A Princess of Landover

A Princess of Landover

Magic Kingdom of Landover, Book 6

Terry Brooks

To Shawn Speakman,

for Web Druid services expertly rendered

and valued friendship freely given

So she was considering in her own mind (as well as she could, for the hot day had made her feel very sleepy and stupid), whether the pleasure of making a daisy-chain would be worth the trouble of getting up and picking daisies, when suddenly a White Rabbit with pink eyes ran close by her.

There was nothing so very remarkable in that; nor did Alice think it so very much out of the way to hear the Rabbit say to itself, “Oh dear! Oh dear! I shall be too late!” (when she thought about it afterwards, it occurred to her that she ought to have wondered at this, but at the time it all seemed quite natural); but when the rabbit actually took a watch out of its waistcoat-pocket, and looked at it, and then hurried on, Alice started to her feet, for it flashed across her mind that she had never before seen a rabbit with either a waistcoat-pocket, or a watch to take out of it, and burning with curiosity, she ran across the field after it, and was just in time to see it pop down a large rabbit-hole under the hedge.

In another moment down went Alice after it, never once considering how in the world she was to get out again.

—Lewis Carroll, Alice in Wonderland

The crow with the red eyes sat on the highest branch of the farthest tree at the very back of the aviary, dreaming its dark and terrible dreams. Had there been substance to those dreams, they would have scalded the earth and melted the iron bars and steel-mesh netting that held it prisoner. Had there been substance, they would have burned a hole in the very air and opened a passage to that other world, the world to which the crow belonged and desperately needed to return. But the dreams were ethereal and served only to pass the time and grow ever darker as the days wore on and the crow remained trapped.

The crow was Nightshade, Witch of the Deep Fell, and she had been absent from Landover, trapped in her current form, for more than five years.

She thought about it every day of her captivity. She sat on this branch, aloof and apart from the other birds, the ones that lacked the capacity for critical thinking, the ones that found some measure of happiness and contentment in their pitiful condition. There was nothing of either happiness or contentment for her, only the bitter memories of what had been and what might never be again. Her lost world. Her stolen life. Her true identity. Everything that had been hers before she sought to use the girl child of the King and Queen for her own purposes.

Mistaya Holiday, Princess of Landover, was the child of three worlds—and of parents who knew nothing of what she needed or what she could become, who knew only to keep her from a destiny that would have made her the witch’s own.

Even the sound of her name in the silent roil of the witch’s thoughts was like the burn of acid, and her rage and hatred fed on it anew. It never lessened, never cooled, and she was quite certain that until the child was dead or hers once more, it never would. She might be kept a prisoner in this cage for a thousand years and might never regain her true form, and still there would be no peace for her.

In her tortured mind, the witch replayed the last moments of her old life, the way it had all been, had all ended, and had suddenly become the nightmare she now endured. The child had been hers: subverted and won over, committed to her new teacher of dark magic. Then everything had gone wrong. Set against the girl by circumstances and events beyond her control, she had tried to make the child understand and had failed. Confronted by the child’s parents and allies, she had fought back with magic that had somehow been turned against her. Instead of the child being sentenced for insubordination and disobedience to banishment in a foreign world, she had been dispatched instead, made over into the form of her familiar.

She had tried endlessly to reason out what had happened to make things go so wrong, but even after all these years she could not be certain.

The other birds avoided the crow with the red eyes. They sensed that it was not like them, that it was a very different species, that it was dangerous and to be feared. They kept far away from it and left it alone. Now and then, one of them erred and came too close. That one served as an object lesson to the others of what might happen if they failed to be careful. It was never pretty. It was seldom even quick. The other birds tried not to make mistakes around the crow with the red eyes.

Which was the best that Nightshade, Witch of the Deep Fell, could expect if she failed to escape.

Vince stood at the edge of the enclosure and studied the odd bird just as he had been studying her for the better part of the five years following her abrupt and mysterious appearance. Every day, right after he got off work—unless there was a pressing reason to get home to his family—he stopped for a look. He couldn’t have explained why, even if pressed to do so. Woodland Park Zoo was filled with strange and exotic creatures, some of them species so rare that they had never been seen in the wild. The crow with the red eyes was one of these. Whether she was truly a species apart or simply an aberration was something ornithologists and experts in related areas had been trying to determine from the beginning, all without success. It didn’t matter much to Vince. He just found the crow intriguing and liked watching it.

What he didn’t much care for was the way the crow seemed to like watching him, those red eyes so intent and filled with some unreadable emotion. He wished he knew its story, but he never would, of course. Crows couldn’t talk or even think much. They just reacted to the instincts they were born with. They just knew how to survive.

“How did you get here?” Vince asked softly, speaking only to himself, watching the bird watching him.

It had popped up at the local animal shelter, not there one day and there the next, come out of nowhere. He still wondered how that could be possible. The shelter was a closed compound, and birds didn’t just fly in or out. But this one had. Somehow.

The experts had tried to trap it repeatedly after it had been transported to the zoo, hoping to get close enough to study it more carefully. But they should have thought of that before they released it into the aviary. All their efforts had failed. The bird seemed to know their intentions ahead of time and avoided all their clumsy attempts to get their hands on it. They had to content themselves with studying it from afar, which they did until more pressing and fruitful pursuits had turned their heads another way. If the bird had not been a bird, but one of the big cats or lumbering giants of the African veldt, it would have gotten more attention, Vince thought. There would have been more money for research, more public interest, something to drive the effort to learn its origins. Vince knew how things worked at the zoo. The squeaky wheel got the grease.

Vince watched the bird some more, perched way up there in the branches, a Queen over her subjects. So regal. So contemptuous, almost. As if it knew how much better it was than the others.

He shook his head. Birds didn’t think like that. It was stupid to think they did.

He glanced at his watch. Time to be getting home. The wife and kids would be waiting dinner. There was a game on TV tonight that he wanted to see. He stretched, yawned. Tomorrow was another workday.

He was walking away, headed for the parking lot and his car, when something made him glance back. The crow with the red eyes was watching him still, following his movements. Vince shook his head, uneasy. He didn’t like that sort of intense scrutiny, especially not from a bird. There was something creepy about it. Like it was stalking him or something. Like it would hunt him down and kill him if it were set free.

He quit looking at it and walked on, chiding himself for such foolish thinking. It was just a bird, after all. It was only a bird.

Headmistress Harriet Appleton sat straight-backed at her desk, a huge wooden monstrosity that Mistaya could only assume had been chosen for the purpose of making students entering this odious sanctum sanctorum feel uncomfortably small. The desk gleamed gem-like beneath repeated polishings, perhaps administered by girls who had misbehaved or otherwise fallen afoul of the powers that be. Surely there were many such in an institution of this sort, where fair play and justice were primitive, possibly even passé, words.

“Come in, Misty,” Miss Appleton invited her. “Take a seat.”

Said the spider to the fly, Mistaya thought.

Wanting nothing so much as to tell this woman exactly what she could do with her suggestion, she nevertheless closed the door behind her and crossed to the two chairs placed in front of the desk. She took a moment to decide which one she wanted, and then she sat.

Through the window of the headmistress’s office, she could see the campus, the trees bare-leafed with the arrival of December, the ground coated with an early-morning frost and the stone and brick buildings hard-edged and fortress-like as they hunkered down under temperatures well below freezing. New England was not a pleasant place for warm-blooded creatures at this time of year, and the buildings didn’t look any too happy about it, either. Hard to tell with buildings, though.

“Misty,” the headmistress said, drawing her attention anew. She had her hands folded comfortably on the desktop and her gaze leveled firmly on the young girl. “I think we need to have a talk, you and I. A different talk than the ones we’ve had previously.”

She reached for a folder, virtually the only item on the desk aside from the telephone, a stone image of an owl, and a school cup filled with an assortment of pens and pencils. There was a framed picture, as well, facing away from Mistaya. Although she was interested in who might be in the picture, she could not see without standing up and walking around to the other side of the desk, something she would under no circumstances do.

The headmistress opened the file and made a point of shuffling through the pages it contained, even though Mistaya was quite certain she had already read it enough times to have memorized the contents. Miss Appleton was irritating, but no fool.

“This is your third visit to my office in less than three months,” Harriet Appleton pointed out quietly, voice deliberately lowered in what Mistaya could only assume was an effort to convey the seriousness of the situation. “None of these visits was a pleasant one, the sort I like having with my students. Even more distressing, none of them was necessary.”

She waited, but Mistaya kept quiet, eyes locked on the other’s sharp-featured face—a face that reminded her a little of Cruella De Vil in that dog movie. Were there no beautiful headmistresses in the schools of America?

“The first time you were sent to me,” the headmistress of the moment continued, “it was for fomenting trouble with the grounds crew. You told them they had no right to remove a tree, even though the board of directors had specifically authorized it. In fact, you organized a school protest that brought out hundreds of students and shut down classes for three days.”

Mistaya nodded. “Trees are sentient beings. This one had been alive for over two hundred years and was particularly well attuned to our world, an old and proud representative of her species. There was no one to speak for her, so I decided I would.”

The headmistress smiled. “Yes, so you said at the time. But you will remember I suggested that taking it up with either the dean of students or myself before fomenting unrest among your classmates might have avoided the disciplinary action that followed.”

“It was worth it,” Mistaya declared, and sat up even straighter, chin lifting in defiance.

Harriet Appleton sighed. “I’m glad you think so. But you don’t seem to have learned anything from it. The next time you were in this office, it was the same story. You didn’t come to me first, as I had asked. Once again you took matters into your own hands. This time it was something about ritualistic scarring, as I remember. You formed a club—again, without authorization or even consultation with the school teaching staff—to engage in a bonding-with-nature program. Instead of awarding patches or other forms of insignia, you decided on scarring. An African-influenced art form, you explained at the time, though I never understood what that had to do with us. Some two dozen scars were inflicted before word got back to the dean of students and then to me.”

Mistaya said nothing. What was there to say? Miss Applebutt had it exactly right, even if she didn’t fully understand what was at stake. If you didn’t take time to form links to the living things around you—things besides other students—you risked causing irreparable harm to the environment. She had learned that lesson back in Landover, something the people of this country—well, this world, more correctly—had not. It was exceedingly annoying to discover that the students of Carrington Women’s Preparatory were virtually ignorant on this point. Mistaya had provided their much-needed education in the form of a game. Join a club; make a difference in the world. The scarring was intended to convey the depth of commitment of the participating members and to serve as a reminder of the pain and suffering human ignorance fostered. Moreover, it was accomplished using the sharp ends of branches shed by the trees that were part of the living world they were committed to protecting. It made perfect sense to her.

Besides, the scarring was done in places that weren’t normally exposed to the light of day.

“I didn’t see the need to bother anyone about it,” she offered, a futile attempt at an explanation. “Everyone who participated did so voluntarily.”

“Well, their parents thought quite differently, once they found out about it. I don’t know what your parents allow you to do in your own home, but when you are at Carrington, you have to follow the rules. And the rules say you need permission to form clubs or groups actively engaged on campus. The students are underaged girls, Misty. You are an underaged girl. You are only fifteen!”

Well, technically, perhaps. If you measured it by how she looked. Her real age was a matter of debate even in her own home. There was the age you were physically and there was the age you were mentally. There was the number of years you had lived and the extent to which your mind had developed. When you were born from a seedling nourished in the soil of a land where magic was real and a part of you, the commonly accepted rules about growth did not necessarily apply. No point in getting into that, however. Miss Harriet Half-Wit would never understand it, not even if Mistaya spent from now until the end of next year trying to explain.

“Which brings us to the present and the point of this third visit,” the headmistress continued, shaking her head to emphasize the point. “Even I didn’t think you would ignore my second warning about not acting on your own when it had been made clear to you that it would not be tolerated under any circumstances. What were you thinking?”

“Is this about Rhonda Masterson?” she asked incredulously.

“Yes, it is about Rhonda. It is exactly about Rhonda. She’s hysterical! She had to be sedated by the nurse. Her parents will have to be informed. I can’t imagine what I am going to tell them. That you traumatized their daughter by threatening her? That you scared her so badly that the entire school is talking about it? I am appalled, Misty. And I am angry.”

Mistaya could tell that much. But she still didn’t see the problem. “She called me a name. She did it in front of everybody. She did it to make me angry, and it worked. She got what she deserved.”

“For calling you a name? What name?”

Mistaya tightened her lips. “I can’t repeat it. I won’t.”

“But what did you do to her to frighten her like that?”

Well, that was hard to explain, and Mistaya knew she better not even try if she wanted to keep the truth about herself a private matter. Princess of Landover, born of a human come from this world and a sylph who occasionally turned into a tree—how could she explain that? Telling them the truth about her father was out of the question. Telling them about her mother might give some credence to her commitment to saving trees, but it wouldn’t do much for her overall credibility. Telling them about her real life, which was not in Landover, Maryland, as they all thought, but in the Kingdom of Landover, which was another world entirely, would only lead to them locking her up for evaluation. There just wasn’t much she could say.

Still, she had to say something.

She sighed. “I just told Rhonda that if she kept this up, I was going to get her, that’s all.”

But Harriet Appleton was already shaking her head in a sign of dissatisfaction with the answer. “It had to be something more than that to frighten her the way you did. You whispered something to her, and then—this is what some of the other students told me—you … you did something else to her.”

Other students. Rhonda’s sycophantic followers, all of them blue-blooded East Coast snots from lots of money and little brains. They had been on her case since she arrived at Carrington, making fun of her, teasing her, pulling mean tricks on her, doing anything they could to make her life unpleasant. This time they had pushed her too far. Though forbidden to do so under any circumstances, she had used her magic. Just a little of it, but enough to make them sit up and take notice. A quick conjure of an image of someone she knew from Landover, someone they should hope they never encountered in real life.

She had shown them Strabo. Up close and personal. Especially Rhonda, who had been made to smell the dragon’s breath.

“What is it that I am supposed to have done?” she asked, deciding to turn this around.

“The girls said you made a dragon appear right in front of Rhonda.”

Mistaya feigned disbelief. “I made a dragon appear? How am I supposed to have done that? Magic or something?”

Miss Appleton frowned. “I don’t know, Misty. But I think maybe you did what they said. You are an unusual young lady. You have demonstrated a capacity for commitment that exceeds that of the other students. You are a natural leader and a determined, if all-too-frequently reckless, advocate of the causes you believe in. Once you have set your mind to a task, it seems nothing deters you. You are a brilliant student. Your grades are excellent. If anyone could make Rhonda think she saw a dragon, you could.”

She leaned forward. “The point is, you did something that terrified this girl. This isn’t the first time you’ve broken the rules, and I am quite certain that if things continue on as they are, it won’t be the last. I cannot have this sort of disruption. This is an institution of learning. In order for that learning process to function as it was meant to, the students must adhere to the rules for proper behavior and apply themselves accordingly. I don’t like using this term, but students must find a way to fit in. You don’t seem to feel that this is necessary.”

“You’re right, I don’t,” Mistaya agreed. “I think we are here to discover ourselves so that we can do something important with our lives. I don’t think we’re meant to fit in; I think we’re meant to stand out. I don’t think we are meant to be like everyone else.”

The headmistress nodded and sighed. “Well, that’s true for when you are older, but not for when you are in a college-preparatory boarding school like this one. Carrington trains you for growing up; it isn’t a chemistry class for the actual process. Not the way you see it, anyway.”

She reached into the folder, produced an envelope, and handed it to Mistaya. “You are suspended from Carrington effective immediately, Misty. The details of the reasons for this are contained in this letter. Read it over. A copy has been sent to your parents. I have tried calling them, but cannot reach them at the home number. I suppose they are traveling again. I did reach a Mr. Miles Bennett, your father’s attorney, and he promised that he would try to get word to them. But it might be better coming from you. You don’t have to leave until the end of next week, when classes are finished and the Christmas break begins.”

“My parents …,” Mistaya started to say, then forgot the rest and went silent. Suspended? For making Rhonda Masterson see a dragon? This was ridiculous!

“I want you to go home and think about this conversation,” Harriet Appleton continued, refolding her hands on top of the file. “If you can persuade yourself to become a student of the sort that Carrington expects you to be and if you can convince me that you can be one of those students, I will consider reinstating you.” She paused. “Otherwise, I am afraid you will need to find another school. I’m sorry, Misty. I truly am.”

Mistaya stood up, still in shock. “I understand,” she said. “But I don’t think it’s fair.”

“I am certain you don’t,” Miss Appleton agreed. “Go home and think about it. After you’ve done so, maybe you will be of a different mind. I certainly hope so. I would hate to lose you as a student at this school.”

Mistaya turned and walked from the room. All she could think about was how angry her father was going to be.

She stalked out of the building into the midmorning cold, her frustration building incrementally as she replayed the particulars of her meeting with the headmistress and the events leading up to it. She didn’t care all that much about the suspension. In truth, though she would never admit it aloud, she wouldn’t care if she were expelled altogether. She hated Carrington and she hated the other students and she hated this entire world. It was her father’s and not hers, but he had forced her to come to it, anyway. Talk about misguided thinking!

It’s time for you to learn about places other than this one, Mistaya. You need to spend time with other girls your own age. You need to have your education broadened by travel and new experiences. Questor and Abernathy have done what they can, but now …

Blah, blah, blah. Her father. Sometimes he was just too thick. She didn’t need anything other than what she had in Landover, and she certainly didn’t need the hassle of living in a world where there was never anything new or interesting happening. She hated the smells, the tastes, and much of the look of it. She hated her classes, which were dull and uninformative. Who chose the subjects they studied there, anyway? Was there a single class on connecting with nature in a meaningful way? Any material on the traits and classification of mythical creatures? Was there any book that smiled on Monarchy as a form of government and suggested there might be more to it than beheadings and adultery?

Still, none of this would be happening, she knew, if she had been able to control herself. It didn’t help that Rhonda Masterson had a building on campus named for her family and that she would be a fourth-generation alumna when she graduated. Carrington valued loyalty and wealth, and the Mastersons had both. She, on the other hand, had neither. At least, not in this world. She was a Princess, but only in Landover, a place no one here even knew about. She had no standing of the sort that Rhonda Masterson had. She was just someone to be brushed aside.

She made up her mind in that instant. If they wanted her to leave, fine, she would leave. But she wasn’t waiting until the end of next week to leave; she was leaving right now. She was going home where she belonged.

She changed directions abruptly, breaking off her trek across campus to her English literature class, and instead turned toward her dorm. A few other students passed by on their way to class, casting furtive glances, but none of them spoke. She stalked on, tightening her determination even in the face of what she knew would be waiting for her when she got home. She could already hear her father. But what could he do about it? She was suspended and she had been told to go home and that was what she was doing. He would have to live with it.

