Ashnazai said, reaching to take the disks.

"And what could you do that the ancients have not already done?" Mardus inquired coldly, pocketing them as casually as if they were gaming stones. "There's nothing so safe as that which appears to be worthless. For the time being, we will trust in the wisdom of our ancestors."

Ashnazai quickly withdrew his hand. "As you wish, my lord."

Mardus soulless black eyes met and held his as the first screams erupted above them.

Vargûl Ashnazai was the first to look away.

1

Luck in the Shadows

Asengai's torturers were regular in their habits—they always left off at sunset.

Chained again in his corner of the drafty cell, Alec turned his face to the rough stone wall and sobbed until his chest ached.

An icy mountain wind sighed through the grating overhead, carrying with it the sweet scent of snow to come. Still weeping, the boy burrowed deeper into the sour straw. It scratched painfully against the welts and bruises that bloomed across his bare skin, but it was better than nothing and all he had.

He was alone now. They'd hanged the miller yesterday and the one called Danker had died under torture. Alec had never met either of them before his capture but they had treated him kindly. Now he wept for them, too, and for the horror of their death.

As the tears subsided, he wondered again why he'd been spared, why Lord Asengai repeatedly told the torturers, "Don't mark the boy too badly."

So they hadn't seared him with red-hot irons or cut off his ears or opened his skin with knotted whips as they had with the others. Instead, they'd beaten him skillfully and dunked him until he thought he was drowned. And no matter how many times he'd screamed out the truth, he couldn't seem to convince his captors that he'd wandered onto Asengai's remote freeholding seeking nothing more than the pelts of spotted cats.

His only remaining hope now was that they would finish him off quickly; death loomed like a welcome release from the hours of pain, the endless stream of questions that he didn't understand and couldn't answer. Clinging to this bitter comfort, he drifted into a fitful doze.

 

The familiar tread of boots jerked him awake sometime later. Moonlight slanted in through the window now, pooling in the straw beside him. Sick with dread, he pulled himself into the deeper shadow of the corner.

As the footsteps came closer a highly pitched voice suddenly burst out, shouting and cursing over the sounds of a scuffle. The cell door banged open and the dark forms of two warders and a struggling captive were framed for an instant against the torchlight from the corridor beyond.

The prisoner was a small, slightly built man but he fought like a cornered weasel.

"Unhand me, you cretinous brutes!" he cried, his furious words marred somewhat by a noticeable lisp.

"I demand to see your master! How dare you arrest me! Can't an honest bard pass unmolested through this country?"

Twisting an arm free, he swung a fist at the warder on his left. The larger man blocked the blow easily and pinned his arms sharply back again.

"Don't fret yourself," the guard snorted, giving the prisoner a sharp cuff on the ear. "You'll meet our master soon enough and wish you hadn't!"

His partner let out a nasty chuckle. "Aye, he'll have you singing loud and long before he's through." With this, he struck the smaller man quick, harsh blows to the face and belly, silencing any further protests.

Dragging him to the wall opposite Alec, they manacled him hand and foot.

"What about that one?" one of them asked, jerking a thumb in Alec's direction. "They'll be taking him off next day or so. How 'bout a bit of sport?"

"No, you heard the master. Be worth our hides if we spoiled him for the slavers. Come on, the game'll be starting." The key grated in the lock behind them and their voices faded away down the corridor.

Slavers?

Alec curled more tightly into the shadows. There were no slaves in the northlands but he'd heard tales enough of people carried off to distant countries and uncertain fates, never to be seen again. Throat tight with renewed panic, he tugged hopelessly at his chains.

The bard raised his head with a groan. "Who's there?"

Alec froze, regarding the man warily. The pale wash of moonlight was bright enough for him to see that the man was dressed in the gaudy clothing common to his kind: a tunic with long, dagged tippets, the striped sash and hose. Tall, muddy traveling boots completed the garish outfit. Alec couldn't make out his face, however; the fellow's dark hair hung to his shoulders in foppish ringlets, partially obscuring his features.

Too exhausted and miserable to attempt idle conversation, Alec pressed into his corner without reply. The man seemed to be squinting hard in his direction, but before he could speak again they heard the guards returning. Dropping flat in the straw, the bard lay motionless as they dragged in a third prisoner, this one a squat, bull-necked laborer in homespun garments and stained leggings.

Despite his size, the man obeyed the warders in terrified silence as they chained him by the feet next to the bard.

"Here's another bit of company for you, boy," one of them said with a grin, setting a small clay lamp in a niche over the door. "Someone to help you pass the time 'til morning!"

The light fell across Alec. Dark bruises and welts showed darkly against his fair skin. Clad in little more than the tattered remnants of his linen clout, he returned the man's gaze stonily.

"By the Maker, boy! What did you do that they dealt with you so?" the man exclaimed.

"Nothing," Alec rasped. "They tortured me, and the others. They died--yesterday? What's the day?"

"Third of Erasin, come sunrise."

Alec's head ached dully; had it really only been four days?

"But what did they arrest you for?" the man persisted, eyeing Alec with obvious suspicion.

"Spying. But I wasn't! I tried to explain—"

"It's the same with me," the peasant sighed.

"I've been kicked, beaten, robbed, and not a word will they hear from me."

"I'm Morden Swiftford, I tell 'em. Just a plowman, nothing more! But here I am."

With a deep groan the bard sat up and struggled awkwardly to untangle himself from his shackles. After a considerable effort he finally managed to arrange himself with his back resting against the wall.

"Those brutes will pay dearly for this indignity," he snarled weakly. "Imagine, Rolan Silverleaf a spy!"

"You, too?" asked Morden.

"It's too absurd. There I was, performing at the Harvest Fair at Rook Tor only last week. I happen to have several powerful patrons in these parts and believe me, they shall hear of the treatment I've endured!"

The fellow prattled on, giving an encyclopedic recital of the places he'd performed and the highly placed people to whom he looked for justice.

Alec paid him little heed. Wrapped in his own misery, he huddled morosely in his corner while Morden gaped.

The jailers returned within the hour and hauled the frightened plowman away. Soon cries of an all-too-familiar nature echoed up the hallway. Alec pressed his face against his knees and covered his ears, trying not to hear. The bard was watching him, he knew, but he was beyond caring.

Morden's hair and jerkin were matted with blood when the guards dragged him back and chained him in his place again. He lay where they flung him, panting hoarsely.

A few moments later another guard came in and handed out meager rations of water and hard biscuit.

Rolan examined his bit of biscuit with obvious distaste.

"It's maggoty, but you should eat," he said, tossing his portion across to Alec.

Alec ignored it and his own. Food meant dawn was close and the start of another grim day.

"Go on," Rolan urged gently. "You'll need your strength later." Alec turned his face away, but he persisted. "At least take a bit of water.

Can you walk?"

Alec shrugged listlessly. "What difference does it make?"

"Perhaps a great deal before long," the other man replied with an odd half smile. There was something new in his voice, a calculating note that was decidedly out of place with his dandified appearance. The dim light of the lamp touched the side of his face, showing a longish nose and one sharp eye.

Alec took a small sip of the water, then downed the rest in a gulp as the needs of his body took over. He'd had nothing to eat or drink in more than a day.

"That's better," murmured Rolan. Getting to his knees, he moved out as far as the leg chains allowed, then leaned forward until the manacles drew his arms back tautly. Morden raised his head, watching with dull curiosity.

"It's no use. You'll only bring the guards back," Alec hissed, wishing the man would keep still.

Rolan surprised him with a wink, then began to flex his hands, spreading the fingers and straining the thumbs about.

From across the cell Alec heard the soft, sickening snap of joints separating. Rolan's hands slipped free of the manacle rings. Falling forward, he caught himself on one elbow and quickly relocated the joints at the base of each thumb.

He wiped the sweat from his eyes with the end of one tippet. "There, and now the feet." Pulling down the top of his left boot, he extracted a long, bodkinlike instrument from an inner seam. A moment's work on each of the leg iron locks and he was free.

Taking up Morden's water cup and his own, he came over to Alec.

"Drink this. Slowly now, slowly. What's your name?"

"Alec of Kerry." He sipped gratefully at the extra ration, hardly believing what he'd just seen. For the first time since his capture, he felt the beginnings of hope.

Rolan watched him closely, looking as if he'd reached a not entirely agreeable decision. At last he sighed and said, "I suppose you'd better come with me." Pushing his hair impatiently back from his eyes, he turned to Morden with a thin, unfriendly smile.

"But you, my friend, you seem to set remarkably small value on your life."

"Good sir," Morden stammered, cowering back, "I'm only a humble peasant but I'm certain my life means as much to me—was Rolan cut him off with an impatient gesture, then reached forward to thrust his hand into the neck of the man's grimy jerkin. He yanked out a thin silver chain and dangled it in Morden's face.

"You're not very convincing, you know. Louts though they are, Asengai's men are far too thorough to miss a bauble like this."

His voice is different! Alec thought, watching the strange confrontation in confusion. Rolan wasn't lisping at all now; he just sounded dangerous.

"I should also tell you, by way of instruction, that tortured men are usually extremely thirsty," the bard continued. "Unless they smell of ale, as you do. I trust you and the guards had a pleasant supper together? I wonder what sort of blood is it you're smeared with?"

"Your mother's moon flow!" Morden snarled, his simple expression vanishing as he pulled a small dagger from his legging and lunged at Rolan.

The bard dodged the attack and drove his clenched fist against Morden's throat, crushing his larynx.

A swift jab of his elbow to Morden's temple felled the man like an ox; he collapsed in the straw at Rolan's feet, blood flowing from his mouth and ear.

"You killed him!" Alec said faintly.

Rolan pressed a finger to Morden's throat, then nodded. "Seems I did. The fool should've yelled for the guards."

Alec cringed back against the clammy stone as Rolan turned to him.

"Steady now," the man said, and Alec was surprised to see he was smiling. "Do you want to get out of here or not?"

Alec managed a mute nod, then sat rigidly while Rolan unlocked his chains. When he'd finished he went back to Morden's body.

"Now let's see who you were." Sliding the dead man's dagger into his boot, Rolan pulled up the soiled jerkin to examine the hairy torso beneath.

"Hmm, that's no great surprise," he muttered, probing at the left armpit.

Curious in spite of his fear, Alec crept just close enough to peer over Rolan's shoulder.

"See here?" Rolan showed him a triangle of three tiny blue circles tattooed into the pale skin where the arm joined the body.

"What does it mean?"

"It's a guild mark. He was a Juggler."

"A mountebank?"

"No," Rolan snorted. "A keek, a ferret. The Jugglers carry out any sort of dirty mischief for the right price. They swarm around petty lords like Asengai the way blow flies gather on a midden." Tugging the dead man's jerkin off, he thrust it into Alec's hands. "Here, put this on. And hurry! I'll say this just once; fall behind and you're on your own!"

The garment was filthy and soaked with blood at the neck, but Alec obeyed quickly, pulling it on with a shudder of revulsion. By the time he'd gotten it on, Rolan was already at work on the lock.

"Rusty son of a whore," he remarked, spitting into the keyhole. The lock gave way at last and he opened the door a crack, peering out.

"Looks clear," he whispered. "Stay close and do what I tell you."

Alec's heart hammered in his ears as he followed Rolan out into the corridor. Several yards down lay the room where Asengai's men carried out their tortures. Beyond that, the door to the warder's room stood open and they could hear the noise of a rowdy game of some sort in progress.

