A Ghost of a Chance

"Th-th-they did?" Jonny's eyes cleared a little.

"I would bet fair coin on it. It's just the kind of thing they would do." He kept a tight hold on his temper; this was all in the past. Nothing could be done about it now-except to rectify what the Guild had done himself.

"B-b-but they s-s-said I c-c-couldn't s-s-sing, or wr-wr-write m-m-music-" he objected. "And I c-c-c-can't."

"Jonny, when did anyone ever teach you to do those things?" Talaysen asked gently. "Those are skills, not things that you absorb just by being around Bards. Ask Rune; she'll tell you."

"Two years," Rune replied, leaning back into the wagon so she could be heard. "It took me two years to learn those things, and several different Masters."

"You see?" Talaysen's lips tightened. "Now if you really want to know what I think was going on-it's simple. The Bardic Guild is full of lazy, self-centered fools. They saw you had no Master, you weren't important to anyone, and in fact, no one in this country even knew you were here. So they decided you were too much trouble and sent you out the door."

Jonny nodded, slowly, his own hands clenched at his sides, knotted into tight little white-knuckled fists.

"Then what did you do?" Talaysen prompted. "After you left?"

"I w-w-worked. At wh-wh-whatever I c-c-could. Wh-wh-when the Faire came, I w-w-worked the Faire. Animals, m-m-mostly. Animals l-l-like me."

Talaysen could well imagine how the inarticulate lad had sought refuge in caring for creatures who didn't demand speech of him.

"How did you get from Kingsford to the Kardown Faire?" he asked.

"H-h-hiring fairs," the lad said simply. "G-g-got j-jobs all over. Had a j-j-job with a herder b-b-brought me here, b-b-but he sold his g-g-goats, and he d-d-didn't need me, and the m-m-man that b-b-bought them had his own h-h-h-herders."

Hiring fairs. That made sense. Hiring fairs were held in the spring and the fall, mostly for the benefit of farmers looking for hands or servants. Sometimes other folk would come looking for skilled or unskilled laborers-and Talaysen had heard of fairs that even had mercenaries for hire. The problem was, the unskilled labor jobs seldom lasted more than a season, as Jonny had undoubtedly learned. "So, that got you to the Downs. When?"

"Ab-b-b-bout two w-w-weeks ag-g-go," he said, sighing heavily. "Was all right d-d-during Faire, b-b-but there wasn't nothing f-f-for me after."

Gwyna laughed without humor. "True, when the Kardown Faire is over, the town pretty much dries up, unless you're an experienced hand with sheep. Shepherd's classed as skilled labor, not unskilled, and the only person that might be trusted to come on without experience is a Gypsy."

"And I take it you've always applied as unskilled?" Talaysen asked the young man. "And you've never learned a trade?"

He shook his head dumbly.

"G-g-got n-n-no one," he whispered. "And n-n-nothing. N-n-no g-g-good for anything. I w-w-was h-h-hungry, and I s-s-saw you b-b-buying th-th-things. I th-th-thought you w-w-wouldn't m-m-miss a c-c-copper or t-t-two."

"You play the harp the way you just did, and you say that?" Talaysen replied indignantly. The young man's mouth opened and closed as he tried to say something; Talaysen held up a hand, silencing him.

"You listen to me," he said fiercely. "You're among friends now. The Guild Bards may be fools, but the Free Bards aren't. I don't ever want to hear you say that you aren't good for anything. Not ever again. Is that understood?"

The young man had scooted back on the bunk as far as the limited space would permit when Talaysen began the tirade. With wide eyes, he nodded his agreement.

Both Gwyna and Rune had turned around, and their eyes carried a message to him that was child's play to read. Not that he minded, since he'd already made his decision about this young man.

"All right," Talaysen said, as much to them as to Jonny. "You're a Free Bard now. We'll undertake to do for you what the Guild should have. You, in turn, will have to abide by our rules. No theft, no troublemaking, no law-breaking. Treat us the way you would treat your family. When we play together, it's share and share alike, no holding anything back for yourself. Abide by those and we'll teach you everything we know, take you with us, with chores and profits shared alike. Will that do?"

For a moment, Talaysen feared the young man might burst into tears. But instead, he pulled himself up, looked each of them straight in the eyes, and said, with only a trace of a stammer, "Y-yes, sir. That w-will do. Y-you have my w-word on it."

"He'll need an instrument," Gwyna said from the front bench, her attention seeming to be entirely on the team. "He can use my harp until we get him his own-unless I find one I like better."

This time Talaysen distinctly saw him blink away tears before replying. "Th-thank you," he said. "Very much."

"I'll teach you lute, since we have two," Talaysen continued. "In fact, if it won't bother the drivers, I can begin now."

"It won't bother the drivers," Rune assured him. "And we're making splendid time. We'll be just outside Abbeydown at sunset; that's about two hours from now, which is more than enough time for a first lute lesson." She turned and grinned, and wriggled her fingers. "As I should know. Go ahead and use mine."

The young man looked completely overwhelmed, and paralyzed with indecision, unable to think of what to say or do next. Talaysen solved his problem for him, stripping Rune's lute of its case and putting it into his hands.

"Now," he said, positioning Jonny's fingers. "This is an A-major chord. . . ."

Three more days brought them to Ralenvale, and the Saint Brisa Faire. Technically, this was the first of the Harvest Faires that took place during the autumn months, since it featured all of the traditional Harvest Faire activities. There were competitions in vegetables, livestock and farm activities like tossing hay; contests in baking, preserving and handicrafts. There were races for anything that ran, from humans to ungelded stallions. Most of the trade here dealt with farm livestock, from chickens to enormous draft horses. The nobly born Sires-unless they thought of themselves as "gentlemen farmers"-seldom attended Saint Brisa's, but their stewards and seneschals did. It was barely possible that the quartet could find their wintering-over position through them.

Since this was the end of summer, few people wished to call it a "Harvest Faire." Winter was too close now, and no one wanted to be reminded of that. To reinforce that, there was a tradition that if anyone had the poor taste to refer to Saint Brisa's as a Harvest Faire, winter would arrive six weeks early.

Talaysen had no idea if that was true or not; he was looking forward to it as a chance to meet up with some of Gwyna's kin. Most especially he wanted to speak with Peregrine, a Gypsy horse-trader who had a reputation as a mage, and was reputed to deal regularly with elves.

Because they were here every year in such numbers, the Gypsies had their own traditional camp for this Faire; outside the Faire palisade, and on one side of a spring-fed pool. The other side was where most folk watered their beasts, but it was said that the spring was haunted-some said by the spirit of a jilted shepherd-and no one would camp there except the Gypsies and their Free Bard friends.

There was already a substantial group in place when they drove their new wagon up the trail towards the camp. Enthusiastic greetings met them when their identity was established, and Gypsies swarmed towards them.

But when Gwyna stood up on the wagon-seat, and announced to the entire camp that Rune and Talaysen were vanderie-in the Gypsy tongue, wedded-the greetings turned into an impromptu wedding celebration. In fact, for one moment Talaysen was afraid they'd all demand that the pair wed again, just so the entire gathering could witness it.

Talaysen was just glad that they no longer had to worry about setting up a camp, for they would have had no chance to do so. A swirl of adolescents descended on the surprised pony-mules, and had them unharnessed, rubbed down, and picketed with the rest of the camp-beasts before the poor mules knew what had happened. The wagon was parked in the outermost circle, pulled there by a dozen Gypsy men amid the cheers of the rest. And the entire party was carried off to the great fire in the center of the camp, where food and drink of every description was pressed upon them. As soon as they settled into seats around the fire, more Gypsies broke out instruments and struck up a dancing tune.

Even Jonny found himself seized upon and greeted with the same wild enthusiasm as the others, for all that he was a stranger to them. Talaysen was afraid at first that he might bolt for the wagon to hide, or even worse, just run away. But he didn't; he stayed, and even though Talaysen saw his eyes were wide with surprise tinged with apprehension, he managed a tremulous smile.

The Gypsies-particularly the girls-were chattering at him like so many magpies; half in their own language, and half in the common tongue, most of it completely unintelligible. Talaysen thought about interfering, then hung back, waiting to see how Jonny would handle it. The young man was going to have to learn to deal with crowds of strangers some time; far better that it be a friendly crowd.

Jonny let the group carry him along; let them press food and drink into his hands, and sat where they put him, still with that shy little smile that was slowly, slowly warming. He didn't speak-not surprising, since he was still painfully embarrassed by his stutter-but he let his eyes speak for him, and for the Gypsies, that was enough.

He'll do, Talaysen decided, and turned his attention to his own greeting-party, as they tried to press enough food and drink on him for five men.

Later, when the party had quieted down, Talaysen excused himself from the circle of musicians that had claimed him, and went wandering over the camp. Peregrine was here; he'd found out that much. But he hadn't appeared at the fire or at the dancing as darkness fell. Then again, Talaysen hadn't expected him; although he was a superb dancer, Peregrine seldom displayed his talent to such a large circle.

There was no point in looking for Peregrine; he'd learned long ago that Peregrine would permit himself to be found when Peregrine was ready. So it didn't much surprise him to find the Gypsy appear discretely at his elbow as he exchanged greetings with the clan chief.

"How goes your journeying, my brother?" Peregrine asked, when the amenities had been attended to and he turned to greet the Gypsy who some claimed was a mage. The Gypsy looked much the same as always; ageless, lean face, muscular body of a born fighter or dancer, bright black eyes, and long, flowing black hair without a single strand of gray.

Talaysen raised an eyebrow. Something is going on here. Peregrine has never called me "brother" before-only "old friend." "Strangely," he supplied.

"How, strangely?" the Gypsy asked, leading him to a pair of stools in the relative privacy of the shadow of his wagon. He took one; Talaysen settled on the other. From here they could see most of the camp, but because of the shadow, most of the camp could not see them.

"I have heard a new music," he replied, following the Gypsy way of circling around a subject for a while before plunging in. No Gypsy ever came straight to the point on any serious subject. If he had come out and asked Peregrine about magic, the Gypsy would assume he wanted to talk about something else entirely. Small wonder those who did not know them found the Gypsies infuriating to speak to.

"Music of what sort?" Peregrine returned, patient as a falcon waiting-on, as they moved their stools to get a better view of the camp.

"Music that is not heard by the ears," Talaysen stated calmly. "Music that sings to the thoughts, unheard, and sometimes unnoticed. Music that follows its own melody, and not that of the musician."

Peregrine was very quiet for a moment. "Music that causes things to happen, perhaps. Or so it seems. Music that the musician must match his own song to."

"Yes." Talaysen offered only that one word answer. Peregrine sat in silence again; in silence offering bread and sausage, in silence pouring wine. It was Talaysen's turn to be patient. While the offering of food and drink was a kind of ritual of hospitality with most Gypsies, he sensed that this time it represented something more. An offering of fellowship, perhaps. . . .

"I have waited for you to come into your power, my brother," he said, when the food was accepted and eaten, and the wine drunk. "That was the meaning of my greeting. I have long known that you and a handful of others among the Free Bards were among the drukkera-rejek-the mages of music-as I am. The sign of the power is without mistaking to one trained-as is the sign that a mage has come into his power. And now-there is much that I must tell you, and little time to do it in."

Talaysen's pulse quickened.

"So this is magic that I have touched-" Talaysen would have said more, but Peregrine hushed him, and the Bard subsided into silence.

"It is magic, indeed; it is the magic that the Bards and the elves both use. And there is one here who would speak to you." Peregrine waved his hand in an unobtrusive signal, and a shrouded shadow detached itself from the back of the wagon to approach them, and resolve itself into a two-legged creature enveloped from head to toe in a hooded cape. Talaysen had not seen anyone there, nor had he noticed anyone move there while he and Peregrine were speaking. He restrained himself from starting with surprise only with great effort.

The figure pulled back the hood of its cape to show that it was male-and elven.

Now Talaysen started, his hand going briefly to the hilt of his knife before dropping away.

He trusted Peregrine; the Gypsy had apparently invited the elf here. And besides, if the elf truly wanted Talaysen dead, the knife would be of little use against him. Striking him down where he sat would be child's play for an elven mage.

"Stars light your path," he said, instead. The solemn elven mouth lifted in a slight smile, and the elf moved a few steps closer.

"I see you have courtesy when you choose, mortal." The elf came within arm's length of them, then examined Talaysen as if the darkness and dim firelight was more than enough for him to see by.

Maybe it is. Elves were popularly supposed to have enhanced senses of hearing and sight.

"I have courtesy when I am not constrained against my will, and when I am an invited guest instead of being considered a superior type of pet," he replied boldly. "We mortals have a saying 'like begets like.' That holds true with manners as well as livestock." Peregrine bit off a bark of a laugh, and the elf nodded, his smile now ironic.

"I warned you not to match wits with a full Bard," the Gypsy mocked. "And this one most of all. Not just because of his training as a Bard, which makes of words a weapon. Talaysen dares to speak only the truth-which makes his speech bite all the sharper when he chooses to make it so." Peregrine's feral smile gleamed whitely in the darkness. "He has fangs, this one."

"I would not care to match either wits or magic against this one, new and raw as he is to his power," the elf replied, with complete seriousness not at all affected by the gypsy's derisive speech. Then he turned back to Talaysen. "Listen, for I bear word for you from our High King. He knows what occurred, and you need not anticipate reprisals. To Master Wren, he says, 'Think not to be caged, for that has been forbidden.' To Lady Lark, he says, 'Courage is rewarded.' And he sends these tokens-"

The elf held out a pair of slender silver bracelets that gleamed in the firelight, with a liquid sheen, so perfect it looked like the still surface of a pond. "Place these upon your wrists; they shall close, never to be removed, but fear not. They are meant to mark you as mortals with the High King's favor." Now the elf smiled, a wry smile that mimicked Peregrine's. "There shall be no more dances with lightning."

Peregrine laughed at that, in a way that made Talaysen think that he'd heard at least part of the story. The elf raised an eyebrow at him, knowingly.

Talaysen reached out gingerly and took the cool silver bracelets, sliding one over his hand. And as promised, once around his wrist it shrank to fit comfortably, the metal band becoming just a fraction thicker in the process. His stomach felt a little queasy, watching it-this was the first time he'd ever seen magic close at hand, magic that affected the material world. There would be no removing this "token" without first removing his hand.

"Thank you," he said to the elf, and meant it. "We have enemies enough without angering the Fair Ones."

"Oh, you angered only a greedy hothead with no thought but his own pleasure," the elf replied off-handedly. "He got his own desert, and that speedily. That it was delivered by a mere mortal simply humiliated him beyond bearing. There were those in his own court who thought he had gone too far when he took you, and were certain of it when he set the storm upon you. The High King has cooled his temper, I promise you."

