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Chapter One

Mordigan Bryre glowered down at the boy cowering between his feet. The noonday sun beat directly down on the dusty square, sending heat waves dancing and raising the scents of baked earth and unwashed boys. They crowded around the fighters in a loose ring, thirsting for a little diversion from the workday monotony.

One fist cocked behind his shoulder, ready to strike; eyes narrowed to blazing green slits; Mordigan snarled through clenched teeth, "Take it back, you swine!"

The fallen combatant raised one arm to shield his head. His face streamed with blood in two places from Mordigan's blows. "I take it back, Digan," he burbled through a thick lip. "I take it back!"

Digan nodded his head once in emphatic satisfaction. "That's right, you do." Stepping over the boy on the ground, he scooped up the lute lying on a nearby stone wall. "I won't waste any more time with the lot of you. I have responsibilities. My master needs me." He tossed silky black hair out of his eyes with one strong brown hand. "I must practice. As I said, we play before the king next week."

The boy on the ground sat up shakily, drawing the back of a grimy hand across his bloodied lip. "Right. And I am the mayor," he muttered under his breath.

Digan whirled, eyes emerald fire. "Do you have something to say to me?" he purred, voice dangerously soft. The square was silent, the crowd of apprentices and shop boys holding their collective breaths to see what Payter would dare to say.

Payter's face flushed crimson. Sluggish trickles of blood still seeped from his nose and lip. "Damn it, Mordigan Bryre--somebody has got to say something!" He sprang to his feet and squared off before the taller Digan. "You are the biggest liar in the realm. You are lucky if Master Cormeyer allows you to carry his instrument into the castle--much less perform before the king!"

Digan's fist flew up, the lute clutched white-knuckle tight in his other hand. He stepped toward Payter then dropped his arm. "You aren't worth the trouble."

With an imperious sniff of disdain, Digan swept his cape about him and stalked away from the square, head held high.

I mustn't let them see how much it hurts. They will make much of Payter, won't they? Think he's won the day for standing up to me. Well, they won't get the satisfaction of thinking I care. I won't look back and see them crowing over me. I won't!

Digan didn't look back. Digan never looked back.

Mordigan Bryre was seventeen. His parents died when he was a mere babe of two, leaving him in the desultory care of an old woman dwelling on the outskirts of the town. Sometime later, Cormeyer Stareyes, the King's Bard, discovered four-year-old Digan playing with a homemade lyre in the dirt of this very square. Digan remembered well the widow's eagerness to agree when Cormeyer offered to take the boy into his service.

That long-ago day changed the boy's future. Digan was apprenticed to the bard on the spot, and for the last thirteen summers, his life had revolved around his music. He learned his lessons well, living and breathing for the art that sustained him.

Tall and slender, with the strong yet delicate hands of a true musician, Digan's ebony hair and emerald eyes caught the attention of many an eye. The green and black garments he favored set off these attributes to excellent advantage, as well he knew. There was only one flaw in the package: a glib tongue that was as quick to invent a tall tale as tell the truth.

Mordigan Bryre was an inveterate liar. Falsehoods poured from his mouth like water. It was the only serious fault he was ever beaten for and not even repeated canings could break him of the habit. His quick temper and flying fists made certain that most of his companions pretended to accept his stories, however. Usually.

Today, when Digan claimed that he would soon become a journeyman and play his own music before the king, Payter was brave enough to protest. And the galling thing--the thing that made Digan knock the smaller boy to the ground--was that, for once, he was telling the truth.

Digan's heart soared instinctively with the memory of that morning's audience.

He knocked softly on Cormeyer's office door when he received the summons, wondering uneasily what the Master Bard would find fault with on this occasion.

"Ah, Mordigan there you are." Cormeyer looked up from a sheaf of music and waved him to a seat before the parchment-strewn desk. "I have been reviewing your composition, my boy. Very impressive for a lad of your years. You have studied hard, Mordigan, and when you apply yourself, you have an admirable talent. It is rough, and needs much polish, but shows promise."

Digan felt his face flush with pleasure. Compliments from Cormeyer were few and far between. It always seemed that the master's kind words were more often gifted on the other apprentices while Cormeyer waxed more critical than ever when it came to Digan's work.

Secretly, the boy often wondered if the bard might have a personal reason for plucking him off the streets, but he dared not broach the subject with his stern master.

"I think it is time, perhaps, to reward that promise," Cormeyer continued. "Do you realize that a fortnight from now marks your fourteenth full year here in the Hall? You will be eighteen, and I believe it is high time that you progress to journeyman status."

"Oh, sir! Shall I really get my papers?"

Cormeyer's dark brows drew together in a warning frown. "That depends entirely upon you, Mordigan Bryre. A bard must be able to curb his tongue when expedient, flatter when he must, and never be seen to lose his composure when provoked. You must be diplomat and arbiter. Frankly, it is in these aspects I fear you lack the most. Keep yourself out of trouble until the day, and we shall see what we shall see. Now..."