Rolan's boots made no more noise than Alec's bare feet as the two of them crept up to the open doorway. Rolan cocked his head, then held up four fingers. With a quick motion he indicated that Alec should cross the doorway quickly and quietly.

Alec stole a glance inside. Four guards were kneeling around a cloak on the floor. One cast the knucklebones and coins changed hands amid much good-natured cursing.

Waiting until their attention was focused on the next toss, Alec slipped across to the other side.

Rolan joined him soundlessly and they hurried around a corner and down a stairway. A lamp burned in a shallow niche at the bottom. Rolan took it and set off again.

Alec knew nothing of the lay of the place and quickly lost all sense of direction as they made their way along a succession of twisting passageways.

Halting at last, Rolan opened a narrow door and disappeared into the darkness beyond, whispering for Alec to watch his step just in time to save the boy from tumbling down more stairs that descended less than a pace from the door.

It was colder down here, and damp. The wavering circle of light from Rolan's lamp skimmed across lichen-stained stonework. The floor was stone as well, rough and broken with neglect.

A final, crumbling set of stairs brought them to a low, iron-strapped door. The paving beneath Alec's bare feet was frigid. His breath puffed out in rapid little clouds. Handing him the lamp, Rolan went to work on the heavy lock that hung from a staple in the door frame.

"There," Rolan whispered as it came free. "Blow out the light and leave it."

They slipped out into the shadows of a walled yard. The lopsided moon was low in the west; the sky behind the stars showed the first hint of predawn indigo. A thick rime of frost coated everything in the yard: wood stack, well, farrier's forge-all glinted softly in the moonlight. Winter was coming early this year, Alec thought. He could smell it on the air.

"This is the lower stable yard," Rolan whispered.

"There's a gate beyond that wood stack, with a postern beside it. Damn, but it's cold!"

Scrubbing a hand back through his ridiculous curls, he looked Alec over again; except for the filthy jerkin, the boy was all but naked. "You can't go traveling all over the country like that. Get to the side door and open it. There shouldn't be a guard, but keep your eyes open and be silent! I'll be right back."

Before Alec could protest, he'd ghosted away in the direction of the stables.

Alec crouched by the doorway for a moment, hugging himself against the cold. Alone in the darkness, he felt his brief burst of confidence ebbing away. A glance at the stables showed no sign of his strange companion.

Genuine fear stirred just below the fragile threshold of his resolve.

Fighting it down, he forced himself to concentrate on gauging the distance to the dark side of the wood stack. still haven't come this far to be abandoned for weakness, he berated himself.

Maker Dalna, hold your hand over me now!

Drawing in a deep, silent breath, he darted forward. He got within arm's length of the wood stack before a tall figure stepped from the shadow of the forge a scant few feet away.

"Who's that?" the man demanded, pulling something from his belt. "Stand and speak, you!"

Alec dove for the stack, throwing himself down behind it.

Something hard dug into his chest as he landed. Grabbing at it, he closed his hand around the smooth haft of an ax. Then he was rolling to avoid the heavy club the man was swinging at his head.

Gripping the ax like a quarter staff, Alec managed to deflect the sentry's arcing swing. He was badly overmatched, however, and what little strength he had left after days of mistreatment soon faded as blow after blow rained down. Leaping back, he caught sight of Rolan near the stable door.

Instead of coming to his aid, however, the bard faded back into the shadows.

That's it then, he thought. I got into trouble and he's left me.

Driven by fury born of utter despair, Alec flew at the startled sentry, driving the man back with wild swings of the ax's double blade. If he was going to die in this terrible place, he'd go down fighting under an open sky.

His adversary recovered quickly and was pressing in for the kill when they were both surprised by a clattering uproar nearby. The stable door slammed back and Rolan burst out mounted bareback on an enormous black horse. A pack of ostlers, stable boys, and guards spilled out after him, raising the alarm.

"The gate, damn it! Open the gate!" Rolan shouted, leading his pursuers in a fool's chase around the courtyard.

Distracted, the sentry made a clumsy parry and Alec sprang under his guard with a savage swing. The blade struck home and the man went down screaming.

Dropping the ax, Alec dashed to the gate, heaved the heavy bar out of its brackets, and pushed the doors wide.

Now what?

Looking around, he found Rolan occupied at the far end of the yard.

A guard had him by one ankle, and a stable hand was leaping for the horse's bridle. Spotting the open gate, he reined the horse back on its haunches and kicked the beast into a furious gallop straight across the yard. His mount sprang effortlessly over the well and bolted for the gate. Hauling back on the reins, Rolan twisted the fingers of one hand into the black's mane and leaned over its neck, other arm extended.

"Come on!" he yelled.

Alec reached up just in time. Rolan's fingers clamped around his wrist, wrenching him off his feet and across the horse's broad back. Clambering upright, he locked his arms around Rolan's waist as they thundered though the gate and down the road beyond.

They skirted the little village nestled against the walls of the keep and flew on along the road down the wooded mountainside below Asengai's domain.

After several miles, Rolan left the road and plunged into the thick forest that flanked it. Safe among the trees, he reined their mount to a halt.

"Here, take these," he whispered, shoving a bundle of some sort into Alec's hands.

It was a cloak. The coarse fabric smelled rankly of the stable but the boy wrapped himself in it gratefully, drawing his bare feet up against the horse's steaming sides to warm them.

They sat in silence, and after a moment Alec realized that they must be waiting for something. Presently they heard the clatter of hooves approaching. It was too dark to count the riders as they passed, but judging by the sound, there were at least half a dozen. Waiting until they were all well past, Rolan turned the black again to the road and started back in the direction of the keep.

"We're going the wrong way," Alec whispered, tugging at Rolan's sleeve.

"Don't worry," his companion replied with a soft chuckle.

A few moments later he turned aside from the main road, this time onto a badly overgrown track.

The ground fell away sharply, and branches whipped at their faces as they cantered along under the cover of the trees. Halting again, Rolan claimed the cloak and threw it over the horse's head to keep the beast quiet. They soon heard the riders again, moving slower now and calling back and forth to one another. Two riders ventured down the track, passing within ten yards of where Rolan and Alec stood holding their breath.

"He must've been a wizard, I tell you!" one was saying. "Killing that southern bastard the way he did, disappearing out of the cell, and now this!"

"Wizard be damned," the other retorted angrily.

"You'll wish you was a wizard if Berin don't catch up with 'em down the road. Lord Asengai'll skin the whole bunch of us!"

A horse stumbled and reared.

"Bilairy's Guts! This way's hopeless in the dark. They'd have broke their necks by now," the lead man grumbled. Giving up, the riders turned back the way they'd come.

Waiting until all was quiet, Rolan mounted in front of Alec and handed him back the cloak.

"What do we do now?" whispered Alec as they headed down the mountain track again.

"I left some supplies a few miles from here. I just hope they're still there. Hang on tight. We've got a rough ride ahead of us."
 

2

Across the Downs

Alec opened his eyes to the noonday light. For a drowsy moment he blinked up at the branches overhead, trying to recall where he was and wondering why the scratchy roughness of the blankets felt so good against his skin.

Then a sudden onslaught of memories slapped him fully awake. Scrambling to his knees, he pulled the blankets around him and looked about in alarm.

Rolan was nowhere in sight, but their stolen horse was still in the little clearing, along with the bay mare and the battered leather pack Rolan had cached here before venturing into Asengai's domain. Burrowing back beneath the blankets, Alec closed his eyes again and waited for his heartbeat to slow.

He was amazed that Rolan had been able to find his way back here at all. To Alec, exhausted beyond measure, the ride had seemed one long, impossible series of difficulties: thickets, streams, and a skree field they'd crossed on foot. Never faltering, Rolan had urged him on with promises of hot food and warm blankets. By the time they'd reached the clearing, Alec had been too tired and cold to do more than collapse onto the bracken pallet that lay ready beneath the shelter of a thick fir.

The last thing he remembered was listening to Rolan curse the cold as he joined him beneath their shared pile of blankets and cloaks.

It was bitterly cold now, despite the brightness of the sun. Long crystals of frost thrust up through the mossy loam next to his pallet, like bundles of tiny glass blades. Overhead, mackerel-striped clouds ribbed the hazy sky. There'd be snow soon, the first of the year.

Their camp lay next to a small waterfall, and the sound of it had gotten into his dreams. Pulling the stolen cloak around his shoulders, he went into the bushes to relieve his bladder, then walked down to the edge of the pool below the falls. Every bruise and welt protested as he dipped up a handful of icy water, but he was too happy to care; he was alive and he was free! Whoever, whatever this Rolan Silverleaf was, Alec owed him his life.

But where was the man?

Branches rattled on the opposite side of the pool as a doe stepped from the trees to drink.

Alec's fingers itched for the taut pull of a bowstring.

"Maker keep you fat until we meet again!" he called softly. Startled, the deer sprang away on slender legs and Alec set off to see what he could forage.

It was an old forest. Towering firs had long since choked out all but the most persistent undergrowth, so that a man could easily have driven a cart between their thick, straight trunks. High overhead, the dense canopy of interlaced boughs filtered the sunlight to muted underwater tones. Moss-crusted boulders studded the slope. Between them, patches of dead ferns whispered dryly as he passed. Finding a few late mushrooms, he gathered them, nibbling at one as he went along.

As he passed a large boulder, he was surprised to find a rabbit dead in a snare. Hoping this was Rolan's work, he freed the carcass and sniffed it.

It was fresh. Mouth watering at the first prospect of hot meat in days, he headed eagerly back to the camp. As he neared the clearing he heard the knock of steel against a flint and hurried on to show Rolan their breakfast.

Stepping from the shelter of the trees, he froze in terror.

O Dalna, they found us!

A rough-clad stranger was standing with his back to Alec, looking out over the pool. His tunic of green homespun and leather breeches were unremarkable; it was the long scabbard slung low on the intruder's left hip that caught the boy's attention.

Alec's first thought was to melt back into the woods, find Rolan. As he took a cautious step back, however, his heel struck a dry stick. It snapped loudly and the man whirled about, sword drawn. Dropping the rabbit and the mushrooms, Alec turned to bolt. A familiar voice behind him brought him to a halt.

"It's all right. It's me. It's Rolan."

Still poised to run, Alec took a wary look back and realized his mistake. It was Rolan, after all, though he bore little resemblance to the foppish coxcomb of the night before.

"Good morning," Rolan called. "You'd better go get that coney you dropped. I've only got one other and I'm famished!"

Alec's cheeks flushed hotly as he hastily gathered up the rabbit and mushrooms and brought them to the fire.

"I didn't recognize you," he exclaimed.

"How can you look so different?"

"Just changed my clothes." Rolan pushed back the thick brown hair that hung now in damp waves over his shoulders. "I don't suppose you got a very good look at me before, racing around in the dark as we did."

This was true, Alec reflected, sizing his companion up. Rolan somehow seemed taller in the daylight, though he was not a large man at all.

Rather, he was slender and fine-featured, with large grey eyes set over high cheekbones and a long, narrow nose. His mouth was fine, almost thin, and tilted at the moment in a lopsided grin that made him look younger than Alec would have guessed before.

"I don't know, Rolan—"

"Oh, and about the name." The grin tilted a bit higher. "It isn't actually Rolan Silverleaf."