"Still, I thank you," Talaysen replied. Then added with a rueful grin, "Is it now safe to cross a Faerie Ring, even by accident?"

The elf laughed aloud. "Safe enough, e'en by accident," he said. "With polite invitations tendered to you once you are within it to play for a brief evening. Your fame has traveled from Hill to Hill, and I think you should expect such invitations in the future. There will be many who wish to see the mortal Bards that could subdue King Meraiel. And more who will wish to hear your side of the tale."

And with no warning and only those parting words, he swirled his cloak about his shoulders and stepped into the shadows, to melt into them and vanish completely. As Talaysen had not seen him arrive, so he had no idea how the elf left-although he thought he heard a faint whisper of music as the shadows swallowed him.

Peregrine sighed, and shook his head. "Melodramatic, as ever," he commented. "Trust an elf to make a great show of simple leave-taking."

Talaysen chuckled, and relaxed a bit more. "Was that what you wished to show me and speak to me about?" he asked. "I must admit, that alone was worth being here for." He glanced over his shoulder at the now-empty shadows at the tail of the wagon. "I haven't said anything to the others, but the fact is, I've been uneasy about camping outside of settled lands ever since that particular incident occurred. This little trinket"-he tapped the bracelet-"takes a tremendous load off my mind."

Peregrine sobered. "In part, but only in part. I must speak to you of magic; of the usage and taming. Some of what I tell you, you may not understand for years-but it is all important, and I must ask you to pay close attention and grave it deeply in your excellent memory. If all goes as we wish, I may be able to continue to teach you for years to come. But if Fate rules against us, this may be all the instruction you will ever receive. I would give you as much as you can hold, planning for that."

Talaysen nodded, and quickly put himself into the little half-trance he used when he memorized lyrics in a foreign tongue. Everything he heard would be remembered, regardless of whether or not he understood it.

"Good." Peregrine took a deep breath, and held his hands out. A soft blue glow played over them, and Talaysen heard a faint, flute-like song, somewhere deep inside of him. "This is the way of the inner path, the hidden power. The way of magic. And now-it begins. . . ."

Rune watched Gwyna out of the corner of her eye, and grinned. There was no doubt about it; Gypsy Robin was well and truly smitten with their new charge, even though she might not know it yet.

She didn't act a great deal differently; in fact, it wasn't likely that anyone else noticed. But she paid no attention to anyone else in the camp, and when over the course of the evening several young men came up to her and whispered invitations in her ear, she declined them all with a shake of the head. That was not normal. Gwyna had a reputation as a lusty lover that rivaled any of the male Free Bards, and Rune had never heard of her declining all invitations for dalliance before. And especially not when several of those she declined had been her lovers in the past.

But she didn't leave the firelit circle with anyone, not even for an hour. And she stayed with Jonny, who smiled much and said little.

He was doing very well, now that he had begun to relax. The Gypsies paid no heed to his stutter, which was putting him at ease. He had begun to laugh at the jokes, and look up from his knees occasionally.

Gwyna was praising his melodic ability just now, which made him blush. Over the past two days, he had set melodies to several of Robin's lyrics that were easily the equal of any of the younger Free Bards' efforts. "Oh, but it's true," she said, to his mumbled disclaimer. "The words come easily to me, but melody? Never. You have the hardest part, Jonny."

"B-but I c-cannot find w-words," he replied earnestly. "I am j-just n-not cle-cle-cle-cle-cle-cle-cle-cle-oh d-d-damn!" His face twisted up, and Rune started to get to her feet, afraid that such a blatant exposure of his stutter would send him fleeing to solitude.

But he stayed, as the silence deepened, and the Gypsies held their breaths, sensing how precarious his moment of courage was. He stared at his fists which were balled up on his knees, and Rune hoped that it was not because he was about to go silent again.

Finally he looked up from his clenched fists, and managed a feeble smile. "D-d-damn it," he repeated. "S-s-stupid s-s-stutter. Cle-cle-cle-I s-s-sound l-l-like a k-k-kestrel."

A relieved laugh answered his feeble joke, and Giorgio, one of the largest of the clan, slapped him lightly on the back, with a care to his thin body and small stature. "Then you have named yourself, my friend!" he boomed. " 'Master Kestrel' you shall be! And never disparage the kestrel, for he is bolder for his size than even the goshawk, brave enough to take on enemies that would make a meal of him if they could, brave enough even to attack the human who comes too near his nest!"

Giorgio raised his mug of wine. "To Master Kestrel!" he shouted.

The rest followed his lead. "To Master Kestrel!" they replied, Rune shouting just as loudly as the rest. And when she had drained her mug in the toast, and looked again, Jonny's eyes were shining, and he no longer stared at his hands.

Later, Gwyna even coaxed him out of his seat to dance with her. By then, Gwyna's other suitors had noticed her interest in the young musician, and had turned their attentions elsewhere. Rune couldn't help wondering at that point if Gwyna herself realized what had happened to her. She finally decided that the Gypsy probably hadn't recognized the symptoms of a condition she had caused so often in others. Gwyna had been heart-whole until now, enjoying her companions the way she enjoyed a round of good music or a dance. The oldest game of man and maid had been a sport to her, and nothing more.

I don't think it's a sport anymore, Rune thought, with amusement. I wonder how long it's going to take her to notice that her outlook's changed in the past few days.

The music, dance, and tale-spinning continued on long into the night, until the stars had swung halfway around in their nightly dance, and the moon had set. At moonset, the Gypsies and Free Bards began to trickle away to tents and wagons; singly, in pairs, and in family groups with sleeping children draped like sacks over their parents' backs. Just as Rune started to yawn and wonder where Talaysen was, he appeared at her side and sat down beside her.

"Where have you been?" she asked-curiously, rather than with any hint of accusation. "You said you were going to talk to Peregrine, and then no one knew where you were. I thought the Earth had swallowed you up."

"It almost did," he replied, rubbing his temple with one hand, as if his head ached.

She saw a gleam of silver in the firelight, and caught at the wrist of that hand. He was wearing a silver bracelet that fit so closely to his wrist that it might have been fitted to him, yet which had no visible catch. "Where did you get that? From Peregrine?" she asked, fascinated by the trinket. "It's really lovely-but I thought you didn't wear jewelry."

"I usually don't. Here." He slipped an identical bracelet over her hand before she could pull away, and she muffled an exclamation as it shrank before her eyes to fit her wrist just as tightly as Talaysen's fit his.

He put his lips to her ear. "A gift from the High King of the Elves. His messenger says that it marks us as under his protection."

She blinked, as a thousand possible meanings for "protection" occurred to her. "Is that good, or bad?" she whispered back. "I don't think I'm interested in another visit under a Hill like the last one."

"According to the messenger, these are supposed to keep visits like that within polite boundaries. By invitation, and of reasonable duration." She lifted an eyebrow at Talaysen, and he shrugged. "Peregrine said that the messenger's word was good, and he's been dealing with elves for longer than we have. I'd be inclined to trust his judgment."

"All right," she replied, still dubious, but willing to take his word for it. "So what else have you been doing, besides collecting bits of jewelry that are likely to get us condemned by the Church as elf-loving heretics?"

He chuckled, and put his arms around her, drawing her close to him so that her back nestled against his chest and they could both watch the dancing. "Nothing much, really. Just learning things that would get us condemned by the Church as renegade mages."

She restrained herself from jumping to her feet with a startled exclamation. "I hope you're going to explain that," she said carefully. "Since I assume it has something to do with that music we've both been playing with."

"Peregrine is a mage. It seems that we are, too. He told me that he'd identified the fact that we've 'come into our power' by something he saw when we showed up at camp. Then he gave me a very quick course in the Bardic use of magic, most of which I haven't sorted out yet." He sighed and his breath stirred her hair. "It's all in my head, though. I expect we'll get it figured out a bit at a time."

"I think I'm relieved," she replied, after a moment to ponder it all and turn the implications over in her mind. "I don't think it's a good idea to go wandering all over the countryside, playing about with magic without even knowing the first thing about it."

"That's almost exactly what Peregrine said, word for word," Talaysen chuckled. "He gave me quite a little lecture on-"

The bracelet tightened painfully around Rune's wrist, and she gasped. Her first thought was that the elven-made object was trying to cut her hand off-but then, it released the pressure on her wrist just as quickly as it had clamped down.

And Talaysen released her. He sat up quickly, and scanned the area outside the fire.

"There's someone out there, someone using offensive magic," he said, in a low, urgent voice. "Peregrine told me that these bracelets, being magic, would react to magic."

"Offensive magic?" she repeated. "But what is it? I don't see anything going on-how do we know it's being used against us, or even against the camp?"

He hushed her, absently. "We don't," he said unhelpfully. "But Peregrine will know. We might not be seeing anything because whoever it is may be using something to watch us, or to try and identify someone. Peregrine has all kinds of tricks and traps around this camp-and whoever it is will trip one of them sooner or-"

A cry of anguish from behind them interrupted him, and Rune turned just in time to see a pillar of flame, twice the height of a man, rise up from the shore of the pond.

A moment later she realized that it wasn't a pillar of flame-it was a man, standing bolt upright, transfixed in agony, burning like a pitch-covered torch.

She turned away, her stomach heaving, just in time to hear Peregrine shouting in the Gypsy tongue, of which she only knew a few words.

She couldn't make out what he was saying, but the warning was clear enough. She flattened herself to the ground, instinctively. And just in time, for an arrow sang out of the darkness, buzzing wasp-like past her ear, and thocking into the wood of a wagon just where Jonny had been sitting a moment before. Two more followed it, both obviously aimed at Jonny, before the Gypsies got over their shock and counterattacked.

She had no weapons to hand, and no idea of where the enemy was, so Rune stayed right where she was, as angry Gypsies, men and women both, boiled out of the camp. They headed for the place where the arrows had come from, ignoring the man who was still burning.

He had fallen and was no longer moving; the Gypsies parted about the grisly bonfire as if his presence was inconsequential. They spread out over the area around the pond with torches in one hand and knives at the ready.

But after an agonizingly long time, it still didn't look as if they were finding anything. Rune got slowly to her feet, and made her way over to where Jonny and Gwyna had taken shelter behind a log-seat.

"Are you all right?" she asked Jonny, who nodded, his eyes wide and blank with fear.

"How about you?" she said to Gwyna.

The Gypsy sat up slowly, her mouth set in a grim line. "I've been better, but I'm not hurt," she replied. "What in the name of the Lady was that?"

"I don't know," Rune told her-as movement caught her eye and she saw Peregrine striding towards her, something shiny clutched in one hand, and a long knife in the other. "But I have the feeling we're about to find out. And that we won't like it when we do."

Peregrine sat back against the wooden wall of the wagon, his face impassive. "This was no accident."

Rune snorted, and gave Peregrine one of her most effective glares. "Why heavens, Peregrine, I thought assassins with magic amulets always hung around outside of farm Faires, looking for random targets!"

The Gypsy met her look with one of unruffled calm.

"All right," Gwyna said irritably. "We know it wasn't an accident. And I don't think anyone's going to doubt that Jonny was the target. Now why? Who's behind this, and why are they picking on a simple musician, a lad with a stutter, who wasn't even a good thief?"

Talaysen shook his head and sighed. All five of them were huddled inside Peregrine's wagon, one of the largest Rune had ever seen, so big it had to be pulled by a team of four horses. The windows had been blocked with wooden shutters, and the only way at them was through the door at the front, guarded by Peregrine's fierce lurcher-hounds.

And still Rune kept feeling her neck crawl, as if there was someone creeping up behind her.

Jonny shivered inside one of Peregrine's blankets, a glass of hot brandy inside of him, his eyes telling them what his tongue couldn't. That he was frightened-that was easy to understand. They were all frightened. But Jonny was terrified, so petrified with fear that he balanced on a very thin rope of sanity, with an abyss on either side of him.

Peregrine watched Jonny with an unfathomable expression, and the rest of them watched Peregrine, as the silence thickened. Finally the Gypsy cleared his throat, making them all jump nervously.

"The secret to all of this is-him," he said, stabbing a finger at Jonny. "This is not the first such attack, is it, boy?"

Jonny started, and shrank back-but as Peregrine stared at him, he shook his head, slowly.

"And it will not be the last. Two of the men got away. They will return." Rune didn't know why Peregrine was so certain of that, but it didn't seem wise to argue with him.

"So-young Kestrel. It comes down to you. You are the target of men who are very expensive to hire. And you say that you do not know the reason." Peregrine rubbed his upper lip thoughtfully. "Yet there must be one, and before we can decide what to do about this, we must discover it."

Gwyna obviously could stand no more of this. "Well?" she demanded, waspishly. "Are you going to stop playing the great mage and tell us how we're going to do this?"

Peregrine turned his luminous black eyes on her, and she shrank back. "I am," he said slowly. "But it is a path that will require courage and cooperation from one who has no reason to trust me."

He turned his gaze back to Jonny. "That one is you," he said. "Are you willing to place your mind and soul in my hands? Tell me, Kestrel, are you as brave as your namesake? Are you willing to face your past-a past so fearful that you no longer remember it?"

Jonny stared at him, and Rune wondered if Peregrine had snapped that last link he had with a sane world.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Talaysen touched Jonny's forehead, and his closed eyelids didn't even flutter. He held the young man's wrist for a moment, and found a pulse; slow, but steady. He had seen Ardis work this spell before, but never for this effect; for her, the sleep-trance was an end, not a means. He wondered if Ardis knew of this application: to search the patient's memory, even finding things he had forced himself to forget. "I think he's ready," he said to Peregrine. "As ready as he's ever likely to be."

"Oh, he is ready," the Gypsy replied. "What he may not be prepared for is his own fear. I hope in the days you have been with him that you have taught him trust to go with that fear, else all is lost." Peregrine leaned forward and tapped the young man's forehead three times, right between the eyes. "Kestrel," he rumbled, "do you hear me?"

"I hear you," Jonny whispered-without so much as a hint of a stammer. Out of the corner of his eye, Talaysen saw both Gwyna and Rune start with surprise.

"You will answer my questions. The one you know as Master Wren will also ask you questions, and you must answer him, as well. Do you trust him?" Peregrine's brow furrowed as he waited for an answer.

"I do," Jonny said, his voice a bit stronger.

"Good. You have placed your trust well. He and I will not do anything to harm you; and we will keep you safe from harm. We will be with you, even though you cannot see us. You will believe this."

"I believe this," Jonny affirmed.

Peregrine gestured curtly. "Ask," he said. "You know more of this than I, and you know more of the world that spawns those who hire assassins than any gypsy. I would not know what questions are meaningful and what without meaning."

Talaysen leaned into the tiny circle of light cast on Jonny's face by the lantern Peregrine had used to place him in a trance. "Jonny-Kestrel-do you hear me?"