Cormeyer next picked up a sheet of music--Digan's own music--and nodded approvingly. "This piece is very nice. Easy to finger, yet the melody has hidden complexity. I would like to introduce it at next week's court concert. What say you, Digan? Would you like to play it with me before the king? You can easily perform this recorder part, and it would be a nice showcase for you."

"I shall play before the king?" Digan was stunned. He often sang for King Vasileios's court, but his voice was his greatest talent. To play before the court was an altogether different thing. "I-I am honored, Master."

"As well you should be." Cormeyer rose to his feet, one of the few men Digan needed to look up to, and clasped the boy's shoulder in a rare gesture of affection. "You deserve the honor," he continued, his voice warm. "Now prove to me that you can accept it gracefully. Curb that temper of yours under a tight rein, and we'll see how you ride." The Stareyes Clan were originally horsemen from the Upper Plateaus, and Cormeyer's allusions still tended toward the equestrian.

Well, now I've gone and fallen off the horse again, Digan thought, with a rueful grimace. I just hope I can placate the master without losing the honor that led to the scuffle in the first place. But Payter would pick today to challenge him...and Digan couldn't stand idly by and be ridiculed, could he?

It started off well enough when Digan decided to steal a few minutes on his way between shop and Hall to tell his friends the news. Digan retrieved his master's lute with plenty of time to spare before Princess Allysian's lesson, but when he entered the south end of the square and saw Garad and Sult lounging by the central fountain, he couldn't resist stopping to boast of his good fortune.

Garad, newly ensconced in the Cadet barracks at the City Watch complex, was suitably impressed by what such an honor could mean, but Sult's indifference was the first irritant of the day.

"Well enough," yawned Sult, indolently arranging his long limbs in such a manner as to show off a new tunic to best advantage. It was an instinctive habit in the player's apprentice, much as Digan would unconsciously finger an imaginary instrument when bored or frustrated. "But I don't see what all the fuss is about," continued the other. "It's not as if you have never performed at court, Digan. You have been showcased more times than I can count."

There was a hint of envy in the off-hand remark that went a long way towards soothing Digan's ruffled feathers. Sult had a fine speaking voice of his own, and was an adroit mimic, but he couldn't sing a note, a skill he ardently coveted.

Garad, ever the peace-maker, stepped in before Digan could overreact with a smooth, "That's splendid, Digan. What will you play?"

"A new air composed for recorder and lute," replied Digan proudly, "and I am the composer."

A nasty little voice sneered, "Go on! Tell another. The king has better to do than listen to caterwauling like you wring from that wooden stick." Payter had arrived unnoticed, and now leaned against the fountain, arms folded across his skinny chest.

Digan began to strum the lute as he walked through the bustling streets, fingers moving with absent-minded skill to send freshets of music tumbling into the busy stalls. Several heads cocked, conversations dying to whispers as he passed, then renewing with lighter tones behind him. His technical playing was faultless, but it was not what made Digan's music so beautiful. The bright soul behind it shone through his gravest faults.

He soon left the crowded market behind as he crossed out of the square proper, though he could hear the vague roar of it at his back. Marineaux was a well-ordered kingdom, and the thoughtful planning of its capital city reflected the same.

The central core of the town proper was laid out with precision, a greater square of shops and alleys surrounding the market itself. Each section of the outer square catered to its own clientele, and a stranger was easily directed to their needs.

As Digan strolled south towards the Guild Hall, he passed between the Crafter's Corner and the quarter known as "Rich Man's Run." From the one came the mouth-watering aroma of fresh bread from the baker's guild, and from the other the sound of early revelers drinking at the Trivial Pursuits Gaming Den. On another day, he might have loitered outside the tavern. His playing often put coins in his pockets when he passed this way, but today he was later than he should be.

Master Cormeyer will have my head if I cause him to lose face before the princess. I should never have wasted time in the square. If I hurry, I might be able to make up the time....

The passing thought sped up his feet for a time, but gradually, he slowed again as he passed the Academy. The sing-song monotony of the students chanting their lessons drifted through the open windows, and stirred a brief spasm of envy in Digan's heart, but he shrugged it away.

I was not meant for study. I know my scales, and I can scribe the proper notation for my scores. What more do I need? What care I for words scribbled on parchment? I keep my lyrics in my head where they are safe.

Digan crossed out of the merchant's square and continued along the broad central avenue towards the city wall, his feet moving a little faster again. Beyond this larger heart, the body of the town sprawled with greater abandon, but even the poorest sections of houses had refuse channels in the streets, and width enough for two horses to ride abreast on the main roadways.

Nodding to the sentries on duty, Digan hurried through the massive city gates.

"Sing us a tune, Digan!" called one of the guards as he passed. "You know the one I like; that one about the barmaid and the unicorn."

"Not today, Casdan. I am late enough already." He waved an apology.

"Come back this evening for it then."

"I'll do my best."

Digan was popular among the soldiers for his sharp wit and wide repertoire of bawdy ballads. Garad was a cadet with the Guard, and often teased Digan about joining up, but Mordigan was quite content with life as it was.