"What do I call you, then?" asked Alec, not particularly surprised.

"You can call me Seregil."

"How's that?"

"Serah-gill."

"Oh." It was an odd-sounding name, but Alec sensed it was all he was going to get for the moment. "Where were you?"

"Checking to see if anyone tracked us. There's no sign of Asengai's men yet, but we'd better move on soon in case they get lucky. We'll eat first, though. You look starved."

Alec knelt by the fire, inspecting the two lean coneys with a rueful smile. "We'd be eating venison if I had my bow. Those bastards took everything I owned. I don't even have a knife! Lend me one and I'll clean these."

Reaching into the top of one tall boot, Seregil handed him a long poniard.

"Maker's Mercy, that's a beauty!" Alec exclaimed, running a thumbnail appreciatively along the edge of the narrow, triangular blade. As he set about cleaning the first rabbit, however, it was Seregil's turn to be impressed.

"You're pretty handy at that sort of thing," he remarked as Alec opened the belly with a single quick stroke.

Alec offered him a purplish-brown lobe of liver. "You want some of this? Good for your blood in the winter."

"Thanks." Accepting the morsel, Seregil sat down by the fire and watched him thoughtfully.

Alec colored a little under that frank gaze.

"Thank you for saving my life last night. I'm in your debt."

"You handled yourself well enough. How old are you, anyway? You look young to be roaming around all by yourself."

"Sixteen last summer," Alec replied a bit gruffly. He was often taken for younger than he was. "I've lived my whole life in the woods."

"But not alone, surely?"

Alec hesitated, wondering how much he really wanted to reveal to this odd stranger. "My father died just after the summer solstice."

"I see. An accident, was it?"

"No, he had the wasting sickness." Tears stung Alec's eyes and he bent lower over the rabbit, hoping Seregil wouldn't notice. "It was a hard death. Even the drysians couldn't help him in the end."

"You've been on your own all of three months, then?"

"Yes. We missed the spring bird trade, so I had to spend the summer in Stone Tor working off our debt to the inn where Father lay sick. Then I came out for the fall trapping, like we always did. I already had a whole string of pelts, good ones, when ran into Asengai's men. Now, with no equipment, no horse, nothing, I don't know—" He broke off, his face grim; he'd walked the thin line of starvation before.

"Don't you have a family somewhere?" Seregil asked after a moment. "Where's your mother?"

"I never knew her."

"Friends?"

Alec handed him the dressed rabbit and took up the second. "We kept to ourselves mostly. Father didn't like towns."

"I see. So what will you do now?"

"I don't know. In Stone Tor, I worked in the scullery and helped out the ostler. I guess I'll have to go back to that for the winter."

Seregil made no comment and Alec worked in silence for a moment. Then, watching the steam from the open carcass rise between his fingers, he asked, "All that back there last night—was it you they were looking for?"

Seregil smiled slightly as he skewered the first rabbit on a long stick and propped it over the fire. "That's a dangerous question to ask a stranger. If I was, I'd probably kill you just for asking. No, I'm just a wandering collector of tales. I've picked up a lot that way."

"So you really are a bard, then?"

"Sometimes. I was up above Kerry not long ago, collecting stories of the Faie who were supposed to have lived up in the Ironheart Mountains beyond Ravensfell Pass. Being from that region yourself, you must know something about them."

"The Elder Folk, you mean?" Alec grinned. "Those were always my favorite stories. We used to cross trails with a skald who knew all about them. He said they were magic folk, like trolls or centaurs. When I was little I used to look for them in the shadows of the trees, though Father said it was foolish. 'Those tales are nothing but smoke from a liar's pipe!' he'd say"—Alec's voice faltered and he broke off, rubbing at his eyes as if smoke had blown into them.

Seregil tactfully failed to notice his distress.

"Anyhow, a few days ago I ran afoul of Asengai, same as you. I'm off Wolde now. I've got a bit of singing lined up there in three days' time."

"Three days?" Alec shook his head. "You'd have to go straight over the Downs to get there that quickly."

"Damn! I must be farther west than I thought. I hear the Downs are a dangerous place for anyone who doesn't know where the springs are."

"I could show you," Alec offered. "I've been back and forth across them most of my life. Maybe I could turn up some work there, too."

"Do you know the town?"

"We traded there every fall at the Harvest Fair."

"Sounds like I've found myself a guide." Seregil extended his hand. "What's your price?"

"I can't take your money," Alec protested. "Not after what you did for me."

Seregil waved this aside with a crooked grin. "Honor's for men with money in their pockets; you've got a long, cold winter ahead. Come now, name your price and I'll pay it gladly."

The logic was indisputable. "Two silver marks,"

Alec replied after a moment's calculation. Reaching to clasp hands on it, however, his father's voice spoke in the back of his mind and he drew back, adding, "Hard money, and half now."

"Very prudent of you."

As they shook on the bargain, Alec felt a curving edge against his palm and drew his hand from Seregil's to find himself holding a large silver coin. Two fingers wide and covered with fine designs, it lay heavy against his palm.

"This is too much!" he protested.

Seregil shrugged. "It's the smallest I have. Keep it and we'll settle up in Wolde. It's a pretty thing, don't you think?"

"I've never seen anything like it!" What little currency Alec had seen were crude lozenges of copper or silver, distinguished only by weight and a few crude symbols struck in. The designs on this coin were better than anything he'd seen in a jeweler's stall.

One side bore the slim bow of a crescent moon, tipped on its side like a smile with five stylized rays fanning out beneath it to the lower edge of the coin.

Cradled within the crescent was the figure of a flame. The obverse showed a crowned woman. She wore a cuirass of some sort over her flowing gown, and held a large sword upright before her face.

"How did you get it into my hand?" he asked.

"Telling spoils the trick," replied Seregil, tossing him a square of wet sacking. "I'll tend to the cooking. You go clean yourself up. A quick swim should help."

Alec's smile disappeared. "Bilairy's Balls, it's nearly winter and you want me to take a bath?"

"If we're going to share blankets over the next few days, yes. No offense, but dungeon life hasn't done much for your general ambience. Go on, I'll mind the fire. And get rid of those clothes! I've got clean ones for you."

Dubious but not wanting to appear ungrateful, Alec picked up a blanket and went to the pool.

Noting the lacy edgings of that still rimmed the stones, however, he decided that gratitude only went so far. Stripping off his rags, he gave himself a scrubbing and pulled the blanket around his waist. As he bent to duck his head under the water, the sight of his reflection froze him, crouched and trembling, on the wet stones. Only the day before, Asengai's men had strapped him to a plank and titled him into a water butt, holding him under again and again until he thought his lungs would burst. He'd had enough of water for now thank you very much.

 

Seregil smiled wryly to himself as he watched the boy's hasty ablutions. These northerners seemed to develop a genuine aversion to water over the winter.

Tugging open his pack, he rummaged out an extra tunic, breeches, and a belt.

Alec hurried back to the fire and Seregil tossed him the . clothes. "These should do for you. We're almost of a size."

"Thanks." Shivering, Alec went off a few feet and turned away before letting the blanket drop.

"Asengai's men did a thorough job on you, I see," said Seregil, running a critical eye over the bruises on the boy's back and thighs.

"Dalna's Hands, there's such a thing as modesty," the boy muttered as he struggled into the breeches.

"Never had any use for it, myself, and I don't see why you're so bothered with it either. Under those bruises and that scowl— you're fairly pleasing to look at." Seregil's expression betrayed nothing more than the thoughtful concentration a man might show when sizing up a horse he was about to buy.

Indeed, Alec was well favored, Seregil thought, amused by his companion's discomfort. The boy was lightly built and supple with dark, intelligent blue eyes in a fair face that blushed easily and concealed little. This last was easily remedied, though at times an honest face was useful. The ragged, honey-gold hair looked like it had been trimmed with a skinning knife, but time would fix that, too.

Still, there was something more than Alec's appearance that intrigued him. The lad was neat-handed, and there was a familiar quickness about him that had little to do with training.

And he asked questions.

Alec finished dressing and reached to put the silver coin Seregil had paid him into a pouch on his borrowed belt.

"Wait a second. Watch this," said Seregil, producing another like it from his own purse. Balancing it on the back of one hand, he gave a quick snap of his wrist, pulled his hand out from under it, and caught the coin before it dropped half an inch. "Want to try?"

Puzzled but intrigued, Alec tried the trick.

On the first attempt he dropped his coin. On the second and third try it bounced off his fingertips.

The fourth time, however, he grasped it before it had fallen more than a few inches.

Seregil nodded approvingly. "Not bad. Now try it with your left."

When Alec could do the catch with either hand, Seregil had him try it using only his thumb and forefinger, and finally to perform the trick with his eyes shut.

"Ah, but this is too simple for you," Seregil said at last. "Here, give this a try."

He placed his coin on the ground beside him and rested his hand to the left of it, an inch or so away. With a subtle twitch of his little finger, he swept it beneath his palm without even disturbing the dust. When he raised his hand, the coin was gone. Shaking it from the sleeve of his tunic with a comic flourish, he demonstrated how the snap was done. Again Alec managed it after only a few tries.

"You've got the hands of a born thief," Seregil observed. "Perhaps I'd better not show you any more of those just now!"

Left-handed compliment that it was, Alec returned the grin as he snapped the coin up his sleeve a final time. . They ate quickly, then covered all signs of their camp, burying the fire and tossing their refuse into the pool. As they worked, Seregil found himself again pondering what he'd seen of Alec so far, wondering what he could make of such a boy. Alec was quick and surprisingly well spoken. His nature—a blend of stubborn persistence and appalling openness—made for an interesting mix.

With a bit of positioning and greater training— Shaking his head, Seregil pushed the thought away.

As they mounted to leave, a tiny owl flew across the clearing and perched in a dead tree. Blinking in the afternoon light, it fluffed up and let out a mellow too too too.

Seregil gave the owl a reverent nod; the Lightbringer's own bird seen in daylight was no small omen.

"What do you suppose he's doing out so early?" Alec remarked.

Bemused, Seregil shook his head. "I have no idea, Alec, no idea at all."

 

A cold wind carried the first light snow down through the trees as they set off down the mountainside.

Giving the bay a loose rein, Seregil scanned the forest around them for any sign of Asengai's soldiers as he rode along behind Alec. Without a saddle, the boy had to cling on with knees and hands.

He managed well enough, but it was hard going and made for little conversation.

They reached the edge of the Downs by late afternoon and cantered from the shelter of the trees. Before them monotonous, dun-colored grasslands rolled away to the distant horizon. The wind moaned steadily over the waste, sweeping the fine, gritty snow up into feathery gusts. A rumpled grey blanket of clouds had sealed itself across the sky.

"Illior's Finger, but I hate the cold!"

Seregil exclaimed, stopping to secure his hood and tug on a pair of gloves.

"And you the one all for bathing," Alec chided. "This is nothing compared to what it will be come next—"He broke off suddenly, staring at Seregil. "You swore by Illior!"

"And you swear by Dalna. What of it?"

"Only southerners swear by Illior. Are you from the south? The Three Lands?"

"As a matter of fact, I am," Seregil replied, enjoying the boy's guileless astonishment.

To most northerners the Three Lands were hardly more than places of fancy in a bard's tale; he might as well have said, "I'm from the back of the moon."

"Do you know much of the south?"