There was no one in her dorm room when she opened the door. Her roommate, Becky, had gone home for the weekend. A tall, athletic girl with a scholarship in basketball, she was always running home to her family in New York. Which was fine. Mistaya liked Becky. She didn’t pretend to be anything she wasn’t, and she wasn’t afraid to let you know how she felt. Becky had been involved in every mishap Mistaya had organized since her arrival, a full accomplice in all her efforts. But Becky never got in trouble for it. She knew how to be a part of things without standing out. She knew how to blend in—something Mistaya knew she had yet to learn.

She sighed. Miss Appleton had pointed to Becky with pride as an example she would do well to emulate—a clear demonstration that the woman didn’t have a clue about Becky’s subversive side.

Mistaya began packing her clothes and her books and her personal effects, and then quit right in the middle of her efforts. Everything she cared about was back in Landover, not here. She left it all where it was and called a cab. While she was waiting, she wrote Becky a short note to the effect that this place wasn’t for her and she wouldn’t be back. Becky could have what she wanted of her stuff and throw out the rest.

Then she marched down the hallway to the front door to wait for her ride. She found herself smiling. She couldn’t help it. She was excited about going home. The reason didn’t even matter. It was enough that it was happening.

She rode the cab to the airport, caught a long flight to Dulles and then a short one to Waynesboro. Money wasn’t an issue when you were a Princess of Landover. She thought about her life as she traveled, measuring the length of the road gone past and estimating the distance of the one yet to be traveled. It wasn’t easy to do when you were half fairy. Her differentness from other girls was hard to overstate. Nothing about her life had proceeded in recognizable fashion. She had not grown up at a normal rate, not even by Landover’s standards, her progress from infancy to girlhood achieved in quantum leaps. Talking at two. Walking at three. Swimming at four. Months, not years. Then status quo for almost a year, one of her many dormant periods when nothing seemed to change. She was in one of those periods just now, her body in a kind of suspended animation. Physically, she was a fifteen-year-old with a twenty-two-year-old mind. But emotionally, she was off in the Twilight Zone. She couldn’t describe it exactly, couldn’t put a name to what she was feeling, only that she was feeling something. It was like an itch that kept working at her no matter how hard or often she scratched at it. She was restless and dissatisfied and hungry for something she didn’t have but couldn’t identify.

Maybe going home would help her figure out what it was. She certainly hadn’t been able to do so at Carrington. All of her adventures with trees and nature and Rhonda had just been things to keep her occupied. Her subjects were boring and easy. She was already thinking and working at college level, so there wasn’t much to be learned at a preparatory boarding school, despite what her father might think.

Mostly, she thought, she had learned to be rebellious and troublesome. Mostly, she had learned new and interesting ways to break the rules and drive the teachers and the administration crazy.

She smiled. If nothing else, it had certainly been a lot of fun.

On landing, she called a private car service and had a town car take her up into the Blue Ridge Mountains along Skyline Drive. The day was sunny and clear, but the temperature was way down in the thirties. The car drove with the heat on, and Mistaya shed her heavy coat for the duration of the ride, which ended twenty miles later at a wayside turnaround overlooking the George Washington National Forest, south of Waynesboro. A small green sign with the number 13 lettered in black, a weather shelter, and a telephone identified the location. She had the car pull over, slipped her winter coat back on, and climbed out. The driver gave her a dubious look when she told him he could leave, but she assured him she would be all right, that someone was meeting her, and so he shrugged and drove off.

She waited until he was out of sight, waited some more to be sure, and then walked across the highway to the trailhead and started along a winding path leading upslope into the trees. She breathed the sharp, cold air as she walked, feeling refreshed and alive. She might hate some things about her father’s world, but not the mountains. Ahead, an icy stream that had slowed almost to freezing trickled down out of the rocks, the sound faintly musical. She found herself thinking of the weather in Landover, which would be warm and sunny. There were storms, rain and wind and gray clouds, and sometimes there was even snow. But mostly there was sunshine and blue skies, and that was what she was expecting today. She wondered how long it would take her to reach the castle, if she would find anyone to take her there or if she would have to walk.

She wondered, quite suddenly and unexpectedly, if Haltwhistle would be waiting to greet her.

The possibility that he wouldn’t show up made her frown. She had been forced to leave him behind when she left for Carrington. Landover’s inhabitants, human and otherwise, could not pass through the mists as she could. Her father was the exception, but that was because he had the medallion of the Kings of Landover, and that allowed him to go anywhere.

She, on the other hand, could pass through because of how she was made—an amalgam of elements culled from the soils of three worlds.

Making her different from everyone else.

She grimaced. Maybe her father would take that into consideration when he heard about the suspension.

Mistaya continued to climb until the leafless winter trees hid all traces of the highway behind a screen of dark trunks and limbs and a thickening curtain of mist. The little falls had been left behind, and even the trickling sounds of its waters had faded. Ahead, the mist was growing more impenetrable, swirling and twisting like a living thing, climbing into the treetops and filling in the gaps that opened to the sky.

Had she not known what to expect, all this would have frightened her. But she had traveled between worlds before, and so she knew how it worked. The mists marked the entry into Landover, and once she passed through them, she would be on her way home. Others who found their way into these woods and encountered the mists would be turned around without realizing it and sent back the way they had come. Only she would be shown the way through.

Assuming she didn’t get careless and stray from the path, she reminded herself. If she did that, things could get complicated. Even for her.

She pulled the collar of her coat tighter, her breath clouding the air as she trudged ahead, still following the path that had taken her up. When at last the path ended, she kept going anyway, knowing instinctively where to go and how she must travel.

A wall of ancient oak trees rose before her, huge monsters casting dark shadows in the failing light. Mist swirled through them, but at their center they parted to form a tunnel, its black interior running back into the forest until the light gave out. Trailers of mist wove their way through the trunks and branches, sinuous tendrils that moved like huge gray snakes. She moved toward them and entered the tunnel. Ahead, there was only blackness and a screen of mist. She kept walking, but for the first time she felt a ripple of uncertainty. It wasn’t altogether impossible that she could have made a mistake. There wasn’t any real way of knowing.

The consequences of a mistake, however, were enormous. One misstep here, and you were in the land of the fairies.

She pressed on, watching the mist and the darkness recede before her at a pace that matched her own. She hugged herself against the chills that ran up and down her spine. Whispers nudged her from within the trees to either side, the voices of invisible beings. She knew those voices, knew their source and their purpose. Fairies, teasing travelers who passed through their domain. They were insidious, unpredictable creatures, and even she—who was born, in part, of their soil and therefore a part of their world—was not immune to their magic. Partly their child, partly an Earth child, and partly a child of Landover: that was her heritage, and that was what had determined who and what she was.

Her mother, Willow, had kept the secret from her; it was the witch, Nightshade, who had told her the truth. Her mother was a sylph, an elfish creature who transformed periodically into the tree for which she was named to take root and nourish in the earth. She had done so in order to give birth to Mistaya. In preparation, she had collected a mix of soils—from a place in Ben’s world called Greenwich and from the old pines in the lake country and from the fairy mists in her world. But when she had gone into labor unexpectedly, she had been forced to take root in a hurried mix of the soils she carried while she was still down in the dark confines of the Deep Fell, the home of the witch Nightshade. The consequences were unimaginable, and while Mistaya had been born without incident she had also been born the only one of her kind.

You couldn’t be more different than that.

But being different only got you so far. For one thing, you were never exactly like anyone else and so you never completely fit in. It was so here. Being part fairy was not enough to guarantee safe passage. Staying on the path and keeping your head was what would protect you.

So she did as she knew she must, even though the temptation to step away, to follow those intriguing voices, to try to find even one of the speakers, played on her curious mind. She pushed ahead very deliberately, waiting for the dark and the mist to fade, for the trees to open before her, for the passage between worlds to end.

Which, finally, it did.

Quickly, smoothly, without warning of any sort, the trees thinned and the curtains of mist lifted. She walked out of the darkened forest into a bright, sunlit day filled with sweet scents and warm breezes. She paused despite herself, drinking it in, letting it infuse her with good feelings.

Home.

She had entered at the west end of Landover, and the sweep of the valley spread away before her. Close by, just below, lay the broad, open grasslands of the Greensward; south, the lake country that was her mother’s home; north, the Melchor Mountains where the trolls lived; and east, beyond the Greensward, the wastelands and the Fire Springs where Strabo, last of the dragons, made his home. She couldn’t see it all; the distance was too great, and when you reached the ring of mountains that encircled the valley, mist cloaked everything.

As she scanned the familiar countryside, enjoying the good feelings that coming home generated, her eyes passed over and then returned to the dark smudge below the Melchor that marked the Deep Fell. Memories she did not care to relive surfaced anew, and she felt a twinge of regret. The Deep Fell was her real birthplace, dark and terrible, and though she would have wished it otherwise, it was a part of her. Nightshade had told her so. Nightshade, who had wanted her for her own child. For a while, she had wanted that, too. Treachery and deception had marked that period in her life, when she was only ten years old. But that was finished now. Nightshade was gone, and she wouldn’t be coming back.

She shifted her gaze, fixing it instead on the place where she knew Sterling Silver waited, not too far away now, less than a day’s walk if she hurried.

She started ahead at once, moving deliberately down from the foothills into the valley, choosing her path almost without thinking about it. She breathed deeply of the scents of the valley as she descended into it, marking each of them in turn, identifying each one, able to separate them out and match them to their names. She had learned to do that a long time ago while studying under the able tutelage of Questor Thews, the court wizard. Questor, ancient and amusing, held a special place in her heart. It wasn’t just because he was so funny, frequently mixing up his spells and causing all sorts of minor catastrophes. It wasn’t because he had always treated her like an adult and never a child, better attuned to who and what she was than her father. It wasn’t even because he was the dearest friend she had, aside from her parents.

It was because he had saved her life and almost lost his own by doing so. It was because he had done so impetuously and without a thought for the consequences. It was because he had dared to go up against a much stronger sorcerer in Nightshade, the Witch of the Deep Fell.

Mistaya had used her own magic to save him, a combination of newfound talent acquired from studying with the witch and her natural talent. Enraged upon discovering she had been deceived into using both to attack her father, she had lashed out at Nightshade in a red-hot fury. The two had gone toe-to-toe in a battle of sorceries that might have seen both destroyed if not for the timely intervention of Haltwhistle. Her spell turned back upon herself, Nightshade had disappeared in an explosion of green witch fire. Afterward, Mistaya had used her talent and determination to nurse Questor back to health. When he was well again, he had become her teacher and constant companion.

Until her father had sent her away to Carrington where, he insisted, she would learn new and necessary things.

To his credit, Questor hadn’t argued. He had agreed with her father who, after all, was King and had the final word on almost everything. He had told her that her father was right, that she needed to see something of another world, and her father’s world was the obvious choice. He would be waiting when she returned, and they would pick up right where they left off on studying the flora and fauna, the creatures and their habits, of the world that really mattered to her.

Remembering his promise, she was suddenly anxious for that to happen.

Abruptly, a huge black shadow fell across her, a dark stain that spread wide in all directions as something massive and winged swept overhead in soundless flight. She gasped and dropped into a protective crouch, preparing to defend herself. A beating of great, leathery wings churned the sleepy air into a howling wind that threatened to flatten her, and Strabo hove into view. Body extended, the dragon banked into a glide that brought him about and down into a smooth landing directly in front of her.

She straightened tentatively and faced the dragon as he towered over her. “Good day, dragon!” she greeted bravely.

“Good day, Princess,” the dragon replied in a voice that sounded like metal being scraped with a saw’s sharp teeth.

She wasn’t sure where this was going, but decided it was best to find out sooner rather than later. “You seem as if you have a purpose in coming upon me like this. Are you here to welcome me home?”

“Welcome home,” he said.

She waited for more, but the dragon simply sat there, blocking her way. He was a massive beast, his weight something in the area of four or five tons, his body sheathed in leathery skin and armored with bony plating, spine ridged with spikes, triangular head encrusted with horns and legs as big as tree trunks. One yellowish eye fixed on her with determined intent while the other closed with languid disinterest. Neat trick, she thought, and wondered if she could learn how to do it.

“We have a small problem, Princess,” Strabo rumbled after a long few minutes. “You have engaged in forbidden behavior. Are you aware of what that behavior might be?”

“I am not,” she declared, wondering suddenly if it had something to do with Rhonda Masterson.

“You used your magic to create an image of me to frighten someone,” the dragon said, confirming her suspicion. “This is not allowed. This is never allowed. No one is ever, ever, ever allowed to use an image of me, in any form whatsoever, for any purpose whatsoever, without my permission. Perhaps you did not know this?”

She took a deep breath. “I did not. I thought it was a perfectly acceptable usage.”

“Think again. More to the point, don’t do it again. I don’t know what kind of manners they teach you at the castle, or what sort of behavior you have been led to believe is acceptable, but labeling dragons as scary monsters is way out of line. Consider this fair warning. If you ever create an image of me again without my permission, you shall hear from me much more quickly than this, and you will be made to answer for your foolishness. Am I clear?”

She tightened her lower lip to keep it from trembling as the dragon bent over her like a collapsing rock wall and she got a clear whiff of his incredibly rancid breath. “You are very clear,” she managed.

“Good,” he declared. When he straightened, he was as tall as a three-story building, and with his wings spread he was twice as wide. “I shan’t keep you longer. It is good to see you again, and I wish you well. I have always liked and admired you and your mother; your father, of course, is a different story. Please do yourself a favor and don’t take after him. Now farewell. Take care to remember my warning.”

Huge wings flapping with enough force to knock her sprawling, Strabo rose into the sky and soared away, flying east until he was little more than a dwindling black speck against the horizon. Mistaya stared after him, aware of how close she had come to finding out a whole lot more about dragon breath than she cared to.

“Although that was pretty show-offy,” she mumbled as she rose and brushed dirt from her pants.

A sudden movement to one side startled her, and she gave a small cry of delight as a familiar face poked out through a thatch of berry bushes and a pair of soulful eyes gazed up at her. “Haltwhistle!” she cried. “You did come!”

She started to rush over to throw her arms around him in greeting before remembering that you couldn’t touch a mud puppy, and so she settled for dropping down on one knee and blowing him a big kiss.

“I’m so glad to see you!” she said.

The mud puppy gazed back at her with his soulful brown eyes, and his strange lizard tail wagged gently. Mud puppies were among the strangest of all creatures in Landover, and that was saying something. His elongated body, colored with patches of brown hair, sat atop four short legs that ended in splayed, webbed feet. He had a face that was vaguely suggestive of a rodent, long floppy dog’s ears, and that weird reptilian tail. He looked as if he had been put together with spare parts, but he was so ugly he was actually cute. Haltwhistle had been a gift from the Earth Mother, her own mother’s spirit protector and self-appointed guardian, who had anticipated that Mistaya would have need of the magic that a mud puppy possessed.

As it turned out, all of her family and friends had ended up needing the mud puppy to keep them safe.

Haltwhistle sat back on his haunches and regarded her soberly, his tongue licking out briefly in greeting. “I knew you would be here,” she told him, even though she hadn’t really known that at all. “Good old Haltwhistle.”

She patted her thigh to signal for him to follow and set out anew. The appearance of the mud puppy further buoyed her spirits, and she was beginning to feel like everything was going to work out. Her father, while stubborn, was not an unreasonable man. He would listen, weigh, and evaluate arguments carefully. That was what made him such a good King. He didn’t just decide and put an end to discussion. He took his time, and he wasn’t afraid to admit when he was wrong If she argued strongly enough, he would come to see that he was wrong here. He would accept that she belonged in Landover and not in some other world and agree to give up the Carrington experiment as a failed cause.

She marched along briskly, anxious to get back to the castle and begin making her case. Haltwhistle, for all that he looked incapable of moving much faster than a turtle, kept up with no trouble. She loved this little animal, and she determined never to leave him again. She would keep him with her always, close by, her constant companion. All she needed to do was speak his name once each day, even if she couldn’t see him and didn’t know where he was. That was what the Earth Mother had told her when she had given her Haltwhistle, and that was what she knew she must do. She hadn’t needed to do so while she was in her father’s world, but she had done so anyway just because she missed him so much.

She whistled a bit as she walked, a poor effort since she had never learned properly, and after a bit gave it up for singing. One of Landover’s eight moons, the mauve one, hung low in the sky east, pale and ephemeral against the blue, and she sang to it in greeting. The peach moon hadn’t risen yet, but when it did she would sing a song to it, too. Swatches of bright color spread across the valley, fields of grasses and flowers that bloomed in every color of the rainbow. Groves of fruit trees dotted the landscape, their smells carrying on the wind. She breathed them in, and suddenly she was very hungry.

Ahead, just visible now, was Sterling Silver, her ramparts rising in bright reflective shapes from the island on which she sat. She gleamed her greeting, so Mistaya sang a song for her, too.

She broke a branch from one of the Bonnie Blues as she passed by a small grove at the edge of the valley floor, stripped off the leaves, and began to munch on them eagerly. The Blues were the staple of sustenance for Landover’s human occupants. They were trees formed thousands of years ago of fairy magic, their leaves edible, their stalks the source of a liquid that tasted like milk. They grew everywhere and replenished themselves with dependable regularity. Any resident within walking distance was allowed a reasonable culling. Any traveler was welcome to partake.

“Want some, Haltwhistle?” she asked the mud puppy, even though she knew he didn’t. She just wanted him to know she would be willing to share.

She passed on across the grasslands, through a meadow of brilliant firestick, their stalks as red as blood; a field of regal crown, golden flowers on bright green stems; and a long, looping line of pink wisteria that channeled down a border fence for miles. Blue ponds appeared here and there, and silvery streams flowed down out of the higher elevations, a sparkling latticework as they crisscrossed the valley floor. It was all summery and cheerful, a promise of better things.

Though she wished that just once it would snow in Landover. It did snow at the higher elevations, but the snow fell into the fairy mists where it was impossible to get to it. There would be snow aplenty at Carrington once real winter set in. There had been several light snowfalls already.

She brushed the thought from her mind. There was no point in thinking about Carrington. That was over.

She had just reached the small forest that marked the boundaries of the King’s land when Haltwhistle nudged her leg. She moved away, thinking she had strayed into his path, but he nudged her again.

This time she stopped where she was. Apparently it was all right for him to touch her, even though she wasn’t supposed to touch him. She put her hands on her hips and stared at him in surprise, but he was already walking away, moving off to the left toward a huge old Marse Red that dominated the trees around it by sheer size, its branches spreading wide in all directions.

Something was hanging from one of the branches. She walked closer and discovered that it was some sort of creature, all trussed up and suspended by a heavy rope from one of the stouter branches. When she got closer still, she realized, despite all the rope looped about its head and body, that it was a G’home Gnome.