"Yes," the young man sighed.

"I want you to remember the first day you came to Kingsford, to the Guild Hall. Can you remember that?"

"Yes." Jonny's forehead wrinkled, and his voice took on the petulant quality of a sick child. "I'm cold. My head hurts. My eyes hurt. Master Darian says I'm going to get better but I don't, and I feel awful-"

"He relives this," Peregrine said with a bit of surprise. "This is useful, but it can be dangerous, if he believes himself trapped in his past. Have a care, Master Wren."

Talaysen swallowed, and wet his dry lips. "Jonny, can you remember farther back? Go back in time, go back to before you entered Kingsford. Can you remember before you were sick?"

Abruptly the young man began to scream.

Peregrine moved as quickly as a ferret, clamping his right hand over the young man's forehead, and his left on Jonny's wrist. The screaming stopped, as if cut off.

"Who are you?" Peregrine said, with no inflection in his voice whatsoever.

Who are you? Talaysen thought, bewildered. What kind of a question is that?

"I-I can't-" Jonny bucked and twisted in Peregrine's grip; the mage held fast, and repeated the question, with more force. The young musician wept in terror-Talaysen had heard that sort of weeping before, from the boys that had been ruined by their Guild Masters. . . .

Peregrine had no more pity than they had, but his harshness was for a far better cause. "Who are you?"

''Ah-" Jonny panted, like a frightened bird. "I-I-ah-Sional! I'm Sional! I have to run, please, let me go! Master Darian! Master Darian! They're killing my father! Help me! Ahhhhhhhhh-"

"Sleep-" Peregrine snapped, and abruptly the young man went limp. The mage sat back on the bunk, and wiped sweat from his brow. He looked to Talaysen as if he had been running for a league. He was silent for a moment, staring at the young musician as if he had never seen him before.

"So." Peregrine took a sip of water from the mug safely stored in a holder mounted on the wall just above him. "So, we know this 'Jonny Brede' is nothing of the kind, and that his true name is Sional, and that someone wished his father dead. Do you know of any Sionals? Especially ones who would have run to a Guild Bard for help?"

Talaysen shook his head. Rune and Gwyna both shrugged. Peregrine scratched his head and his eyes unfocused for a moment. "Well, whoever he is, he is important-and long ago, someone killed his father. I think we must find out who and what this father was."

"Are you going to hurt him?" Gwyna asked in a small voice.

Peregrine shook his head. "I can promise nothing. I can only say I will try not to hurt him. The alternative is to find out nothing-and one day there will be nothing to warn him of the assassin in the dark. I think this the lesser of two bad choices."

Gwyna nodded, unhappily. Peregrine touched Jonny's-Sional's-forehead again. "Sional, do you hear me?"

"I-hear you," said a small, young, and very frightened voice. It sounded nothing like Jonny; it sounded like a young child of about twelve.

"How old was he, when he came to you at the Guild?" Peregrine asked Talaysen. The Bard furrowed his brow and tried to remember what the nondescript child had looked like on the few occasions he had seen the boy. The memory was fuzzy, at best, and the child had been quite ordinary.

"Twelve? Thirteen?" He shook his head. "He can't have been much younger than that, or I'd have noticed. Thirteen is just about as young as apprentices are allowed to be in Bardic Guild. Children younger than that are just that-children. They aren't ready for the kind of intensive study we give them. Their bodies and minds aren't suited for sitting in one place for hours at a time."

"Good. That gives me a safer place to start." He raised his voice again. "Sional-you are ten years old. It is your birthday. You are waking up in the morning."

Abruptly all the tenseness poured out of Sional's body, and a happy smile transformed his face.

"Good, a safe time, and a happy one," Peregrine muttered. "Sional, what is to happen today?"

"Today I get my first horse!" Sional's voice really did sound like a ten-year-old's, and Talaysen started in surprise. "It's my birthday present from father, a real horse, not a pony! Victor and I get to go to the Palace stables and pick it out, too! Victor's going to teach me trick riding! Then Master Darian will give me the present from mother that he's been saving for me; it's a harp, a big harp, with lots more strings than my little harp!"

"Why isn't your mother giving it to you?" Peregrine asked, curiosity creeping into his voice.

"She's dead," Sional said, matter-of-factly. "She died when we moved to this place. That was a long time ago, though. I hardly remember her at all. Just the way she sang-" His voice faltered a moment. "She was a wonderful musician and Master Darian says that if she hadn't been a woman and a princess she'd have been a Bard and-"

"Stop." Peregrine glanced over at Talaysen, with one eyebrow raised. Talaysen didn't have to ask what he was thinking.

A princess? Is that real-or just a child's fantasy and an old teacher's flattery?

"Sional, who is your father?" Peregrine asked, slowly and carefully.

"The King." Once again, the voice was completely matter-of-fact. "I have to call him My Lord Father; Master Darian calls him Your Majesty. Everybody else has to call him Your Royal Highness. But I don't see him very often."

"Stop." Peregrine was sweating again. "Sional, where do you live?"

"In the Dowager's Palace."

"No, I mean what land do you live in?"

"Oh, that. Birnam. It's the red place on the map. The green one next to it is Leband, the blue one is Falwane, the yellow one is-"

"Stop." Now Talaysen was sweating.

"Do realize what we have here?" he whispered. "This is the Crown Prince of Birnam-no-the King of Birnam!" He groped for Rune's hand and held it.

"Tell me!" the Gypsy demanded. "Tell me what you know of this!"

"I have to think," Talaysen replied, shivering despite the heat of the wagon. Dear God, what a cockatrice they had hatched! Their foundling was the rightful King of Birnam-and small wonder there were assassins seeking him. The current King was not likely to tolerate any rivals to his power.

"About six years ago, I think it was, the King of Birnam was overthrown by his brother. Mind you, the only reason I know about this is was because I was on the Guild Council at the time, and we were dealing with that entire business of Master Darian. The old man came to us with a boy he called his apprentice, claiming sanctuary with our branch of the Guild because he was supposedly in danger as a supporter of the former King."

"So your understanding is likely to be accurate, if sketchy?" Peregrine asked.

He nodded. "We did do some checking with the Guild in Birnam. The way I heard it, the brother slipped his men into the palace by night, murdered the King and all his supporters, and by dawn there was a new King on the throne and all the bloodstains had been politely cleaned away."

Peregrine snorted. "How-tidy of them."

Talaysen shrugged. "At that point, I imagine that there was nothing anyone could do. Darian swore to the Guild that he'd escaped death at the hands of the assassins as one of the old King's retainers-and he swore that both the King and his only child were dead. Obviously that wasn't true."

"Obviously," Peregrine said, with heavy irony. "Well, our Kestrel has turned into a most peculiar cuckoo. What are we to do with him? It is plain that his uncle knows that he is alive, and where he is, or we would not have killers at our wagons."

"Can't we hide him?" Gwyna asked, but her voice betrayed her own doubt.

Peregrine confirmed that doubt with a shake of his head. "Not possible," he said. "The amulet I found upon the man my trap took was one of seeking. No matter how or where we hid him in this land, they could find him with another such. He himself has confirmed that there have been attempts to slay him before this."

Talaysen remained silent, as Gwyna and Peregrine discussed other possibilities; concealing the young man with magic, or even asking the elves to take him under one of their Hills. That was chancy; what the elves took, they might not want to give back, once they'd heard young Sional play. He had the glimmering of an idea then-

It had occurred to him that there was too much they didn't know, and the only place to learn that information was in Birnam. So why not go there?

After all, why would the current King ever look for Sional in his own kingdom? The assassins could comb all of Rayden, from border to border-but if the object of their search was in the last place they expected him-

"We don't know nearly enough," he said, into an opportune silence. "We don't know if this is an idea of the King's, or if it's something one of his advisors thought was best. We don't even know if this is something set in motion long ago and forgotten. This King may be a tyrant-there may already be a movement in place to topple him that only lacks a focus. It seems to me that Jonny-I mean, Sional-ought at least to find these things out. Until he does, no matter where he goes or how he runs, he'll be running away from something, not to something."

Peregrine raised his eyebrows thoughtfully. "A good point, my brother," he acknowledged. "And there are things about the young man now that the assassins cannot know. Unless I miss my guess, they have associated him with you, but only at a distance, and as a chance-met set of friends. They would be looking for a group of three men and a woman-not two couples. Rune has been in breeches most of the time, yes?"

Rune shrugged. "It's habit mostly," she said, "But yes. And most men don't look twice at me in breeches, they assume I'm a boy."

"So now you wear skirts, and become most extravagantly feminine. Master Wren, we shall dye your hair as black as mine, but with magery, so that the dye neither grows out, nor washes out." Peregrine grinned. "And if I ever wished to be a rich man, I would sell the working of that spell, eh? It is a pity it only is effective on one who is already a mage."

"So we'll have two young gypsy couples traveling together. Good." Talaysen played that over in his head, and found no flaw with it. "Most wagons look alike to outsiders. Once we're on the road, there'll be no telling us from dozens of others without one of those amulets. Those have to be expensive; I'm sure not every hired killer has one."

"And if you leave by darkness tomorrow, we can make certain you are not followed," Peregrine told him. "Now, what of the Kestrel? Do I wake him with his memories, or no?"

"With them," Gwyna put in quickly. Peregrine turned to stare at her. "If I was in his place, that's what I would want," she said defensively. "While he still thinks he's Jonny Brede, he doesn't know why these people want to kill him. As Sional, he will. It seems to me that makes them less frightening."

Talaysen nodded. "I agree with her. Fear is worse when you don't know what it is you're afraid of. Right now these people are simply faceless, irrational attackers from a nightmare. Once he has his memories and identity as Sional back, they aren't faceless anymore, and they have a reason for what they're doing."

Peregrine nodded slowly. "Very well. Let me see if I can do this. He has built him a very stout wall between himself and those memories. It may take some doing to breech it."

When they showed no sign of moving, he coughed delicately. "I have no need of you now, and this were better done in private."

They took the hint, and left, crawling over the driver's seat and the lurcher-hounds draped over and on top of it, and down to the ground again.

"Now what?" Gwyna asked.

"We go back to our wagon and sleep," Talaysen told her and Rune both. Rune nodded; Gwyna looked rebellious. "Look, we can't help Peregrine and we're all tired. We need sleep. We already know the worst, and nothing we do or don't do in the next few hours is going to change it. So?"

"So we sleep," Gwyna sighed. "Though personally, I don't think I'm going to be able to do anything but stare into the dark."

Gwyna had been wrong, of course; despite their tension, all three of them fell deeply asleep once they reached the safety of their beds. And thanks to their Gypsy friends, their beds were as safe as possible in an open camp. The wagon had been moved from the outer to the inner circle, and a half-dozen fierce lurchers had been tied about it to keep away intruders. The wagon itself was stoutly built enough to withstand a siege once the doors and shutters were closed. Talaysen thought it a pity to shut out the cool night air, but better stuffy air than unexpected knives and arrows.

When he woke, it was near noon by the sun coming through the little smoke-hole over the charcoal stove, and the fourth bunk had a clothed and wakeful occupant.

It was Kestrel-and yet it wasn't Jonny Brede. Talaysen couldn't put his finger on the differences, but they were there; in the way the young man held himself, in the direct way he met Talaysen's gaze.

"Sional?" he said, tentatively.

The young man nodded, solemnly. "B-better stick to K-Kestrel, though," he replied, his stammer improved, but still very much a part of his speech. "Th-that's not a n-name we ought to b-be using much."

"Point taken." He sat up and scrutinized the young man carefully. He looked much older in an indefinable way-now he looked his real age; when he had been "Jonny," he had looked several years younger. Interesting.

"P-Peregrine t-told me what you want to d-do," the young man continued. "I th-think you're r-right; I th-think w-we ought to at l-least f-find out wh-what my uncle th-thinks he's d-doing. Th-there's j-just one thing-he s-said y-you w-were maybe th-thinking of f-finding a r-r-rebellion. W-well m-maybe I'm a p-prince, b-but I don't kn-know anything ab-bout b-being a K-King."

Talaysen's estimation of the young man rose several notches. Whatever Master Darian had taught him-whatever he had learned himself in his years of rootless wandering-this was the wisest conclusion he could possibly have come to. "That's very astute of you, Kestrel," he said. "I'm not being patronizing; you're very right. If there is a movement afoot to depose your uncle, we are going to have to investigate it very carefully. They may only be interested in putting a puppet on the throne."

"And r-right now th-that's all I'd b-be," Kestrel replied without bitterness. "Th-there's some other th-things you should kn-know. My f-father. He w-wasn't a n-nice man. He p-put m-me and m-mother away in the D-Dowager P-Palace, and j-just tr-trotted us out on s-special oc-casions. Th-that's why she d-d-died. Sh-she c-caught s-something, and he d-didn't bother sending a d-doctor until it was t-too l-late."

"So-what are you getting at?" Talaysen asked.

"I d-don't kn-know, really," Kestrel said frankly. "J-just that I d-don't f-feel like g-going after my uncle f-for r-revenge, I g-guess. I hardly ever s-saw my f-father. I m-mean, I kn-knew who h-he w-was, and he g-gave m-me p-presents wh-when it s-suited him, b-but th-that was all. I s-saw him d-die by accident. B-but it w-was j-just s-someone I kn-knew d-dying, n-not m-my father. R-revenge w-would b-be p-pretty s-stupid."

He shrugged, and Talaysen read in that gesture that the young man was confused on any number of subjects, but that on this one he was certain: he was not interested in heroic vendettas.

"Most young men your age with your background would be champing at the bit, hardly able to wait to get their uncle at the point of a sword and give the big speech about 'You, scum, killed my noble, sainted Father! Now you die by the son's blade!' I was all ready to try and calm you down-"

"M-most p-princes h-haven't s-spent th-the last f-four y-years s-sweeping f-floors and t-tending g-goats," Kestrel interrupted, with that disarming matter-of-factness. "I d-don't know, I'm p-pretty c-confused. I j-just w-want t-to s-see what's g-g-going on. And I really w-want p-people t-to stop t-trying t-to k-kill me!"

"Fine," Talaysen replied. "We'll take it from there, and see where it leads."

"Good," Kestrel replied, nodding vigorously.

The young man's reaction gave Talaysen a great deal of food for thought, as they waited for darkness to fall so that they could sneak away. That reaction was, as he had told Sional, not what he had expected. It was a great deal more practical than he had anticipated.

It might be wise to see if there was a rebellion brewing; the rebels might be able to protect Sional better than they could. But then again-they might already have their figurehead for revolt, and they might not welcome the intrusion of the "rightful King" into their plans.

There was a possibility that they could stage Sional's "death" convincingly, enough to get the hounds called off. That was another plan to be discussed and plotted out.