Despite his greater speed, his fingers continued to dance across the strings of the lute, and his heart lifted. Soon his pace slowed once more, savoring the music as he strolled through the trees framing the road. The Guild Hall was situated a half mile outside of the town proper, and the walk was a pleasant one, despite the heat.

The sound of a lute always helped him calm his anger, and Master Cormeyer's instrument was a truly splendid piece of craftsmanship. Digan hummed along with the melody he played, and then began to sing softly in his fine tenor.

Whither dost thou wander, lady, in the heather...?

The spring of youth has faded...and the winter chill is nigh....

Dost thou still remember, the days we spent together...?

When love was fresh as roses...and no storm cloud brushed the sky...

"What a lovely melody," crooned a cracked voice from the side of the road. Digan jumped. Lost in his song, he was startled to find someone else was nearby. "And how true the words," continued the voice with a mournful sigh.

Clutching the lute before him with both hands, like a talisman, Digan glanced wildly about, searching for the unknown speaker. His eye fell on a bundle of rags lying beside the road, and he gasped as the pile resolved itself into a wrinkled old woman with a gnarled staff. He knew that figure--all within the realm knew of her--but he had hoped never to make her acquaintance.

Her tattered black robes fluttered about her, whitened with road dust where they had lain against the ground. The relentless sun drew shades of rust and bottle-fly green from the drapes and folds of the black garment.

She must be sweltering in all that heavy velvet; I am stifling in this lighter tunic. But perhaps a mighty witch like Freitanya does not feel the heat...perhaps she can spell even the weather. 'Tis rumored that she is more powerful even than the legendary Talthos. She is not one to be trifled with...or denied. Late or not, I cannot risk affronting her.

Digan gave her his best courtier's bow, sweeping off his green velvet cap as he did so. "Th-thank you, my lady. High praise indeed from one of your stature."

Freitanya limped forward, leaning heavily on her staff. "Have we met before, boy?"

"I don't think so," Digan frowned, some vague fancy tugging at his memory. It was gone before he could catch it, but it took with it much of his fear. "I think I would remember."

"Perhaps it was your father...."

"Then it was long ago, for he is dead these fifteen years."

"And what do they call you, boy?"

"My name is Mordigan Bryre, bard to the king." The lie slipped out unbidden.

"Young you are to be King's Bard...and I thought Cormeyer Stareyes still owned that title." Freitanya began to circle around him.

Digan gulped, and turned with her, striving to keep the lute firmly wedged between them. "Well...I am to--to take Cormeyer's place after the festival next month. He decided to retire to the country and tutor privately. I will assume his court duties...it is a challenge for one so young, but I feel I am equipped for it." His chin lifted, defying her to gainsay his claim.

She reached forward and squeezed his arm. "No doubt you are," she murmured in a thoughtful tone, still circling him. "No doubt you are."

"M-master Cormeyer is expecting me to meet him. I am already late...." That much at least was true.

Her twisted fingers moved to brush against the strings of the lute. A soft, sweet chord rang in the air then died away. "A beautiful instrument," Freitanya commented.

"Y-yes. It was commissioned for my master by the king's father...." His voice died in his throat when he remembered whom it had been commissioned from. There was said to be no love lost between the wizard and the witch.

"Talthos could be a master craftsman when he chose to be. I feel the power in this piece. Do you?"

"What do you mean, lady?" Digan frowned, studying the lute with anxious suspicion. It was carved from rosewood, inlaid with ivory and gold--a valuable instrument, to be sure--but nothing particularly out of the ordinary, even to his trained eye. Is there something wrong with the instrument? Did they damage it at the shop? I don't see anything different about it....

"No. You do not feel the magic. Perhaps it is for the best. For a boy like you--"

Digan straightened to his full height, back arched in offended dignity. "I am no mere boy, lady! I am a man full-grown...or nearly so. And a journeyman bard--"

"What?" she scoffed, "not 'the King's Bard' now, but a mere journeyman?"

Digan scowled, his cheeks darkening beneath their smooth tan. He had forgotten his earlier boast in the heat of the moment, but it hurt him to hear the truth made light of. It was no dishonor to be a journeyman at eighteen.

Freitanya cackled at his aggrieved expression. "Too easily wounded, little bird. Smooth your ruffled feathers. I merely meant that a boy--your pardon," she sketched a mocking bow, "a young man--of your upbringing might be no match for magic. It takes long training to properly employ enchantment in one not born to it. But oh...." Her fingers coaxed another chord from the taut strings. "...What wondrous music could a true master bring forth with a lute such as this one."

A passionate desire surged through Digan's breast, until it ached to catch his breath. "I shall become that master, lady! Tell me but how!"

The witch squinted up at him--one eye squeezed nearly shut, the other a bright black bead. "I doubt you have the stomach for it, boy. The hunger, yes; perhaps the will...but the nerve--ah, that's another story."

"Are you calling me coward?" asked Digan softly, in the voice that sent the shop boys running for cover from his wrath. Despite his caution toward the witch, he found himself ready to defend his bravery, stepping forward to tower over her without conscious thought.