Now, everyone who lived in Landover, whether in the deepest reaches of the lake country or the highest of the Melchor or the most desolate of the wastelands, knew about G’home Gnomes. Mostly, they knew to stay away from them. Their name alone—evolved over time by repeated demands that began or ended with “Go home, Gnome!”—said it all. They were a burrow people with little to offer anyone, scavengers preying on small animals and birds—many of them others’ treasured pets. They enjoyed the reluctant favor of her father for two simple reasons: because they had been the first to swear allegiance to him when he was named King, and because he believed in equal treatment for all his subjects, no matter how low or how despised they might be. Good thing. There was no one lower or more despised than the G’home Gnomes.

Not by her, of course. She rather liked the little creatures. They made her laugh. But then, she hadn’t had a pet eaten by one, either.

She walked up to the bound-and-gagged creature and took a very close look at its muffled face.

“Poggwydd?” she whispered.

She could hardly believe her eyes. It was the G’home Gnome she had stumbled upon when she’d disobeyed Nightshade and gone outside the Deep Fell. She had been tricked into thinking the witch was her friend and was hiding her in the Deep Fell to keep her safe. But eventually, she had given way to an impulse to see something of the world she had left behind. Nightshade had caught them out and tried to kill Poggwydd, but Haltwhistle had intervened and saved him.

All that was some years ago, and she had not seen Poggwydd since.

And now, unexpectedly, here he was.

Quickly she began loosening the little fellow’s bonds, choosing to remove the gag that filled his mouth first, which proved to be a big mistake.

“Careful, you clumsy girl! Are you trying to tear the skin off my face? It isn’t enough that I am humiliated and mistreated by those rat-faced monkeys, but now I have a cruel child to torment me, as well. Stop, stop, don’t yank so hard on those ropes, you’re breaking my wrists! Oh, that I should have come to this!”

She kept working, trying to ignore his complaints, a difficult undertaking by any measure. But the knots in the ropes that held him fast were tight, and it was taking everything she had to loosen them.

“Stop!” he screamed. “Didn’t you hear what I said? You’re breaking my arms! I am in great pain, little girl! Have you no pity for me, trussed and bound as I am? Do I deserve this? Do any G’home Gnomes deserve what happens to them? The world is a cruel place, hard and unforgiving—ouch! And we are its victims every—ouch, I said!—day of our miserable lives! Stop it, stop it!”

She stepped back. “Do you want me to free you or not?”

He stared at her, his lips quivering. “I do. But painlessly, please.”

G’home Gnomes looked a great deal like you might expect, hairy heads with ferret faces mounted on stout bodies. They were small creatures, most not quite four feet tall, and due to the circumstances of their burrow life perpetually dirt-covered and grimy. Poggwydd was no exception.

Enough so, in fact, that she wondered suddenly what had possessed her to attempt to free him by touching his filthy body.

She spoke a few quick words, gestured abruptly, and the bonds that constrained him fell away. As did he, tumbling to the ground in a ragged heap, where he lay gasping for breath.

“Was that really necessary?” he panted, looking up at her. Then abruptly, he paused. “Wait! I know you!”

He looked past her to where Haltwhistle sat looking back, and the light came on in his rheumy eyes. “You’re the little girl from the Deep Fell, the one that the witch had been keeping hidden! You’re the High Lord’s daughter … What’s your name again?”

“Mistaya,” she told him.

“No, that’s not it.” He shook his head and frowned. “It’s Aberillina or Portia or something like that.”

She reached down and pulled him to his feet, where he stood on shaky legs, looking as if he might fall down again. “No, it’s Mistaya,” she assured him. “What happened to you, anyway?”

He took a moment to think about it, working hard at brushing himself off and straightening his ragged clothing. “I was set upon by thieves,” he announced abruptly. “I was traveling to the castle to see you, as a matter of fact. I wanted to be sure you were all right since I hadn’t heard from you in quite some time. Rather poor manners on your part, I might point out, not to keep in touch with your friends. Why, if not for me, you might still be a prisoner of the witch!”

She decided not to correct his warped view of old events or to challenge his obvious lie about thieves. She was enjoying herself far too much to spoil the fun. “So the thieves took you prisoner?” she pressed.

“They did indeed,” Poggwydd continued dramatically, gesturing wildly with his hands. “I fought them off for as long as I could, but there were too many for me. They stole everything I had, trussed me up, and hung me from that tree. Not a care for what might happen to me, left like that; not one glance spared for me as they left.”

“Good thing I came along when I did,” she said.

“Well, you could have come sooner,” he pointed out.

“Are you all right now?”

“I’ve been better, but I think I will be all right after I’ve had something to eat and drink. You haven’t any dried meat in your pockets, do you?”

She shook her head. “Why don’t you come back to the castle with me and get something to eat there. You can be my guest at dinner tonight.”

A look of horror crossed his face, and he shook his head vigorously. “Oh, no, I can’t do that!” He swallowed hard, searching for something more to say. “I would like that, you understand. I would be honored to be your guest. But I have … I have a meeting of the tribal council to attend, and I must get back. Right away. This incident with the thieves has thrown me well off my schedule, which, by the way, is very demanding.”

She nodded. “I suppose so. Well, perhaps another time, then?”

“Yes, another time. That would be wonderful.” He nodded and backed away. “Soon, I promise. It was good seeing you again, Mistrya. Or Ministerya. Good to see that you are doing so well. And your strange little dog, too. Does he still go with you everywhere, or does he sometimes wander? He looks like he needs a lot of fresh air and sunshine, so I hope you let him out now and then. Outside the confines of the castle, I mean.”

She gave him a look, and he smiled with all his teeth showing. “It was just a thought. Well, thank you for cutting me down from that branch, even if you did almost break every bone in my body.” He rubbed himself gingerly to demonstrate the pain he was feeling. “I hope to see you again. I shall, in fact. I have made my home in this part of Landover. A fresh beginning after the encounter with the witch. It took me a long time to get over that, you know. But it was worth it to help you.”

Well, she supposed that he did help her, if only indirectly and inadvertently. By engaging her in conversation, he had kept her out of the Deep Fell long enough for her to learn the truth about what everyone thought had happened to her. He had also provided an object lesson in the temperament and disposition of her would-be teacher and mentor. Witnessing Nightshade’s efforts to destroy him had given her cause to think, for the first time, that she might be making a mistake by staying.

“Good-bye now,” he called over his shoulder to her, moving rapidly away. “Farewell.”

She let him go. There was more to this business of being hung up in the tree than he was telling her, but that was usually the case with G’home Gnomes. She watched him disappear over a rise, and then she turned and started walking again toward the castle with Haltwhistle at her side. Time to be getting on.

She was within hailing distance of the front gates, just across the causeway leading over to the island on which Sterling Silver gleamed in brilliant greeting, when she saw Questor Thews appear on the battlements and wave to her with one stick-thin arm.

She thought the wave looked encouraging.

Ben Holiday sat across the table from his daughter and stared at her in dismay. It was all too much. Here she was, a young girl who had everything she could possibly want. She was beautiful, intelligent, talented, and skilled. She possessed an extremely potent form of magic. She was the daughter of the King and Queen of Land over and had every opportunity to become something special and to accomplish wonderful things.

Yet her wrongheaded stubbornness and poor judgment eclipsed all of her good qualities and extraordinary abilities and reduced her to a source of constant irritation to those who loved her most.

“Suspended,” he repeated for what must have been the fifth or sixth time, staring down at the letter.

She nodded.

“For using magic.”

She nodded again.

“You used magic?” he repeated in disbelief. “Despite what we agreed? Despite your promise never to do so outside of Landover?”

Mistaya was wise enough to sit there and not even nod this time.

“I don’t understand it. Where was your common sense when all this was happening? What about our agreement to give this a try? Did you think that meant you wouldn’t have to put any effort into it? That you could just do whatever you felt like doing without any consideration for the consequences?”

She straightened just a bit. “Why don’t you just accept that this was a bad idea in the first place? I don’t belong over there. I belong here.”

His jaw clenched and he felt his face redden. He wanted to tell her that she belonged where he told her she belonged, but he managed to keep from doing so. Barely.

“So what I want for you—what your mother wants for you—that doesn’t count at all?”

“Not when it’s the wrong thing.” She sighed. “If you were in my shoes, what would you do? You wouldn’t let someone send you to a place where you didn’t fit in, where people made fun of you and called you names, where they didn’t even understand the importance of taking care of their trees. Would you?”

Ben didn’t know what he would do, and he didn’t think that was the issue here. They weren’t talking about him; they were talking about her. That wasn’t the same thing at all.

He took a deep breath to calm himself and exhaled slowly. King of Landover, ruler of a nation, overseer of a crossroads that linked multiple worlds, and he couldn’t even control his own daughter. He didn’t know when he had been as angry as he was at this moment. Or when he had been so frustrated. He felt powerless in the face of her emotionless response to what had happened and her clear refusal to allow it to affect her in any meaningful way. She wasn’t talking about when she would go back or what she would do to make that happen. She wasn’t talking about going back at all. This was his idea, damn it. His idea for her to go to a boarding school in his world and mingle with girls her own age. Not girls with magic at their command. Not creatures strange and exotic, dragons and mud puppies and the like, for which she had such a fondness. Real, live human girls with human quirks and oddities that required that she exercise at least a modicum of diplomacy. But did she do this? Did she even try? Oh, no, not Mistaya. Instead, if this letter was any indication, she had simply run roughshod over students, administration, and rules with no regard for anyone but herself, and the end result was that she had gotten tossed right out the door.

Now she was sitting here as if nothing important had happened, looking not in the least contrite or ashamed, having decided quite clearly that this put an end to his grand experiment as far as she was concerned.

He read the letter from Headmistress Harriet Appleton once more as he tried to think what to say.

“Reading it again won’t change anything,” his daughter declared quietly. “I broke their stupid rules, and I’m out.”

“You’re out because you didn’t try to fit in!” he snapped. “You keep trying to turn this back on the school and the other students, but it’s really about what you failed to do. Life requires that you make concessions; not everything will go your way. That was what I was hoping you might learn by attending Carrington. You have to work at being part of a larger community. How do you think I function as King? I have to take other people’s feelings and needs into consideration. I have to remember that they don’t always see things the same way I do. I have to treat them with respect and understanding, even when I don’t agree with them. I can’t just tell them what to do and sit back. It doesn’t work like that!”

“Perhaps Mistaya needs a little more time to grow up in Landover before she goes back into your world,” Willow offered quietly. She had been sitting off to one side, listening, saying nothing until now.

Ben glanced over at his wife and saw his daughter’s features mirrored in her face. But the similarity ended there. Willow was measured and calm in her thinking while Mistaya was emotionally driven, quick to act, and less willing to spend time deliberating. Of course, Willow had been like that, too, when she was younger, before Mistaya was born. Probably she understood their daughter better than he did, but she wasn’t saying anything to demonstrate it.

“She’s a very mature, smart young lady,” Ben pointed out. “Much smarter and more mature than those girls who got the best of her.” He shook his head. “She needs to be able to deal with this sort of thing. It’s not going to go away just because she’s come back here. There will be challenges of the same sort in Landover, whether today or tomorrow or somewhere down the road. That’s just the way it is.”

He looked back at his daughter. “But we’re getting away from the point. You’ve been suspended from Carrington, and now I get the clear impression that you don’t think you’re going back.”

“It’s not an impression,” she replied. “It’s a fact. I’m not going back.”

Ben nodded slowly. “Then what is it that you think you are going to do?”

“Stay here in Landover and study with Questor and Abernathy and learn from whatever they can teach me.” She paused. “Is that so unreasonable?”

That’s not the issue, Ben thought. This isn’t about being reasonable; it’s about doing what’s expected of you when there’s something to be gained from doing so. But Mistaya wasn’t about to see it that way, and he couldn’t think of a way to change that at present. He knew he couldn’t let her get away with this, couldn’t let her come back and dictate what she was going to do with her life after failing to give the learning experience he had afforded her a decent chance. He just didn’t know what to do about it.

“I’ll tell you what,” he said carefully. “I’ll give it some thought. I’ll talk it over with Questor and Abernathy and see what they think. They may have some ideas on the matter, too. Fair enough?”

She eyed him suspiciously, but he held her gaze until finally she nodded. “I suppose.”

She rose, walked over to her mother, and bent to kiss her cheek. Then, without looking at her father, she left the room.

Ben glared as she closed the door behind her. He waited until he was sure she was safely out of hearing and then said, “I can’t let her get away with this.”

“This isn’t personal, Ben,” his wife said quietly. “She’s a young girl trying hard to grow up under difficult circumstances.”

He stared. “What are you talking about? She’s got everything! How much easier could it possibly be for her?”

Willow came over and knelt next to him, one hand on his arm. “It could be easier if she were like everyone else and she didn’t have to work so hard at trying to be so. You forget what it was like for you when you first came into Landover. Another world entirely, another life, everything you knew left behind, everything unfamiliar and uncertain.”

She was right, of course. He had purchased his right to be King through a Christmas catalog in a scheme that was designed to take his money and leave him sadder but wiser or, in the alternative, dead. He hadn’t really believed a place like Landover existed or that he could be King of it, but he had lost his wife and child, his faith in himself, and his sense of place in the world; he was desperate for a chance to start over. He had been given that chance, but it was nothing like what he had expected, and it took everything he had to fulfill its promise.

Willow had been there to help him almost from the start. She had come to him at night in a lake where he had impulsively gone swimming, a vision out of a fairy world, slender and perfect, a sylph daughter of the River Master, her skin a pale green that was almost silvery, her hair a darker, richer green, fine fringes of it growing like thin manes down the backs of her arms and legs. He had never seen anything like her, and he knew he never would again. She was still the most exotic, marvelous woman he had ever known, and every day he spent with her was a treasure he could scarcely believe it was his good fortune to possess.

Willow patted his arm. “It might not seem like it, but she’s doing the best she can. Mistaya is a grown woman intellectually, but she is still emotionally very young. She is trying to find a balance between the two, and I don’t think she’s done that yet.”

“What am I supposed to do in the meantime?” he demanded in frustration. “I can’t just stand around and do nothing.”

“Be patient with her. Give her some time. Keep talking to her, but don’t try to force her to do something she so clearly doesn’t want to do. I know you think it is important for her to spend time in your world. I know you believe there are things there that would help her to be a better person. But maybe all that can wait a few years.”

She stood up, her dark eyes warm and encouraging. “Think about it. I’m going to go talk to her alone and see if I can help.”

She left the room and, as always, his heart went with her.

He walked over to the window after she was gone and stared out at the countryside. His reflection was mirrored in the glass, and he looked at himself with critical disdain. His hair was graying at the temples, and the lines on his forehead and around his eyes were deepening. He was aging, although not so quickly as he had before coming over from his old world. Aging in Landover was slower, although he had never been able to take an accurate measure of its general rate of progress because it differed considerably from one species to the next. Some aged much more slowly than others. Some, like Mistaya, followed no recognizable pattern. Fairies, he had been told, did not age at all.

He should be fifty-eight or so by now, by normal Earth standards. But he looked and felt as though he were about fifteen years younger. It was most noticeable when he crossed back through the mists and saw his old friend and partner from the law firm, Miles Bennett. Miles looked years older than Ben did. Miles knew it, but never spoke of it. Miles was like that; he understood that life treated people differently.

Especially if you lived in Landover and you were Ben Holiday.

He remembered anew his own first impressions when he had come into Landover to take possession of the throne some twenty years ago. Culture shock did not begin to describe what he had experienced. All of his expectations of what being King would mean were dashed immediately. His castle was a tarnished ruin. His court consisted of a wizard whose magic wouldn’t work right, a scribe that had been turned into a dog and couldn’t be turned back into a man again, and a cook and runner who looked like evil monkeys but were actually creatures called kobolds.

And those were just the occupants of the castle.

Outside, there were knights, a dragon, a witch, trolls, G’home Gnomes, elves, and various other creatures of all types, shapes, and persuasions. There were demons housed underneath Landover in a hellish place called Abaddon that Ben had been forced to enter several times over the years. There were trees and plants and flowers that were incredibly beautiful and could kill you as quick as you could blink. There were cave wights and bog wumps and crustickers and cringe-inducing vermin you didn’t want to get within spitting distance of. Literally.

There was the castle herself, Sterling Silver, a living breathing entity. Formed of hard substances and infused with magic, she was created to be the caregiver for Landover’s Kings, seeing to their comfort and their needs, watching over them, linked to them as mother to a child. The life of the King was the life of the castle, and the two were inextricably joined.

Finally, there was the Paladin.

He stopped himself. Don’t go there, he told himself angrily. This isn’t the time for it.

But when was it ever the time? When did he ever want to think about the truth of who and what he was?

He shifted his gaze to the land beyond and his thoughts to his daughter’s return. He knew he could not just ignore what she had done, but he also knew that Willow was right when she said it would be a mistake for him to force Mistaya into something she had so clearly set herself against. Carrington was still a good idea, but maybe not right now. Given that admission, painful though it was, the problem remained of what to do with her. She would happily return to being tutored by Questor and Abernathy. And why not? Both were besotted with her and would let her do pretty much what she chose.

Which, in part, was why he had sent her off to boarding school in the first place, thinking it might help her to have some rules and some social interactions that didn’t involve a hapless wizard and a talking dog.

He returned to his chair. He was still sitting there thinking, mostly to no avail, when there was a knock on the door, and Questor Thews and Abernathy stepped through.

He gave them a critical once-over as they approached. Now, there’s the original odd couple, he thought.

He loved them to death, would have done anything for either one, and couldn’t possibly have succeeded as King of Landover without their help.

Still, you couldn’t ignore how odd they were.

Questor Thews was the court wizard, a trained conjurer whose principal duties included acting as adviser to the King and making his life simpler by the use of magical skills. Trouble was, Questor wasn’t very good at either, but especially the latter. Ben would give him credit for moments of helpful advice, with a few notable lapses, but the court wizard’s use of magic was another matter entirely. It wasn’t that he didn’t try or didn’t have good intentions; it was all in his execution. With the magic of Questor Thews, you never knew what you were going to get. Much of their time together had been spent figuring out ways to correct the many things that Questor’s magic had gotten wrong.

Abernathy was the chief case in point, and Questor still hadn’t managed to fix that one. To keep him safe from the unpleasant and dangerous son of Landover’s last King, Questor had turned the court scribe into a dog Not fully, of course. He only managed to get him halfway there. Abernathy retained his human hands and his human mind and his human voice. The rest of him became a dog, although he still walked upright. This was not a good thing, because Abernathy still had his memories of his old life and wanted it back. But Questor couldn’t give it to him because he couldn’t work the spell that would reverse the change. He had tried repeatedly to help his friend—because they were friends, despite the fact that they argued and fought like cats and dogs. He had even gotten it right once, and for a brief period Abernathy had reverted to his human form. But mostly Questor had gotten it wrong, and those weren’t incidents anyone cared to talk about.