Gwyna slowly coaxed a few more of his memories out of him over the course of the day. Talaysen slowly built a picture up in his mind of the boy Sional had been, some eight years ago.

A lonely boy; packed away in what was apparently a drafty, damp "palace" in constant need of repair, with a single, half-deaf servant and his tutor, Master Darian. That surprised him; Guild Bards-and Darian had been a Guild Bard, his credentials were impeccable-were not normally employed as tutors for boys, not even when they were princes. Although he could not be certain, Talaysen framed the notion that Master Darian had been a great friend and admirer of the unhappy Queen, and had volunteered his services in the capacity of tutor when the lady died.

The obvious romantic notion-that Darian was really Sional's father, and that Queen and prince had been mewed up out of sight because of the scandal-Talaysen discarded after only a few moments of consideration. If it had been true, the King would have gotten rid of the erring spouse and unfortunate offspring-either directly, or discreetly. There were a dozen routes he could have taken, and a dozen princesses who would have brought a great deal of advantage to Birnam as new brides. No, it seemed that Master Darian's relationship with the Queen was the same as Tonno's with Rune: friend and mentor.

So why had the Queen been put away?

Most likely was that the King disliked her intensely, but that she was too circumspect to give him a reason to be rid of her.

But then, why had the prince been discarded with her? In the hopes that he, too, would die, and leave his father free to seek a spouse more to his taste, with the urgency of the succession giving him a reason to urge the wife he wanted on his Councilors?

It wouldn't have been the first time that particular ploy had been used, particularly not when the first wife was one chosen for the King by his own father.

Sional, as he had said, had seen very little of his father. He had been in the Crown Palace completely by accident the night that his father had been murdered.

It would have been comic if the circumstances had not been so dire. He had discovered on a previous visit that there was a greenhouse full of fruit-trees that were forced to bloom and bear out of season. He got very little in the way of luxurious food; it seemed that he, Darian, and the servant were brought whatever was left from meals at the Crown Palace after the servants had taken their shares. He never saw out-of-season fruit, and boy-like, had decided to filch himself a treat. The greenhouse was just under the King's private chambers, and the way into it-if you were an adventurous child-was through the air vents in the glassed-over roof.

Not only had it been a marvelous adventure, it had been an unrivaled opportunity to spy on his mysterious and aloof father. Double the guilty pleasure for a single act.

Even better had been to discover that his father was not alone. Master Darian had described the goings-on between men and women in a singularly detached fashion that had left him wondering why anyone bothered. Now he saw why they bothered-and he stayed and stayed-

So he had been looking in the windows when the assassins surprised his father-and the lady-in bed, just about ready to finish their evening's exertions. The men sent to kill the King had not been expert, and in a panic at the lady's screams, they had also butchered her.

Terror-stricken, sick, and in shock, he had run straight to Master Darian, his only friend and protector.

Poor old man, Talaysen thought pityingly. No wonder we thought him half-mad. How did he do it? How did he smuggle a child out of a place crawling with killers, get the boy away, and smuggle him out of the country? He was no hero-he wasn't even young. He was an old, tired man with his best days behind him. One day I am going to have to write a song about him. Bravery and intelligence like that are all too rare . . . and we never even recognized them while he was alive.

Sional must have been in shock for some time, shock that made him terribly vulnerable to illness. Small wonder he took marsh fever crossing the fens at the Birnam-Rayden border. But that must have been a blessing to Master Darian, for during the boy's illness, he managed to convince him that he was someone else entirely-the boy named "Jonny Brede." And that made it easier to hide him.

The rest, Talaysen knew-except for one small detail. The reason why Jonny Brede had been unable to hold a job, anywhere.

The killers, the mysterious murderers, who would appear out of nowhere and try to take his life.

They'd made their first attempt right after Master Darian had died. He'd had three close calls, not counting the attempt last night, and on numerous occasions he had learned they were looking for him just in time to flee. Small wonder he'd been starving. The place Talaysen had offered must have seemed God-given-for surely if he moved about every few days, no mysterious killer was going to be able to find him!

Talaysen could hardly imagine the hellish life the boy must have endured. Having no friends for more than a few months, constantly hungry, cold, lonely-with people out of a nightmare one step behind him, and never knowing the reason why.

Now he knew one difference in Kestrel's demeanor: relief. Now Sional knew why the killers were after him. There was a logical reason. He no longer lived in an irrational nightmare.

Now he lives in a rational one.

Somehow, that made him angrier than anything else. Talaysen made himself a small promise. If and when they found Sional's uncle in a position of vulnerability, he was going to give the man a little taste of what he'd been dealing out to Sional all these years. Just a little.

But it would be a very sharp taste. . . .

They moved out by night, with Gypsies spread all over the downs on either side of the road to make sure they weren't spied upon, in company with three other wagons of the same general shape and size. The other three turned back at moonrise; Gwyna kept the ponies moving on, to the north. Across the downs and past the fens on the other side was the border with Birnam. It could be crossed two ways-by the causeway, or, if you were desperate, through the fens on paths only the march-dwellers knew. Talaysen guessed that the latter was the way Master Darian and Sional must have arrived. They would take the causeway. There was no reason not to-and every reason to be as open as possible.

Birnam itself could cause them any number of problems. None of them, other than Sional, had ever been there. The few Gypsies who had could give no real details about the place, and in any event, they hadn't been much past the border area. The fens were too tedious to cross, and in bad seasons, the causeway flooded. Once you crossed the fens, Birnam had no large faires; most commerce took place at weekly Markets instead. Goods moved through the auspices of the Trader's Guild. The Free Bards were not yet numerous enough to expand outside this kingdom, so Talaysen had no idea of what the lot of the traveling musician was like within Birnam.

Not terribly helpful, he thought sleepily, taking his turn at the reins while Gwyna dozed inside. Somehow young Kestrel was sound asleep-but perhaps, like a soldier, the young man had learned to take sleep when and where he could get it.

He and Rune were to drive while the moon was up, giving the mules light enough to see the road. Since it was a straight track across the downs, bounded on either side by hedgerows, there was small chance they'd get lost. The worst that could happen would be that the mules would stop, pull the wagon over to the side of the road, and proceed to gorge themselves or sleep in their harness until someone woke up and got them back on the job.

Even if something frightened them, they likely wouldn't bolt-or so Gwyna claimed, saying that was the reason the Gypsies preferred mules over horses as draft animals. She claimed that when startled, they would probably stand stock still and wait for whatever it was that frightened them to show itself to be either aggressive and dangerous, or not a threat after all.

"And if they do bolt," she'd told him, "Let them have their heads. If they run, they've either been hurt badly by something you can't see, or they've seen something they already know is dangerous. They probably have a better idea of what's safe to do when there's real danger than you do. Let them follow their instincts."

As if he could do anything else! If they took it into their stolid heads to run off, he wasn't even sure he'd be able to hang onto the reins.

Rune climbed out of the back to sit beside him on the driver's bench. After a moment, she began massaging his shoulders, and he sighed with pleasure.

"I've been thinking," she said. "About magic."

"So have I," he replied. "I know we don't know everything. I know Peregrine doesn't know everything, however much he likes to pretend that he does."

"Exactly." She nodded her head vigorously. He glanced out of the corner of his eye at her, and smiled.

"Can I say something gauche and male?" he asked. "I think you look wonderful. The dress, your hair down, no leather hat hiding your face-"

"Oh, that's gauche and male, all right," she grinned. "But I like the compliment. I have to admit, sometimes I get a little tired of breeches and loose tunics. A pretty dress-well-Gwyna will probably tell you I was preening like a popinjay when we were going through the outfits the other women offered me and picking out the new clothing."

He cautiously took his attention from the road for a moment to steal a kiss. She stole one back.

"Now, about magic-" she said. He sighed.

There was no getting her mind off business when she was determined. "All right. About magic."

"For every offense in everything else, there's always a defense. I can't believe that there's no defenses against this seeking-talisman those killers are using." She braced herself against the swaying of the wagon over an uneven stretch of road, and waited for his response.

"I've been thinking the same thing," he said. "That was why I managed to talk Peregrine out of the one he took from the dead man. I was hoping we could find a way to fool it if we studied it long enough."

He transferred the reins cautiously to his left hand, and fished the talisman out of his breeches pocket. "Here," he said, handing it to her, and taking proper control of the reins again.

She examined it as best she could by the illumination of the three-quarter moon. It wasn't very impressive by either sun or moonlight; there wasn't much there but a small copper disk with a thin lens of glass cemented over it, suspended from a copper chain. She peered at it.

"Is there something under that glass?" she asked.

She had better eyes than he did. "Peregrine says it's a single strand of hair. He says that places where magic is used more openly tend to be very careful about things like nail-clippings and hair. We'd probably better assume that Birnam is one of those places. They'd probably been keeping every strand of hair he lost since he was a baby, and when they knew he was alive, they started making talismans to find him."

Talaysen had no idea how the thing had been made, but the fact that it had survived the fire intact was remarkable enough. It didn't look at all damaged, in spite of the fact that it had been the actual focus of Peregrine's defenses, the point from which the fire sprang. A distinct disadvantage of having a magical object; unless you also had a magical defense-which Peregrine called a Shield-your object could actually call an offensive spell to it, simply by existing.

Once they'd figured out how to outwit this thing, Talaysen planned to sink it in a deep well.

"Does it still work?" she asked.

"Try it for yourself," he told her. "Hold it in your hand and tell yourself that you want to find Sional."

She obeyed-and frowned. "It still works, all right. Nasty thing." She rubbed the hand that had been holding it against her skirt, although there was nothing physically there to rub off. Talaysen had done exactly the same thing after Peregrine had shown him the trick of working it.

"I haven't been able to figure out how it works," he confessed. "Though I have to admit, I haven't done as much with it as I might have if it didn't feel so-slimy."

She agreed, grimacing distastefully. "Still-I grew up working in an inn. I emptied chamber pots, cleaned up after sick drunks, mucked out the stables. It won't be the first time I've had to do something nasty, and so far, this doesn't make me feel any worse than one of those jobs. I'll see what I can do with it."

She was quiet for a very long time, her brow furrowed, her eyes half-closed. After a while he began to "hear," with that strange inner ear, little snatches of melody and dissonance.

When she finally spoke, he wasn't ready for it, and he jumped, startled.

"Sorry," she apologized. "I guess I should have moved or something first."

"It's all right," he assured her. "I was sort of dozing anyway, and I shouldn't have been. Have you gotten anything figured out?"

"Well, I think I know why Peregrine said nothing could be done about it," she replied thoughtfully. "This doesn't work like our magic-in fact, I'd be willing to believe that it wasn't made by a human at all."

"Huh." That made sense. Especially if you were doing something that you didn't want countered. There were pockets of strange races scattered all over the Twenty Kingdoms; it wouldn't be unheard of to find other races that worked magic. And unless you found another mage of the same race, your odds against countering what had been done might be high.

"That could be why it feels-and sounds-so unpleasant," he offered. "It's not operating by laws of melody that we understand, or even feel comfortable with. I've been told that there are some things living off by themselves in the swamps in the south that can make you sick by humming at you."

She nodded vigorously. "You know, that's really what's going on here; it isn't that it really feels bad, it's that it makes you feel bad. I had a chance to talk to a Mintak about music once; he said he couldn't stand human sopranos and a lot of human instruments because they were too shrill for him. And I couldn't hear half of the notes of a Mintak folk-song he sang for me."

He bent his head down so he could scratch the bridge of his nose. One of the mules looked back at him, annoyed at getting a rein-signal it didn't understand.

"Maybe what we need to do is figure out the logic, the pattern in it-then and try and disrupt or block that pattern with something we can stand?" he offered.

"I don't know," she replied, dubiously. "That could be like trying to catch a Mintak with a minnow-net. Or a minnow in a snare. But I suppose that's the best we can do right now. You want to try?"

He took the charm with distaste. "I don't want to, but I will. Besides, maybe some of this stuff Peregrine stuck in my head will help."

"Maybe," she replied. "It couldn't hurt, anyway, as long as you remember we aren't playing by human rules anymore."

"I don't think I could forget," he said, and bent with grim determination to his task.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Rune's stomach heaved. "You know," she said conversationally to Kestrel, as they neared the border-post at the edge of the fens, "if I didn't like you so much, I think I'd have left you back in the mud with that copper charm and saved myself this."

Heat pressed her down and humidity made her head ache. The ever-present reek of the marsh permeated everything. Gnats and midges buzzed in annoying clouds around her head, but thanks to the thick, sticky herb-juice the Gypsies had given them, neither landed nor bit. But the juice itself had a bitter, unpleasant smell, and that added to her misery. The sun glared down through a thick heat-haze, making the road shimmer and dance.

After much trial and error, she and Talaysen had worked out the counter to the magic of the talisman. Comprised of notes they felt more than heard, it only made them slightly ill to work. Just enough that Rune refused to eat anything this morning, since they were going to have to cross the border before noon. She hadn't wanted anything in her stomach, and right now she was chewing a sprig of mint in the vain hope that it would settle her rebellious insides.

Sional grimaced. "I'd d-do it m-myself, but I'm not g-good enough yet." He held out his hands and shrugged. "I w-wish I w-was."

"Oh, don't worry about it," she replied, closing her eyes to subdue another surge of nausea. "Besides, if I'd dumped you in the mud, Robin would have gone back after you, and then we'd have gotten to smell fen-stink until we cleaned you up."

As she opened her eyes, she saw him flush and turn away, and smiled in spite of her roiling stomach. Robin was in love with Kestrel, and he was returning her feelings with interest. How long it would last, she had no idea.

Nor did she know whether it would survive the kinds of pressures put on a would-be King. . . .

Worry about that if we get there, she told herself firmly. We have enough trouble to handle right now.

One problem they did not have to worry about was whether Sional would be recognized from a physical description. Anyone looking for Jonny Brede as he had last appeared would never see him in this young man. Regular meals and hauling the wagon out of soft spots in the road through the fens had put a lot of muscle on him, and the sun had tanned him as dark as any Gypsy. In clothing given by some of the younger men and his long hair tied back in a tail, he didn't look much like Jonny Brede, and even less like a prince.

The border-station grew from a dot at the end of the long, straight causeway, to a tiny blob of brown, to a doll's house with doll-guards, to something her eyes would accept as a building. This flat expanse of fen was disorienting to someone used to forested hills. There were no trees, no points of reference-just an endless sea of man-high grass stretching in either direction. Forever, as far as eyes could determine.

The border-guards had plenty of time to see them coming and take up their stations in a leisurely manner. No surprise inspections at this post, assuming anyone ever bothered inspecting at all. And if there should ever be hostilities between Rayden and Birnam, it was improbable that anyone would ever try to bring an army along this way.