"So...the chick has an eaglet's talons, does it?" the witch crowed, her voice gleeful. "Perhaps you do possess the courage. It would be an interesting test...."

His honor was at stake now. "Set me your test. I am not afraid! I would learn how to master the magic of the lute."

"This isn't even your lute, boy. Should we not let Cormeyer say if you 'master' his instrument?"

Digan bowed his head. Freitanya was right--the lute was not his to play. He was only in possession of it now because Cormeyer broke a peg last evening and was too busy to take it for repair this morning. One of the journeymen left it at The Harp and Horn for Master Egletine's handiwork and Digan was sent to fetch it when it was ready. He was supposed to return to the Hall with it hours ago.

If I edged around the witch, could I run for home?

As if sensing his thoughts, Freitanya laid a gnarled hand on his arm. The touch sent a spark of power through him, and he shivered.

"How badly do you crave the magic, boy? What will you dare to risk...?" queried Freitanya--and her voice lost all its aged huskiness, melting into liquid silver. He stared into dark rain-gray eyes that swallowed his soul, laying bare the darkest secrets and hidden passions of his dreams. A faint whiff of sun-warmed oranges wafted from her tumbled cloud of fine white hair. The scent seemed strangely young for one of her venerable years.

"What must I do?" he breathed.

"You do have a gift," she murmured in that thoughtful tone he sensed before. "With the aid of magic, that seed of talent could flourish...but you will have to face many trials--and risk much. Do you want it fiercely enough?"

"More than anything in the world, lady...."

"We shall see about that. First, you will have to make a solemn vow--you can inform no one of this meeting between we two. To do so will have dire consequences."

"As you wish, lady."

"Secondly, you will not be able to claim the magic of another. You must go and petition Talthos for a lute of your own."

"But Talthos is dead."

"No. He has merely forsaken this realm. He lives above the clouds in a castle of azure stone. It is a long and arduous journey...if you have the grit for it. And there is one further demand required for the successful completion of this quest."

"What demand is that?"

The witch seemed to grow in stature. Her eyes glowed with intensity, and Digan trembled with an uncontrollable shiver. "If you stray from the truth--even the slightest bit--you will begin to lose that lovely voice of yours. The greater the lie, the worse the loss...and the longer it will last. If the lie is great enough--your voice will be gone forever, and the quest will be in vain."

Digan's hand faltered to his throat in an involuntary gesture. He gulped. His voice was his only true asset. It was his chief vanity as well as his livelihood. To risk the loss of my speech would be hard indeed...but oh, to gain such magic!

"I accept your conditions," he croaked, desire winning over caution. "Just...please, what must I do?"

"Go on to your appointment, boy. Meet your master, as planned. And remember your vows. A signpost will appear at the proper time to show you the way forward--you will know it." She limped away down the road with a cackle of laughter. As Digan turned to continue on his own way, she called back over her shoulder, "Remember, boy! Speak only the truth!" With a final wicked trill of laughter, she vanished.

Digan slung the lute across his back by its broad leather strap, and began to run. Already late when Freitanya stopped him, he would be in serious trouble now.

The Master will be furious. He sent me for the instrument because he had other duties before the Princess Allysian's lesson this afternoon. By being late, not only do I waste his time, but embarrass him before the princess as well.

Digan sighed, lengthening his stride and fairly flying down the road. The chalky white dust of the roadbed puffed about his feet like snow, graying his leggings and boots. He mopped his brow on one pleated sleeve, darkening the emerald silk of his best shirt. "By Hastor's Harp, I must look a fright," he groaned aloud, "and the master will cane me for sure this time. I should have been back hours ago." If I take full blame, Allysian will not hold it against Cormeyer...but he will beat me for it regardless. Ah well, nothing for it.

At least Cormeyer only rarely resorts to the cane, which is more than can be said for most of the other masters in town. My friends are not all so lucky.

The apprentice skidded to a stop in the paved courtyard outside the Music Hall. Hands braced on his knees, he hung his head, fighting to catch his breath.

Mordigan sagged back against the warm stone of the Hall, feeling the rough texture even through his velvet doublet. It was security; it was strength; it was home. The two-story structure towered over him, its sandstone blocks buttery gold in the sunlight. Ivy climbed the walls in sprawling profusion, providing many a daredevil with precarious access to the gently pitched tiles of the slate roof. The octagonal Hall housed nearly two dozen apprentices and half again as many journeymen, under the tutelage of Cormeyer and three other masters.

From where he stood, Digan could hear the sound of choral practice in the main rehearsal chamber through the open doorway. He winced as Starsen hit his obligatory flat note, and heard the patient murmur of Master Bertine instructing the boy to start again. Starsen was attempting to fill in for Digan himself, but his range was not up to the challenge.

Digan sighed. That will add a stripe or two to my back. Cormeyer hates for me to miss a practice, whether I need it or not.