So here they were: a tall, scarecrow of a man with long white hair and beard, robes of such atrocious patterns and colors that even Mistaya winced, and a distracted air that warned of mishaps waiting just past the next sentence he spoke; and a dog that dressed and walked upright like a man and sometimes barked.

He could tell right away that they had something to tell him. It almost certainly had to do with Mistaya.

“High Lord,” Questor Thews greeted him, offering a deep bow.

“High Lord,” Abernathy echoed, but without much enthusiasm.

Questor cleared his throat. “We need a moment of your time—that is, if you have a moment to spare just now—to put forth an idea that we have stumbled upon while attempting to help you through this crisis with Mistaya, knowing how painful it must be for you—”

“Fewer words, Questor!” Abernathy growled, almost dog-like. “Get to the point!”

Ben smiled indulgently and held up both hands to silence them. “I trust this visit has a constructive purpose and isn’t just a misguided effort to advise me where I went wrong with my daughter’s upbringing?”

Questor looked horrified. It was hard to tell with Abernathy; a dog pretty much always looks like a dog, even if it’s a soft-coated wheaten terrier. “Oh, no, High Lord!” the former exclaimed in dismay. “We have no intention of trying to correct you on your efforts at raising Mistaya! We wouldn’t think of such a thing—”

“We might indeed think of such a thing,” Abernathy interrupted. He glared at Questor. “But that isn’t why we are here. As you may eventually find out, I hope.”

Questor glared back. “Perhaps you would rather handle this than I? Would that suit you better?”

Abernathy perked up his ears. “It might. Shall I?”

“Oh, please do.”

Ben hoped the vaudeville act was finished, but he held his tongue and waited patiently.

Abernathy faced him. “High Lord, Questor and I are well aware of the fact that Mistaya’s return is a disappointment and an irritation. We are also aware of what she thinks is going to happen, which is that things will go back to the way they were before she left. You, on the other hand, would like to find some more productive use of her time, preferably something educational and perhaps a bit challenging?”

He made it a question, even though the force of his words made it clear he was certain of his understanding of the situation. “Go on,” Ben urged, nodding.

“We know that she must be disciplined, High Lord,” Questor broke in, forgetting that he had ceded this territory to Abernathy only moments earlier. “She is a willful and rebellious child, perhaps because she is smart and beautiful and charming.”

“Perhaps because she is your daughter, as well,” Abernathy muttered, and gave Ben a knowing look. “But to continue.” He turned the full weight of his liquid brown, doggy gaze on Questor to silence him. “What is needed is a lesson that will teach Mistaya at least something of what you had hoped Carrington would provide. Study with Questor and myself, however educational, has its limits, and I think we may have reached them.”

Questor bristled. “That is entirely wrong—”

“Questor, please!” Abernathy bared his teeth at the other, then turned to Ben anew. “So we have an idea that might accomplish this,” he finished.

Ben was almost afraid to hear what it was, but there was probably no avoiding it. He took a deep breath. “Which is?”

“Libiris,” Questor Thews announced proudly.

Ben nodded. “Libiris,” he repeated.

“The royal library.”

“We have one?”

“We do.”

“Libiris,” Ben repeated again. “Unless I am mistaken, I have never heard mention of it.” He sat back, mildly confused. “Why is that?”

“My fault entirely,” Abernathy declared.

“His fault entirely,” Questor Thews agreed. He looked pleased with the pronouncement. “He never told you about it, did he?”

“Nor did you,” the other pointed out.

“Nor did anyone else.” Ben leaned forward again, irritated despite himself. “How is it we have a royal library I know nothing about? As King of Landover, aren’t I supposed to know these things? Where in the heck is it?”

“Oh, well, that is a long story, High Lord.” Questor looked saddened by the fact, as if the length were an unfortunate accident.

“Perhaps you can shorten it up for me.” Ben smiled. “Perhaps you can do that right now, while I’m still smiling in hopes that all this has something to do with my daughter.”

Questor cleared his throat anew. “Long, long ago, in a time far, far away, there was a King—”

Abernathy’s sudden bark cut him off midsentence. The scribe shook his head. “Now look what you’ve made me do, wizard! You made me bark, and you know how I hate that.” He gestured at the other in annoyance. “Let me tell it or we’ll be here all day!”

He faced Ben. “Libiris was founded by the old King, the one who ruled for so long before you, a man more enlightened than his son or the rabble of pretenders who came afterward. He built it to house his books and those of the Lords of the Greensward and others who had libraries of their own. It was his hope that making the books available to the entire population of Landover would foster a greater interest in reading, something that had been sorely lacking. It was a good idea, and it worked for a while. But complications arose, and the King grew old and lost interest, and the entire effort simply bogged down. Eventually, Libiris ceased to function in any meaningful way. It has, in point of fact, fallen into a sad state of neglect. Enough so that it has ceased to function at all.”

“But you’ve never even spoken about it?” Ben pressed.

“There were other, more important concerns for much of the time during our early years together, High Lord. Such as trying to keep you alive. You may recall that part of your life? Since the birth of Mistaya, I simply haven’t given the matter any thought. There hasn’t been any reason to. Libiris has been closed now for many years.”

He shrugged. “I should have said something before, but it just didn’t seem important enough to bring up.”

Ben found this odd, but given the state of things in Landover, even after almost twenty years of his presence as King, he wasn’t entirely surprised. “Well, now that you have brought it up, what does any of it have to do with Mistaya?”

Questor stepped forward, taking command once more. “It was our thought that perhaps you should send Mistaya to Libiris with instructions to reorganize and reopen it. Such an effort fits well with your other programs regarding education through community service, and it seems to us, Abernathy and me, a perfect project for a young lady of Mistaya’s capabilities.”

Ben thought about it. “You think I should send her there to find out what’s needed and then to undertake repairs and rehabilitation of the books and fixtures and buildings? A fifteen-year-old girl?”

Questor and Abernathy exchanged a quick glance. “I wouldn’t call her that to her face,” Abernathy declared quietly. “And yes, I think she is more than equal to the task. Don’t you, High Lord?” He paused. “It would be a mistake to underestimate her capabilities.”

“It would provide an educational and challenging task for her,” Questor added. “One that would require working with others and finding middle ground for agreement on how to do things. Just the sort of project I think you had in mind when you talked to her earlier.”

Well, it wasn’t what he’d had in mind at all. He hadn’t really had any project in mind, although thinking it through now he had to agree that the general idea was sound. A project of this sort—the reorganization of a library—would keep Mistaya occupied and involved in something meaningful while she grew up a little more and perhaps rethought her decision to leave Carrington. This whole business about having a royal library came as a surprise, but now that he knew about it there was no reason not to do something constructive with it.

“You wouldn’t send her there alone, would you?” he asked.

“No, of course not,” Questor declared. “I would go with her. Abernathy could go, as well. Later, once she’s taken the measure of the place, we’ll send for craftsmen and laborers. But it would be her vision, her project, from start to finish.”

Ben thought about it some more. “All right. Let me talk to Willow. Then we’ll make a decision. But I think you might be on to something.”

He regretted the words almost before they had left his mouth, but once spoken there was no taking them back. He would just have to hope that this time was different from some of the others.

Beaming in unison, the wizard and the scribe bowed and left the chamber.

Once outside, the door closed tightly behind them, Abernathy turned to Questor. “Perhaps we should have told him the rest,” he whispered.

The court wizard shook his head, mostly because Abernathy’s whiskers were tickling his ear. “Time enough for that later. He doesn’t need to know everything right away.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Besides, we don’t know if he’s still there. He might have moved on. When was the last time you visited Libiris?”

“I don’t remember.”

“You see? Anything could have happened. Besides, what if he is still in residence? We’re more than a match for him, the three of us.”

“I don’t know,” Abernathy said doubtfully. “Craswell Crabbit. He’s awfully clever. I never trusted him.”

“Then we will have reason to get rid of him first thing. In fact, we will suggest that to the King before leaving, once he has made the decision to send her. Which he will. I could tell by the way he spoke about it that he likes the idea. Anyway, you and I will be with her when she goes. What could happen?”

It was the kind of question Abernathy didn’t care to ponder, and so he dismissed it from his mind.

That night, when they were alone, Ben discussed with Willow the idea of sending Mistaya to Libiris. She agreed it was a project that deserved Mistaya’s time and effort, but she also advised him not to make it a command that Mistaya go. When he talked to her, he should suggest that this was something that might interest her and utilize her strengths, letting her make the final decision.

“But what if she says no?” he demanded.

“Then give her more time to think about it. Don’t insist. She’s very strong-willed and may react in a way that is intended to test you.”

“Test me? Why would she want to test me?”

Willow ignored the question. “Ask her again in another few days. If she still refuses, then let her make a suggestion about what she would like to do. Just tell her that staying at Sterling Silver and studying with Questor and Abernathy is not a choice, that she is too old for that now.”

Ben didn’t get it. Why all this tiptoeing around something that should be settled right off the bat? He couldn’t get past the fact that Mistaya was only fifteen, still a child despite her advanced capabilities, and not yet independent enough to be making decisions of this sort on her own. Plus, she had brought this difficulty on herself by misbehaving sufficiently at Carrington that they had sent her home. She should be grateful he didn’t insist that she go right back and straighten things out. She should be eager to do anything he asked after what had happened.

Willow also suggested that he not do anything at all for perhaps a week and instead allow their daughter time to settle in without any talk about her future. Let her have a short vacation. Let her do what she would like for a few days before discussing what was to happen in the long term.

“I think she needs that right now,” his wife said, smiling. She leaned in to kiss him. “Remember whose daughter she is.”

Well, he remembered well enough, but what did that have to do with anything? Willow kept saying this, but he didn’t see the point. If she was his daughter, she ought to be more like him, not less.

In any case, he let the matter drop. He told Questor and Abernathy that he and Willow thought their suggestion a good one and intended to speak to Mistaya soon, adding that they should keep quiet about things in the meantime. Both seemed willing to do this, although he could not mistake the furtive glance that passed between them when he remarked that, after all, there was no hurry.

The following week passed quickly. Ben was occupied with court business, including a review of a new irrigation program pending in the Greensward that the feudal Lords were refusing to cooperate on implementing despite Ben’s orders. He knew this meant making a trip out there at some point—or at least sending a representative—but he was in no hurry to do so. It was their domain, after all, and he had to give them a chance to work it out. He was also facing complaints about the G’home Gnomes, several clutches of which had started to show up in places they were not welcome—which was just about everywhere, but especially where they hadn’t been as of yesterday. That, too, meant a visit by someone from the court—probably Questor, certainly not Abernathy—to all those parts of Landover that were being invaded. At times he wished he could simply establish a separate country for the troublesome Gnomes, but they were migratory by nature, so that was unlikely to work. Little did, where they were concerned.

Mistaya did not give him further cause to be irritated with her. She was scarcely in evidence most of the time, working away on projects of her own choosing. Even Questor and Abernathy admitted they had seen almost nothing of her, that she hadn’t once asked for their help or requested instruction. No one knew what she was doing, but as long as she was doing it unobtrusively and without obvious consequences, Ben was content to let his daughter be.

Only one strange event occurred. Bunion, the court runner and Ben’s self-appointed bodyguard, approached him to apologize the day after Mistaya’s return. In his strange, almost indecipherable kobold language, he said he was sorry for hanging the Gnome up in the tree, no matter what it had done, and he promised not to do anything like that again without asking the King’s permission first. After showing all his teeth to emphasize the point, he departed. Ben had no idea what he was talking about and decided he was better off not knowing.

Then, seven days later, just as he was preparing to approach Mistaya with the prospect of going to Libiris, Laphroig of Rhyndweir appeared at the gates and requested an audience.

A visit from Laphroig was never good news. His father, Kallendbor, had been Lord of Rhyndweir, the largest of the Greensward baronies, and an adversary of considerable skill and experience who had done much to make Ben’s tenure as Landover’s King difficult. He had crossed the line five years ago when he had allied himself with Nightshade in a scheme designed both to rid them of Ben and to make Mistaya believe she was the witch’s true daughter. The scheme had failed, and Kallendbor had been killed.

If Ben had thought that his adversary’s death might mark an end to his problems with the feudal barony of Rhyndweir, he was sadly mistaken. There were at any given time somewhere around twenty families governing the Greensward, and as Lords of the Greensward died off or were killed, members of their own families replaced them unless they died childless, in which case a stronger barony simply absorbed their lands. The number of Lords ebbed and flowed over time, and while they were all beholden to the King, Ben knew enough to leave them alone except in matters directly affecting the entire Kingdom—such as the irrigation project, which was responsible for crops that fed other parts of the land as well as the Greensward.

When Kallendbor died, he left three sons and three daughters. The eldest son—a difficult but manageable young man—became the newest Lord of Rhyndweir in accordance with the rules of how power passed from one member of the family to the next. But he lasted only eighteen months, dying under rather mysterious circumstances. The second son promptly took his place, and several things happened at once. The youngest son vanished not long after, his mother was sequestered in a tower room she was forbidden to leave, and his three sisters were placed in the keeping of other powerful Lords and forbidden by the second son from marrying or having children without his permission. Then Rhyndweir’s new Lord promptly took a wife. He discarded her when she failed to bear him an heir, took a second wife, did the same with her, then took a third wife and kept her when she produced a son.

In some quarters, this sort of behavior might have been greeted with dismay. But in the feudal system of the Greensward, it was perfectly acceptable. Ben waited for one of the sisters to come and complain so that he might consider intervening, but none of them ever did.

That would have been due in no small part to the character of the second son, who was Laphroig.

If the first son had been difficult, Laphroig was impossible. He was only twenty-six, but already he had decided that fate had made him Lord of Rhyndweir and the world at large should be grateful because he was born to the role. His father had never liked him and would have turned over in his grave, if that had been possible, on learning that the son he considered ill suited for anything more than menial labor had become his successor.

Laphroig was intelligent, but he was not the sort who played well with others. He was mostly cunning and devious, the kind of man who would never fight you openly with blades but would poison you on the sly in an instant. He was mean-spirited and intolerant of any kind of disagreement or display of independence. He was controlling to an extent that caused dismay even among his fellow Lords. None of them trusted him, even the ones to whom he had dispatched his sisters. At council meetings, he was a constant source of irritation. He felt he knew best about everything and was quick to let others know. As a result, he was avoided by all to the extent that it was possible to do so and deliberately left out of social gatherings whenever convenient.

He had proved to be particularly troublesome for Ben.

Not so secretly, Laphroig believed he would be a better King, if given the chance to prove it. He never said so, but he demonstrated it at every turn. He constantly challenged Ben, more so than any other Lord of the Greensward, which necessitated the exercise of a firm hand and sometimes rather more than that. He did not cross the line into open rebellion, but he danced around it constantly. He questioned everything Ben said and did. His attitude was insolent, and his failure to respond to the King’s rule was more deliberate than obtuse. He appeared when it was convenient and stayed away if it wasn’t. He pretended forgetfulness and complained of pressing duties. He was full of excuses and, in Ben’s opinion, full of a lot more than that.

To top it all off, both his looks and actions were strange. Although Ben tried not to think about it, he soon found he could not help himself. It was Abernathy who started it all, announcing after Laphroig’s first visit that he would henceforth refer to him as The Frog. It was a play on Laphroig’s name, but also a reference to his protruding eyes and his distracting habit of flicking his tongue in and out of his lips at odd moments. Abernathy, who had no patience for insolence and lack of courtesy on the part of others when it came to Ben Holiday, did not like Laphroig. In large part, this was because the latter had called him a dog to his face on that first visit and would have gone on doing so if Ben had not put a stop to it. In smaller part, but only marginally, it was because Laphroig was so awful to be around that he invited the rude remarks of others.

Ben didn’t like Laphroig any better than Abernathy or Questor did—the wizard couldn’t tolerate him, either—so he let the nickname stand and soon thought of him in the same terms.

They hadn’t had a visit from Rhyndweir’s Lord for some months, and for a time they had begun to think he might not be coming back. It had been a happy interlude for all of them, but apparently it was over.

“What does he want?” Ben asked, on being informed.

“He won’t say,” Abernathy replied. “He says that his words are for your ears alone.” He held up one hand. “But he was polite about it.”

Ben frowned. “He was?”

“All smiles and goodwill. He kept his tone friendly, he followed all the requisite protocols without complaint, and he never once referred to me using canine terms.”

“That doesn’t sound like Laphroig.”

“No, it doesn’t.” Abernathy cocked his ears. “I would be careful, if I were you.”

Ben nodded. “I’ll make a point of it. Show him into the east room. I’ll do as he asks and speak with him in private.”

When Questor had gone, he departed for the east room, where he held private talks with visiting dignitaries, and prepared himself mentally for what lay ahead. He was not dressed to receive anyone, having not scheduled visits for this day, but he saw no reason to do anything about it since it was only Laphroig. He settled for throwing on a light robe and removing the medallion of office he was wearing from beneath his tunic so that it hung revealed against his breast. The image on its face was of a knight in battle harness mounted on a charger and riding out of a morning sun that rose over a castle on an island.

The castle was Sterling Silver. The knight was the Paladin.

The man who had sold him the Magic Kingdom of Landover, a scheming and manipulative wizard named Meeks, had given him the medallion. Meeks had crossed over into Ben’s world and was engaged in the thriving business of selling the Kingdom over and over again to men who thought they could become its King and were doomed to fail. Ben was chosen to be one of them, but surprised both Meeks and himself by finding a way to overcome obstacles that no other had.

He owed his success, in no small part, to the medallion.

He took a moment to study it. Only the Kings of Landover were allowed to wear the medallion, as it was both the insignia of their office and a talisman allowing them to pass freely between this world and others. It could not be removed by force, only voluntarily. Ben never took it off. Removing it would strip him of his identity and consign him to an exile’s fate. He had discovered that the hard way when Meeks, after giving it to him, had tricked him into thinking he had taken it off in a failed effort to regain control of the Kingdom. After surviving that, Ben had been careful never to let the medallion out of his possession.

But the medallion had a more important use, one that he had discovered almost by accident and literally meant the difference between life and death. It was his link to the Paladin, the King’s champion and protector. While he wore the medallion, he possessed the power to summon the Paladin to defend him against his enemies. This was no small matter in a land where dangers threatened a King at every turn. The Paladin had saved his life countless times since he had assumed the throne. Without the medallion, that would not have happened.