She would not have been at all surprised to see that the guards were slack and slovenly, but in fact, they were the very opposite. Brisk, business-like, they did a brief inspection of the wagon and the occupants and sent them on their way. In fact, there were only two jarring notes.

The first was that they were plainly looking for someone. The serjeant in charge consulted a piece of paper and kept glancing from it to them, as if comparing them with a set of notes.

The second was that one of the men did not come out at all. Rune caught a glimpse of him in the doorway; he was not wearing a uniform of Birnam's soldiers, and she thought she saw a glimpse of copper in his hand-and that was when she thought she heard a bit of that unsettling drone that came from the seeking-charm. She increased the humming that rattled her teeth unpleasantly and made her stomach churn, and concentrated very hard on creating a barrier between Kestrel and the rest of the world.

Finally the inspection was over, and the man she'd seen moved to the door again, just long enough to shake his head at the serjeant. She didn't get a good look at him, but she thought he had a face that was so ordinary that the fact in itself was remarkable. And it occurred to her that if she was creating a disguise, that was precisely how she would go about doing so.

It wasn't until after they were out of sight of the guard-house that she stopped her humming and dropped her magical defenses. By then, they were nearing the end of the causeway, and in the distance there was a haze of green that marked the blessed presence of trees.

Gwyna fanned herself with her hat, her hair curling from the heat and damp. "Blessed Lady, no wonder no one comes this way," she said faintly. "It's fall, for heaven's sake! Doesn't it ever cool off in there?"

"All that shallow water holds heat very well, Robin," Talaysen said from his place on the driver's bench. "The damp air makes it seem worse than it is. Just be glad we had that juice Vixen made up to rub on us, or we'd have been eaten alive by insects, and the mules with us."

"I want a bath," Rune said, sick to death of feeling sticky and hot. "I want a bath, and fresh food, and I don't want to have to hum that Shielding spell again. Or at least, not for a while."

Kestrel, silent until now, roused at that. "D-did you s-see the s-s-sorcerer? The one in the guardhouse?"

"I did," she replied grimly. "And he was looking for you. For us. He didn't catch that we were what he was looking for, though."

"We hope," Talaysen replied pessimistically.

Kestrel shook his head. "He d-didn't. Th-they w-wouldn't have l-let us by. Th-they'd have k-killed us."

"True, oh doubting Wren," Gwyna said. "They haven't hesitated for a moment, before this, even when Kestrel was nothing more than a harmless boy. They would have had no reason to hesitate now, and every reason to cut all four of us down. After all, who'd miss a few Gypsies?"

Talaysen's shoulders relaxed. "You're right," he admitted. "I probably worry too much. I think of all the sneaking things I might try, then assume someone else would do the same things I would. But there's no reason for them to let us into Birnam to kill us, when they could kill us with impunity anywhere."

"Well, the first hurdle is passed," Rune told him. "We're in Birnam. Now what?"

"Now we find a good place to camp and people who are willing to talk, in that order," Talaysen told them all, turning for a moment to meet their eyes, each in turn. "And remember: this is the enemy's home ground. We have to be much cleverer than he is. Quiet, elusive, and completely harmless as far as anyone can tell. We have to keep the enemy's eyes sliding right past us."

"And m-most of all," Kestrel added unexpectedly. "W-we have t-to find out wh-what he's up to. And why."

"Exactly," Rune said. "Exactly. And maybe the why is more important than the what."

Kestrel met her eyes, and nodded.

But a week later they were no nearer to the answer to either question. They camped for the night in the shelter of an arm of a greater forest that stretched the length of Birnam, and set up a camp complete with a very welcome fire. Now that they were out of the marsh, it got cold at night, and the days of frost weren't far off. Rune sat and stared at the flames beside Talaysen, waiting for Kestrel and Robin to settle down too.

"If I were looking for a place to foment rebellion, I'd throw up my hands in despair," Talaysen said, as he leaned back against the tree trunk behind him. "These people are so contented it sounds like a tale. I find it all very hard to believe, except that the evidence is right before my eyes. The King can't have paid everyone off to pretend to contentment!"

Sional nodded, reluctantly. Rune held her peace. Both of the men had done their level best to find trouble; they had found nothing at all. No trouble, no discontent, just a placid, contented countryside. This was grazing land, full of sheep and dairy cattle, though it was not the hilly, stony ground of the downs they had left in Rayden. These hills were rich, covered with a lush grass that cattle thrived on; not only cattle, but every other grazing animal. And the people were as fat and contented as their cattle.

"I wish we could find someone to talk to that we knew we could trust," Talaysen said fretfully. "I don't like it. These people are like sheep; they're so happy with King Rolend that it makes no sense. Everyone has at least a little grievance against those in power!"

Rune fingered the elven-bracelet on her arm, then stopped and stared at it as an idea slowly formed in her mind. "Maybe we can find someone-at least, someone who's neutral. That is, if you're willing to trust the word of an elf."

Talaysen sat straight up, his laziness vanishing. "An elf? Where would we find an elf?"

"We call one," she told him, staring into his eyes from across the fire. "All four of us, together. I think that if we work as a group we're strong enough to manage it."

Talaysen licked his lips nervously; the other two watched her with speculation. "Wh-what did you have in m-mind?" Sional asked.

"There's a song we do, with the name of 'Elf-Call,' and now that I know about this magic we can do with music, I wonder just how close to the truth the title is," she said speculatively. "Especially since that friend of Peregrine's gave us these-"

She held up her wrist. Was it her imagination, or did the silver seem to shine with an especially brilliant gleam?

"So what do you intend us to do?" Talaysen asked, with one eyebrow raised.

"Well, we're in a forest, and there might be a Hill of elves around here," she replied, thinking as she spoke. "If we sang 'Elf-Call,' and thought about how we'd like someone to come talk to us-well, maybe someone would."

"We'd better hedge that in," Talaysen said grimly. "Put conditions around it, before we get ourselves in trouble. We'd better limit our 'wish' to elves nearby, and to elves who don't have anything particular they want to do tonight. I don't want to get another King angry with me!"

"Uhm-right." Neither did she, actually, One such experience was enough for a lifetime. "All right, how many conditions do we have?"

"Four, one for each of us," Gwyna supplied. "An elf who actually knows the answers to the questions we have, one who is willing to talk to humans, one who is nearby, and who would probably be amused by our ingenuity and audacity." She stood up. "Shall I get the instruments?"

Rune nodded. "Do that. I'll help."

"I'll ready the circle," Talaysen offered. "Kestrel, would you make sure we have enough wood for the fire? And food; we're all going to be hungry after this."

Sional nodded without speaking; while his stammer was much better, and improving daily, he preferred not to speak, if he could avoid it. Rune couldn't help wondering what that would do to his effectiveness as a leader.

Well, maybe they'll think he's just very wise, too wise to waste words.

She and Gwyna brought out the harp, Talaysen's round-drum, Gwyna's lute and Rune's fiddle. "Elf-Call" required a strong, hypnotic rhythm pattern, quite as complex as any of the instrumental parts. Talaysen was by far and away the best drummer of the four of them.

While Sional piled wood between his place in the circle and Gwyna's, she and Robin set up the instruments and tuned them. Talaysen positioned their cushions so that they would all be comfortable enough to concentrate, and so that each of them was precisely at a compass point. Talaysen had north; Rune east. Robin was in the south and Kestrel beside her in the west. Male faced female across the fire. This, they had worked out, was the best way to perform Bardic magic in a group. Much of what they were doing now was in the nature of experiment; in some things they had completely outstripped everything Peregrine had taught Master Wren, and in others, they had barely scratched the surface of those teachings.

They settled into their places, each taking up his instrument as if it was a weapon-

At least, that was the way Rune felt.

"I'll take the condition of 'friendly,' " she said. "That may be the hardest to find."

"Ah, 'nearby' for me," Gwyna decided. "I'm not as good as the rest of you are at this. That's going to be the easiest to concentrate on."

"'Knowledge.' " Kestrel chose with as few words as possible.

"That leaves me with 'willing,' the compliment to 'friendly,' and probably just as difficult a condition to fill," Talaysen finished. "All right are we ready? In tune? One run-through to get the fingers working and the mind set, then we start concentrating. Remember, listen for the under-song, and match it. And on four-"

"Mortals. So ponderous."

The voice behind Rune was full of humor and amusement, but it startled her heart right out of her body; she jumped a good foot, and dragged her bow across her strings with a most unmusical squawk.

With a full-throated laugh, their visitor stepped between her and Talaysen into the circle of firelight, stole a cushion from the pile behind her back and dropped gracefully down onto it. If all she had seen was his costume, she'd have known him for elven; no human could have stitched those fanciful silken feathers of scarlet and gold, a tunic in the likeness of a phoenix. But the sharply pointed ears gave his race away as well, and the distinctly unhuman cast of his features as he turned to smile at her.

"You really should have learned by now that you've trained your wills," he scolded gently. "For creatures sensitive to magic, you need only be thinking about your needs and channeling the magic with the thought of the music. For mortals, perhaps, as earth-bound as you are, you will need a formal ceremony, or the music sung aloud. But not for us. Now, what is it that I can answer for you? In return, of course, you will come to the Hill to play for our dancing tonight."

"Of course," Talaysen said with grave courtesy. Rune couldn't speak; she was still trying to get her heart to take its proper place in her chest. "Thank you for responding to us."

"Oh, how could I not?" the elf laughed. "You are legend, after all! The mortals favored by the High King-you do realize, don't you, that one day you'll have to perform for him? And the favor he will ask for his protection might be a weighty one. Or-not. He has his whims, does the High King."

His smile was a bit malicious, but Talaysen simply shrugged. "Nothing comes without a price," he said philosophically. "But what we would ask of you is so little that you may consider it inconsequential."

"And that is?" The elf crossed his legs tailor-fashion, propped one elbow on his knee, and rested his chin on his hand.

"We want to know what the people of this land think of their King-and what they thought of the last one-"

"What, this lad's father?" At Kestrel's start, he laughed again. "Don't trouble your head, child, your secret is safe with us. While King Rolend has the wisdom to welcome us and leave us in peace, we never meddle in mortal politics. So, you wish the tale of King Rolend and his wicked brother, King Charlis, hmm?"

"Wicked brother?" Talaysen raised an eyebrow. "Is that an elven judgment, or the judgment of history as written by the victor?"

The fire popped and crackled, flaring up briefly, and reflecting from their visitor's eyes. "Both, actually." The elf sobered. "I hope the boy there has no great illusions about the quality of his parent-"

Kestrel shook his head. "H-hardly knew him."

"Good. Your father should never have been given power, and that is our judgment. He was ill-suited to it, being spoiled and accustomed to having his will in all things. I take it you have been asking discreet questions of the fat herds out there?" The elf nodded towards the road and the dairy farms beyond. "And they have been full of praise for King Rolend? They are right to be. Under his brother, they and their lands groaned beneath taxes so ruinous that their children went to bed hungry one night out of three-and that here, in the richest land in the Kingdom. And what did the wicked King Charlis spend their money on?"

He looked at Rune, who shrugged. "Armies?" she hazarded, shifting her position a little.

"They might have forgiven armies. No, he spent it on his own amusement. On exotic pleasure-slaves, on foods from far beyond his borders; on magical toys and rare beasts for his menagerie. On extravagant entertainments for himself and his court-caging the gardens under a great tent and heating it until the trees bloomed in midwinter, flooding the walled court with water and staging a battle of ships." The elf shook his head, and his long hair rippled with the motion. "He neglected his Queen, who did not share his exotic tastes, and his son, who was an inconvenience. That neglect killed his Queen, and cost him the regard of that son. Oh, a few loved him. The Bardic Guild, whom he showered with gifts and gold. The men of the Church, whom he gave license to pursue anything not human as unholy and anathema-which meant ourselves, of course. The select courtiers he favored, and the Dukes and Sires, who he left to themselves, so that they could feud and rule their lands and people as they chose, and make riot of the countryside. But no one else."

"But King R-Rolend?" Kestrel asked. As far as Rune could tell, he wasn't the least upset by the unflattering description of his father.

"Ah, now that is interesting." The elf taped the bridge of his nose with a long, graceful finger. "He is mixed, like most mortals; some bad, but most good. He remitted many of the taxes when he stole the throne, and spent what was left in the treasury restoring the lands. The honest Churchmen, whom he raised up after casting a-down the corrupt and proud, favor him and his policy of tolerance to those not human. His people love him, and love his son, who is so like the father that one must look for gray hairs to determine which is which." The elf smiled sardonically, and cast a glance at the bracelets Rune and Talaysen wore. "He has received certain-considerations-from my people. The courtiers no longer receiving rich gifts do not favor him. The corrupt men of the Church curse his name and lineage. The Sires, who must now bend to the laws of the land, grumble among themselves. And the Bardic Guild is-very quiet, lest he recall where so much of the kingdom's coin vanished. From time to time men gather and speak of a 'rightful King,' and talk of rebellion, but nothing comes of it."

"No one is as perfect as you claim King Rolend is," Talaysen said dryly.

"Did I say he was perfect?" The elf shrugged, and his wing-like eyebrows flew up towards his scalp. "He is mortal. No mortal is perfect. He hears the rumors of a 'rightful King,' and he fears, of course. He has had men put to death for simply whispering such words. With every year, he grows less flexible, less forgiving, harder. Power brings him temptations, and he does not always withstand them. But as Kings go, there have been worse, and these people give praise to their Sacrificed God daily for the one they have."

He stood up from his cushion, so smoothly Rune hardly knew he was doing so until he was looking down at them. "Have I given you all that you desire?"

Talaysen looked over at Kestrel, who nodded, slowly.

"Well, then. I have answered your invitation, now you must answer mine."

"Willingly," Talaysen said, getting to his feet. Rune and the others did the same, gathering up their instruments. She cast a nervous glance at the wagon and mules; the elf followed her glance and thoughts with the lightning-quick understanding of his kind.

"Never fear for your goods and beasts," he said-he didn't quite mock. "They will be guarded. The fire will be tended. Now, to the Hill, and the feast, and the dancing!"

Certainly. And allow me to get my little dig in at you and yours, my friend. "Gladly," she said sweetly, as they followed him into the forest. "And we promise to stop when you are weary."

His teeth gleaming back at her in a vulpine smile were all the answer he gave.

The King's private study seemed full of lurking shadows tonight, not all of them born of firelight. Some of them were born of unpleasant memory.

Why did I ever take the throne?

Rolend's temple throbbed, and nothing the Healer-Priests did for him would make the pain stop. One of them had the audacity to tell him that he was doing it to himself. He slumped over his desk and buried his head in his hands.

He was doing it to himself. Whatever the hell that was supposed to mean.