"A little. The Gold Road goes down from Wolde all the way to the country of Mycena. Most of the caravaneers I've met have been Mycenians, though there have been a few Skalans, too. Skala's near there, isn't it?"

"Yes, it's a huge peninsula between the Inner and Osiat seas, west of Mycena. To the east is Plenimar, which lies on another peninsula to the east of Mycena, along the coast of the Gathwayd Ocean.

The Gold Road, as you call it, is the main trade route between the Three Lands and the northern freeholdings."

"Which country are you from?"

"Oh, I travel around."

If Alec noticed the evasion, he let it go.

"Some of the traders claim that there are dragons in the south, and powerful wizards. I saw a wizard once at a fair." His face brightened at the memory, easy to read as a tavern bill. "For a price she'd hatch salamanders from hen's eggs and make fires burn blue and red."

"Indeed?" Seregil had performed those tired fakeries a few times himself. Still, he understood all too well the wonder they could evoke.

"A Skalan trader tried to tell me the streets of his cities were paved with gold," Alec went on.

"I didn't believe him, though. He was the one who tried to buy me from Father. I was only eight or nine. I could never figure out what he wanted me for."

"Really?" Seregil lifted a noncommittal eyebrow.

Luckily, Alec was more interested in the matter at hand. "I've heard that Skala and Plenimar are always at war."

Seregil gave a wry smile. "Not always, but often."

"Why?"

"That's an old question, and a complicated one. This time, I suspect it'll be to gain control of the Gold Road."

"This time?" Alec's eyes widened.

"They're going to have another war? And way up here?"

"Looks that way. There are those that believe Plenimar means to drive out the Skalan and Mycenian merchants and extend their own political influence over the northern freeholds."

"You mean by conquering them?"

"Given their past history, I imagine that will be Plenimar's solution."

"But why haven't I heard any of this before? In Stone Tor, even at the Harvest Fair, nobody was talking of war!"

"Stone Tor is a long way from the main trading routes," Seregil reminded him. "The fact is, very few northerners are aware of it at the moment, except those who already have a hand in it. As it stands now, no one will be able to make a move until spring."

"But Asengai and that man Morden, are they part of it?"

"An interesting question." Seregil pulled his hood forward again. "I think the horses have walked long enough, don't you? We need to make some distance before dark!"

 

The Downs made for smooth riding. Alec knew of a spring they could camp by and set a steady pace until dark.

He knew the landmarks well, but could imagine what it must look like to his companion. Seregil was clearly uneasy as they left the mountains behind, and kept looking back over his shoulder as if trying to use the distant peeks to gauge their progress.

But the mountains were quickly obscured by the lengthening darkness and windblown snow. The sun, never more than a pale hint behind the lowering clouds, was their only guide.

"We'll have to make your food last," Alec remarked when they'd halted for the night. "Most of the summer game has moved south—not that I'd be able to get anything without my bow anyway," he added bitterly.

"I've got cheese and sausage enough for both of us," Seregil told him. "Good with a bow, are you?"

"Good enough." In truth, Alec felt like he was missing a limb without one. The bow he'd lost at Asengai's had been the best he'd ever made.

Dismounting, they scavenged around for firewood but found nothing except low, resinous bushes that burned too quickly, giving off more light than heat. Bundling up as best they could against the wind, they sat close together over their cold supper.

"You said that the fighting between Skala and Plenimar is an old question," Alec said at last. "What did you mean?"

"That's a long story," Seregil said with a chuckle, pulling his cloak tighter. "But a long story can make a long night seem shorter, I suppose. To begin with, did you know that the Three Lands were once one country?"

"No."

"Well, they were, and they were ruled over by a priest king called a Hierophant. The first Hierophant and his followers came from somewhere far across the Gathwayd Ocean over two thousand years ago. It's from them that your Dalna the Maker comes, along with Astellas and the others. They made their first landfall on the Plenimaran peninsula. Benshal, the capital city of Plenimar, stands on the site of the Hierophant's first city."

Alec's eyes narrowed skeptically at the thought of a city that old, or his familiar patron deity having such exotic origins. He kept his doubts to himself, though, not wanting to interrupt the tale.

"Over the years, these people and their religion spread around the Inner and Osiat seas, founding what eventually became Mycena and Skala," Seregil went on.

"And it was these people who brought the worship of Dalna north?"

"That's right. The Hierophant's people worshiped the Sacred Four: Dalna the Maker and Astellus the Traveler, whom you know; and Illior Lightbearer and Sakor of the Flame, who never caught on up in these parts.

"But getting back to the subject at hand, the unity of the Three Lands didn't last. As centuries passed the different regions developed ways of their own. The Plenimarans, for instance, stayed by the great Gathwayd Ocean, a body of water larger than you've ever dreamed of. They're still great sailors and explorers. It was the Plenimarans who sailed south beyond the Strait of Bal to discover the Aurënfaie—was

"Hold on! Aurënfaie? Like the Faie up beyond Ravensfell?" Alec broke in excitedly, then felt his cheeks go warm as Seregil chuckled.

"That's right. Your Elder Folk, properly called the Hazadrielfaie, are said to be the descendants of a group of Aurënfaie who went into the northern lands before the time of the Hierophant. Aurënen lies south of the Three Lands, across the Osiat and beyond the Ashek Mountains."

"Then the Aurënfaie aren't human, either?"

"No. Faie, in their tongue, means 'people" or 'belonging to,' while Aura is their name for Illior; hence, Aurënfaie, the People of Illior. But that's another story alt—"

"But they are real?" Alec persisted; this was more than Seregil had let on previously. "Have you ever seen any? What are they like?"

Seregil smiled. "Not so different from you and me, really. No pointy ears or tails, anyway. They're a handsome folk, for the most part. The main difference between Aurënfaie and humans is that the 'faie generally live for three or four hundred years."

"No!" Alec snorted, certain this time that his companion was pulling his leg.

"Think what you like, but that's what I've understood to be true. More important, however, is the fact that they were the first to possess magic. Not that they're all wizards, of course."

"But priests have magic," Alec interjected.

"Especially the drysians. Long ago, when the Maker still lived among the people, Dalna came to a woman named Drysia and revealed to her all the secrets of the land and its proper use. The drysians can draw on the power of the earth and they know the secret uses of herbs and stones. Some even know the speech of beasts."

Seregil regarded him with that peculiar tilted grin again. "You've got a touch of the skald, too, I see. You're correct about priests having magic, but it's not the same as true wizardry. If you ever see a real wizard at work, you'll recognize the difference."

"So all wizards are really Aurënfaie?"

"Oh, nothing of the sort. But they did mix blood with the Tirfaie."

"Tirfaie?"

"Sorry. A good story teller should always know his audience. Tirfaie is the Aurënfaie word for outsiders. Roughly translated, it means 'the people of short lives'."

"I guess they'd think so, if they live as long as you say," Alec allowed.

"Just so. Anyway, during the years when the Aurënfaie had open commerce with the Three Lands, the peoples mingled and many of the half-blood children were born with magic. Some stories even claim that Aura—or Illior, depending on which side of the Osiat you're from—sent a messenger in the form of a huge dragon to teach these half bloods how to use their powers."

"Dragons are real, too?" breathed Alec, more wide-eyed than ever.

Seregil grinned. "Don't get your hopes up. As far as I know, no one's seen a dragon in Skala since then."

"Skala? But I thought the Plenimarans were the ones who found the Aurënfaie."

"And I thought you hadn't heard this story before," Seregil countered dryly.

"I haven't, but you said that the Plenimarans—"

"They did, but the Aurënfaie got on best with the Skalans in the end. Most of those who stayed in the Three Lands settled there. But that was a very long time ago, more than eight hundred years. Eventually most of the Aurënfaie withdrew to their own land again."

"Why did they leave?"

Seregil spread his hands. "As with anything, there were many reasons. But their legacy remains. Wizard children are still being born and they still go to Rhíminee for training. That's the capital city of Skala, by the way."

"Rhíminee." Alec savored the exotic sound of it. "But what about the wizards? Have you ever seen one?"

"I know a few. We'd better get some sleep now. I suspect we've a hard few days ahead of us."

Although Seregil's expression scarcely changed, Alec sensed once again that he'd strayed into forbidden territory.

They settled down for the night, sharing what warmth they could beneath their blankets and cloaks as the wind wailed across the Downs.

 

The following morning Alec tried the coin catches again but his cold fingers were too stiff.

"As soon as we get to Wolde we'd better find you some gloves," said Seregil, hovering over their meager fire. He lifted his hands to show Alec the fine leather gloves he wore. He'd had them on yesterday, too, the boy realized. "Let me look at your hands."

Turning Alec's palms up, he clucked disapprovingly as he examined the cracks and calluses that covered them.

"Too much rough living. No delicacy of touch."

Pulling off a glove, he slid his palm across Alec's. The skin was surprisingly smooth.

"I can tell gold from silver in the dark just by the feel of it. Looking at my hands, you'd think I'd never done a day's work in my life. But you! We could dress you up like a gentleman dandy and your hands would give you away before you ever opened your mouth."

"I doubt I'll ever have to worry about that. I like those tricks, though. Can you show me something else?"

"All right. Watch my hand." Without lifting his arm from where it rested across his knee, Seregil moved the fingers quickly in a smooth ripple, as if drumming briefly on an invisible tabletop.

"What's that?" Alec asked, mystified.

"I just told you to have the horses ready. And this—" He raised his right index finger as if to scratch under his chin, then looked slightly to the left, drawing the finger back a little toward his ear. "That means we're in danger from behind. Not every sign is that simple, of course, but once you learn the system you can communicate without anyone being the wiser. Say we were in a crowded room and I wanted to tell you something. I'd catch your eye, then lower my chin once just a bit, like this. Now you try it. No, that's too much. You might as well shout! Yes, that's better. Now the horse sign. Good!"

"Do you use this a lot?" asked Alec, trying the danger sign with indifferent results.

Seregil chuckled. "You'd be surprised."

 

They set off at a brisk canter. Seregil still found the terrain distressingly featureless, but Alec seemed to know what he was doing. Finding the spring the previous night had been heartening evidence of Alec's abilities as a guide and Seregil kept his doubts to himself.

Keeping one eye on the sky, the boy scanned the horizon for landmarks Seregil could only guess at. Left to himself, Alec was rather quiet by nature.

There was nothing reticent or strained about it—he simply seemed content to concentrate on the business at hand.

This soon proved not to be the only thing on his mind, however. Reining in at another small spring just before noon, he turned to Seregil as if they'd only paused for breath in an ongoing conversation and asked,

"Will you be working as a bard in Wolde?"

"Yes. Around the Woldesoke I go by the name Aren Windover. Perhaps you've heard of me?"

Alec gave him a skeptical look. "You're Aren Windover? I heard him sing last spring at the Fox, but I don't recall him looking like you."

"Well, I guess I don't look much like Rolan Silverleaf, either, just now."

"That's true," Alec admitted. "Just how many names do you go by, anyway?"

"Oh, whatever suits. And if you won't take my word that Aren and I are one and the same, I'll prove it. Which of my songs did you like the best?"

"The Lay of Araman," was Alec answered at once. "The tune stuck in my head for weeks after but I could never remember all the verses."

"The Lay of Araman" it is, then."