No one but Ben understood the full extent of the medallion’s power. No one else knew the whole of its secret save for Willow, and it had taken him a long time to tell her.

The medallion provided a link between King and Paladin because the one was the alter ego of the other.

Ben Holiday was the Paladin.

When he summoned his champion, it materialized out of nowhere, a ghost come out of the ether. It rode a battle horse and it was fully armored and armed and ready for combat. It defended Ben, but in doing so it took him inside and made him a part of itself. It did so because the strength of the King determined the strength of the knight.

But there was more. The Paladin carried with it the memories of all the battles it had ever fought for all the Kings of Landover who had ever been. Those memories were harsh and raw and painted with blood and death. They surfaced instantly when it was joined to Ben. They transformed his character in the bargain, infusing him with a bloodlust that was all-consuming He became the warrior that had survived every struggle it had ever engaged in. Everything else was forgotten; all that mattered was winning the battle, whatever the cost. The battle became everything.

And while he was the Paladin and while he fought, he wanted nothing more than what he had at that moment—a fight to the death.

Afterward, he was always shaken at how completely he had been overwhelmed by the primal emotions of the struggle. While he fought as the Paladin, he loved how those emotions made him feel, how alive he became. But he was left drained and terrified afterward, and he always hoped he would never have to make the change again.

Because, secretly, he was afraid that one day he would not be able to change back again.

Even now, after all these years, he struggled with this dark secret. He could tell no one, although the weight of it was enormous. It was his alone to bear, for all the years of life that remained to him. It repulsed him, but at the same time he remembered how the transformation would feel when it happened again. The mix of the two was troubling, and though he continued to try he had not yet found a way to come to terms with it.

He was in the midst of pondering this when a knock sounded on the chamber door, and before he could respond the heavy portal swung open to admit Laphroig of Rhyndweir.

Ben started to get to his feet and abruptly sat down again, staring in disbelief.

Laphroig always dressed in black. Always. Ben had assumed the affectation had to do with either the impression he was trying to make on others or the one he had of himself. Today, though, Laphroig wore white so dazzling that on anyone else it might have suggested the angelic. White ribbons and bits of lace decorated his cuffs and shoulders and elbows, a sash wrapped twice around his waist, and a white cloak draped his slender form and hung just inches from the floor.

And a broad-brimmed hat, too. With a feather in it!

Laphroig wasn’t a big man to start with. Indeed, he was smallish and slender, his features sharp and his black hair spiky. There was a sly and cunning look to him and a ferret’s quickness to his movements. But dressed as he was today, all in white, he reminded Ben of an egret.

What in the heck, Ben asked himself, is going on?

The Lord of Rhyndweir approached with something between a mince and a bounce, removed his feathered hat with a flourish, and bowed deeply. “High Lord, I am your humble servant.”

That’ll be the day, Ben thought.

“Lord Laphroig,” he replied, almost saying Lord Frog, only just managing to keep from doing so. He gestured to the chair on his right. “Please sit down.”

Laphroig swept his cape out behind him and settled himself comfortably. Ben couldn’t stop staring. The thought crossed his mind that aliens might have taken Laphroig over and caused him to don the outlandish outfit. But otherwise he looked the same: eyes protruding, tongue flicking out, spiky black hair sticking straight up …

Ben blinked. Those inky, depthless eyes: There was a glint of cunning there, a look both cold and calculating. He remembered Abernathy’s words of caution and banished his incredulity and bemusement. It was not a good idea to consider Laphroig as harmless. “What brings you to Sterling Silver?” he asked, smiling as if everything were normal.

“A matter of utmost importance, High Lord,” Laphroig replied, his face suddenly serious. Then he smiled. “I see you are surprised by my dress. Not the usual black. That is because of what brings me here. Black does not suit the subject of my visit. White is more appropriate, and I decided to honor my purpose by dressing accordingly.”

Ben nodded, wondering where this was going.

“I realize I should have sent a messenger requesting an audience, but I couldn’t bear the attendant wait, High Lord. Once my mind was made up, there was nothing for it but to come straight here and hope that you would agree to see me. You have not disappointed me; I am most appreciative.”

So, Ben thought. Aliens have taken him over. The Laphroig we know and hate has been replaced by something unrecognizable. He caught himself. Well, maybe. Maybe not.

“What matter is it that brings you to us, Lord of Rhyndweir?” he asked.

Laphroig straightened noticeably, as if bracing himself. “High Lord, I know I have not been the best of neighbors in the past. I know I have been difficult at times, even rude. I attribute this to my youth and my inexperience, and I hope you have found it in your heart to forgive me.”

Ben shrugged. “There is nothing to forgive.”

“You are entirely too kind, High Lord. But I know differently, and I offer my apologies for all offenses given. I wish to start anew with our relationship, which I expect to be a long and productive one.”

Ben smiled and nodded. What is he up to?

“I also intend to be a better friend to the members of your court, starting with Questor Thews and Abernathy, to whom I have been less than kind at times. That is all in the past now and will not happen again.”

His tongue flicked out as he gathered himself. “High Lord, I have come to ask you for the hand of your daughter, Mistaya, in marriage.”

Whatever Ben Holiday might have thought he was ready for, it certainly wasn’t this. He was so shocked that for a moment he just stared at the other man. “You want to marry Mistaya?” he said finally.

Laphroig nodded enthusiastically. “I do. It will be a satisfactory match for both of us, I think.”

Ben leaned forward. “But she’s fifteen.”

Laphroig nodded. “Older than I would have liked, but still young enough to teach. We will be a good match: she an eager helper and dutiful wife and I, a strong protector and devoted husband. She is young enough to bear me many children, some of whom, I fully expect, will be sons who will succeed me. She has a pleasing face and temperament to match. She is clever, but not too much so. She is the woman I have always hoped to find.”

Ben stared some more. “Am I missing something here? Don’t you already have a wife? And a son and heir, for that matter?”

Laphroig looked suddenly sad. “Apparently you haven’t heard, High Lord. News doesn’t always travel as fast as we might think. My son caught a fever and died not twenty days ago. His mother, in her grief, killed herself. I am left with neither spouse nor heir, and while I would like the period of mourning to go on longer than it has, duty dictates that I act in the best interest of my subjects. That means taking a new wife and producing an heir as quickly as possible.” He paused, shaking his head. “Even in my grief, I thought at once of Mistaya.”

So that was it. Suddenly Ben wanted to wring his visitor’s scrawny neck. He could do it, right here in the reception room, and no one would know. Even if Questor or Abernathy guessed at the truth of things, they would never say a word. The impulse was so overwhelming that he found he was clenching his fists in anticipation. He forced himself to relax and sit back.

“Your dedication to your duties is commendable,” he said, trying to decide how to put an end to this.

“Mistaya, I understand, has just returned from her schooling in what was once your old world, High Lord.” Laphroig smiled, his tongue flicking out. “I gather she does not intend to go back, but to remain here in Landover. That makes it all the easier for a wedding to be arranged. It is a suitable match, don’t you agree?”

Ben knew enough not to tell the other what he really thought. He also understood how marriage protocols worked where the Lords of the Greensward were concerned. Taking wives to produce heirs was standard practice. Young wives were favored to allow for maximum production. Marriages were arranged between the ruling families all the time. Such unions created alliances and strengthened friendships with allies. Nothing that Laphroig had suggested was out of line with common practice.

On the other hand, it was entirely out of the question. Ben and Willow’s opinions aside, Mistaya would run screaming into the night if the suggestion were even broached; she hated Laphroig, who was always patting her arm or trying to kiss her cheek. Given the opportunity and the least bit of encouragement, she would have turned him into a real frog But Ben had cautioned her against doing anything overt, pointing out that he had to live and work with people like Laphroig, and there was nothing to be gained by making it harder than it already was.

He half wished now that he had let her have her way.

“My Lord, this is a matter that will require some thought and discussion,” he said finally. “The Queen must be advised of your intentions. Also … um, Mistaya must be told.”

“Of course, of course,” Laphroig agreed at once. “She must be courted, as well. I must win her heart. It was never my intention to ask that she simply be given to me. She must agree to the match, too.”

Ben felt a little of the tension drain out of him. If Mistaya must agree, it would be the Twelfth of Never before any marriage happened. “I am pleased you are taking this approach.”

Laphroig stood, bowed deeply, his feathered hat sweeping down, and straightened anew. “I shall return home to await your word. But I do want to emphasize that I hope to begin courting the Princess as soon as you have had a chance to consider and accept my proposal. As I said, I do feel some urgency in this matter, and I do feel I have a duty to my people.”

“I understand,” Ben advised, rising with him. “You shall hear from me again very shortly.”

He watched Laphroig bounce out of the room, wondering how in the world he was going to handle this.

Some distance away from the castle, although not so far that she could not see its silver gleam against the green backdrop of the surrounding forests, Mistaya sat talking with Poggwydd about proper behavior. It was a discussion that was taking considerable time and effort, and they had been at it for several hours now. That these two citizens of Landover should be engaged in a discourse on this particular subject was of itself rather strange, and the irony of it would not have been lost on Ben Holiday had he been present to witness it. No doubt he would have had something to say to his daughter about the pot calling the kettle black or how people who live in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones.

Willow, on the other hand, would have pointed out that sometimes people worked through their own problems by trying to help others with theirs, and that this could be particularly effective when the nature of those problems was so similar.

“If you want to be accepted by others, you have to be considerate of their feelings,” the pot was saying to the kettle.

Poggwydd frowned. “No one is considerate of us. No one wants anything to do with us. G’home Gnomes are friendless outcasts in a friendless world.”

“Yes, but there are reasons for this, as I have been saying,” Mistaya explained patiently. “For instance, taking things that don’t belong to you is not a good way to endear yourself.”

Poggwydd bristled. “G’home Gnomes are not thieves, Princess. We are finders of lost items, with which we then barter or trade. It is a time-honored profession, and one in which our people have been engaged for centuries. Just because we are not skilled craftsmen or clever artisans does not mean we deserve to be treated badly.”

Mistaya sighed. They were covering familiar ground without making much progress. “Poggwydd, you do not find ‘lost items’ in other people’s storerooms and closets. You do not find them in their sheds and huts. You do not find them in their kitchen cabinets and pantries, some of which are bolted and locked.”

Poggwydd screwed up his monkeyish face and grimaced. “Those are harsh words. Unpleasant accusations.” He thought about it a moment and suddenly brightened. “Where is your proof?”

“Well, in your case, finding you hung from a tree limb by an angry kobold who just happens to serve my father would be a prime example.”

“That was a case of mistaken identity. It wasn’t me. Probably wasn’t even a G’home Gnome, although there are some among us—as there are some among you—who do not obey the rules of the tribe. But if I were pressed for an explanation, I would think it was probably another kobold—perhaps even the one who accused me.”

He nodded with some degree of self-satisfaction, and she wanted to smack him. “Bunion doesn’t lie and he doesn’t have any reason to steal things to which he has free access,” she pointed out. “Besides, Parsnip saw you, too. That suggests you might want to rethink your explanation. The fact is, Poggwydd, you were somewhere you shouldn’t have been. You weren’t invited into the castle, let alone into the kitchen and the pantries. This is an example of being where you aren’t supposed to be for a purpose that shows no consideration for others.”

The G’home Gnome pouted. “I would have paid it all back, you know. Eventually.”

“Well, if you hadn’t done it in the first place, you wouldn’t have had to worry about paying anyone back. And you could have asked for whatever it was you took. Maybe Parsnip would have given you what you needed. Next time, you should just ask for me.”

He shook his head. “No, I can’t do that. You are a Princess. Why would a Princess even be told I was asking for her?”

She brushed back her blond hair. “We’re getting off the point. We were talking about proper behavior. Or lack thereof. G’home Gnomes suffer from a failure to recognize what proper behavior is. If they want to be accepted by others, they have to earn their respect.”

Poggwydd snorted. “How is that supposed to happen? Everyone’s already made up their minds about us.”

“And you don’t do anything to change those minds. Besides ‘finding’ things in people’s houses, you manage to latch on to their pets, too. Often right out of their pens. And then you eat them.”

“That is a lie!” Poggwydd leaped to his feet, flinging his arms about, his wizened face screwed up like a walnut. “We do not eat pets. We eat wild creatures we find wandering about. If they happen to be pets that have strayed, what are we to do about that? How are we to know? People blame us, but they don’t want to share that blame! If they took better care of their pets, these things wouldn’t happen!”

Mistaya scratched an itch on her nose and smiled. “Why don’t you stop eating cats and dogs altogether? There are plenty of other things you could eat. Squirrels or birds or voles. Or even bog wumps, if you could catch one. Eat some of those instead.”

“Bog wumps!” Poggwydd was horrified. “Do you eat bog wumps? Does anyone?”

“Well, I don’t,” she agreed. “But I don’t eat cats and dogs, either.”

The gnome sat down again. “I don’t think you know what you are talking about.” He gave her an accusatory stare. “I think you are badly confused about all of this.”

She pressed her lips tightly together in frustration and nodded. “Why don’t you just think about what I said,” she suggested finally. “In the meantime, stay away from the castle. If you need food, come ask for me. I will tell everyone I am to be told if you do. Is that all right?”

Poggwydd folded his arms across his skinny chest and hunched his shoulders as he looked away from her. “I might just leave. I might just go back to where I came from and forget about trying to make a home here. I don’t think this is going to work out.”

She got to her feet. Couldn’t argue with logic like that, she thought. “I’ll come back and see you again tomorrow,” she promised. “We can take a walk and not talk about anything, if you like.”

He shrugged. “If you can spare the time.”

She left him sitting there looking off into space, pretending that nothing she said or did mattered to him, that he was above it all. She had come out to talk with him after hearing from Bunion the whole of what had led to the little fellow being strung up by his heels, wanting to do something to prevent it from happening again. Bunion and Parsnip could promise that it wouldn’t, but if they caught Poggwydd again where he wasn’t supposed to be she wasn’t all that sure the promise would mean anything. Kobolds were not known for their generous natures, and even though these two were her friends, friendship only went so far.

As she strolled back through the grove of Bonnie Blues toward the castle, she tried to decide what else she could say that would make a difference. She needed to do something besides brood on her situation as a former Carrington student, an identity she was trying to put behind her at this point. Her father hadn’t said anything more about her suggestion that she go back to being tutored by Questor and Abernathy, but she had a feeling he was considering something else. No one had indicated what that might be, not even her two would-be tutors, who kept hemming and hawing around the subject whenever she brought it up to them.

So now she was thinking that it might be a good plan to come up with an idea of her own, a project that would convince her father that she was doing something useful. Working with the disadvantaged had always appealed to her, and there was no one more disadvantaged than the G’home Gnomes. If she could demonstrate her ability to change even one of them for the better, then her chances of being allowed to try to do so with all of the others would be greatly improved.

However, Poggwydd wasn’t doing much to cooperate, and she was starting to think this might be tougher than she had thought.

She was still mulling this dilemma over, paying little attention to anything around her as she meandered out of the forest and onto the roadway leading to Sterling Silver, when she suddenly found herself face-to-face with Laphroig of Rhyndweir and his entourage. There were six or eight of them, all on horseback save for the driver of the carriage in which Laphroig was riding. She didn’t realize who it was right away, still distracted with thoughts of Poggwydd and G’home Gnomes, and so she stood where she was as the procession rolled up to her and stopped. By then, it was too late to consider an escape.

Laphroig flung open the carriage door, leaped down, and hurried over to her. “Princess Mistaya,” he greeted warmly, reptilian tongue flicking out as he executed a deep bow.

“Lord Laphroig,” she returned warily, only barely managing not to call him Lord Lafrog. She had heard Abernathy use the nickname often enough that she had begun doing so, as well.

“So wonderful to see you!” he declared effusively.

He grasped her right hand with both of his and began kissing it effusively. Rather forcibly, she extracted it from his grip and gave him a meaningful frown. “It’s not that good to see me. But thank you for the compliment.”

She had learned something about diplomacy while growing up a Princess in her father’s court. You were always polite, even when what you most wanted was to be anything but.

“I hadn’t dared hope that I would be so fortunate as to encounter you personally on this visit. But now that I have, I shall consider it an omen of good fortune.”

She nodded, taking in his strange outfit. “What is that you’re wearing?” she asked, unable to help herself. “Why aren’t you wearing black?”

“Ah, you’ve come right to the crux of the matter,” he replied, giving her a knowing wink. “My clothing is not the usual black because my visit is not the usual visit. It is a different reason entirely that brings me to Sterling Silver. I have been to see your father concerning you.”

“Have you?” She felt a sudden chill sweep through her. “About me?”

“I have requested permission to court you with the intention that you should become my new wife and the mother of my children!” he declared, sweeping the hat from his head and bowing deeply once more. “I intend that we should marry, Mistaya.”

It took her considerable effort, but she managed to keep her face composed and her emotions concealed. “You do?”

“Your father has already said he would consider the matter. I shall use that time to come calling on you regularly. I shall make you see that we are the perfect match.”

In your dreams, she thought instantly. But what was this about her father agreeing to consider the matter? Shouldn’t he have dismissed it out of hand? What was he thinking?

“Lord Laphroig.” She gave him her most charming smile. “Do you not already have a wife? Are you not already spoken for?”

A cloud of gloom settled over his froggy features. “Unfortunately, no. A terrible tragedy has occurred. My son passed away quite suddenly less than two weeks ago. Dear little Andrutten. A fever took him. My wife, in her grief, chose to follow him into that dark realm of death, and now both are gone and I am left alone and bereft of family.”

“I’m sorry, I hadn’t heard,” she said, embarrassed by her ignorance.

She remembered his wife, a pale, slender woman with white-blond hair and sad eyes. There were stories about that marriage, and none of them was good. She had never seen their child.

He bowed anew. “Your condolences mean everything.”

“I should think you would be in mourning for them,” she suggested pointedly. “For a suitable time before courting anyone.”

He shook his head as if she were clueless. “I will be in mourning for them forever. But duty calls, and I must answer. A Lord of Rhyndweir requires a wife and sons if he is to fulfill his duties. I must not leave the Lordship imperiled, even for as long as thirty days. I must provide an heir to reassure my people.”

Whatever this was about, Mistaya was certain that it had nothing to do with duty and obligation. Laphroig was up to something, just as he was always up to something, and somehow his machinations had found their way to her doorstep. She decided to lock and bar the door before it could be forced.

“My Lord, I am hardly a suitable match for you,” she declared. “I am young and naïve and not yet well trained in the art of wifely duties.” She nearly gagged on this part. “I am best suited for continued study at an institution of higher learning—as I am sure my father has told you.”

Laphroig cocked his head. “It was my understanding that you had been dismissed from Carrington.”