The question of why he had taken the crown was rhetorical, of course; he'd usurped the throne to keep his brother from looting the country to the point where the people would rise up and slaughter anyone with a drop of noble blood in his veins. And that had been nearer than anyone but he and a few choice advisors even guessed.

Shadows danced on the wall, shadows that mimed the conflict of men and their dreams. He had hoped to capture Prince Sional; the boy had been young, young enough, he had hoped, to be trained. Young enough even to come to understand what his uncle had done, and why, and forgive him one day?

Perhaps. Perhaps not. It didn't matter. The boy's tutor had taken him and fled. For years he had forgotten the child-had hoped, when he thought of him at all, that the boy had died. But then the rumors had started-that the old man had fled to the Bardic Guild in Rayden, that he had the boy with him. There was no telling what hate-filled lies he'd brought the child up on; the Bardic Guild hated him because there were no more rich plums falling into their laps from the Crown. Doubtless the Guild in Rayden had seen to it that the boy learned only to hate and fear his uncle, and to dream of the day when he would take back the throne. Doubtless they had filled his head with idle ballads of foul usurpers and the noble heroes who threw them down.

Doubtless they had made him grateful to them for sheltering him-encouraged him to trust in their word, and the words of those who waited for his return.

Doubtless he was now a handsome young puppet for their playing; everything a King should look like, but nothing of substance. And certainly no more in his head but the insubstantial sugar-fluff of vanity and dreams.

The Bardic Guild was very, very good at creating the semblance of dreams.

Those Churchmen he trusted had warned him of this. When he heard their prophecies fulfilled, he acted. He dared be nothing less than ruthless, so he called upon the wizened, unhuman folk of the fens, the ones his people termed "goblins," and gave them Sional's hair, bidding them make him seeking-charms. And when the charms came back, wrapped in leaves, he gave them to his agents and told them to kill. His conscience had troubled him, but he had soothed it with visions of who would use the boy for their own ends, if they found him. He would not give them that focus.

He had slept better, then, except for the times when he agonized about ordering the death of a mere child-he had been sure, despite the three times that the boy had escaped, that eventually they would find him and dispose of him. He had been utterly certain of that-until tonight.

Tonight the last of his agents had sent him word. One of their number was dead, killed by magic. The boy was gone. No one knew where, or how. The entire area had been combed and recombed, and not a trace of him could be found. The Gypsies he had last been with professed to know nothing of him, and had closed ranks against King Rolend's agents. There were forty or more of them, and only three of the agents; the men had wisely deemed it time to retreat.

My hold on the throne is shaky enough. Once my enemies find out the boy lives-and they will-they'll track him down. He may even come to them. Even if he's still innocent-even if by some miracle the Guild did not fill him full of hate for me, they will when they find him. And they'll use him. A boy of eighteen has no chance against them.

He groaned aloud, and then looked up as footsteps from the royal suite warned him of someone's approach from the private rooms. He had no fear that it might be an enemy; his guards were loyal and alert, and the only way into the suite besides this door was through a window. But he hoped that it wasn't his wife; she was as dear to him as his right hand, but he did not want to be soothed at the moment.

"Father?" His son hesitated on the threshold, just within the reach of the firelight, and Rolend sighed with relief. Victor was welcome; he wouldn't try to pretend that troubles would just go away if he ignored them. And he wouldn't try to soothe his father. "Father, I heard you-ah-"

"It's my head again, Victor," he replied. "It doesn't matter; I was going to call for you anyway."

"Ah." The young man-twenty, and mature for his age-walked on cat-quiet feet into his father's study, then settled into a chair beside Rolend's desk. Looking into his son's face was like looking into a time-reversing mirror. The same frank brown eyes under heavy brows, now knitted with concern-the same long nose, the same thin lips and rounded jaw. "Bad news, I take it?"

"They've lost him." No further explanation was needed; Rolend had kept his son advised of everything from the day he'd taken the crown. That accounted for his maturity, perhaps. Sometimes Rolend felt a pang of guilt for having robbed the boy of a carefree childhood, but at least if something happened to him, Victor would have the knowledge, the wits, and the skill to keep himself and his mother alive.

"Oh." Victor's expression darkened with unhappiness. "Father-"

"Speak your piece." Victor was about to say something he thought Rolend wouldn't like, but the King had never forbidden his son to speak his mind before and he wasn't about to start now.

"Father, I can't be sorry. I think you were wrong to try and-" The young man hesitated, choosing his words with care. "To try to-get rid of him-in the first place. He has never done anything to give you a moment of lost sleep-never even tried to come home! Why should he try to conspire against you now?"

Rolend sighed, and tried once more to make the boy see the whole truth of the situation. He didn't blame Victor for the way he felt; the boy remembered his cousin quite clearly, and when Victor thought of the assassins his father had sent out to Rayden, he probably pictured himself in Sional's place. "Even if he were as innocent as a babe, son, he's still a danger to me. As long as he lives, he can be used against me. And the hard fact is, he's not the cousin who you taught to ride and the one you gave your old pony to. He's probably been fed hate and bitter words with every meal, and he's probably looking forward to spitting you like a skewered capon, right beside me."

Victor shook his head stubbornly. "I can't believe that, father. Master Darian loved Queen Felice, and he hated Uncle Charlis for what he did to her. He's the one that took Sion, and he took him into Rayden, not to the Guild here! You know that no branch of the Guild really gives a clipped coin for what happens to another, so long as nothing happens to them! I can't believe that Master Darian would bring Sion up to be as twisted as you think."

"It doesn't matter, son," Rolend sighed. "It really doesn't matter. Once the Church and the Guild here find out he's alive, they'll have him. And once the Church mages have him-the dark ones, anyway-they'll strip his mind bare and put what they want in there."

Now Victor fell silent, and nodded. Reluctantly, but in agreement. He'd seen at first hand what a dark mage could do to someone's mind, when they'd taken back what had once been a faithful guard from those who had captured him. No matter what had been in there before, when the dark mage was done, there was nothing left of the original but the shell.

"I don't like it," he said, finally. "But I can't think what else you could do."

"Do you think I like it?" Rolend burst out. He lurched up out of his chair and began to pace in front of the fire. "I've ordered a murder-I ordered the murder of a child. I sent those agents out when the boy was fourteen-perhaps fifteen! But what else am I to do?" He sat down again, heavily; buried his face in his hands, and confessed to his son what he would not have told another living man, not even his Priest. "I hate what I've done, and I hate myself for ordering it. And sometimes I think that perhaps this is my punishment from God for trying to murder a child. Maybe I deserve to find myself facing Sional across a blade. But what else could I have done?"

"I don't know, Father," Victor whispered. "I don't know."

Rune took her turn at the reins, with everyone else closeted inside the wagon. The capital city of Kingstone loomed ahead of them, a huge place that had long ago spilled out past its walls. She wondered what was going on in Kestrel's mind right now. They were near the end of their goal, and still he had not decided what he wanted to do-

Well, if he has, he hasn't told us.

The elf hadn't lied, or even exaggerated. The people of Birnam were content with King Rolend on the throne, and were secure in the belief that his son would be just as good a ruler as his father.

Nor had the elf made any mistake in the quality of King Rolend's enemies. He had them, but they were all too often the kind of men-and a few women-who made Rune's skin crawl. Selfish, greedy, venial, power-hungry . . . there were some honest folk among them, people who felt that the "rightful King" should be on the throne. Frequently they voiced a legitimate concern: could a man who had ordered the murder of his own brother, for whatever reason, however good, remain uncorrupted himself? How long would it be before he found other reasons to order the deaths of those who opposed him-and how long would it be before merely disagreeing with him became "opposing" him?

Power corrupted; power made it easy to see what you wanted as something that was morally "right." Power made it easy to find excuses. Had King Rolend already fallen victim to the seductive magic that Power sang?

Those who voiced those questions hoped for the "lost prince" to return as someone who had not yet fallen victim to that seductive song. Rune couldn't help noticing that they used the same words in describing this mythical Sional as the Priests used in describing the Sacrificed God. . . .

But behind all these well-meaning and earnest folk, these dreamers and mystics, there were always the others. The powerful who had lost the power they craved, the Priests who had been toppled from thrones of their own, the pampered and indulged who had fallen from grace.

If they found Sional they'd make him over into exactly the image the others craved. The pure innocent.

The pure innocent fool, who'll say whatever they tell him to say. . . .

But there was one possible way that Sional could win back his throne without becoming a puppet. To take it the same way that his uncle had. Except that instead of soldiers, he'd have Bardic magic on his side. Magic that might even make it possible to avoid killing King Rolend and the cousin he vaguely remembered.

And if that was what he truly wanted-well, Rune would back him, and she suspected that Talaysen would, too. They'd had some long, late-night discussions about good government, about the seduction of power. Discussions that reminded her poignantly of the ones she'd had with Tonno.

They'd slipped into more than a dozen meetings of these purported enemies of the King, most of which were held on Church grounds, which somehow hadn't surprised her much. She and Talaysen had gotten fairly adept at rooting out who the malcontents were, convincing them to reveal what they knew with a focused thought and a few hummed phrases of music. They were even more adept at going to the meeting-places cloaked, and persuading the guards with their magic that they were trusted conspirators. Once or twice, they'd even put guards to sleep that way. This magic, though it left them weary, still represented a lot of power, and it was very tempting to use it for more than defense. And it was in one of those discussions of power that Rune had realized with a little shock how easy it was to just use it. Power was as seductive as anything else, and now she could see why others had succumbed to the lure of it, even in the Church. How close had she and the others come to that kind of attitude, where the end was more important than the means, and all that mattered was that the end be theirs?

That was when they'd had other discussions, about the kind of people who were behind the uneasy stirrings of unrest. Unspoken agreement had been reached about the use of magic, then, and the late-night sorties into the camps of the conspirators ended.

She knew that Talaysen was worried. However well-meaning Sion was, how could he stay out of the hands of those people for long once he revealed who and what he was? And if he somehow managed to, against all odds, how long would he be able to hold his throne? How long could he play their game without getting caught at it?

She sighed, and the mules flicked back their ears at the sound.

They'd turn against him eventually-unless he managed to play the Church against the nobles, and vice versa-and use the Guild to keep both sides stirred up.

She shook her head, and rubbed her temple. Her head ached from all the unresolved problems. A man as old as Rolend, and as experienced, could probably do just that. In fact, there were some signs that he had begun to play that very game, now that his country was stable and prosperous. Several of the little cabals they had visited had been very suspicious of outsiders, and not as agents from the King, but as agents from one of the other groups. That must surely be Rolend's work, at least in part.

But could Sional play that kind of game?

I don't know. Talaysen could-but Sional-he's no older than I am. And I don't think I could, not for long.

And there was one final concern-insignificant so far as the fate of a kingdom was concerned, but one that was tearing her heart in two.

Gwyna.

Gypsy Robin had fallen in love with Kestrel, and he with her. And now, the nearer they came to the palace and the throne, the more Gwyna looked at Kestrel and saw Prince Sional.

Prince Sional, who could not possibly marry even with a commoner, much less with a Gypsy.

Gwyna grieved-characteristically, in silence, hiding her grief behind a smile and a quick wit. But she mourned Kestrel's loss already. Rune felt it, and she could do nothing, for there was nothing she could do. Their worlds could not be reconciled. If Prince Sional took his throne, Kestrel died.

If Prince Sional failed in his attempt to take his throne, Kestrel died.

But if Kestrel was to live, something must be done about the assassins. And what that solution was, Rune had no idea.

It wasn't possible that the King would believe that Sional didn't want the throne. And even if he did, he must know that the moment his enemies discovered Sional's existence, they'd try to use him.

So even if Prince Sional gave up his throne, sooner or later, Kestrel would die.

If Talaysen had any plans on that score, he hadn't confided them to her.

So they had their answers now-but they weren't any help. And Rune couldn't keep herself from feeling that she was driving their little wagon into a maze with no escape.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

The wagon seemed the safest place to stay, all things considered. Rune found a travelers' inn that would let them pull their wagon in behind the stable for a fee. It was clean, shaded and secluded back there; evidently there were often travelers staying in their own conveyances, and the inn had set up this little yard for them. A little more money produced fodder and water for the mules, and gave them use of the inn bathhouse. While the others got their baths, she fetched some hot food from the inn's kitchen; they were all tired of their own limited cooking abilities. They returned about the same time she did, and she went for her wash.

By the time she got back, it was obvious from the tense atmosphere in the wagon that Kestrel was about to make a decision, and had been waiting for her to return. He and Gwyna sat on one bunk, not touching, and Talaysen sat facing them. The food was hardly touched, Gwyna was sitting very still and her face had no color at all, and Talaysen had not bothered to light the lamps.

Rune climbed into the wagon, lit the lamp beside the door herself and shut the door behind her. Kestrel cleared his throat self-consciously, and Gwyna jumped.

"I-I d-d-don't want the d-d-d-d-damn th-throne," he said, thickly. "I w-wouldn't b-be ha-ha-half the K-King m-my uncle is. I'm a g-g-good m-musician. I'd be a ho-horrible K-King!"

Gwyna made a curious little sound, half laugh, half sob. Talaysen let out the breath he'd been holding in, and Rune sat down on the bunk with a thud.

"I can't tell you how glad I am that you've decided that," Talaysen said, wiping his brow with the back of his hand. "I agree with you. But that just gives us another problem. How the hell are we going to keep you alive?" He reached for his mug of cider and took a long drink. Rune picked up a barely warm meat pie to nibble on. Their problems weren't over yet; in fact, as Talaysen had pointed out, they'd just begun.

"C-can't we k-keep d-doing what w-we have b-been?" Kestrel asked, after a moment of forlorn hesitation.

Rune and Talaysen both shook their heads, and Rune spoke first. "Sooner or later he's going to find another kind of seeking-charm, and give the new ones to his agents. We won't know how to counter them, and they'll find you again. And while we're waiting for that to happen, some of these other lunatics we've seen are going to realize you really are alive, and come looking for you themselves. Then what?"

She put the pie down; her appetite was entirely gone.

Sional set his mouth stubbornly and raised his chin. "I t-tell them t-to g-go t-to hell."

"And when they find a mage to change your mind for you?" Talaysen asked, gently. "Oh, don't shake your head, Kestrel. They've got mages, especially Church mages. And ask Gwyna how powerful some of them are. She spent several days as a bird-a real bird, with feathers-and for anyone who can turn a woman into a bird, taking over your mind would be a mere exercise." He closed his eyes for a moment. "What we've begun to learn-it's nothing compared to what happened to Gwyna. I think that one day, we will be powerful enough to protect you from all of them. Rune, especially; I've never heard of anyone facing down elves the way she did. But we aren't that strong yet."