Seregil cleared his throat and launched into the song, his voice a rich, lilting tenor. After a moment Alec joined in. His voice wasn't as fine, but he could carry a tune.

"Across the sea sailed Araman,

a hundred men he led.

His ship was black as Death's left eye,

her sails were deep bloodred.

They sailed to Simra's distant shore

to answer Honor's call.

A hundred men sailed out to sea,

but none sailed home at all.

For Honor's price is blood and steel

and Death will be your brother.

A soldier's life is full of strife,

but I swear I'd have no other!

 

On the city walls stood King Mindar,

he watched the ship draw nigh.

Five hundred men were at his back

and gave the battle cry.

Then marched they to the battle plain

to meet the seaborne foe,

While Araman and his hundred men

came all ashore below.

 

For Honor's price is blood and steel

and with your life you'll buy it.

But the ladies love a fighting man

and there's none that will deny it!

Then Araman strode on the field

and Mindar stepped to meet him.

"Your lying tongue has brought us here!"

cried Araman to greet him.

"I see your force is greater,

you have numbers on your side,

But by my sword, I'll see you dead

'ere the turning of the tide."

For Honor's price is blood and steel

though flesh won't stop a sword.

The glory of a soldier's death

will be your last reward!

 

Then on the plain the armies met

and sword rang out on shield.

Helms were cloven, limbs were hacked,

yet neither side would yield,

Until the generals found themselves

alone upon the plain.

Six hundred soldiers, brave and bold,

would never fight again.

 

For Honor's price is blood and steel

and well the widows know

The worth of Honor to the lads

now lying down below!

Then toe to toe and blade to blade

the two fierce warriors fought.

To steal the heart's blood of his foe

was each one's only thought.

From their wounds the blood flowed down

to stain the trampled sward

And when the tide was turning

Mindar fell to Araman's sword.

For Honor's price is blood and steel

for churl and lord as well

And generals often lead their men d

own to the gates of hell!

 

Bold Amman, the victor now,

lays his blade aside.

From his wounds his life flows out

just like the sea's great tide.

The price of Honor paid in full

with blood and steel and lives.

On an empty plain by an empty shore

the rightful victor dies.

 

For Honor's price is blood and steel

so harken well, my son.

Honor's a damned expensive thing

if you're dead when the battle's won!"

"Well sung!" Seregil applauded. "With a good apprenticeship, you might make a passable bard yourself."

"Me?" Alec said with an embarrassed grin. "I can imagine what Father would have said to that!"

So can I, Seregil thought, having decided that the dead man must have been a pretty dour sort.

They passed much of the afternoon ride trading songs. As soon as Seregil discovered how Alec blushed at the bawdy ones, he made a special point of including plenty of those.

 

For two days they traveled hard and slept cold, but the time passed quickly. Seregil proved as fine a wayfaring companion as Alec could have hoped for, happy to fill the long hours of riding with tales, songs, and legends. The only subject he proved stubbornly reticent about was his own past, and Alec quickly learned not to press. Otherwise, however, they got on well enough. Alec was particularly intrigued by stories of life in the south.

"You never finished telling me about why the Three Lands fight so often," he said, hoping for another story after a particularly long silence that afternoon.

"I do tend to get sidetracked, don't I? What would you like to know?"

"About that priest king and all, I guess. It used to be all one country, you said, but now they're three. What happened?"

"Same thing that always happens when someone thinks someone else has more land and power than they do—there was a war.

"About a thousand years ago, the various territories got restless under Hierophantic rule. Hoping to hold his people together, the Hierophant granted them dominion, dividing them up into pretty much what are now Skala, Mycena, and Plenimar. Each had its own regent, appointed by him, of course.

"It was a logical split, geographically speaking, but unfortunately Plenimar got the short end of the stick. Skala controlled the sheltered plains below the Nimra Range. Mycena had fertile valleys and established outposts to the north. But Plenimar, earliest settled of the three, lay on a dry peninsula with diminishing resources.

"To make matters worse, the first rumors of gold soon came back from the north and Mycena controlled the routes. What Plenimar did have, though, were warriors and ships, and it wasn't long before they decided to use them. Just two centuries after the division, they attacked Mycena and started a war that lasted seventeen years."

"How long ago was this?"

"Nearly eight hundred years. Plenimar probably would've won, too, if Aurënen hadn't come into the fight in the last years."

"The Aurënfaie again!" Alec cried, delighted. "But why did they wait so long?"

Seregil shrugged. "The doings of the Tirfaie were of little concern to Aurënen. It was only when the fighting neared their own waters that they officially allied themselves with Skala and Mycena."

Alec thought a moment. "But if the other countries had all the gold and land and everything, how come they weren't stronger than Plenimar?"

"They should have been. The wizards of Skala were at the height of their powers then, too. Even the drysians were enlisted to the fight and, as I'm sure you can imagine, they are a force to be reckoned with when they want to be. Some old ballads speak of Plenimaran necromancers and armies of walking dead that could be driven back only by the strongest magicks. Whether or not these tales are true, it was the most terrible war ever fought."

"And Plenimar didn't win?"

"No, but they came close. In the spring of the fifteenth year of the war, Hierophant Estmar was killed; this sundered the Three Lands forever.

"Luckily, the black ships of Aurënen sailed through the Straits of Bal just after this and attacked at Benshal, while the Aurënfaie army and their wizards joined the fighting at Cirna. Whether it was by magic or simply the force of fresh troops, the power of Plenimar was finally broken. At the Battle of Isil, Krycopt, the first Plenimaran ruler to call himself Overlord, was killed by the Skalan queen, Gherilain the First."

"Hold on!" Reaching into his purse, Alec brought out the silver coin. "Is this her, the woman on the coin?"

"No, that's Idrilain the Second, the present queen."

Alec turned the coin over and pointed to the crescent ant! flame symbols. "And what do these mean?"

"The crescent stands for Illior; the flame above is for Sakor. Together they form the crest of Skala."

Skala! thought Alec as he tucked the coin away. Well, at least I know now where you're from.

3

Seregil Makes an Offer

Their third morning on the Downs dawned clear.

Seregil woke first. It had snowed heavily the night before. Luckily, Alec had spotted an abandoned burrow just before sunset and they'd spent the night inside. The hole still stank of its former inhabitants, but it was large enough for the two of them to stretch out in. With the pack and Seregil's saddle jammed in the opening as a windbreak, they'd managed to keep warm for the first time since they'd come onto the Downs.

Cramped but warm, Seregil was tempted to let Alec's soft, even breathing lull him back to sleep. Looking down at him as he slept, he examined the planes of the boy's face.

Am I only seeing what I want to see? he wondered silently, feeling again the instinctual twinge of recognition. But there would be time for all that later; for now he had to concentrate on Wolde.

Giving Alec a nudge, he wriggled out of the burrow. Golden pink light washed across the unbroken expanse of snow surrounding them, its brightness dazzling after several days of sullen weather.

The horses were pawing at the snow in search of forage and Seregil's belly growled sympathetically at the sight; tired as he was of tough sausage and old cheese, this morning's scant breakfast would exhaust the last of the food.

"Thank the Maker for a sight of the sun!" Alec exclaimed, crawling out behind him.

"Thank Sakor, you mean," yawned Seregil, pushing his hair back from his eyes. "Of the Four—Oh, hell, it's too early for philosophy. Do you think we'll make Wolde today?"

Alec peered hard to the south, then nodded. "Before sundown, I'd say."

Seregil waded over to the horses and scratched his bay under the forelock. "Oats for you tonight, my friends, and a hot bath and supper for me. If our guide's worth his silver, that is."

 

Seregil was uncharacteristically quiet as they rode along that morning. When they stopped to rest the horses at midday, however, Alec sensed something was up.

Seregil had that same bemused look about him that Alec remembered seeing when he'd offered to rescue him from Asengai's keep, as if he wasn't certain what he was about to do was the wisest move.

"The other night I joked about an apprenticeship for you," he said over his shoulder as he adjusted his saddle girth. "What do you think of the idea?"

Alec looked at him in surprise. "As a bard, you mean?"

"Perhaps apprenticeship isn't exactly the right term. I'm not a guildsman of any sort, much less a bard. But you're quick and smart. There's a lot I could teach you."

"Like what?" Alec asked, a little wary now but interested.

Seregil hesitated a moment, as if sizing him up, then said, "I specialize in the acquisition of goods and information."

Alec's heart sank. "You're a thief."

"I'm nothing of the sort!" Seregil frowned. "At least not in the sense you mean."

"Then what?" Alec demanded. "A spy like that Juggler fellow you killed?"

Seregil grinned. "I'd be insulted if I thought you knew what you were talking about. Let's just say for the moment that I'm acting as an agent of sorts, engaged by an eminently respectable gentleman to collect information regarding certain unusual occurrences here in the north. Discretion prevents me from saying more, but I assure you the goal is noble—even if my methods don't always seem so."

Hidden somewhere in his companion's suddenly high-flown, convoluted discourse, Alec suspected he'd just admitted to being a spy after all. Worse, he had nothing but Seregil's word that what he was telling, or half telling him, was the truth. Still, the fact remained that Seregil had rescued him when he could more easily have left him behind, and had since offered him nothing but friendship.

"I imagine you're already fairly skilled in tracking and that sort of thing," Seregil went on casually. "You say you're a fair shot with a bow, and you made good use of that ax, now that I think of it. Can you handle a sword?"

"No, but—"

"No matter, you'd learn quickly enough, with the right teacher. I know just the man. Then, of course, there'd be palming, etiquette, lock work, disguise, languages, heraldry, fighting—I don't suppose you can read?"

"I know the runes," Alec retorted, though in truth he could only make out his own name and a few words.

"No, no, I meant proper writing."

"Hold on, now," cried Alec, overwhelmed. "I don't mean to be ungrateful—you've saved my life and all, but—"

Seregil waved this aside impatiently. "Given the circumstances of your capture, getting you out of there seemed the least I could do. But now I'm talking about what you want, Alec, beyond tomorrow, beyond next week. Honestly, do you really mean to spend the rest of your life mucking out stalls for some fat innkeeper in Wolde?"

Alec hesitated. "I don't know. I mean, hunting and trapping, it's all the life I've known."

"All the more reason to give it up, then!" Seregil declared, his grey eyes alight with enthusiasm. "How old did you say you are?"

"Sixteen."

"And you've never seen a dragon."

"You know I haven't."

"Well, I have," Seregil said, swinging up into the saddle again.

"You said there weren't any more dragons!"

"I said there weren't any more in Skala. I've seen them flying under a full moon in winter. I've danced at the great Festival of Sakor and tasted the wines of Zengat, and heard mermaids singing in the mists of dawn. I've walked the halls of a palace built in a time beyond memory and felt the touch of the first inhabitants against my skin. I'm not talking legend or imagination, Alec, I've done all of that, and more than I have breath to tell."

Alec rode along in silence, overwhelmed with half-realized images.

"You said you couldn't imagine yourself as anything more than what you've been," Seregil went on, "but I say you've just never had the chance to try. I'm offering you that chance. Ride south with me after Wolde, and see how much world there is beyond your forests."

"But the stealing part—"

Seregil's crooked grin held no trace of remorse. "Oh, I admit I've cut a purse or two in my time, and some of what I do could be called stealing depending on who you ask, but try to imagine the challenge of overcoming incredible obstacles to accomplish a noble purpose. Think of traveling to lands where legends walk the streets in daylight and even the color of the sea is like nothing you've ever seen! I ask you again, would you be plain Alec of Kerry all your life, or would you see what lies beyond?"