She stared at him, sudden anger boiling up as she realized that only a spy could have provided such information. “I intend to continue my education elsewhere.”

He smiled. “This in no way hinders my plans for you. You can be tutored at Rhyndweir castle for as long and extensively as you like. Tutors can be engaged to educate you on any subject.” He paused. “Save those only a husband can teach.”

She flushed bright red despite herself. “My Lord, I think you fail to understand the situation—”

He stepped forward suddenly, standing right next to her, his head bent close to her own, his protruding eyes fixing on her as if she were a troublesome child. There was a possessive quality in that stare that repulsed and frightened her.

“I think, perhaps, it is you who fail to understand, Princess,” he whispered. “Understand me. I am set upon this match. I am set upon you as my wife, and so you shall be. Do not think for a moment that anything will change this. Not even your father.” He paused. “You will come to realize this soon enough. You will come to accept your duty to me. Things will go easier for you when you do.”

He stepped back a pace, but his eyes were still dangerous. He took hold of her wrist and held on tightly. “No one defies me, Princess. When they do, there are unpleasant consequences.”

Suddenly she thought of his wife and child, both dead, and then of his older brother, dying mysteriously, and his younger, not much older than herself, disappeared and never found. An awful lot of people connected to Laphroig had come to a bad end, and as she stood there facing him she knew with a chilling certainty that this wasn’t by chance.

“My father is waiting for me,” she managed, barely able to meet his gaze now. “I have to go.”

He smiled, releasing her wrist. “Of course, you do. Good day, Princess Mistaya.”

He climbed back into the carriage without giving her another glance, and the entire entourage moved away in a rumble of wheels, a thudding of hooves, and a creaking of harness.

Mistaya waited until they were out of sight, and then she set off for the castle in a white-hot heat.

Ben Holiday was at his writing desk, signing work orders for a project that the crown had approved to build a new bridge spanning the Clash Bone Gorge below the Melchor, when Mistaya stormed in, throwing open the door to his study without knocking and then slamming it shut behind her.

“Why did you give The Frog permission to court me?” she demanded, coming to an angry stop in front of his desk, face flushed and hands on hips.

He blinked. “I didn’t.”

“Well, he says you did. I bumped into him out on the road, and he told me the whole story about his plans for our marriage. He said he asked you if he could court me and you said he could!”

“I said I would think about it.”

Her lips tightened into a white line. “Oh, that’s all right, then. Obviously. What’s wrong with me? Of course, you have to think about it! How can you make an informed decision otherwise?”

“I told him that to buy myself a little time, Mistaya. You know how it works when you’re dealing with the men and women in power. Hasty answers—even when you’d like to give them—aren’t always the wisest way to go. Besides, his proposal caught me by surprise, too.”

His daughter scowled. “I think you made a mistake, Father. A very big mistake. I think you needed to tell him straight out that your daughter isn’t going to marry him on the best day of his life and he ought to just forget about it. Putting him off just encouraged him. He thinks you’re seriously considering giving him permission. He practically hauled me off to his castle right then and there! He thinks the matter is settled in all but deed!”

She leaned over his desk, her anger a bright fire in her green eyes. “I do not appreciate being dragged into court matters. I am not some piece of furniture to be given away to anyone who comes around asking! I don’t care if you are King of Landover! I am not a bargaining chip! If you don’t get that, then maybe you’d better do a quick study on the laws of emancipated women in the twenty-first century. Remember how it works in the world you came from, the one you sent me back into to learn more about life? Well, that’s a lesson I learned early on. You don’t give away young women to rich old men!”

“What are you talking about?” Ben leaped to his feet, anger surfacing in him now, too. “Rich old men? Laphroig? He’s not all that much older than you! Anyway, that’s not the point! I have no intention of ‘giving you away,’ as you put it—not to him or to anyone else! But people like Laphroig don’t understand how things work in my world, so I can’t just drop that on them without exercising some diplomacy—”

Mistaya slammed the flat of her hand on his desk. “You aren’t listening to me! He thinks you have already agreed! He implied that it would be smart for me just to go along with his wishes and not to argue the matter. He threatened me out there, Father! He warned me that he was used to getting what he wanted and that I was going to be his latest acquisition whether I liked it or not!”

Ben straightened. “Threatened you?”

“Yes, threatened me!” She straightened, folding her arms across her chest. “He frightens me. I don’t like him, and I don’t want to have to see him again. I’ve heard the stories about his brothers. And now his wife and child are dead, too? And he wants me to marry him?” She shook her head. “I want him kept away from me. He’s dangerous, Father. Bug eyes and lizard tongue or not, he’s scary.”

They stared at each other for a moment, and then Ben nodded. “I agree with you. I already sent Bunion to see what he could learn about the death of Laphroig’s wife and child. We should know something by tomorrow.”

He held up his hands hastily as he saw the anger flood back into her cheeks. “Not that this changes anything where you are concerned,” he added quickly. “But I think it better if we find out the whole of the story. It may be that Laphroig has overstepped himself, and we can do something about it.”

“So what about me?” she demanded. “Will you tell him he can’t court me, and you won’t give him permission to marry me?”

Ben took a deep breath and exhaled. “I will. But there’s something else we have to talk about, too, and we might as well do it now. Questor, Abernathy, and your mother and I have talked about how you should continue your education. We all understand that you do not want to go back to Carrington. So we won’t ask that of you. But we also agree that continuing your studies here at Sterling Silver isn’t the best choice, either. So we’ve come up with an alternative—one that might actually help us all better deal with Laphroig and his marriage proposal.”

She eyed him suspiciously. “What is it?”

“We want you to go to Libiris as emissary to the throne, to reorganize the library.”

She smiled brightly. “Do you, Father? What a terrible idea. I’m not going.”

“Wait a minute.” Ben held up one hand to ward off whatever else she might be thinking of saying. He could scarcely believe his ears. “You’re not going? Just like that? You haven’t even heard my reasoning! Why are you refusing me out of hand?”

“Because, Father.”

“Because? What does that mean? Because why?”

“Because,” she repeated, putting emphasis on the word. She scowled at him. “Put yourself in my position, if that’s possible. How would you like to be sent off to Libiris for an indefinite stay? Libiris is the backside of beyond! Questor told me all about its history during our studies. There’s nothing there, and the place is a wreck! So now you want me to go there and put it back together? Me, a fifteen-year-old boarding school dropout? Because I’m so qualified for this, maybe? I don’t think so. I think this is just an excuse for getting me out of the way. How do I know what you’ll do about The Frog once I’m away?”

Ben was suddenly furious. “Doesn’t my word count for something with you, Mistaya? Do you think I would go back on it?”

She glared at him. “Frankly, I don’t know what you might do. You haven’t exactly distinguished yourself so far where this business of Laphroig is concerned. I don’t want to go off hoping you’ll do the right thing and come back to a surprise marriage!”

“I’m not going to marry you off to Laphroig!”

“Or anyone else, if you please!” She huffed, pouted, and wheeled away. “Besides, Libiris is beyond help. Even Questor said so.”

“Questor is going with you. You can use the travel time to discuss the matter. In any case, it was his idea in the first place.”

She wheeled back. “I don’t believe you.”

“The library was once an important part of the Kingdom,” he explained patiently. “It was built because one of my predecessors understood the value of books and reading. His undertaking fell apart after he was gone because no one else made an effort to keep things up. But you could change all that. This is a worthy project, Mistaya. If you can reorganize and repair Libiris, we could use it to better educate the people. What could be more important than that?”

She shook her head. “Have you ever been there?”

He hesitated. “No.”

“Do you know what’s in those books?”

“No, but I—”

“Or even if the books are still intact? Doesn’t paper fall apart over time? What’s to say the whole library hasn’t been reduced to a giant rats’ nest?”

He composed himself with some effort. “If it has, then you can come back home, all right? But if not, you have to agree to stay.”

She shrugged. “I’ll give it some thought. Maybe after I’ve heard you tell The Frog he can hop on back to his lily pad, I might go. But not before then and not while I’m feeling like this!”

Ben stood up. Enough was enough. “You are fifteen years old and you don’t have the right yet to determine what you will and won’t do! Your mother and I still make certain decisions for you, and this is one. Your education begins anew at Libiris. You can have today and tomorrow to pack your things and make ready to travel. Then you are going. Is that clear?”

She gave him a look. “What’s clear is that you would do anything to get me out from underfoot. You might even marry me off to someone despicable. That’s what’s clear to me!” She sneered. “Father.”

The door opened suddenly, and Willow stepped through. She glanced purposefully from one to the other. “Why are you both shouting?” she asked. “You can be heard all the way to Elderew. Can you please conduct this conversation in a quieter fashion?”

“This conversation is over!” Mistaya snapped.

“Will you please be reasonable—” Ben started to say, but she stomped out of the room without waiting for him to finish and slammed the door behind her. Ben stared after her in dismay, slowly sinking back into his chair.

Well, that didn’t go very well, he thought.

Willow crossed the room and sat down on the other side of the writing table, her gaze settling on him like a weight.

“Don’t say it,” he said at once.

“I think you could have handled that better,” she said anyway.

“You weren’t here. You didn’t hear what she said.”

“I did not have to be here, and I did not have to hear what she said. It is enough to know that you both kept talking long after you should have stopped. But you, especially. You are the parent, the elder of the two. You know better. Pushing her to do things—worse, telling her she must—is always a mistake.”

“She’s fifteen.”

“She is fifteen in some ways, but she is much older in others. You cannot think of her in the ways you are used to thinking of fifteen-year-old girls. She is much more complicated than that.”

She was right, of course, although he didn’t much like admitting it. He had been drawn into an argument that he was destined to lose from the outset. But that didn’t change what he knew was right or necessary.

“I know I can do better with her,” he conceded. “I know I lose my temper with her when I shouldn’t. She knows how to push all the right buttons and I let her do it.” He paused. “But that doesn’t change things. She is still going to Libiris with Questor the day after tomorrow. I have my mind set on this, Willow.”

She nodded. “I know you do, and I know that it would be good for her to go. But I am not certain she sees it that way.”

“Well, it doesn’t matter how she sees it. She’s going whether she wants to or not.”

He was bothered by how that pronouncement sounded the moment he was finished making it. In the days ahead, he would have cause to remember so.

Mistaya marched back through the castle to her sleeping chamber without speaking to anyone—not even to a bewildered Questor Thews, who tried to ask her a question—closed and locked the chamber door, and sat down to contemplate her undeserved misery. The day was bright and clear and sunny outside her window, but in her heart there was only gloom and despair.

How could her father be so unfeeling?

It was bad enough that she had returned home under a dark cloud, suspended from the prestigious boarding school to which he had sent her with such high hopes, her future a big, fat blank slate on which she had no idea what she would write. It was worse still that she was almost immediately confronted with a marriage proposal she didn’t need from a man she didn’t like, a proposal so outrageous that it should have been rejected out of hand and yet somehow wasn’t. But to top it all off, she was now looking at months of exile to a place that no one in their right mind would visit under any circumstances, a gloomy and empty set of buildings that were crumbling and breaking apart, that were filled with dust and debris, and that housed moldering old books no one had opened in decades.

At least, that was the way she envisioned it in her mind as she sat before her mirror and looked at her stricken face and thought to herself that no one should have to endure this.

She grew tired rather quickly of feeling sorry for herself and turned away. She walked over to the window, stared out at the countryside for a moment, then opened the window and breathed in the scents of Bonnie Blues and Rillshing Cedars. She loved her home. She loved everything about it, and what hurt her most about everything that was happening was that she was going to have to leave it. Technically Libiris was also her home, since it was a part of Landover, but not all parts of Landover were created equal. Consider the Fire Springs and the wastelands east, for instance—nothing in that part of the country was particularly charming. But Libiris was worse still.

Or so Questor had led her to believe.

She thought about her friend and mentor for a moment and could not quite make herself believe that it had been his idea to send her there. But her father would not lie about such a thing; it would be too easy to find him out if he did—and besides, he never lied. He did a few other irritating things from time to time, but not that.

She drummed her fingers on the windowsill and thought. There was no point in sitting around feeling sorry for herself. She would have to do something about her situation if she wanted it to improve.

Her first impulse was to talk to her mother. Willow was more sympathetic to her plight, more understanding of her struggles in general. But her mother was unlikely to cross her father in this instance and would probably suggest that Mistaya give Libiris a chance. Questor and Abernathy supported her father already, so there was no point in pleading with them.

She sighed. This was all so unfair.

She had a sudden urge to cry, and she almost gave in to it. But crying was for babies and cowards, and she wouldn’t do it no matter how much she wanted to. She stiffened against it, reminding herself that teen angst was for those movie magazines and romance novels that she had discovered in her father’s world. In Landover, there was no place for it.

All right, her mother was out. Her friends were out. Whatever help she was going to find, she would have to find elsewhere.

Right away, she thought of her grandfather, the River Master. The River Master was the leader of the fairy-born—a collection of creatures that had forsaken the fairy mists that encircled Landover to come live in the world of humans. They made their home in the lake country south of Sterling Silver and more particularly in the city of Elderew. She could go there, and her grandfather would take her in and give her shelter and might not even tell her parents—at least, not right away. Willow was his daughter, but their relationship had never been all that strong. Willow’s mother was a wood nymph whom he had never been able to tame or hold, a wild creature that refused to marry or even to settle. Willow was a reminder of her, and her grandfather neither needed nor wanted reminding. He liked Ben even less, an interloper from another world become King through a series of happy coincidences who didn’t really deserve the job. Her grandfather tolerated him, but nothing more.

She had learned all this while growing up, some of it from Questor and Abernathy and some from her own observations and experiences. She had never appreciated her grandfather’s attitude, but she could see where it might come in handy in this instance. Because even though the River Master was not close to her parents, he loved Mistaya intensely.

Of course, there was always the possibility that he was angry with her for not having come to see him for more than a year. That might require a little repair work on her part—perhaps even a little groveling. She thought about it a moment and then shrugged. Well, she could grovel, if she had to. She would find a way to win him over, whatever it took. Going to Elderew was the best option open to her.

She folded her arms defiantly and nodded. Yes, she would run away to her grandfather. And she would do so immediately. No waiting around for the inevitable; no praying for a miracle. She would leave tonight.

She would pack some clothes and sneak out of the castle while everyone was sleeping. That might not be so easy. The castle was guarded, and her father’s retainers were under orders to keep a close watch over her. It helped that Bunion was off checking on The Frog, but there were other eyes. If she tried to leave carrying a suitcase or a backpack, someone would notice and report it and she would be hauled back before she got halfway to Elderew.

Even more troubling was the fact that her father had ways of finding her, even if she didn’t tell him where she was going Once he discovered she was gone, he would use the Landsview or one of his other magical devices to track her down. Then he would simply mount up and come looking for her. She would have to find a way to thwart him.

She frowned with irritation. This couldn’t happen in his old world, where you could be found only through technological means and not through magic. But she wasn’t about to go back to where she had come from.

Was she?

No, of course not, she chided herself. What was the point of going back to the very place where she had been so miserable? But it did suggest another possibility. She could pass out of Landover into any world; like the fairies in the mists and the dragon Strabo in the Fire Springs, she had that ability. Once she was outside Landover, her father might never find her. It was an interesting thought, and she mulled it over for a long few moments. In the end, however, she discarded it. Leaving Landover wasn’t acceptable. She had come home to Landover to stay and stay she would—just not at Libiris.

She flounced back over to the window, breathed in the scents of the countryside, rushed back to her bed and threw herself down, staring at the ceiling as she tried to work out the details of a plan. But planning wasn’t her strong point. She reacted to people and events almost solely on instinct—the result of being a child of three worlds, she imagined—so thinking ahead too far was counterproductive.

She was still considering how to make her escape unnoticed when one of the pages knocked at her door and informed her that she had a visitor—a G’home Gnome, he advised with obvious distaste.

At once she had the answer to her dilemma.

She rushed down to greet Poggwydd, who stood uncertainly at the front entry, gnarled hands clasped as gimlet eyes tried to take in everything at once, his posture suggesting that he had every expectation of being thrown out again momentarily.

“Poggwydd!” she shouted at him with such exuberance that he nearly dropped to his knees in fright. She rushed across the room and embraced him like an old friend. “So you were paying attention to me when I told you to come see me!”

He stiffened and gave her a halfhearted bow. “Of course I was paying attention! I took you at your word and then decided to see how good that word was!”

“Well, now you know.” She smiled, took his hand in her own, and dragged him forward. “Come see the castle. But don’t try to steal anything, all right?”

He mumbled something that she took to be an assent, and for the next hour they wandered the halls of Sterling Silver, looking in all the chambers—(save those her mother and father were occupying)—and talking of how life in the castle worked. She only caught him trying to take something once, and since it was an odd little silver vase, she let him keep it. Gradually, he relaxed and began to act as if he belonged, and they were soon talking with each other like lifelong friends.

As the tour finished and the urgency of her intended mission to escape began to press in upon her, she suddenly had a brilliant idea.

“Poggwydd, can I ask a favor of you?” she said.

He was instantly suspicious. “What sort of favor?”

“Nothing complicated or dangerous,” she reassured him. She shrugged disarmingly. “I just want to give you some clothing to keep safe for me until I need it. Can you do that?”

He frowned. “Why would you give your clothing to me? Why would you need to keep it safe?”

She thought quickly, and then leaned in close to him. “All right, I’ll tell you why. But you must agree to keep it a secret.” She waited for his nod. “I have some clothes my parents gave me that I want to give to someone else who needs them more than I do. But I don’t want my parents to see me taking them away because it will make them feel bad.”

He struggled with this a moment, his monkey face screwed in thought, and finally he said, “Oh, very well. I can keep them if you want.” Then he stopped abruptly. “Wait. How long do I have to keep them? I don’t have anywhere to put them where they will be safe, you know.”

She nodded. “You just need to keep them safe until tonight. I will come meet you after it’s dark and take them back from you. All right?”

She could tell it wasn’t, not entirely. Taking things in the course of scrounging or stealing was perfectly all right, but taking them any other way seemed odd. Poggwydd was clearly thinking that this could somehow come back to bite him, taking the personal clothing of Landover’s Princess, whether it was her idea or not.

“Poggwydd,” she said, taking his hands in her own. “You won’t be getting into any trouble, I promise. In fact, this would mean I owe you a favor in return.”

He seemed to like the sound of that, and he gave her a crooked smile. “All right, Princess. Where are these clothes?”

She took him to an anteroom off her bedchamber and had him wait while she pulled out travel clothes and packed them in a duffel bag she could sling over her shoulder. Not much, but enough to see her through the few days it would take to reach the lake country and her grandfather. She added a compass, a virtual map ring (really a handy tool for nighttime travel), a small fairy stone (a present for her grandfather), and a book on wizard spells that Questor had given her before she left for Carrington, which she had only just started reading again. This last might offer something useful in the days ahead, and since it was pocket-sized it was easily carried. Then she wrapped the duffel in an old sheet, tied the corners of the sheet in knots to secure everything, and took it out to him.