"I-I d-d-d-" He paused, and flushed. "I h-have to t-talk t-to my uncle," he said, his eyes meeting first Rune's, then Gwyna's. "I d-don't kn-know what else t-t-to s-say. H-he w-wasn't always l-like th-this. M-m-maybe if I t-talk t-to him, he'll und-d-derstand. And l-leave m-me al-l-lone. Th-that's th-the only th-thing I c-can th-think of." His face twisted up, and he looked about to cry. "R-Robin, I l-l-l-"

She caught his hands in hers. "I know that," she replied. "I do, I know that. I love you. And if there's any way I can make you safe-"

"How are we going to get you to him?" Rune asked. "That's the first question-"

"I c-c-an remember th-the p-palace, g-g-good enough to d-draw a m-map," he said. "If Master Wr-wren c-can d-do what P-P-Peregrine d-did to m-make m-me remember-"

"I can," Talaysen said slowly. "Then what?"

"I f-find a w-way to t-talk t-to my uncle alone," Sion repeated. "In h-his b-bedroom, m-maybe. If I c-can t-talk t-to him alone, h-he'll have to believe me!"

"First problem," Rune pointed out. "Getting into the palace."

"You can leave that to me," Talaysen told her. "I've slipped into a fair number of buildings in my time. The easiest way in is as a servant, openly, since servants are invisible to those they serve."

"Next problem-what if your uncle won't believe you?" Gwyna was still pale, and she didn't look as if she liked this plan at all.

"Magic," Rune said. "At least we can keep him convinced long enough for us to get out of here and somewhere safer. After that-well, our influence is going to wear off after a while."

"I say we can fake Kestrel's death once we're well away," Talaysen said unexpectedly. "I faked my own, I ought to be able to do his!"

Slowly Gwyna's color came back, and she nodded. "That should work," she said, and grinned a little-a feeble grin, but it was there, and real. "If it makes him safe from his uncle and those greedy fools, that's the best solution of all."

Rune sighed with relief. Good sense to the rescue, she thought. "The only question I can see is, the fake won't hold forever-it didn't for Master Wren. Then what? We're right back at the beginning!"

Talaysen chuckled, much to her surprise, and evidently to Kestrel and Robin's as well, from the incredulous looks they gave him.

"Kestrel wasn't a famous Bardic Guild Master who refused to quit making music," he said. "That was my own fault. If I'd had the sense to become a carpenter or something, they'd never have found me again. Kestrel, on the other hand, is not going to go find himself another position as a prince, and no one but us knows he really is a Bard."

"All right," Rune said. "I can accept that. So now the question is-how to we get into the palace? Everything we want to do hinges on that. If we can't get in and convince Rolend long enough to give us that breathing space to fake a death, we can't make all this work."

"I've been thinking for the past week or so," Talaysen said slowly. "Trying to come up with a plan that would work whether Kestrel wanted the crown or not-and I think I've got one."

He couldn't possibly have said anything that would have had a better chance of capturing their attention. As one, they leaned forward to listen.

Talaysen nodded, as if he was satisfied. "Remember what I said about servants being invisible? Think about that-then remember what Rune and I can do to fog peoples' thoughts and confuse them. Combine those two factors, and I think we can get in ourselves, find a way into the private quarters, for all of us, and once we have that, we have everything. Now-here is what we do, to start. Or rather, what Rune and I do. . . ."

* * *

Rune scrubbed pots with a will, her hands deep in lukewarm, soapy water. and kept her head down with her hair straggling into her eyes.

She hummed as she worked, concentrating on not being noticed. The girl whose clothes she had stolen was her same height and general build, but she looked nothing like the Bard-and while she could use magic to keep people from looking too closely at her, if she worked too hard at bespelling people now, she'd have no energy reserves for dealing with King Rolend later. The kitchen suffered from lack of light, though, which was to her advantage. Talaysen and the other two looked a great deal more like their own counterparts, but she was the weakest link here; there simply weren't too many women with Rune's inches.

Too bad she didn't have another job, Rune thought, with an idle corner of her mind, as she chipped away at some burnt-on porridge that had been left there since this morning. When I left the Bear, I thought I'd left this behind me too. Ick. I hate pot-scrubbing.

The stone-walled kitchen, too small for the number of people crowded into it, was ill-lit, with only two lanterns for the whole room, cramped and hot; in the inevitable confusion of dinner preparation it had been fairly simple for them to slip into the root-cellar to hide, then to lure individuals away and knock them out with a song of sleep. Their victims would be found in the cellar some-time tomorrow, but the chances of their being discovered before then was fairly remote-Talaysen had waited until the last foray after roots and onions was over before sending them to dreams. There was no reason for anyone to go down there now, and raw roots weren't high on anyone's list of edibles to steal. King Rolend's expert handling of his people extended to his kitchens and servants-they were all well-fed, and if they stole anything to munch on, it would be a bit of meat or a pastry, not a raw onion.

The pot-scrubbers ate first, even before the courtiers and high servants that the meal had been prepared for, so the only time anyone said anything to Rune and her fellow cleaners, it was about the dirty dishes. Other than that, they were left alone.

She freed a hand long enough to wipe sweat from her forehead and the back of her neck. The other three had taken the place of other cleaners and sweepers. Gwyna was two stations over, in charge of pewter mugs and utensils; Talaysen and Sional had been in charge of carrying garbage out to the compost-heaps. Now they waited, brooms in hand, for the signal that the nobles were finished eating. That was when they and the other cleaners would trot up the steps into the dining-hall-

That is, that's what they would do if they really were sweepers.

The lowest of the low, the invisibles. Dull-witted, just bright enough to clean up after others, not bright enough to be any danger to anyone. That was the kind of servant Talaysen had been looking for to impersonate. Someone no one in his right mind would ever suspect.

It wouldn't be long now. The great ovens were closed; the last of the pastry courses had been sent out. Servants were trickling out of the kitchen, in the opposite direction of the stair they were going to take; heading for the barn-like servants' hall and their own dinner. A gong sounded above, as Rune watched them out of the corner of her eye. That was the signal that dinner was over, and no one was lingering over food or wanted something else. The cooks gathered up the last of their utensils and dropped them in the nearest dishtub. The cleaners could now begin their job-

The chief cook and all her helpers swept out of the room, chattering and complaining, which left no one to oversee the kitchen itself. The drudges on dishwashing duty were normally half-wits at best, like Maeve; dull creatures that would do anything they'd been set at until the last dish was washed, or until they were stopped and set on something new. They wouldn't notice when Gwyna and Rune left.

Talaysen and Sional hung back from the rest of the sweepers; like the drudges, the sweepers weren't the brightest of folk. Probably no one would notice that they were missing until noses were counted-and then it would be assumed that the missing men were either off drinking filched wine, or tupping the missing drudges. When servants were missing, their superiors generally assumed "improper conduct" rather than anything sinister, and the lowlier the servant, the more likely that was. That was why Talaysen had chosen the ones he had; the ones thought to be shiftless, ne'er-do-wells. When he and Rune had made their earlier foray into the kitchens, there'd been trouble with those two men over laziness and slacking. For the kitchen steward, it would simply seem a repetition of the same, with the tall simpleton drawn into the group to make up a foursome.

Gwyna and Rune dropped what they'd been working on back into the dishtubs and joined the men. As they had figured, the other drudges didn't even look up form their work.

"Follow me," Talaysen whispered, propping his broom in an out-of-the-way corner full of shadows where it might not be seen for a while. Kestrel did the same. Rune wiped her hands on her apron, grateful that the King's concern for his servants extended to keeping them bathed and clean. Some of the drudges she'd seen in inn kitchens would have given them away by the reek of their stolen clothing, and there weren't any fleas to torment the conspirators with unexpected biting at precisely the wrong moment.

They followed Talaysen up a back stair-not quietly, but yawning and letting their feet scuff against the stairsteps, talking among themselves as if they had just finished dinner and were heading for bed. Talaysen first, followed by Kestrel-then Robin and Rune together, as if they were two best friends, whispering and giggling behind Kestrel's back. This part of the staircase was well and brightly lit, and it would have been impossible to slip past the guard posted at the entrance to the second floor-so they weren't even going to try. Instead, they were going to be as obvious as possible.

The guard on the landing of the second floor-the floor with the royal suite on it-nodded to each of the men, and winked slyly at the women. Rune giggled and hid her face behind her hand as if she was shy. Robin gave him a saucy wink right back, and wrinkled her nose at him.

He gave her a pinch as she went by; she squealed and slapped playfully at his hand-but once again, the King's care for choosing his servants came to the fore. He made no effort to follow them, and no effort to back up his flirtation except a verbal one.

"Saucy wench like you needs a man t' keep her warm o'nights," the guard said, with a grin, but without leaving his post. "Tell ye what, ye be tired of an empty bed, or cold around about midnight, ye come lookin' for Lerson, eh? By then I be off."

"I might," Gwyna replied smartly, not betraying by so much as a blink that the guard had just told them something they hadn't known-when the change of guard was. "Then again, I might not!"

"Ah," Lerson growled playfully, faking a swat at her with his halberd. "Get along with ye!"

She scampered up the stairs behind Rune, who'd waited for her. They giggled together all the way up to the next landing-which was unguarded-where they opened and closed the door twice, to make it seem as if they'd gone to their quarters.

But instead of leaving the stairs at the servants' floor, they continued quietly, carefully, to the top, and the seldom-used storage rooms for old furniture.

Talaysen had been here before them, in the guise of a dim-witted fellow assigned to carrying up barrels of summer clothing, and he had made certain that the door at the top of the stairs was well-oiled. Nevertheless, Rune held her breath as he opened it, they all filed through it, and he closed it behind them without a betraying creak.

The darkness in this hall was total, and the air was thick with dust. She suppressed a sneeze.

This part of the plan was pivotal. She waited as Talaysen felt his way past them; then took Gwyna's hand at his whispered command. Gwyna held Kestrel's hand, and Kestrel had hold of Talaysen. Careful questioning of palace servants on Talaysen's last visit had told him of the existence of a spiral stairway that went straight from the Royal Suite to the attics, with no doorways out onto any other floors. It was guarded-but by only one man. It came out in a linen closet at the end of the hall, and had been built so that bedding and furniture could be lowered down the hollow center of the stairs by means of a block and tackle. That had been Talaysen's second job here-lowering down the boxes of warming-pans and featherbeds for winter. With no landings in between, the stairs could be made as narrow as feasible and still be used by men to guide the burden up or down. There was, however, no railing. And the stairs were bound to be just as dark as these attics.

Talaysen found the door and opened it, a little at a time. It did creak, and Rune just hoped that the guard at the bottom would attribute the tiny squeaks as Talaysen moved it, bit by bit, to mice.

She tried not to think of the drop that awaited her if she missed her step, and waited until it was her turn to follow Gwyna into the stairway. She felt her way along the wall, and inched her foot over the doorframe.

There. Her hand encountered the rough brickwork of the inside of the staircase, and her foot found the first step. And the abyss beyond it.

She pulled her foot back, and began the agonizingly slow progress down.

There was no way of telling time in the thick, stuffy darkness. She thought she heard Gwyna breathing just ahead of her, and the occasional scuff of a toe against the stone of the stair, but that was all. She couldn't have seen her hand if it was right in front of her face, rather than feeling the wall. She counted twenty steps-thirty-began to wonder if there was going to be an end to them. Maybe this was all a dream-or worse yet, maybe they were all really dead, killed protecting Kestrel, and this was their own private little hell, to descend this staircase forever and ever and never come to the bottom of it-

But before she managed to give herself a case of the horrors, her questing foot found only a flat surface, and she bumped into Gwyna.

Talaysen held his breath for a moment, and pressed his ear against the crack that marked the door into the linen closet. He heard nothing.

Good.

The King never expected any serious threat from above-so the guard on this stair was really one of the guards that patrolled the hallway beyond. And if what he had been told-under the influence of a "trust me" spell on another of the guards-was true, the guard stationed here was more in case someone broke in through one of the windows. He never checked in with anyone, from the moment he went on station, to the moment he turned his watch over to the next guard.

Talaysen eased the door open, slowly-this one, thank God, had been better taken care of than the one above. It opened with scarcely a squeak.

Now there was light; outlining the door at the other end of the closet. He motioned to the others to stay where they were, and eased himself up to kneel beside it, pressing his ear against the gap between door and frame.

There-there were the steps, slow, and steady, of the guard. He began to hum under his breath, timing his magic so that the guard would begin to feel sleepy just about when he reached the door to the linen closet.

The footsteps receded-then neared, and began to falter a little. He heard a yawn, quickly stifled, then another.

He hummed a little louder, concentrating with all his might. He would have to overcome the will of a stubborn, trained man-one who knew his duty was to stay awake, and would fight the magic, although he didn't know what he was fighting.

Another yawn; a stumble. A gasp-

The sound of a heavy body falling against the wall beside the door, and sliding to the floor.

He flung open the door, quickly, squinting against light that was painful after the darkness of the stairway. A man in guard-uniform sprawled untidily on the dark wooden floor, his brow creased as if he was still trying to fight off the effects of the spell. With a quick gesture, Talaysen summoned Kestrel, and together they pulled the guard into the closet.

In a few moments, as the women sent him deeper into sleep, they had stripped him of weapons, bound and gagged him, and muffled him in a pile of sheets and comforters. Talaysen took his sword; while he wasn't an expert, he knew the use of one. Kestrel, who hadn't held a sword since childhood, seized the knife. With a quick glance up and down the hall to be certain they were unobserved, they stole out and headed for the King's private study at the end of the suite-the one place they knew they had a chance of catching the King alone. That had been the last bit of information they'd gotten on their scouting foray. No one entered that room without Rolend's express permission, not even servants-and Rolend always went there directly after dinner.

It was a rather ordinary room, when they finally found it. Talaysen had been expecting something much grander; this place looked to have been a kind of heated storage closet before Rolend had taken it over. A single lantern burned on the desk; the rest of the light came from a cheerful blaze in the tiny fireplace. There were no windows; the walls were lined with bookshelves, and the only furniture was a scratched and dented desk, and three comfortable-looking chairs. It was an odd-shaped room as well, with a little niche behind the door, just large enough for all four of them to squeeze into without having the door hit them in the faces when it opened. Which was exactly what they did.

Rune tapped his shoulder once they were in place, with Kestrel, as the youngest and most agile, at the front of the group. He leaned over so that she could put her lips right up against his ear and whisper.

"It would be just our luck that he decided to go straight to bed, wouldn't it?" she said.

Silently he begged God and the Gypsy's Lady that Rune wouldn't prove to be a prophet.

They huddled there long enough for him, at least, to start feeling stiff and cramped, and more than long enough for him to begin to think about all the possible things that could go wrong with the plan. . . .

Footsteps.