He beat off the worst of the chalk dust with his cap, and set it back upon his head at a rakish angle.Then, feigning an indifference he did not feel, he sauntered through the ornate arched doorway and into the Hall, the lute in hand.

After the heat and relentless brilliance of the summer sun, the cool darkness of the interior was a mixed blessing. Mordigan shivered as the sweat evaporated beneath his doublet.

The corridor was lit only by widely spaced candle sconces and long windows high in the storage bays sandwiched between the floors. The dim light picked out broad wooden benches standing against the wainscoting, and the tall cabinets where the music scores were stored. He could hear the continuing choral practice to his left in the central chamber, and now that he was inside the Hall, he could hear one of the journeymen playing the lap harp somewhere down the corridor. Laeran, most like. There is that delicacy to the sound that is his special gift. He will be receiving his master's brooch soon, I warrant.

The familiar scents of beeswax and lemon oil rose from the polished furniture in a comforting cloud as Digan took a deep breath to calm his thudding heart. Despite his affected nonchalance, he hated to disappoint Master Cormeyer, and he knew that the bard was going to be furious.

He squared his shoulders and pushed open the door to Cormeyer's private study. The room was a familiar jumble of ordered chaos. Sheaves of score sheets were scattered across the long table dominating one wall, and filed in the cubbyholes above the desk angled into the far corner. A floor harp stood opposite the long table beside a large window. Sunlight streamed across the floor, highlighting the gilding on the instrument. The scent of roses wafted through the open casement to perfume the room. Digan glanced around the room for his master.

"So, my boy--you finally deign to favor us with your presence," purred the bard. One of the most successful lessons that Cormeyer had taught Mordigan was that deceptive drawl which warned the listener the speaker was in no trifling mood. "How kind of you!" Cormeyer practically ripped the instrument out of Digan's hand, turning away and beginning to tune it with an ostentatious flourish.

Watching the master's broad back as he adjusted the new peg on the lute, Digan felt the old pang of longing knife through him. With his dark hair, shot through now with silver, and tall frame, many people mistook Cormeyer Stareyes for Mordigan's father upon first acquaintance.

As a boy, Digan sometimes wondered if this was the truth of his parentage, but he remembered well the day Cormeyer, in a moment of rare expansiveness, gently assured him it was not the case.

He was in the courtyard, snuffling quietly in a corner and trying to hide tears engendered by a group of the older boys teasing him for being an orphan.

"I am not!" he declared to his tormentors. "I belong to Master Cormeyer!"

"Belong, is right. I hear he bought you in the market like a pet dog."

Digan flailed out at the boy, and received a bloodied nose and derisive laughter for his troubles.

Now he was trying to get himself under control so that he could return to the Hall.

"Mordigan," came a quiet voice behind him.

He turned, to find the Master standing in the shadows. He swiped a hand across his eyes, and put on a brave front. "Yes, sir?"

"I hear you had a bit of a scrap today, my lad."

Digan hung his head. "Yes, sir."

Cormeyer came and hunkered down before the boy, laying a hand on his shoulder. "I am not your father, child. I wish I could give you that comfort, but it would be crueler in the end. You are a good lad." He brushed the hair out of Digan's eyes with a gentle hand. "I know it is hard for you to be without a family of your own. But I cannot let you live the lie."

It all came down to lies, it seemed. One way or the other, he could not seem to get away from them....

Hanging his head, Digan noticed out of the corner of his eye that Allysian was already present, quietly strumming her own lute and pretending to study a sheet of music, her long blond hair swinging forward to hide her face. As if feeling his gaze upon her, she glanced up, cool blue eyes meeting his own stormy green, and he quickly transferred his focus back to the ground before him.

"Where have you been, Mordigan?" asked Cormeyer in that same silken growl, his back still turned to the boy.

"Oh, sir! You won't believe! I--" Digan faltered to a stop in confusion. He suddenly realized that he could not lie, or he would risk the curse--but he could not reveal the truth, or he would break his vow not to speak of his meeting with Freitanya. He remained silent.

"Yes? What will I not believe?" Cormeyer set the lute upon the composition table, turning to Digan at last. He favored the boy with a frowning scowl, dark eyes hooded beneath the beetling brows.

"Nothing, sir," Digan mumbled.

"You are right. I will not believe 'nothing.' Now, tell me where you have been!"

"I--I stopped in the square."

"Yes, I know," nodded Cormeyer, "Payter's father dragged him down and exhibited the bruises. We will discuss that matter later--but that was near an hour gone. Where have you been since you left the square? Even you should have traveled that distance in a shorter time."

Digan flushed. He bore a reputation for laziness when he could get away with it, and knew, to his shame, that it was not entirely undeserved. He was good at conceiving ways to dodge his chores. "I came as quickly as I could," he mumbled.

The statement was not entirely true, and Digan's throat tightened in a painful contraction. It was his first taste of the witch's curse, and he felt a thrill of fear. The words were only a slight exaggeration. What would it feel like if he really lied?