"But is it an honest living?" Alec persisted, clinging to his last shred of resolve.

"Most of those who employ me are great lords or nobles."

"It sounds like a pretty dangerous line of work,"

Alec remarked, aware that Seregil had once again side-stepped the question.

"That's the spice of it, though," cried Seregil. "And you can end up rich!"

"Or at the end of a rope?"

Seregil chuckled. "Have it your way."

Alec gnawed absently at a thumbnail, his brow creased in thought. "All right, then," he said at last. "I want to come with you, but first you've got to give me a few straight answers."

"It's against my nature, but I'll try."

"This war you spoke of, the one that's coming. Which side are you on?"

Seregil let out a long sigh. "Fair enough. My sympathies lie with Skala, but for your safety and mine, that's as much as I'll say on the matter for now."

Alec shook his head. "The Three Lands are so far away. It's hard to believe their wars could reach us here."

"People will do quite a lot for gold and land, and there's precious little of either left in the south, especially in Plenimar."

"And you're going to stop them?"

"Hardly," scoffed Seregil. "But I may be of some help to those who can. Anything else?"

"After Wolde, where would we go?"

"Well, home to Rhíminee ultimately, though first—"

"What?" Alec's eyes widened. "You mean to say that you live there! In the city where the wizards are?"

"What do you say?"

Some small, final doubt held Alec back a moment longer. Looking Seregil in the eye, he asked, "Why?"

Seregil raise one eyebrow, perplexed. "Why what?"

"You hardly know me. Why do you want me to come with you?"

"Who knows? Perhaps you remind me just a bit of—"

"Someone you used to know?" Alec interjected skeptically.

"Someone I used to be." The crooked grin flashed again as Seregil pulled off his right glove and extended his hand across to Alec.

"So it's settled?"

"I guess so." Alec was surprised to catch a glimpse of what looked like relief in his companion's eyes as they clasped hands. It was gone in an instant and Seregil quickly moved on to new plans.

"There are a few details to take care of before we reach town. How well known are you in Wolde?"

"My father and I always stayed in the trader's quarter," replied Alec. "We generally put up at the Green Bough. Except for the landlord, though, most of the people we knew wouldn't be there this time of year."

"Just the same, there's no use taking chances. We'll need a reason for you to be traveling with Aren Windover. Here's a lesson for you; give me three reasons why Alec the Hunter would be in the company of a bard."

"Well, I guess I could tell how you rescued me and—"

"No, no, that won't do at all!" Seregil interrupted. "First of all, I don't want it known that I—or rather Aren—was anywhere near Asengai. Besides, I make it a rule never, never, never to use the truth unless it's the last possible option or so outlandish that nobody would believe you anyway. Keep that in mind."

"All right then," said Alec. "I could say I was attacked by bandits and you—"

Seregil shook his head, motioning for Alec to continue.

Alec fidgeted with the reins, sorting through various inspirations. "Well, I know it's sort of the truth, but people would believe that you hired me as a guide. Father and I hired out sometimes."

"Not bad. Go on."

"Or"—Alec turned to his companion with a triumphant grin—"perhaps Aren has taken me on as his apprentice!"

"Not bad, for a first effort," Seregil conceded. "The rescue story was very good, actually. Loyalty to one who saves your life is well understood and seldom questioned. Unfortunately Aren's reputation is such that nobody would believe it. I'm afraid he's a bit of a coward. The guide story, however, is seriously flawed. Aren Windover is a well-known figure in the Woldesoke; if bards make their living as wanderers, why would he need to engage a guide in the territory he's familiar with?"

"Oh." Alec nodded, a bit crestfallen.

"But the apprentice idea should do nicely. Luckily, you can sing. But can you think like a bard?"

"How do you mean?"

"Well, suppose you're in a tavern on the highroad. What sort of customers would you have?"

"Traders, wagoneers, soldiers."

"Excellent! And suppose there's a great deal of drinking going on and a song is called for. What would you choose?"

"Well, probably something like the 'The Lady of Araman'."

"A good choice. And why?"

"Well, it's about fighting and honor; the soldiers would like that. And it's widely known, so everyone could join in. And it has a good refrain."

"Well done! Aren's used that song many times, and for just those reasons. Now suppose yourself a minstrel in a lord's hall, performing for fat barons and their ladies."

"Maybe 'Lillia and the Rose'? There's nothing coarse in it."

Laughing, Seregil leaned across to clap Alec on the shoulder. "Perhaps you should take Aren on as apprentice! I don't suppose you play an instrument?"

"Afraid not."

"Oh well. Aren will just have to apologize for your green skills."

They spent the rest of the afternoon extending Alec's repertoire as they rode along.

 

By late afternoon the Downs gave way to the rough, sloping terrain of the Brythwin River valley. In the distance they could make out the squares of bare fields and distant farmsteads that marked the boundary of the Woldesoke district. The river itself, a black, tree-fringed line far below, flowed into Blackwater Lake several miles east of the waterfront town.

Bordered along its northern shore by the great Lake Wood, the shimmering expanse of water stretched unbroken to the far horizon.

"You say the Gathwayd Ocean is bigger than that?" asked Alec, shading his eyes. He'd hunted along the Lake's shores all his life and couldn't imagine anything larger.

"By quite a margin," replied Seregil cheerfully. "Let's move on before we lose the light."

The late-afternoon sun cast a mellow glow across the valley. Picking their way down the stony slope, they struck the main road leading along the river toward Wolde. The Brythwin was low, its course laced with gravel spits. Stands of ash and willow grew thickly along the banks, often screening the river from view.

A mile or so before reaching the lake shore, the road curved away from the river to skirt a dense copse of trees. Reining in, Seregil studied the wall of branches for a moment, then dismounted and motioned for Alec to follow.

Bare willow branches stroked over them, catching at hoods and harness as they pushed their way through to a clearing beside the river. A tiny stone cottage surrounded by a wattle and daub fence stood on a rise close by the water's edge.

As Seregil approached the gate a brindle hound came rushing at them from around the corner of the cottage, growling and showing its teeth. Alec retreated hastily back in the direction of his horse, but Seregil stood his ground. Muttering a few low words, he made some sort of sign with his left hand. The dog skidded to a halt on the other side of the gate, then skulked back the way it had come.

Alec gaped. "How did you do that?"

"Just a little thief's trick I picked up somewhere. Come on, it's perfectly safe."

A very old, very bald little man answered Seregil's knock.

"Who's that?" he demanded, peering blankly past them. A deep scar, faded white against the old fellow's leathery skin, ran in a ragged line from the top of his skull to the bridge of his nose.

"It's me, old father," Seregil replied, slipping something into his outstretched hand.

The old man reached to touch Seregil's face. "I thought as much when Crusher went quiet like that. And not alone this time, eh?"

"A new friend." Seregil guided the blind man's hand to Alec's cheek.

The boy remained still as the dry fingertips ran swiftly over his features. At no point were names exchanged.

The old fellow gave a rheumy chuckle.

"Beardless, but no girl. Come in both of you, and welcome. Sit yourselves by the fire while I fetch something to eat. Everything's as you left it, sir."

The little house consisted of a single room with a loft overhead. Everything was neat and spare, the old man's simple belongings arranged with care on shelves along the walls.

Seregil and Alec warmed themselves gratefully at the cheerful blaze on the hearth while their host shuffled about with practiced efficiency, setting out bread, soup, and boiled eggs for them at the scrubbed wooden table.

Seregil wolfed his supper and disappeared into the loft.

When he came down again he was dressed in a bard's embroidered tunic and striped hose. A traveler's harp of dark wood inlaid with silver was slung over his shoulder. He'd washed again, too, Alec noted in mild surprise. He'd never met anyone who set such store by washing.

"Do you recognize me now, boy?" Seregil asked in a haughty, slightly nasal voice, giving Alec an elaborate bow.

"By the Maker, you really are Aren Windover!"

"You see? What you remembered about Aren wasn't his face so much as his flamboyant manner, the gaudy clothes, and the affected way he spoke. Believe me, I do all that with good reason. When you get right down to it, aside from the fact that Aren and I are physically identical, we're nothing alike at all."

Their host let out a dry cackle from his corner by the fire.

"As for your appearance," Seregil continued, "I've set out some things for you upstairs. Go clean yourself up, then we'll see about your hair. Aren would never allow any apprentice of his to look so unkempt."

The loft was as sparsely furnished as the room below, containing only a bed, washstand, and clothes chest. A dusty candle burned in a dusty sconce and by its light Alec saw a broadsword hanging on the wall above the bed, its scarred scabbard blackened with age. On the bed lay a tunic of russet wool, a new cloak, a pair of soft doeskin breeches, and a belt with a sheathed dagger and a pouch.

Opening the latter, Alec found ten silver pennies. A pair of high leather boots sagged against the bedpost. Both clothing and boots were clean but worn—more of Seregil's castoffs, no doubt.

Lucky for me I met up with someone my own size, Alec thought, inspecting the boots more closely. As he'd expected, there was a dagger pocket stitched inside the left one. Pulling on the boots, he slipped his Skalan coin and five of the pennies into the knife pocket as a precaution against cutpurses; his father had taught him never to carry all his money in one place when he went into a town.

As he dressed, he could hear Seregil plucking away at the harp below. After a moment there came a light ripple of notes and scattered snatches of melodies.

He plays as well as he sings, thought Alec, wondering what other talents would reveal themselves as he got to know Seregil better.

Below the music, however, he suddenly caught the sound of quiet conversation. After a moment's hesitation, he crept to the edge of the loft and strained to hear more. Both men were keeping their voices low and he could make out only bits and pieces.

". . . days ago. They seem peaceful enough, but why so many?" the blind man was saying.

"No doubt…" Seregil's voice was harder to hear. "I suppose, with the mayor."

"Aye, calling himself Boraneus, claims to be a trade envoy for the Overlord."

Overlord? thought Alec. He'd heard that term before! And hadn't Seregil as much as said he'd been sent north to see what the Plenimarans were up to? Holding his breath, Alec inched closer to the edge, trying to pick up the thread of the conversation.

"Did she know him?" Seregil was asking.

"… last evening… dark, well favored… a sword cut…"

"Which eye?"

"Left, she said."

"Illior's Fingers! Mardus?" For an instant Seregil sounded genuinely startled. The old man muttered something, to which Seregil replied, "No, and I'll do my best to see that he doesn't… more demon than…"

Both men were silent for a moment, then Seregil called out, "Alec! Have you fallen asleep up there?"

Alec quickly rolled his old clothes into a bundle, then paused a moment longer for the guilty blush to pass.

The look that Seregil gave him as he hurried down the ladder betrayed only impatience, but he was certain he could feel Seregil's eyes on his back as he busied himself with packing away their traveling clothes.

Seregil tucked his harp under one arm and went to take leave of their host.

"Luck in the shadows," the blind man said, clasping hands with them at the door.

"And to you," Seregil returned.

4

Wolde

Wolde—largest of the isolated trade centers scattered across the northlands— owed its prosperity to the Gold Road, a narrow span of the Gallistrom River, and a tiny yellow flower.