“I’ll meet you at the Bonnie Blues tonight,” she promised as she walked him to the front entry. A few curious glances were cast their way, but she ignored them and no one said anything. “Just remember to be there to meet me,” she added.

She ushered him back through the gates and went up to her room to wait for nightfall.

It was all very exciting.

She managed to put up a good front through dinner, even pretending that she would think more about going off to Libiris—(as if!)—and would take her father at his word that there would be no more encounters with the marriage-minded Laphroig. She had more faith in him on this one. But she was fifteen years old, and no fifteen-year-old ever took the word of a parent at face value and without reservations. It wasn’t that parents were deliberately duplicitous—although sometimes they clearly were—but rather that they tended to forget their promises or to find a way to misconstrue their parameters. Whenever that happened, it somehow always ended up the child’s fault. Given where things stood in her life, Mistaya was having no part of that.

But she talked and smiled and laughed and pretty much acted the way she knew they wanted her to act and didn’t let her anxiety over managing a clean break interfere with their meal. She loved her parents, after all, and she knew they wanted only the best for her. Mostly, they delivered. But in this case they were going to have to start over and find a better route.

When dinner was finished, she excused herself on the pretext of wanting to do some reading and retired to her bedchamber. There she sat down to wait, biding her time until the castle stilled and her parents retired. They always followed the same procedure, looking in on her before going off to bed, so she couldn’t try to leave before then. Because she had slipped them a sleep-inducing potion in their ale at dinner, they were likely to check in on her much sooner than usual. So she sat patiently, and before long there was a knock at her door.

“Mistaya?”

“Yes, Mother?”

“Your father and I are going to bed now. But you and I will have a talk in the morning about what’s happening. Your father means well, but he is impetuous and sometimes oversteps his parental boundaries. Sleep well.”

Mistaya listened to her footsteps recede, and as she did so she felt a pang of regret over what she intended to do. She had committed herself, though, and there was no guarantee that her mother could help her in this business, no matter how well intended she was. Better that she go to her grandfather’s and bargain from a position of relative strength.

She gave it another ten minutes, then pulled on her cloak and went out the door.

It was dark and silent in the hallway, and she slipped down its length on cat’s paws, little more than a passing shadow faintly outlined by clouded moonlight against the wall. She didn’t have far to go, so she took her time, careful not to make a sound or do anything that would alert the watch. Once she was safely down the hallway and had reached the hidden passage, they were unlikely to find her no matter how hard they looked.

She arrived at her destination without incident, triggered the lock in the panel that concealed the door, waited for it to slowly open, and stepped inside. From there, she went through the walls and down the stairs to the cellars, opened another hidden door in the stone-block walls, and followed a second passage to the outer walls and the door hidden there that opened to the outside world. She knew all this because she had made a point of finding out. You never knew when you might need a way to slip out without being seen, and an obliging Questor Thews, not once suspecting her reasons for asking, had revealed it all to her some time back. She supposed this constituted some sort of betrayal of trust, but she didn’t have time to worry over it now.

Once outside the walls, she slipped around to where the old rowboat was anchored at the back docks, stepped in, and paddled her way across the moat to the far shore. It took hardly any time at all, and because the moon had slipped behind a bank of clouds, there was no light to betray her to the watch should they happen to look down from their towers.

Smiling with no small measure of self-satisfaction at how easily she had accomplished her goal, she prepared to set out for the stand of Bonnie Blues and Poggwydd. But first she decided to see if Haltwhistle was anywhere around. She called for him in a whisper, and almost immediately he appeared, standing right in front of her, short legs barely enough to keep his mottled brown body off the ground, long floppy ears faring little better, reptilian tail wagging gently.

“Good old Haltwhistle,” she greeted, and she kissed at him on the air.

Together they went looking for Poggwydd. They found him waiting in something of a grumpy mood, sitting with Mistaya’s sheet-wrapped travel bag clutched between his bony knees, a scowl on his wizened face. “Took your sweet time about getting out here, Princess,” he muttered.

“I had to be careful,” she pointed out. She reached for her bag, smiling. “Thank you for taking care of my clothes, Poggwydd.”

To her surprise, he put both arms around the bag and hugged it possessively. “Not so fast. I have a few questions first.”

She fought down a sudden surge of irritation. “What do you mean? What sort of questions?”

“The kind that require explanations. For instance, why do you need a compass, a map ring, a fairy stone, and a book of wizard spells to deliver a bunch of old clothes?”

Her jaw dropped. “Did you look through my things?”

“Answer my question.”

She was fuming now. “Precautions against trouble. I have to travel some distance to make the delivery. Will you give them to me please?”

He ignored her. “Traveling is required because whoever you are taking these clothes to cannot come to the castle to get them?”

“That’s partly it. Give me the bag, Poggwydd.”

If anything, his grip grew tighter. “Hmmm. You know, Princess, it’s dangerous traveling alone at night. I think I had better go with you.”

“I can do this by myself, thank you. Besides, I have Haltwhistle.”

“That’s right. You have the assistance of your weird little dog. Clearly, he is a better friend to you than I am.”

“What are you talking about?” she snapped.

“Well, you trust him enough to take him along, but not me. He probably knows the truth about what you’re doing, doesn’t he?”

Her mind was racing. “I don’t know what you are talking about.”

“Then allow me to enlighten you. Maybe it slipped your mind, but you are running away.”

“I am not!” She tried to sound indignant. “If you don’t give me my bag right now, I really will stop being your friend!”

“Sneaking out of the castle at night, having me meet you with clothes and travel stuff you could have carried out by yourself, and then telling me you intend to go somewhere mysterious alone? Sounds like someone running away to me.”

She regretted ever thinking it a good idea to give her bag to this ferret-faced idiot. But it was too late for regrets. She had thought herself so clever, letting Poggwydd do the hauling. That way, she had reasoned, she wouldn’t be burdened with the extra weight and if caught could argue that she was just going for a walk.

“You better tell me the truth about this right now!” he insisted. “If you don’t, I’m going to start yelling.”

“All right, don’t do that!” She sighed, resigned to the inevitable. “My parents and I have had a disagreement. I am going to visit my grandfather for a while, and I don’t want them to know where I am. Okay?”

Poggwydd looked horrified. He leaped to his feet, arms waving. “You really are running away?”

“Not exactly. Just … taking a vacation.”

“Vacation? You’re running away! And I’m helping you! And after you’re gone, they’re going to find out about me, and they’re going to say that it is all my fault!”

She held up her hands in an attempt to calm him. “No, they’re not. Why would they blame you?”

“Because G’home Gnomes get blamed for everything, that’s why! And I’ll get blamed for this! Someone will remember that I was the last one to visit you. Someone will remember that I left carrying a bag of clothing. Someone will tell that kobold, and he will come after me and hang me from the tree again!”

“No, he won’t. Bunion promised—”

“It doesn’t matter what he promised!” Poggwydd snapped, cutting her short. He was beside himself, hopping up and down in agitation and dismay. “This is all your fault! You’re leaving me behind to pay for your bad behavior! You used me to help you, and now you are leaving me! Well, I won’t stand for it! I shall alert the watch immediately and then they can’t blame me!”

He started to turn away, heading for the castle, and she was forced to reach out and grab his arm. “Wait! You can come with me!”

He tried to jerk his arm free and failed. “Why would I do that?” he demanded, stopping where he was. “Why would I come with you?”

“Because we’re friends!”

That silenced him for a moment, and he stood there looking at her as if she had just turned into a bog wump.

“Friends don’t leave friends behind,” she continued. “You were right about my decision to leave without you. I was being selfish. You should come with me.”

He seemed suddenly confused. “I was right, wasn’t I? I knew I was. But …” He stopped again, trying to think it through. “You’re going to see your grandfather? The River Master? You want me to go with you to the lake country? But they don’t like G’home Gnomes there. They like them there even less than they do everywhere else.” He paused. “Except maybe in the Deep Fell, where the witch lives.”

“We’re not going to the Deep Fell,” she assured him, although suddenly she was thinking that maybe that wasn’t such a bad idea. With Nightshade still not returned from wherever her misguided magic had dispatched her almost five years earlier, the Deep Fell was safe enough. Well, maybe not all that safe, she conceded.

“I think this is a bad idea,” he continued. “You shouldn’t leave home like this. You should tell someone or they will worry and come hunting for you. If they find you, they’ll find me and I’ll get all the blame!”

She was massively irritated with his whining, but she recognized that there was a reason for it and that she had brought the whole thing on herself by involving him in the first place.

“What if I write you a note?” she asked him.

“A note? What sort of note?”

“One that says you are not to blame for this. They would know my handwriting. They would know it was genuine.”

He thought about it a moment. “I think I will just come with you and take my chances,” he said finally.

She almost started arguing against it, then remembered it had been her suggestion in the first place. “Well, that’s settled then. Can I have my bag now, please?”

Grudgingly, he released his grip and shoved it toward her. “Here. Take the old thing. Do what you want with it.” Surly and grumpy-faced, he lurched to his feet. “Let’s get going while we still can.”

She started off without speaking, already determined to get rid of him at the first opportunity.

Whatever reservations Mistaya might have harbored about her decision to allow Poggwydd to accompany her on her journey to the River Master were quickly proved insufficient.

He started to annoy her almost immediately by talking without taking a breath. He didn’t appear to have any idea at all that it was possible to travel in silence. It began to seem after the first hour that his mouth was somehow connected to his feet, and that if one moved, the other must naturally follow suit. He talked about everything—about things he was seeing, about what he was thinking, about his worries and hopes and expectations, about his aches and pains, about his struggles to get by in life, but mostly about the undeserved lot of all G’home Gnomes.

“We have been set upon relentlessly, Princess,” he declared, shaking his finger at her as if she were somehow to blame. “We are persecuted from the day we are born until the day we die, and there is never any letup in the effort. All creatures feel it is their bound duty to make our lives miserable. They do so without compunction and without reason. I think it is a game with them—an evil, malicious exercise. They consider it a pastime, an activity in which all must participate and from which great enjoyment is to be gained. They see us as toys—small playthings made for their amusement.”

She tried to slow him down. “Perhaps if you—”

“There is no ‘perhaps’ about any of it,” he continued, cutting her short. “Do not try to change the reality, Princess, with encouraging words and empty promises of better days ahead. We Gnomes know better. It is our lot in life to be abused, and however unfair and arbitrary, we have learned to accept it. Teasing and taunting, sticks and stones, beating and flaying, even the burning of our homes”—this one slowed her down a bit, since G’home Gnomes lived in burrows in the ground—”are all part and parcel of our everyday lives. We bear up nobly under our burden. You will not see a G’home Gnome flinch or hear him cry out. You will not witness a moment of despair revealed in our faces.”

She could hardly believe what she was hearing, but she decided not to get into an argument about it. “Yet you continue to steal what isn’t yours, which just encourages your mistreatment by others?”

“We do what we must to survive, nothing more.” He sniffed with obvious indignation. “Most of the accusations of theft are baseless. Most are the product of overactive imaginations and willful resentments. When a G’home Gnome takes something that doesn’t belong to him—a rare occurrence, as you know—it is usually because there is no clear ownership discernible of the thing taken or because there is a starving, homeless child to be cared for by a parent trying to do the best he or she can. I, myself, have witnessed this on more than one occasion. But do our persecutors take this into consideration? Do they give one moment’s thought to those helpless children so in need of food and shelter? Sadly, no.”

“If you kept to your own territories—”

“We are citizens of the world, Princess,” Poggwydd interrupted her again. “We are nomadic travelers of all the parts of the land, and we cannot be confined to a single patch of ground. It would destroy us to do so. It would contradict and diminish centuries of Gnomic lives gone before, make mockery of all that we are, belittle our heritage—what little we have—a travesty of unparalleled proportions …”

And so on. And so forth.

She endured it stoically, all the while plotting his demise. If she could drop him into a pit, she would. If she could feed him to a hungry tiger flunk, she wouldn’t hesitate. She would welcome lockjaw in any form. She kept hoping that something would happen to cause him to turn back. But nothing suggested this was about to happen, as was apparent from his assurances between his endless tales of Gnomic persecution.

“But we are not like them, and so I shall stay at your side, Princess, and do what I can to see you through this trying time.” He puffed up a bit at this pronouncement. Apparently, he had forgotten his stand on the matter some hours earlier. “No danger, however dire, shall force me to leave you. We G’home Gnomes are a strong-hearted and determined people, as you shall see for yourself. We do not abandon or mistreat our friends. Unlike some I know. Why, not two weeks ago, there was a farmer with a pitchfork …”

And so on. And so forth.

They walked steadily through the moonlit night for several hours, traveling south out of Sterling Silver’s boundaries and into the wooded hills that fronted the lake country. All the while, Poggwydd talked and Mistaya gritted her teeth and tried not to listen. Even Haltwhistle, ever faithful, had disappeared from view, obviously not any happier with the irritating Gnome than she was. She tried turning her attention to her surroundings. The sky had been mostly clear at the beginning of their journey, but now it began to fill with clouds. Moon and stars disappeared behind their heavy screen, and the dry, warm air turned damp and cool. By midnight, it had begun to rain—lightly, at first, and then heavily.

Soon the young girl and the G’home Gnome were slogging through a downpour.

“I remember another storm like this, perhaps a couple of years back. Much worse than this one. Much.” Poggwydd would not give it up. “We walked for days, my friend Shoopdiesel and I, and the rain just kept falling on us as if it were tracking us for personal reasons. We huddled under old blankets, but it just seemed another instance of how everything works against you if you’re a G’home Gnome …”

Just shut up, Mistaya thought, but didn’t say. She wondered momentarily if magic might silence him, but she had resolved not to use magic of any sort on her journey to her grandfather unless she was absolutely forced to do so. Using magic was like turning on a great white light that everyone who had a connection with magic could see from miles away. She was trying to stay hidden, not broadcast her whereabouts, and there was no surer way of alerting her father.

So she couldn’t use it to do anything about Poggwydd or the rain and the cold, either, and she had to content herself with trying to ignore the Gnome and pulling the collar on her cloak a little tighter around her neck and choosing a path that kept her under the tree canopy as much as possible in an effort to deal with the weather.

Poggwydd, for his part, tramped along as if it were a sunny day, ignoring the rain as it streamed off his wizened face and leathery body, his lips moving in time to his feet in a steady, nonstop motion.

Such dedication, Mistaya thought irritably. If only he could apply half of that effort to avoiding all of his bad habits and irritating ways, he might manage to become at least reasonably tolerable.

At some point during the seemingly endless trek, she caught sight of the cat.

She wasn’t sure what drew her attention—a small movement or just a sense of something being there—but when she looked, there was this cat, walking along in the rain as if it were the most natural thing in the world. What a cat was doing in the middle of the forest in the midst of a rainstorm escaped her completely. It didn’t look feral or lost or even damp. It was slender and sleek, its fur a glistening silver save for black paws and a black face. It was wending its way through the trees, staying parallel to her, but keeping its distance. She waited for it to glance over, but it never did.

She looked away, and a few minutes later when she looked back, it wasn’t there.

Maybe she had imagined it, she thought. Maybe it was Haltwhistle she had seen, mistaking the mud puppy for a cat.

Maybe it was a wraith.

When she had walked as far as she could, gotten as wet and cold as she could, and endured the elements and the incessant chatter of her traveling companion for as long as she could, she called a halt. She found shelter under the branches of a closely grouped clump of giant cedar, then took up a position on a dry patch of ground to wait for things to improve. Haltwhistle joined her, curling up a few feet away. Poggwydd chose a dry spot that was some distance off, yet still close enough for him to be heard should he choose to keep talking through the night. Mercifully, he seemed to have run out of steam and was rummaging through his rucksack, searching for food.

Food held no interest for Mistaya. She sat hunched down within her cloak in the rain and the darkness, rethinking what she intended to do. In retrospect, her plans seemed foolish. What made her believe the River Master would welcome her? Grandfather or not, he was a difficult and unpredictable creature, a once-fairy who had no use for her father and little more for her mother. Nor, she had to admit, had he shown much interest in her, at least of late. At best he had exhibited some small pleasure in having her as his granddaughter—much the way one enjoyed having a pet. It hadn’t been so when she was younger, but things had changed. Why did she think he would give her any special consideration now, when she was no longer little and cute?

She chided herself for not visiting him more often and certainly sooner than this.

Even more distressing was her growing certainty that she could not avoid being discovered by her father before she was ready. There was no hiding from the Landsview, which could find anyone anywhere in Landover. Unless, of course, they were in the Deep Fell or in Abaddon, home of the demons, and neither was a reasonable alternative to the lake country. She might try using her magic to conceal her presence, but she didn’t think she could afford to rely on a spell she had never used. She had to expect that she would be found out and confronted about what she was doing.

She grimaced. A favorable outcome did not seem likely. Whether her grandfather rejected her or her father found her, she would be humiliated and revealed. A physical confrontation with her father was out of the question, so what was left to her? If flight and concealment were not available, then she would almost surely have to settle for a protracted exile to Libiris and a life of drudgery and boredom. Her father would win, she would lose, and it would be business as usual.

She reached into her shoulder duffel and pulled out a quarter loaf of bread, gnawing on it absently. It seemed dry and tasteless amid the cold and damp. But there would be nothing better until she got to her grandfather’s, so she might as well get used to it. She should have done a better job of thinking through her escape plan, she told herself. She should have found some reason for going to her grandfather that did not involve running away, and once she was there she could have found a way to make him let her stay. Now she was forced to hope she could persuade him in a matter of hours rather than days. Why was she so stupid?

“Why am I so stupid?” she repeated, whispering it to herself, inwardly seething.

“That is difficult to say,” came a reply from the darkness.

She jerked upright and looked around to see who had spoken. But there was no one else present but Poggwydd. She waited expectantly, and then she said, rather tentatively, “Is someone there?”

Poggwydd replied, “Of course I’m here! What does it look like? Did you think I would abandon you?”

“No, I didn’t think that, but I—”

“G’home Gnomes do not abandon those who depend on them in times of need, Princess. It is a characteristic of our people that even in the worst of circumstances, we stand firm and true. Forever faithful, that is our motto and our way of life, carried bravely forth …”

And off he went with a fresh spurt of verbal energy, chattering away once more. She could have kicked herself for giving him a reason for doing so, but there was no help for it now.