Cormeyer sighed and moved to the desk. He picked up a sheet of parchment, glancing down at it. He scrubbed his hand across his face, a habit of his when troubled. "Mordigan, do you know what this is?"

"No, sir."

"This is your journeyman's certification. It states that you have the knowledge and skills required by the Guild charter to claim the rights and privileges of the rank." He leaned back against the desk. "Do you think that you have earned it?"

"I have passed all the tests, sir," Digan replied, confused by the question.

"True. But have you earned the rank?"

"I don't understand."

"There is more to being a bard than technical expertise on the instruments, lad. It is a sacred trust. Do you know why we have an affiliation with the Runner's Guild?"

"No, sir."

"Because a bard is considered to be a bearer of news as well as entertainment. He is expected to pass on new edicts to the countryside. He is trusted to carry important messages between the king and his lords; between villages; between homesteads with no other access to each other. How can I say that you are qualified to be a journeyman when you cannot even be trusted on a simple errand? When you lie your way out of every difficult situation?" He lay the precious document down in the center of the cluttered desk.

Digan opened his mouth to protest, but there was nothing to be said in his own defense.

Across the room, Allysian fingered the strings of her lute, humming the notes softly as she worked on the correct positioning. She appeared to be oblivious to the argument, but Digan was all too painfully aware of her presence. It made his disgrace that much harder to bear.

* * *

Allysian bowed her head over her music and watched the confrontation between Digan and Master Cormeyer through hooded lashes. She worried a great deal about Mordigan Bryre. Truth be told, the boy took up far more of her thoughts than their level of acquaintance merited.

She knew full well how proud Digan was...and how deucedly stubborn. He will never be able to admit it to Master Cormeyer if loitering in the square with his friends--or, worse yet, flirting with some girl is the cause of his tardiness. Allysian bit her lip in vexation. He can't be late because of that...even the idea of Digan dallying with a sweetheart among the townsfolk....

The thought tightened Allysian's chest, and made her want to burst into tears.

That isn't very fair of me either, I know. After all, Digan is seventeen now, and he bears a man's responsibilities here at the Guild Hall. If only he could hear how Master Cormeyer was boasting about him before he burst in so unaccountably late. Bragging about how he would get his journeyman's papers in a few days.

Digan will no longer be simply a lowly apprentice. He might even be sent away to study under another bard for a time....

No! I refuse to let it come to that. I will concoct some scheme to keep that disaster from befalling. I will use all my ingenuity to keep Digan here at the Hall. Of course, Papa will explode if he ever learns the truth of how I feel about this penniless orphan, but I am accustomed to dealing with his temper.

Allysian only vaguely remembered a time when she wasn't secretly in love with Mordigan Bryre. Of course, she confided that fact to no one--especially not the absolutely impossible Digan.

She took full advantage of the fact Master Cormeyer was berating the boy to indulge in her favorite pastime--staring at Mordigan Bryre. Allysian tried not to be too obvious about it, but she just couldn't seem to help herself. Something about that thin, narrow face of his, with its piercing green eyes, fascinates me. Well, if I am being perfectly honest, everything about it fascinates me.

Watching Digan instead of her fingering, she struck a jangling discord, and both musicians glanced at her instinctively. She felt the blood rush to her cheeks as she bent over her lute--but not before she caught Digan's eye lingering on her for an instant longer than entirely necessary, the ghost of a smile on his lips.

Her heart sang, and Allysian stored the fleeting glimpse in the corner of her memory where she hoarded such incidents. When we were younger, it was so much easier to collect the odd smile or friendly snatch of conversation from Digan, but the two year gap in our ages seemed to widen over time, or perhaps it is just our relative positions are different now. Of course, I was always a princess, but I suppose it is easier for a seven-year-old boy to overlook that fact than a youth of seventeen....

After her mother died in childbirth, her father had raised her alone. It made their relationship a very strong one, but it also made Allysian a bit young for her age--unschooled in the womanly arts most of her contemporaries took for granted. She knew this, and tried to act more grown up and responsible, but knowing that it was necessary didn't make it easier to do.

She settled the green apple silk of her dress into smoother folds about her lap. I wore this particular gown because of Digan's fondness for green. He told me once that he liked it. I wonder if he'll even notice?

Master Cormeyer slammed his fist down on the edge of the desk, making her jump, and she turned her concentration back to the matter at hand. What trouble will Digan get himself into now?

* * *

Cormeyer slammed his fist down on the edge of the desk. "Speak up, boy. I grow weary of these games!" The master's voice was beginning to rise in volume and intensity.

Digan gulped. His hands felt clammy with tension, and his throat was dry. What can I say to him to turn his wrath? I've never seen him so angry. Digan steeled himself for whatever was to come. I'm in for more than a light caning this time.

Mouth working without success for several seconds, Mordigan finally managed to stammer, "I-I can't tell you, sir. I promised I would not." He twisted his cap nervously in his hands. He tried to convey through his melodious voice his sincere desire to obey his master's command without angering Cormeyer further, but Digan could see at once that the attempt was in vain. Shoulders sagging in defeat, he waited for his punishment.