The Gold Road began to the north in the foothills of the Ironheart Mountains, where gold had been mined from time out of mind. At Kerry, the precious metal was smelted and molded into round, flat ingots called baps and sewn into square sheepskin bales stuffed with wool. This wool, shorn from the mountain sheep native to the region, was especially soft and fine and had since become another source of wealth for the region. The original purpose of the bales, however, was merely to protect the gold, for the road was fraught with hazards, not the least of which were bandits. Weighing as much as two men, the bales were difficult to steal but floated if they were lost in one of the many rivers that crossed the route.

Loaded onto ox-drawn wagons, the bales were carried on to Boersby, where they were packed onto flatboats and taken down the Folcwine to the Mycenian seaport of Nanta.

The country between Kerry and Boersby was desolate except for a few settled districts. The caravaneers traveled in large groups with hired swordsmen and archers to protect them.

The last safe refuge between Blackwater Lake and Boersby was the town of Wolde on the banks of the Gallistrom River.

Unlike the placid Brythwin, the Gallistrom was dangerous, deep, and broad. From its source in the Ironheart, it swept down through the great Lake Wood into Blackwater Lake. Originally the only safe crossing was a slow, precarious system of ferries. Wagons waiting on the shore for the next raft across were easy prey for bandits. Many others were lost to the river itself when strong spring currents overturned the rafts, sweeping away men, oxen, and gold.

At last a wide stone bridge was constructed and the tiny settlement that had sprung up around the ferry site grew into a village. The area had riches of its own, as it turned out. Dye-yielding plants of many sorts grew in profusion between the lake and the forest, among them the yellow wolde from which the town took its name. With these plants nearly any color could be produced, many in rich hues superior to anything produced in the south. Dyers, weavers, fullers, and felters set up shop there and suddenly the wool of Kerry was in great demand.

Bolts of soft, lustrous "Wolde cloth" were now sought almost as eagerly in the south as the golden baps.

By Alec's day, Wolde was a wealthy guild town centered around the bridge and protected by a stout wooden palisade.

The sun was nearing the western horizon when Alec and Seregil rode up the lake shore to the town walls. Across the water they could see the many colored sails of fishing boats making their way back to town for the night.

"It's early for the gates to be closed, isn't it?" remarked Seregil as they reined in. "Any time I've been here before they've been kept open until well after dark."

Alec looked the palisade over. "The walls are higher, too."

"State your names and business, if you please," a disinterested voice called from overhead.

"Aren Windover, a bard," Seregil announced, dropping into Aren's slightly pompous manner. "I am accompanied by my apprentice."

"Windover, is it?" The sentry leaned over the parapet for a better look at the newcomers.

"Why, I remember you! You played at the summer fair and was the best of all the bards that come. Pass through, sir, and your boy."

A horse postern swung inward. Alec and Seregil ducked their heads and rode inside. The sentry, a youngish man in a leather jerkin, extended a long-handled toll basket down to them.

"That's one copper a horse and a silver half penny for each rider, sir. We've not seen a proper bard or skald since you was here last, you know. Where will you be staying this time through?"

"I mean to start at the Fishes, but hope for better before I leave," replied Seregil, motioning Alec to pay the toll. "By my recollection, it's early in the day for the gates to be locked. Aren't there more guards than usual?"

"That there is, sir," the man replied, shaking his head. "There's been three raids on the caravans within the last couple of months, two of 'em within ten miles of the town. The caravaneers are mad as scalded cats over it, claiming the town's supposed to guard the road. But the mayor, he's more worried about Wolde itself being attacked. We've been building up the palisade and standing extra watches ever since. It all seems to have calmed down, though, since them southerners showed up."

"Southerners?" Seregil's feigned surprise was not lost on Alec.

"Oh, aye. Plenimarans, of all people! An envoy called Lord Boraneus come to set up trade, as I hear it."

Boraneus?

Alec stole a glance at Seregil; this was one of the names he'd picked up eavesdropping at the blind man's cottage— that and another, something starting with M.

"Brought a mess of soldiers with him, too," the gatekeeper went on. "Must be two score or more. We didn't know what to make of it when word first come that they was on the way, but it turned out to be a good thing. They made short work of them bandits, I can tell you! The taverners claim they're a rough lot, but they pay well, and in silver. I warrant you'll pick up a good piece of trade with 'em yourself."

"I have the greatest hopes." Throwing back his cloak, Seregil produced a silver coin from his own purse and flipped it to the man. "Thank you for your most helpful information. I hope you'll drink my health at the Three Fishes."

Pocketing the coin happily, the sentry waved them through.

Within the palisade the road wound through the center of the town toward a market square that spanned both sides of the bridge.

The streets here were stained with the colorful, foul-smelling runoff of dyers shops. In the more prosperous lanes, raised wooden walkways had been built to prevent patrons from staining their garments with the mud. Gatherers' carts trundled from shop to shop all day, loaded with shipments of pigment-bearing plants and minerals. The poorest of children had bright rags on their backs; even the pigs and dogs that wandered the neighborhood displayed a startling diversity of color. The clack and thump of the weavers' looms filled the air and lengths of freshly dyed cloth, hung to dry on racks strung between buildings and over the streets, gave the area a perpetually festive appearance This was familiar territory to Alec, and he felt a twinge of sadness as he looked around. The last time he'd been here his father had been alive.

"That's the mayor's hall there, where that Boraneus fellow is staying," he said as they entered the open square at the center of the town. Too late he recalled that his knowledge of Boraneus whereabouts had also been gleaned while eavesdropping.

Seregil looked over at him, an unreadable expression on his face, and Alec added quickly, "Important visitors always lodge with the mayor. It's the custom here."

"I'm lucky to have so well versed a guide," Seregil replied with quiet amusement.

The large, elaborately decorated hall stood beside the Daman temple. Guildhalls and craftsmen's shops lined the sides of the square on this side of the bridge. The Temple of Astellus commanded the other side of the river, and with it the fishermen s guild, a tavern, more shops, and several inns.

Seregil took the lead here, riding across the bridge into the Lake Quarter. As they neared the waterfront, the streets grew narrower and more winding.

The stink of the dyers' quarter was replaced by the pungent odors of fish and damp nets.

"Father and I never came down into this part of town, Alec said, looking nervously around at the weathered building overhanging the street and the shadowed alleys between.

Seregil shrugged. "People know how to mind their own business here.".

The taverns were coming alive now; the sounds of shouting brawls and snatches of drunken song echoed from all directions. Someone hissed a soft invitation to them from a shadowed doorway as they rode by. After several more turns, they came out at the waterfront.

The palisades extended out into the water on both sides of the town. Within their embrace lay long wharves, warehouses, and taverns, all built on posts above the slope of the shingle. Looking out over the water, Alec again tried to imagine how big an ocean must be to outstrip this.

On either side, the shore seemed to curve away endlessly, the far shore visibly only on the clearest of days.

Seregil hurried them along down the street to a narrow building squeezed in among the wharves. The sign over the open door displayed three intertwined fish, and from inside came the raucous clamor of a tavern crowd. A small knot of loafers had gathered beneath the windows with pipes and mugs.

Dismounting, he handed Alec his harp and pack.

"Mind the part I've given you," he whispered, keeping his voice low. "From here on you're the apprentice of Aren the Bard. You've seen what he's like; react accordingly. If I'm abrupt with you, or order you about like a servant, don't be resentful—it's Aren's way, not mine. Frankly, I don't envy your position. Ready?"

Alec nodded.

"Good. Then the act begins." With that, Seregil stepped back and became Aren.

"Take the horses to the stable around the side," he ordered, raising his voice for the benefit of the onlookers. "Make certain they're properly looked after. Then see the tavern keeper about a room. Tell him I'd have the one at the top of the house, overlooking the lake, and don't let that villain charge you more than a silver mark for it, either! When you've taken care of the baggage, bring my harp to the common room. Be quick, now."

With this, he disappeared into the warmth of the tavern.

"By the Old Sailor, I guess you been told, boy!" laughed one of the loiterers, much to the amusement of his cronies.

Scowling, Alec led the horses around to the stable. In spite of Seregil's hasty explanation, he wasn't sure he liked this turn of events. When the horses had been seen to, he gathered up the pack and Seregil's saddle and hurried into the steamy bustle of the kitchen.

"I'm looking for the tavern keeper," he said, catching a harried serving girl by the sleeve.

"Taproom," she snapped, nodding curtly toward a nearby doorway. Leaving the gear by the door, he went on into the taproom and found himself faced with a portly, red-faced giant in a leather apron.

"I need lodgings for my master and myself," Alec informed him, endeavoring to imitate Aren's imperious manner.

The taverner scarcely looked up from the tapping of a fresh barrel. "Big room at the top of the stairs. Shouldn't be no more than three or four to a bed tonight."

"My master prefers the room at the top," Alec said.

"Does he indeed? Well, he may have it for three marks a night."

"I'll give you one," Alec countered. "We'll be here for several nights and I'm certain my master—was—"

"Your master be damned!" the taverner growled.

"That's my best room, and I couldn't let the mayor himself nor the whole of the damned Guild Council have it for less than three! Not when there's all these southern strangers lolling about with more money than brains. I could get five a night from any one of them."

"Begging your pardon," Alec chose his words with care, "but I think my master, Aren Windover, and I could bring you in ten times that each night we're here."

Satisfied with the set of the tap, the taverner shoved his hands into his belt and glowered down at Alec.

"Well! Begging your pardon, my young whelp, but just how do you think you could do that?"

Alec held his ground stubbornly; his father'd had a knack for dickering. Thinking back, he asked, "Do you make more profit from your rooms or your ale?"

"From the ale, I suppose."

"And how much do you charge for that?"

"Five coppers for a flagon, a half silver for a jug. What of it?"

Sensing the man's growing impatience, Alec quickly came to the point. "What you need, then, is something to attract men to drink. And what attracts drinking men more than a good bard? You may not know Aren Windover, but a good many in town do. You put it about that he's playing at your tavern and I think you'll have to send out for more ale. I can probably coax a few soldiers in here, and they'll bring their friends the next night. You know how fighting men can drink!"

"Aye, used to be one more'self," the tavern keeper nodded, looked Alec up and down. "Come to think of it, I believe I have heard of this Windover chap. He's the one drew such a crowd over at the Stag and Branch last year. Perhaps I could let you have the room for two and a half."

"I can pay in advance," Alec assured him. Then carried away with the success of his own invention, he added for good measure, "Master Windover is to play for the mayor, you see."

"The mayor, eh?" the tavern keeper grunted in surprise. "Why didn't you say so! Playing at the mayor's, and the Fishes as well? All right, then. Go and tell your master that the room is his for two marks."

"Well—" Alec mused stubbornly.

"Damn you, do you want my blood? One and a half, then, but I've got to make a profit, don't you see?"

"Done," Alec conceded. "But that does include candles and supper, right? And the bed linens had better be fresh! Master Windover is very particular about his bed linens."

"You do want my blood," the landlord growled. "Yes, yes, he'll get his dinner and he'll get his cursed bed linens. But by the Old Sailor, he better be all you say or the fishermen will have the pair of you for bait."

Alec paid out two nights in advance for good faith, then toiled upstairs balancing their gear and a candlestick.

Passing the common sleeping room on the second floor, he climbed a steeper stairway to the attic. A short, windowless corridor led to a door at the far end.