She took a moment to consider her options before pulling out her travel blanket, wrapping herself up tightly, and lying down with her head on the duffel. She gazed sideways out into the trees, listening to the sound of the rain and smelling the dampness. Things weren’t so bad, really. She shouldn’t imagine the worst just because the future seemed so uncertain. She had faced difficult situations before and overcome them. She would overcome this one, too. She would be all right.

The last thing she saw before she fell asleep—and this was just as her eyes had grown so heavy that her vision was reduced to little more than a vague blur—was that strange silver-and-black cat.

When she woke, it was morning. But the rain was still falling, the air was still damp and cold, and trailers of mist were drifting through the trees like snakes in search of shelter. The only good thing she could point to was a silent, sleeping Poggwydd.

She looked for Haltwhistle, but he was gone again. She whispered his name, the way she knew she had to if she was to keep him close, never forgetting that she would lose him otherwise.

Then she saw the other G’home Gnome.

At first, she thought she must be mistaken, that she was seeing things, a mirage formed by the damp and the mist, perhaps. She blinked to clear it away, but when she focused on it again, it was still there. A second G’home Gnome, right there in front of her. Watching her, no less. She couldn’t believe that this was happening. The only thing worse than one G’home Gnome was two.

She lifted herself up on one elbow for a better look. The Gnome raised one hand and wiggled his fingers at her. He was an unbelievably odd-looking fellow—there was no disputing that. He seemed to be younger than Poggwydd, less wrinkled and wizened looking, less hunched over. His ears were enormous appendages that stuck out from the sides of his head like bat wings. Thatches of reddish hair bristled from between them and in a few instances from inside them. The round blue eyes were in sharp contrast with the red hair, and the nose was a tiny black button that looked as if it belonged to someone else. He was short and squat, even for a G’home Gnome, and made up almost entirely of bulges.

He smiled rather bashfully and said nothing as she scrutinized him, seemingly waiting for something.

Then Poggwydd woke up and things really got weird.

“Shoopdiesel!” he screamed excitedly as he caught sight of the other. “You’re here!”

He gave a wild howl and leaped to his feet. The second Gnome jumped up, as well, and the two rushed at each other in a flurry of waving arms and wild exclamations. On reaching each other they went into a crouch, hands on knees, and began to chant:

One, two, three, together we’ll always be!

Three, four, five, as long as we’re alive!

Six, seven, eight, because we’re really great!

Eight, nine, ten, we’ll always be good friends!

Then they began clapping hands and thumping chests and exchanging bizarre, complicated handshakes in a practiced ritual that Mistaya was certain held no meaning for anyone but them. She stared at all this, fascinated. Several things occurred to her about what she was witnessing, but none of them required acting on, so she contented herself with just watching the show.

“Princess!” Poggwydd called to her when the show was over and the two G’home Gnomes were embracing warmly. “This is my greatest and most loyal friend in all the world. This, Princess, is Shoopdiesel!”

He said this in a way that suggested it was an important announcement and meant to be taken seriously. She did her best to carry it off. “Very nice to meet you, Shoopdiesel.”

The Gnome replied with a deep bow and a grin that consumed the entire lower portion of his lumpy face.

“Might one of you explain what that greeting was about?” she ventured, turning back to Poggwydd.

“That is our ritual secret greeting,” he replied, grinning almost as widely as his pal. “No one knows how to perform it except us. That way, no one can ever pretend to be us.”

He seemed to think that this was very clever, and she thought it would be heartless to point out that no one would ever want to pretend to be them. “How did you find us, Shoopdiesel?” she asked instead.

The newcomer whispered intently in Poggwydd’s ear for several long minutes before the other then turned to her and proclaimed, “It was a stroke of good fortune, Princess.”

Though she had every reason in the world to doubt this, she nevertheless listened while he explained that Shoopdiesel, having done little but worry about Poggwydd after his abrupt departure several weeks earlier, had come looking for him and found him yesterday sitting on the ground in a stand of Bonnie Blues with an old sheet clutched between his legs. Not certain how to approach him—which had something to do with Poggwydd’s leaving in the first place, although it was not made clear exactly what—he sat down to think things over. Then Mistaya had appeared and spoken with Poggwydd for a very long time, and afterward the pair had gone off together, walking south, away from the castle. Having nothing better to do with himself, he had followed them.

“It was difficult for him to keep up with us during the storm without letting us know he was there, but he managed it. He is very unsure of himself, Princess, very shy. It is a fault he is trying to correct, but he couldn’t overcome it at Sterling Silver. Then, this morning, he summoned the courage to come into our camp and reveal himself.”

He paused. “Besides, he doesn’t have any food and he’s hungry.” He gave Mistaya a toothy smile. “Can he have some of your food, Princess?”

Mistaya sighed, reached into her food pouch, and handed over a quarter loaf of her dry bread. What did it matter if she gave it away at this point? “Do you always travel without food?” she asked.

“He had food, but he ate it,” Poggwydd answered for him. Shoopdiesel did not even glance up from the bread as he gnawed on it, absorbed in his eating. “He got very hungry.”

The three sat down together while he ate, Mistaya thinking suddenly that maybe she had found a way out of this mess after all. It might not be a bad thing that Shoopdiesel had appeared. It might have provided her with an excuse for ridding herself of Poggwydd.

“Now that Shoopdiesel has found you,” she ventured, as the last of the bread disappeared into the little fellow’s mouth, “you probably want to spend some time together catching up on things. So off you go! You don’t need to come any farther with me. I know the way from here, and it won’t be difficult for me to find—”

“Princess, no!” Poggwydd exclaimed in horror. “Abandon you? Never!”

Shoopdiesel echoed these sentiments with a flurry of waving arms.

“We will travel together, the three of us, until you are safely in the hands of your grandfather,” Poggwydd continued. “G’home Gnomes know the importance of loyalty to their friends, and you are entitled to that loyalty for as long as you need it. There shall be no shirking of duty on our part, shall there, Shoop?”

There was another shake of the head from good old Shoop, who apparently left all the talking to his friend. She could have strangled them both on the spot, but she supposed actions of that sort would lead to worse problems than she already had.

“Fine,” she said wearily. “Come if you want. But you should remember that this is the country of the fairy-born, and they don’t care much for G’home Gnomes.”

Poggwydd grinned. “Who does, Princess?”

Both G’home Gnomes exploded in gales of laughter, which she hoped made them feel better than it did her.

The morning dragged on. The rain intensified anew, the dawn drizzle turning into a midmorning downpour that soaked everyone and everything. Mistaya was miserable—cold, wet, and vaguely lonely despite Poggwydd’s incessant chatter, an intrusion that bordered on intolerable. She kept thinking about what she had given up to avoid being sent to Libiris, and she couldn’t help wondering if perhaps she had made a mistake. She didn’t like thinking that way; she was not the kind of girl who second-guessed herself or suffered from lingering regret if things didn’t work out as she had hoped. She took pride in the fact that she had always been willing to suffer the consequences of her mistakes just for the privilege of being able to make her own choices.

But this morning she was plagued by a nagging uncertainty that worked hard at undermining her usual resolve. Still, she gave no real thought to turning back and comforted herself with the knowledge that this wouldn’t last, that things would get better. They were nearing the borders of the lake country now, the forests thickening and filling up with shadows as they pushed deeper into fairy-born territory.

At one point—she wasn’t sure exactly when—she noticed the cat was back. A silver-and-black shadow, it walked off to one side among the brush and trees with dainty, mincing steps, picking its way through the damp. The rain was falling heavily by then, but the cat seemed unaffected. She glanced back at the G’home Gnomes to see if they had noticed, but they were oblivious to this as to everything else, consumed by Poggwydd’s unending monologue.

When she looked back again, the cat was gone.

Very odd, she thought for the second time, to find a cat way out here in the middle of the forest.

They crossed the boundaries of the lake country. It was nearing midafternoon, and the woods were turning darker still when the wood sprite appeared out of nowhere. A short, wiry creature, lean and nut brown, it had skin like bark and eyes that were black holes in its face. Hair grew in copious amounts from its head down its neck and along the backs of its arms and legs. It wore loose clothing and half boots laced about the ankles.

Its appearance frightened Poggwydd so that he actually gave a high-pitched scream, causing Mistaya renewed doubt about how useful he would be under any circumstances. She hushed him angrily and told him to get out from behind Shoopdiesel, where he was hiding.

“This is our guide to the River Master, you idiot!” she snapped at him, irritated with his foolishness. “He will take us to Elderew. If you stop acting like a child!”

She immediately regretted her outburst, knowing it was an overreaction brought on by her own discomfort and uncertainty, and she apologized. “I know you’re not familiar with the ways of the fairy-born,” she added. “Just trust me to know what I am doing.”

“Of course, Princess,” he agreed gloomily. “Of course I trust you.”

It didn’t sound like he did, but she decided to let matters be. For one thing, his momentary fright had stopped him from talking. The relief she felt from that alone was a blessing.

The wood sprite fell into step beside her without speaking, did not glance at her or make any attempt at an acknowledgment. Within half a dozen paces, he had moved ahead of her and was leading the way. Mistaya followed dutifully, knowing that when you came into the country of the fairy-born, you required a guide to find their city. Without a guide, you would wander the woods indefinitely—or at least until something that was big and hungry found you. Even if you knew the way—or thought you did—you would not be able to reach your destination unaided. There was magic at work in the lake country, a warding of the land and its inhabitants, and you needed help in getting past it.

They walked for another hour, the forest around them darkening steadily with the coming of twilight and a further thickening of the trees. The look of the land changed as they descended into swampy lowlands filled with pools of mist and stretches of murky water. They walked a land bridge that barely kept them clear of this, one that was narrow and twisting and at times almost impossible to discern. Their guide kept them safely on dry ground, but all around them the swamp encroached. Creatures moved through the mist, their features vague and shimmering. Some were unidentifiable; some were almost human. Some emerged from the murk to dance atop the water’s surface. Others dove and surfaced like fish. Ephemeral and quicksilver, they had the appearance of visions imagined and lost.

Mistaya could feel the fear radiating off her companions.

“Everything is fine,” she reassured them quietly. “Don’t worry.”

More of the wood sprites appeared, falling into place about them until they were thoroughly hemmed in. Poggwydd and Shoopdiesel were practically hugging each other as they walked, the latter making little hiccuping noises. But the sprites were there to keep them safe, Mistaya knew—there to see that they did not stray from the path and become lost in the tangle of the woods and swamp. Some of the denizens of this land would lead them astray in a heartbeat if the opportunity presented itself. Sprites, naiads, kelpies, pixies, nymphs, elementals, and others for which there were no recognizable names—they were mischievous and sometimes deadly. Humans were less able in this world, more vulnerable to temptation and foolish impulse. Humans were playthings for the fairy-born.

Nor were these the most dangerous of such creatures. The true fairy-born, the ones who had never left the mists that surrounded Landover, were far more capable of indiscriminate acts of harm. In the mists, there were no recognizable markers at all and a thousand ways to come to a bad end. The fairies of the mist would dispose of you with barely a moment’s thought. No one could go safely into those mists. Not even she, who was born a part of them. Not even her father, who had done so once and almost died there.

But she felt some comfort in being here, in the lake country, rather than in the fairy mists that ringed the kingdom. Here the River Master’s word was law, and no one would dare to harm his granddaughter or her companions. She would be taken to him safely, even through the darkest and murkiest of the woods that warded Elderew. All she needed to do was to follow the path and the guides who had set her on it. All she needed to do was to stay calm.

Even so, she was relieved when they cleared the black pools, gnarled roots, wintry grasses, and mingled couplings of shadows and mist to emerge once more into brightness and open air. The rain had slowed to a drizzle and the skies overhead, visible again through the treetops, had begun to show patches of blue. The fetid smells of the deep forest and the swamp faded as the ground rose and they began to climb out of the lowlands they had been forced to pass through. Ahead were fresh signs of life—figures moving against the backdrop of a forest of huge old oaks and elms that rose hundreds of feet into the air, voices calling out to one another, and banners of bright cloth and garlands of flowers rippling and fluttering on the breeze from where they were interwoven through the tree branches. Water could be heard rushing and gurgling some distance away, and the air was sweet with the scent of pines and hemlocks.

As they reached the end of their climb and passed onto flat ground, they caught their first real glimpse of Elderew. The city of the fairy-born lay sprawled beneath and cradled within the interlocking branches of trees two and three times the size of those they had passed through earlier, giants so massive as to dwarf anything found elsewhere in Landover. Cottages and shops created multiple levels of habitation both upon and above the forest floor, the entrances to the latter connected by intricate tree lanes formed of branches and ramps. The larger part of the city straddled and ran parallel to a network of canals that crisscrossed the entire city beneath the old growth. Water flowed down these canals in steady streams, fed by underground springs and catchments. Screens of mist wafted at the city’s borders and through the higher elevations, a soft filtering of sunlight that created rainbows and strange patterns.

To one side, a vast amphitheater had been carved into the earth with seats formed of grasses and logs. Wildflowers grew at the borders of the arena, and trees ringed the entirety with their branches canopied overhead to form a living roof.

Poggwydd gasped and stared, wide-eyed and for once unable to speak.

The people of the city had begun to come out to see who was arriving, and some among them recognized Mistaya and whispered her name to those who didn’t. Soon what had begun as scattered murmurings had risen to a buzz that rolled through the city with the force of a storm wind, everyone wanting to know what the King’s daughter was doing there.

So much for any chance of keeping things secret, Mistaya thought in dismay.

A crowd quickly began to form about them, a mix of fairy-born united by curiosity and excitement. They spoke in a dozen different languages, only a few of which Mistaya even recognized. The children pushed close and reached out to touch her clothing in quick, furtive gestures, laughing and darting away after doing so. She smiled bravely, trying to ignore her growing sense of claustrophobia.

Then the crowd parted and a clutch of robed figures pushed forward, men and women of various ages. Her grandfather stood foremost, his tall, lean figure dominating the assemblage, his chiselled features impassive as he saw who was causing all the excitement. No smile appeared to soften his stern look, and no greeting came. The gills on either side of his neck fluttered softly and the slits of his eyes tightened marginally, but nothing else gave any indication of his thinking.

“Come with me, Mistaya,” he said, taking her arm. He glanced at Poggwydd and Shoopdiesel. “The Gnomes will remain here.”

He walked her back through the crowd, away from everyone but the handful of guards who were always close at hand. They passed down several walkways lined with flowers and through a park to a fountain set in the center of a pool. Benches surrounded the pool, and he led her to one and seated her firmly.

There was anger in his eyes now. “Tell me what are you doing with those creatures!” he snapped. “Tell me why you brought them here!”

So this is how it’s going to be, she thought. She tightened her resolve. “They insisted on coming, and I did not see the harm. How are you, Grandfather?”

“Irritated with you,” he replied, the weight of his gaze bearing down on her. “I hear nothing from you for more than a year, and then you violate our code by bringing into the home city of the fairy-born a pair of creatures who are never allowed in places much less selective about whom they admit. What were you thinking, child?”

She held his gaze. “I was thinking you might be more tolerant than this. I was thinking that at the very least you might hear me out.”

“Perhaps you thought wrong—just as I did in believing you would not forget your grandfather and your fairy-born roots.” He paused, and some of his anger faded. “Very well, tell me about this business.”

“First of all,” she said, “it was insulting not to be greeted in a more friendly and personal fashion by my own grandfather. I traveled some distance to see you, and I would have thought you could show some small measure of happiness at seeing me, no matter the time that has elapsed between visits. I would have thought an appropriate display of affection might be called for!”

She paused, but he said nothing. She shook her head. “I have been away at school in my father’s world, should it have slipped your mind. Visits back here from another world are not so easily arranged. Yes, I should have come before this, but it wasn’t as if I had all that many chances to do so.”

He nodded. “I accept that. But there are other avenues of communication, I am told.”

She returned the nod. “And I accept that. But things have a way of getting away from you.”

“So you’ve come to see me now, something you might have had the courtesy to advise me of. But you sent me no notice of your visit.” He gave her a long, hard once-over. “Why would that be?”

“An impulsive act, perhaps? Maybe I suddenly regretted my neglect of you and decided to make up for it?” She made a face at him. “Don’t be so stern. It isn’t as if I haven’t thought about you.”

“Nor I of you, Mistaya.”

“I decided it was time to make amends. I thought my coming would be a nice surprise.”

“A surprise, in any event. Am I to gather that your choice of traveling companions is a part of that surprise?”

“No,” she admitted. “I was … I was sort of forced to let them accompany me. They worried for me and insisted on seeing me safely here. I asked them not to do so, but they would not hear of it, so I agreed to let them come.” She shrugged. “I didn’t see the harm. They can be sent away now, if you wish.”

Her grandfather studied her once more, his eyes searching her own. “I see,” he said finally. He kept looking at her, the long fringes of black hair on the backs of his arms rippling in the cool breeze. She didn’t like how his eyes made her feel, but she forced herself to wait on him.

He sighed. “You know, Mistaya,” he said finally, “the fairy-born cannot be easily deceived, even by their own kind. Not very often, anyway. Not even by someone as talented as you. We have an instinct for when we are not being told the truth. You have that same instinct, do you not? It is a safeguard against those who might hurt us—intentionally or not.” He paused. “Those instincts are telling me something about you, right now.”

“Perhaps they are mistaken,” she tried.

He shook his head, his chiseled features as hard and fixed as stone. “I don’t think so. Something is going on here that you haven’t told me. You might want to consider doing so now. Without revising as you go.”

She saw that he had seen through her deception, and that lying or telling half-truths was only going to get her deeper in trouble. “All right, I’ll tell you the truth. But please listen and don’t get angry. I need you to be fair and impartial about what I’m going to say.”

Her grandfather nodded. “I will hear you out.”

So she told him everything, right from the beginning, right from the part where she had been suspended from Carrington up to her father’s insistence on sending her to Libiris to oversee a renovation of the library. It took her awhile, and she faltered more than once, aware of how bad it all made her look, even if it wasn’t her fault and entirely unfair. She even admitted that she had used Poggwydd to help her make her escape, and that having done so she found herself obliged to bring him along so as not to alert her parents before she had reached Elderew and the fairy-born.

When she had finished, he shook his head in disbelief.

“Please don’t do that!” she snapped at him. “I came to you for help because you are my grandfather and the only one I could think of who would be willing to consider my situation in a balanced way. And you’re not afraid of my father!”

He arched one eyebrow. “You don’t think so?”

She gritted her teeth. “I am asking for sanctuary,” she declared, liking the lofty, important sound of it. “I’m asking for time to find a way to make my parents see the wrongness of what they are proposing. I don’t expect you to do anything but let me stay with you until they’ve had a chance to think things through. I will be no trouble to you. I will do whatever you require of me to earn my room and board.”

“Your room and board?” he repeated. “And you say you will be no trouble to me?”