Thank Hathor the others are at rehearsal. I could not bear it if the entire Hall were to witness this humiliation. It is disgrace enough that Allysian should see me scolded like a child.

Cormeyer ran both hands through his thick hair, turning his back on the boy and dropping his head. A sigh rumbled from the center of his chest to stir the papers on the desk. "This is the last straw, Mordigan Bryre. You are a talented boy, but you are no genius." He paced across the room, running a hand over the strings of the standing harp. His hand lingered on the frame of the instrument, as if needing the support.

For the first time, Digan realized the master was no longer a young man. He knew the king's father as a journeyman, and became King's Bard before Allysian's birth. His large frame seemed to have shrunk in the last few minutes. The handsome burgundy doublet was hiked up on one side of his belt, but he did not seem to notice its disarray. That in itself was unusual for the normally fastidious master.

Squaring his shoulders, Cormeyer turned to Digan, his brown eyes grave. "Perhaps if you were a genius I could forgive you such rampant insolence and erratic behavior...but you are not. I tried to teach you to be a good man as well as an adequate musician. It appears that I failed. I am tired of dealing with your tantrums, your lies, your incessant fighting, and your irresponsibility. Pack your things at once and get out. You are no longer apprenticed here." He strode to the desk and swept up the journeyman's certificate. With one deliberate gesture, he ripped the parchment in half, dropping the pieces to the desk, and then turned to Digan, arms folded across his broad chest.

Digan's jaw fell open. He stared in stunned silence at Cormeyer. Surely it is but a jest--the master cannot be serious...."B-but I turn eighteen in less than two weeks' time! You promised--"

"You have not earned the honor of becoming a journeyman. This latest incident just goes to prove you are not fit for such responsibility. I overlooked your shortcomings time and again. No more. Your behavior disappointed my expectations for the last time. There is nothing more for you here. Leave as soon as you gather your things." Cormeyer turned his back on Mordigan, and moved across to where Allysian sat beside the doorway.

Digan could hardly breathe.

His world was collapsing.

Without my journeyman's papers, I can never rise to full bard, and I know no other trade. I will never find a responsible position unless I earn a bard's title. Without my papers, I won't even be able to legally accept wages to play. I am not skilled with my hands. I learned no craft but music. I have no schooling....How will I make my way in the world?

His head swam. His breath caught in his chest. What am I to do? Panic welled within him. He took a step toward Cormeyer, taking a breath to protest the injustice of the dismissal.

At that moment, the princess glanced up at Digan, sky-blue eyes filled with compassionate pity, and then turned back to her music as Cormeyer returned to her interrupted lesson.

Digan felt his face grow hot. The disgrace stung all the more because she witnessed it. Her compassion only made things worse. Anger swallowed his panic. For Cormeyer to dishonor me before the princess is an unnecessary cruelty. The dismissal itself is disgrace enough.

Allysian was a sympathetic soul of fifteen, and Digan's admiration of her independent spirit went back to childhood. To be ousted in her presence made him feel even more like an errant child. The anger smoldered in his breast like a hot coal.

I will not let Cormeyer see how devastated I feel. I cannot. I must be brave and put a good face on it.

Steeling himself, Digan drew upon every ounce of dignity and courage he possessed and turned to Cormeyer. "I am sorry that I failed you, Master. Perhaps someday I will regain your esteem." Not daring to look over at the princess where she sat in the corner, he strode to the doorway.

"Wait, boy," grunted Cormeyer.

Digan's heart rejoiced. I knew it! The master but jested. Now he will forgive me, and scold me roughly not to let it happen again--throwing in a cuff or two to drive the message home...."Yes, Master?" He hated the lift of hope in his voice. It made him sound needy.

Cormeyer stepped up beside him, laying a callused hand upon his shoulder in a rare gesture of affection that seemed out of place considering the circumstances, and slipped him a handful of small silver. "For your expenses. Godspeed."

Digan stared down at the coins in his hand.

If I were brave enough, I would fling them to the floor and stalk out--but if I am truly being cast out, they might be my only buffer against starvation.

He swallowed hard. "Thank you, Master," he whispered, his voice dull and lifeless. "I-I won't be taking anything else."

Squaring his shoulders, he left the Music Hall. Pausing at the front doorway, he looked down the broad chalk road. One direction led back into the town proper, but he would find no comfort there. Taking a deep breath, Digan turned away from the capital and started down the long road curving away toward the far horizon.

* * *

Allysian jerked back to the reality of the moment with a crash as Cormeyer issued the stunning command that Digan pack his things and leave the Hall. Feeling the blood drain from her face, she started to her feet in automatic protest, and then sat back down with a thump. The room was growing oddly gray around the edges, and she was suddenly giddy.

Speechless to protest, she watched Digan gather his composure and stride out of the chamber. Her mind was numb. What can I do? How can I stop this?

Master Cormeyer turned to her after the boy left, pointing to a section of her music. "Begin here, my lady, and play to this measure." His voice was steady, but Allysian thought she detected a roughness to the tone.