They stiffened as one, and he held his breath, listening. Someone was coming this way; someone with the slow, heavy gait of the middle-aged-someone wearing men's boots-

Someone who saw no need to carry a candle; someone who knew there would be light and a fire waiting in here.

The door opened; closed again. Before them was the back of a large, powerful man. Kestrel struck, like his falcon-namesake.

Sheer youth and desperation gave him the reflexes to overwhelm a man who had fought for most of his life; he had a knife across his uncle's throat in a heartbeat, and Talaysen was right behind him. As the older man whirled, his first instinct to throw his attacker off, he found himself facing the point of one of his guard's swords in the hands of someone he didn't recognize.

"I wouldn't shout if I were you," Talaysen whispered quietly. "Between us, Sional and I can take out your throat before you could utter a single sound."

The man's eyes widened at Sional's name, and the blood drained from his face, leaving it pasty and white. His eyes went dead, and Talaysen sensed that he expected to die in the next few moments.

That, and the family resemblance to Sional, convinced him that they had the right man. That had been a possibility he hadn't mentioned to anyone-that someone else might be caught in their little trap.

"So, King Rolend, what have you got to say for yourself?" he continued, cruelly-knowing that he was being cruel, but with the memory of Kestrel's own frightened face in the back of his mind. "And what do you have to say to your nephew?"

The man was brave, he had to give him that much. As Sional relaxed his grip a little, and Talaysen transferred the tip of his sword to the base of Rolend's throat and backed him up against the desk so that Sional could come to stand beside him, Rolend didn't beg, didn't plead. His eyes went to Sional, then back to Talaysen.

"Who are you with?" he said, harshly. "Whose pay are you in?"

Talaysen shook his head slightly. "That wasn't what I expected to hear," he chided. "You've been sending killers after this young man for years. Don't you think an explanation is in order?"

"Before I die, you mean?" Rolend drew himself up with as much dignity as a man with a sword at his throat could muster. "I did what I thought I had to do for the good of the country."

"For the good of the country-or for your own good?" Rune asked, challengingly, coming up behind Talaysen, her own knife in her hand. "They're not the same, and don't try to pretend they are."

The King's eyes widened in surprise, and he opened his mouth, as if to shout-

But nothing came out, and Talaysen heard Gwyna humming behind him. "Robin's got him silenced," Rune said, not taking her eyes off Rolend. She raised her chin with that defiant look Talaysen recognized from the past. "You can whisper if you want, King, but it won't do you any good to call for help."

His eyes were now as round as coins, and his lips formed a single word.

"Magic-"

"Y-y-you ought to kn-know, Uncle," Kestrel said bitterly. "Y-you s-set it on m-m-me enough!"

He moved closer, and strangely, Talaysen saw tears in his eyes.

"Wh-why, uncle?" he whispered in anguish. "Wh-why? I n-n-never d-d-did anything t-to you! V-V-Victor w-w-was th-the only f-f-friend I h-had, b-besides M-Master D-Darian!"

The young man's obvious anguish got through to Rolend as nothing else had. "I thought-I thought-you'd hate me-"

Rune was humming, and Talaysen recognized the "trust me" spell. So far the plan they'd made had fallen in place-to find Rolend alone, and somehow convince him, with the aid of magic if need be-to leave Kestrel in peace. But would it work? He sensed the King fighting the spell-and a man with a strong will could get himself clear of it.

Then a gleam of silver on the King's wrist suddenly caught his attention, and he remembered that the elf they had spoken with had mentioned something about the non-humans of Birnam now being under a sort of royal protection.

He held up his wrist to show the elven bracelet there, and once again, the King's eyes went round in surprise. The surprise at seeing the elven token made his resistance falter. "You asked me whose pay I was in," he said fiercely. "No-not the elves. And not the Church's, nor the Bardic Guild, nor the men you cast down out of power. And Sional is not here as my puppet! We-we are here beside him because he is our friend, for no more reason than that."

"We are under the protection of the High King of the elves," Rune said, breaking off her humming, and showing her own elven token. "Think on that a moment-think what that might mean if you harmed us-and listen to your nephew."

"I d-d-don't want th-the d-d-damned th-throne!" Sional hissed. "I d-d-don't w-want the c-c-crown! M-my F-Father w-w-was a d-d-damned f-f-fool, and y-y-you're a h-h-hundred times th-th-the King he w-w-was! W-w-will you c-c-call off y-your hounds? I j-just w-w-want t-t-to b-be left alone!"

"I can't do that-" the King faltered. "You know I can't. I can't let you go free-the moment someone discovers that you're alive-"

He's weakening. We have him off-balance, and he's weakening.

"Wait-" Talaysen said, and held up the bracelet again. "Remember this. Remember that we are mages. We could have killed you; we didn't. If we say we know of a way to take Sional out of the game completely, will you believe us and at least listen?"

The King nodded, slowly, and Talaysen took a chance and lowered the sword. Rolend sagged back against his desk, then made his way to the chair behind it, and collapsed into its embrace.

"L-listen to me, Uncle," Sional said. "I'm n-not a r-ruler. D-d-do you th-think for a m-minute that p-people w-would r-r-respect a m-man wh-who s-sounds l-like I d-d-do?" He laughed, a sound with no humor in it. "N-not even a Ch-church m-mage c-could m-make p-people b-believe I'm anyth-thing other th-than a s-s-simpleton!"

"Well-" Rolend looked uncertain.

"I've b-b-been a b-beggar, a th-thief, a sh-shit-s-s-sweeper. Th-think those are g-g-good qu-qualific-c-cations f-f-for a K-King?"

"I-"

Rune was humming again; since Kestrel seemed to have the situation well in hand, stutter and all, Talaysen joined her. The King had stopped resisting the spell-now if they could just get it to take-

"B-but I've s-s-seen wh-what y-you've d-d-done. I've b-b-been one of th-the p-p-people. Th-they'd r-rather a g-g-good ruler th-than a fool. T-tomorrow m-morning, y-you and I c-c-can g-g-go stand on F-Father's d-d-damned b-balcony and I'll r-r-renounce th-the throne." He took a deep breath. "As I am. S-s-stutter and all. S-s-so p-p-people c-can s-see I'm n-n-not s-s-some g-g-gilded p-prince out of a b-b-b-ballad."

The King was capitulating; Talaysen felt it. So did Sional. "L-let me g-g-go g-get V-V-Victor," he urged. "We c-c-can all t-t-talk about it. Even Aunt Fe-Fe-Fe-"

"No-please," Rolend said, closing his eyes and putting his hand to his head. "Not your Aunt Felice. She'll raise half the palace, and then she'll take you off and have you married to one of her ladies-in-waiting before the sun rose. Go get Victor; he's in the Rose Room." He looked each of the Bards in the eyes, in turn. "You're right. We should talk. Perhaps-"

Talaysen saw hope dawning in the King's eyes slowly, and the relief of seeing the end of a burden in sight.

"-perhaps we can make this work-"

Talaysen watched from the steps of the balcony over the Audience Square, standing with the other servants from the King's retinue, with one arm around Rune and one at Gwyna's waist. Sional was doing very well, though he doubted that anyone else was under that impression. The abdication ceremony took three times as long as expected, because of Sional's stutter. Enough witnesses were found to swear that this was the lost Prince to have convinced most people-and one of Rolend's mages clinched it by casting a spell over the young man that proved that hair known to have been Sional's had been his. As he had promised, he never changed from his rough working-man's garments, and if anyone had any notions of a romantic hero, he managed to crush them all.

Surely before he was through, a good portion of the people watching-and criers had gone through the city at dawn to ensure that the square was full-were going to be convinced he was a halfwit.

But how long will Rolend believe that he's no danger? That was the one doubt that kept nagging at him. While they remained, all would be well-but the spell they'd worked would fade in time-and then what? How long could they hope to keep Sional safe? Despite his earlier assurances, it was not easy to fake a death; would they have time to set up Kestrel's demise convincingly enough?

There were few cheers as Sional completed the ceremony, swearing on the holiest relics that could be found that neither he nor any of his progeny would ever return to claim the throne from Rolend and his heirs. But as Rolend and the Priest in charge of the ceremony turned to lead the way off the balcony, he stopped those few cheers with an upraised hand.

This wasn't in the plan! What was the boy up to?

"I kn-know that th-there are s-still p-people who w-won't believe m-my sw-sworn w-word," he said clearly, now looking down on the folk below, suddenly transformed from the bumpkin to something else entirely, despite the stutter. "S-s-so I'm g-going to m-make c-certain that n-no one c-can ever use m-me or m-mine ag-gainst my uncle."

He turned, ran down the stairs to the assembled servants, caught Gwyna's hand, and drew her up the stairs to the front of the balcony where everyone could see her. She looked around in confusion, not certain what he had in mind.

Rune squeezed Talaysen's hand in excitement, and he hugged her back. Was the boy about to do what he thought?

There were gasps from the people below, as they saw her in all her Gypsy finery. Gasps of outrage, mostly. Bad enough to have this bumpkin-prince on the royal balcony, but a Gypsy?

They were about to get an even bigger shock.

"G-Gwyna Kravelen, Free B-Bard, will you m-marry me?" he asked, his voice carrying clearly to the edge of the square.

The silence could have been cut and eaten.

"I-oh-I-" she stammered just as badly as he had, and Rune giggled.

"I'll t-take that for a yes," he said, and looked over her head at the Priest who had conducted the abdication ceremony. "Y-you've w-w-witnessed it, Father," he continued, and kissed her.

At that, Victor could no longer restrain himself. He was already half delirious at having his cousin back-and discovering that Sional didn't hate them. Now he lost every shred of dignity.

He gave a wild whoop of joy, threw his hat into the air, where it sailed up and landed on the roof-and threw his arms around the both of them.

Then the cheers began.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

"So, who's the happiest man in Birnam today?" Rune asked Talaysen, as they showered the mob of mixed Gypsy and servant children under the balcony with candy to keep them out of mischief.

"Kestrel?" Talaysen hazarded. She shook her head, and pitched sweets to some of the littlest who weren't getting any.

"Almost, but not quite," she told him. "He will be when he gets Robin out of here, but the celebrating is wearing thin. Weddings are really for women, anyway." She giggled. "I think the happiest person, not only in Birnam but in all of Alanda, is the Queen. She not only got to plan an entire wedding, she got to play mother to the groom and the bride!"

"The King?" Talaysen guessed. "No-probably not. When he offered to host this wedding he never guessed that every Gypsy within three kingdoms was going to descend on him." They both laughed, though Rune couldn't help but think he deserved at least that much anxiety, after all those years of pain that he'd given Kestrel. But there would be bills coming to the Palace for pilfered goods and stolen livestock for the next month at least. And stodgy little Birnam would never be the same again. They'd been invaded by an army of folk who had no ties but to the road, no responsibilities but to each other, and they had been set on their ears by the experience.

"It isn't me," the Bard said, after a moment.

"Really?" She raised an eyebrow at him. "You got what you wanted. Free Bards have exactly the same privileges as Guild Bards in Birnam-"

He nodded, and sighed. "But to get that, I had to agree to be Laurel Bard to the throne."

That had been to keep the Bardic Guild out of making mischief with the King's enemies. Now there would be an information network everywhere-the Free Bards and the Gypsies who remained-that the Church, the Guild, and the disgruntled Sires couldn't touch or even trace.

She tsked at him, and threw another handful of candy. "Poor Master Wren. Property, the title of Sire-I know people who'd kill for that-"

"I had that all and gave it up," he reminded her. "Never mind. We can go scandalize Birnam some more, and build a Free Bard school in the manor-how does that sound?"

"Good," she told him contentedly. "But you still haven't answered my question."

"I give up," he said, and popped a candy in her mouth.

"Victor," she said, tucking it into her cheek.

"Why Victor?" That answer had clearly surprised him.

"First-he got his cousin back. Second-his mother got to have a wedding, and he didn't have to get married. She'll probably leave him alone for a few more months. Third-the King isn't a child-killing ogre anymore, and I don't think he's in any danger of making that grave a moral decision again-and last, but by no means least-Prince Victor has been very popular with our Gypsy friends." She laughed at the look on his face. "He's their favorite gejo at the moment. He has gotten quite an education, I promise you! Frankly, I'm surprised he can walk of a morning!"

"So that's why he's-" Talaysen broke off what he was going to say, much to her disappointment. "Look-here comes the wagon!"

A brand new and beautifully painted wagon, the King's wedding gift to the happy couple, driven by Raven and drawn by two glossy black mares, clattered across the cobblestones of the courtyard. Nightingale balanced on the top, scattering coppers to all sides, which had the effect of sending the children out of harm's way, shrieking with delight.

Raven pulled them up smartly, and just below the balcony, the great doors flew open. Kestrel and Robin, dressed head-to-toe in the Gypsy finery in which-to the utter scandal of the court-they had been wedded, ran hand-in-hand out onto the cobblestones. Raven jumped down off the driver's bench as Nightingale slid from the top. Raven handed Gwyna up, holding her long enough for a hearty kiss, then turned the reins over to Kestrel.

Kestrel jumped up onto the driver's bench and took his place beside Gwyna. He had proved to be a good driver, with Raven to tutor him, and the mares responded to his touch on the reins promptly. As he got the spirited mares turned, the thunder of hooves rang out from the entrance to the courtyard.

A flood of of Gypsy riders poured in, each one trying to outdo the other in stunt-riding.

They swirled around the wagon, and as Kestrel cracked the whip above the horses' heads, they surrounded it, whooping at the tops of their lungs.

And just as the entire equipage started to pull out, escort and all, another rider appeared at the far side of the courtyard, from the direction of the royal stables.

He let out a wild war-cry that caught even the Gypsies' attention, and plunged towards them.

"Is that-Victor?" Talaysen said, incredulously.

It was. Dressed-not quite in wild Gypsy regalia, but certainly in the brightest gear his closet had to offer. He spurred his horse towards the wedding cortege with another wild cry, circled the group three times, and cried, "Come on! The road won't wait forever!"

He pounded off towards the courtyard gate, the clear leader of the pack, with the rest of the mob streaming along behind him, wagon in their midst.

The stunned silence that filled the courtyard was more eloquent than words. Finally Talaysen shook his head.

"Poor Birnam," he sighed. "Poor, stiff-necked Birnam. We've unmade their King, turned their Princes into Gypsies, their lands into a haven for ne'er-do-well vagabonds, elves, and Free Bards, and stolen the power from their Bardic Guild. What's left?"

"Oh," she said, thinking of a little secret she had just shared with Gwyna. He'll find out about it in a month or two. I think he'll like being a father. "I'll think of something. Trust me."

"And you'll probably manage to surprise me as much as we've surprised Birnam," he chuckled.

She just smiled, and waved to the vanishing Gypsies.

End