Tucked in the peak of a gable, the room Seregil had specified was small, with sloping walls on either side. The narrow bed and washstand nearly filled the cramped space. Alec found a cheap tallow candle in a cracked dish on the stand and lit it from his own, then pushed back the shutters of the window over the bed.

The back of the tavern stood out over the water on pilings. Looking out, Alec found a sheer drop down to the water below.

A thick crescent moon cast a glittering trail across the lake's black surface. It was pleasant up here at the top of the house, quiet and warm. It occurred to Alec that he could probably count on one hand the times he had ever been alone inside a proper house, and never in a room so high. After pausing a moment to savor the new sensation, he sighed and headed back down the stairs.

Looking out over the noisy commotion of the tavern, he spotted Seregil talking with the host and was struck once more by the difference between "Aren" and Seregil; their movements, their stance, the set of their mouth, all as distinct as if they really were two separate men.

Seregil glanced up just then and motioned impatiently for him to come. Dodging past servers with flagons and wooden trenchers, Alec made his way through the crowd.

"Of course, we have only just arrived in town," Seregil was saying, "but I shall present myself to your most honored mayor tomorrow." Coughing delicately into his fist, he added, "I seem to have taken sore in the throat today, but I'm certain a night's rest will repair my voice. In the meantime, I am certain that you will be pleased with my apprentice's abilities."

The landlord darkened noticeably at this, and Alec gave Seregil a startled glance, which he pointedly ignored.

"You mustn't fear," Seregil went on airily. "This lad is constantly surprising me with his rapid progress. Tonight you shall have a demonstration of his talents."

"We shall see, Master Windover," the taverner growled doubtfully. "Your boy claims he'll be good for business, so the sooner you start, the better."

Though he made a sort of bow to Seregil, Alec was certain he caught a glint of malevolent humor in the man's eye as he left.

"You've been busy," Seregil remarked dryly as he checked the tuning of his harp. The crowd shifted restlessly around them, anticipating entertainment.

"There's nothing wrong with your voice!" Alec whispered in alarm.

"There are a few things I need to do tonight that don't allow me to be the center of attention for the whole evening. You'll be fine, don't worry. I understand you beat our landlord down to one and a half for the room. I didn't think you'd bring the old robber down below two. I am curious, however, as to how you propose to bring in Plenimarans."

"I don't know," Alec admitted, "it just seemed like a good thing to tell him at the time."

"Well, hopefully we'll be on our way before we have to keep too many of your promises. But in case we're not, a word of caution—stay clear of the soldiers, especially if you're out alone. These are Plenimaran marines, and there's not much most of them aren't capable of, if you take my meaning."

"I don't think I do," said Alec, puzzled by Seregil's tone.

"Then try this. They have a saying among them: 'When whores are few, a boy will do.' Got that?"

"Oh." Alec felt his face go hot.

"Anyway, consider yourself warned. Now I think it's time for you to prove yourself, my bardling."

Seregil rose and cleared his throat before Alec could make further objections.

"Good people," he announced, gesturing for their attention. "I am Aren Windover, a humble bard, and this lad is my apprentice. While journeying to reach your fair town, I fear I have contracted a temporary inflammation of the throat. Nonetheless, I pray you will allow us to offer you entertainment."

He resumed his seat amid enthusiastic cheering and pounding of mugs. Favorite ballads were called for, and more ale.

Alec's mouth went dry as a roomful of expectant faces turned his way. He'd sometimes been a member of such gatherings, but never the focus of one.

Seregil passed him a mug of ale with a mischievous wink.

"Don't worry about this lot," he whispered, "they've got full bellies and half-empty jugs."

Alec took a long swallow and managed a weak grin in return.

Seregil knew the extent of Alec's repertoire and chose requests accordingly, striking up first with "Far Across the Water Lies My Love."

Alec's voice, though hardly of bardic quality, was good enough for this audience. He sang all the fishermen's songs he knew, and made a passable job of several of the story ballads Seregil had taught him on the Downs. This, together with Seregil's excellent playing, soon endeared them to the crowd.

When his voice began to weaken Seregil pulled out a tin whistle and struck up a dance tune for variety.

More customers appeared as word spread, pushing in and calling for ale and songs. Among the newcomers were half a dozen men in brigandine leather armor and brimmed helmets. Heavy swords were slung from their belts. Alec didn't need Seregil to point these out as the marines he'd been warned against. They looked like rough customers.

Alec sang for over an hour before Seregil stopped to beg leave for a small rest.

"Stay and mind the harp," he told Alec, thrusting the instrument into the boy's hands. "And see that you get some water to wet your throat with. Ale's good for the spirit but bad for the voice. You're doing splendidly!"

"But where are—"

"I'll be back soon."

Alec watched as Seregil made his way toward the far corner of the room where a tall, broad-shouldered man sat by himself. The fellow's face was shadowed by a deep hood, but by his worn leather cuirass and the long sword at his belt Alec guessed he made his living as a caravan guard. Seregil exchanged greetings with the stranger and was invited to join him on the bench. They were soon deep in conversation.

Having clearly been dismissed for the moment, Alec let his gaze wander over the rest of the crowd and discovered a drysian sitting near the door.

Distinguished by her plain robe and the bronze serpent lemniscate pendant she wore on a leather thong around her neck, she was already surrounded by a small crowd of people seeking healing. They stood quietly, watching with a mixture of hope and awe as she examined an infant lying on her lap. Curious as ever, Alec headed over to join them.

The dark braid that fell over her shoulder as she leaned forward was well streaked with grey, her weathered face set in stern lines, but her hands were steady and gentle as she examined the baby. She ran her hands over the little body, then lifted the child and put her ear to its chest and belly. Grasping the staff that leaned against the bench at her side, she spoke a few soft words over the child, then handed it back to its mother.

"Boil one of these in a cup of clear water each morning," she instructed, counting out six dried leaves from a pouch at her belt. "Add a little honey and some milk. Cool it and give it to her through the day. When the last leaf is gone, the child will be well. On that day place three copper marks on the altar at Dalna's Temple and give thanks. You will give me one mark now and the Maker's Mercy be with you."

She then went on to deal with the others, sometimes dispensing herbs or charms, sometimes merely praying over the sufferer. Several fishermen ventured near when she had finished with the children, and finally a wealthy merchant couple who timidly presented their young daughter. After the usual examination, the drysian gave the mother a bunch of herbs and charged her to give a silver offering rather than copper, as she had all the others. Without a word, the husband paid her the money and the family left.

Alec was about to turn away when the drysian looked straight at him and asked, "Why do you suppose I charged them more?"

"I-I don't know," Alec stammered.

"Because they could afford to pay more," she stated, and startled him further by giving him a knowing wink. "Perhaps I could be of some service to your master. You're lodging here tonight?"

"Yes, in the room at the top," Alec replied, wondering what she would make of Seregil's sham illness. "Can I tell him your name?"

"That won't be necessary. Tell him I'll attend to him later."

She stood to stretch and her staff slid sideways, clattering to the floor. Without thinking, Alec retrieved it and held it out to her. In the brief moment that both their hands were on it, he felt a strong and not altogether pleasant tremor pass through the wood.

"The blessings of the Maker be with you this night," she said and disappeared into the crowd.

The singing went on until midnight. Though Alec's modest repertoire was exhausted long before that, the drinkers called on Seregil to keep playing and a number of them stood to lead the song. When at last the owner announced that he must put the shutters up, the crowd gave the bard and his apprentice a rousing round of applause and most left a coin or two on the table near the door.

Well pleased with his investment, the taverner poured them each a final mug of ale and, drinks in hand, they went upstairs.

Collapsing on the bed, Seregil inspected the night's earnings and passed half the coins to Alec.

"We did well. Thirty coppers, two silver. You met Erisa, I noticed."

"Who?"

"The drysian. What do you make of her?"

"She seemed like any of the others. Sort of—" He paused, seeking the proper word.

"Unsettling?"

"Yes, that's it. Not frightening, just unsettling."

"Believe me, drysians can be pretty damn frightening when they choose to." Before he could expound on the subject, however, the latch lifted and Erisa herself slipped quietly in.

"I thought you'd keep the poor lad at it all night," she scolded. "I suspect you're not really in need of my ministrations?"

Seregil shrugged, grinning crookedly. "I could hardly expect to fool you. Alec, run down to the kitchen, will you? We both need something to eat after all that ale, and I'm certain Erisa's had no time for supper."

"Just tea and a little bread for me," said Erisa, folding her arms. Clearly they were both waiting for him to leave.

Ordered about again! he thought as the door closed firmly behind him. He was more intrigued than irritated, however. This drysian must be the mysterious "she" spoken of by the blind man, but who was the hooded swordsman?

Halfway down the passage he hesitated, then crept back as silently as he could to the door.

"A force of fifty was reported heading into the Western Barrens above Wyvern Dug," Erisa was saying. "Connel spotted them near Enly Ford on the seventh of Erasin, but there's been no sign of them since."

"I can understand them courting the mountain lords and trying to get a hold on the Gold Road," said Seregil, "but there's nothing in that direction but a few barbaric tribes. What in the world are they after up there?"

"That's what Connel hoped to learn. He set out to follow them as soon as we heard what was going on. Unfortunately, nothing's been heard from him, either—Alec, please do hurry with my tea."

An unpleasant tingling sensation that had nothing to do with the burning of his cheeks engulfed Alec briefly as he hurried downstairs. He took his time heating the water, dreading having to face her again. When he returned to the room, however, she simply thanked him and took her leave.

"Well now, this is a good enough bed, but only wide enough for one. Where are you going to sleep?" Seregil yawned, stripping off his tunic. Apparently he had nothing to say on the subject of Alec's eavesdropping.

"As your apprentice, I guess I'd be expected to sleep in the stable," Alec ventured, not relishing the prospect.

"You're thinking like a tinker's brat. What good would you be to me out there? Your place is in front of the door in case we have any visitors in the night. Make yourself a pallet."

As they settled down to sleep, Alec found himself thinking of the drysian again.

"Have you known her long?" he asked, looking up into the darkness.

"Erisa? Oh, yes."

It became evident after a moment's silence that Seregil considered this sufficient reply. Alec decided to press on. "How did you meet her?"

For a moment he thought Seregil had gone to sleep or was refusing to answer, but then he heard the bed ropes creak.

"I had business at Alderis," Seregil told him. "That's in Mycena, near the coast. It was a difficult job and I was new at my trade, very young. Anyway, I botched it and got caught. My captors expressed their displeasure most emphatically and discarded what was left of me rather far from the town. They thought I was dead; I remember having a few doubts on the matter myself. When I woke up several days later, I was in a hut and there was Erisa."

"I'll bet she has powers beyond just healing," Alec said, remembering the sharp tingle from her staff.

"She can control people if she chooses. I've seen her do it, though she dislikes the power for the most part. I'll tell you something, though. She's saved my life several times, and I hers, but I'm a little nervous around her. You seldom know what a drysian's thinking, or how they see things."

"She knew I was listening."

Seregil chuckled in the darkness. "She'd have known if still was listening. Don't worry, you do it very well for a beginner. Now you'd better get some rest. We have a busy day tomorrow. You need outfitting, and I want a good look at those soldiers."

Alec heard the bed creak again. Below their window, waves lapped softly at the pilings, lulling him into a comfortable doze. He was just drifting off when Seregil's sudden laugh startled him awake again.

"And you've got us singing for the mayor!"

5