Why is he pretending that it doesn't matter? Digan is like his own son. How can he send him away like this?

Her fingers fumbled on the strings, feeling like leaden sticks as she tried valiantly to comply. All she could think about was the fact that Mordigan was being sent away from her. I will lose even the slim comfort of seeing him at these weekly lessons. I cannot let that happen.

Under the assault of her clumsy fingers, a string on Allysian's lute snapped with a tortured twang. "I-I'll fetch another," she murmured, leaping to her feet before Cormeyer could dissuade her, and bolted from the Hall.

The full skirts of her gown billowed about her feet like windswept water. Damn these skirts! Why must fashion favor such a stupid excess of material? Papa says it is calculated to keep a woman staid and proper. Well, fie on that!

Gathering her skirts in both hands she wadded the silk into bunches, hiking it up out of her way. She was heedless of the wrinkles she was crushing into the tissue-thin fabric.

Reaching the road, she stared wildly from side to side until she spied the tall figure trudging away from town. Heart rising into her throat at the sight of him, she pelted off down the road, long hair tangling in the breeze.

"Digan!" she shouted, breathless from her dash. "Wait! Please!"

He stopped, and turned, giving her an opportunity to catch up.

Allysian slid to a stop beside him. Her delicate satin slippers, originally a shade darker than the apple of her dress, were now almost ivory with the dust of the road. Her feet skidded on the sharp pebbles, and she reached out a hand automatically to steady herself, catching his arm. He braced her up, and then dropped her hand as if stung.

"Y-you mustn't go," she mumbled, hiding behind the veil of her hair as she studied the ground between them. "Master Cormeyer is merely angry. He will be sorry in time. If you tell him where you were, and give him a chance--"

"I can't tell him. I promised a lady."

The words confirmed her worst fears, and she felt her face grow hot. "So, dallying with some girl is worth losing your place?" she accused, her voice waspish with injured pride.

He looked away from her, staring down the long, empty road ahead of him. "All I have is my honor, Your Highness," he replied softly, "and I gave my oath."

Allysian searched the grave features before her. She saw them through a film of tears that blurred the familiar outlines into something mysterious. "But where will you go, Digan?" she whispered. "How...when will you come back?"

Mordigan shrugged. "Maybe I won't. There is nothing to keep me here, after all."

"Nothing?" The word was almost a sob. By the Seven Virgins, I wish I could swallow that back again!

The clod doesn't appear to have noticed. Will he force me to tell him plain?

"This is a chance for me to see the world," he responded, with an airy gesture at the far horizon. "To make my fortune. Perhaps it's for the best."

Allysian felt her eyes well with further tears, and willed them not to fall.

Digan lifted her chin and smiled down at her. "Cheer up, Princess. One would think that you will miss me. Don't worry your pretty little head. You will forget you knew me by winter."

She shook her head violently, flinging tears into the dust and snatched a heavy golden comb out of her honey-colored tresses, heedless of the strands of hair ripped out with it. "Never, Mordigan Bryre. Never." A bit surprised by her own effrontery, she threw her arms around his waist and buried her hot face against his chest. "I will never forget you," she wailed miserably. Then, shoving the comb into his hand without another word, she pulled away from him and ran toward home as fast as her feet would carry her.

* * *

Mordigan stared after Allysian's fleeing form with a pensive longing. Her sob was not unnoticed...but duty bade him ignore it.

She is a sweet child, and given to displays of affection I could once accept, but know I must now discourage. She is also a princess, and as far above my station as the clouds drifting overhead.

Digan sighed. No matter. My present circumstances need evaluation, not the past. I don't know where I should go...life with Master Cormeyer is all I remember...I recall only the vaguest bits of my life before my apprenticeship began. With one sweeping decree, I've lost both home and family--such as it was. I fear I shall have cause to damn the pride that stopped me from returning to my room for what scant possessions I own. Here I am, thrust upon the road with only the clothes on my back and a handful of small silver coins--not enough to live on for more than a week or two at best, no matter how carefully I stretch it. Oh, and whatever this is that Allysian thrust upon me.

He glanced down at the object in his hand, then whistled, and brought it up to his eye to examine more closely. The comb was an intricately woven knot of gold strands on a gilt base. It weighed several ounces, and was probably worth a goodly sum.

I must see that it is returned to her some day--it is far too valuable for me to keep...but it is a typically generous gesture on her part.

Digan slipped the comb inside his belt pouch and started walking once more, his head down as he contemplated what just occurred. The princess's odd behavior preoccupied his thoughts.

Whatever possessed her to give me the comb? And what did that choked sob indicate? Does she fancy...no--she is a princess. She didn't mean....

He was so distracted by his musings that he never heard them coming. Suddenly, someone shoved him violently from behind, and he fell headlong to the stony road, sliding several feet on his face before he could stop himself and roll over. The dust of the road rose in a choking cloud about him, and the air was heavy with the dry smell of chalk. He coughed and spat. As he twisted around, trying to catch a glimpse of his assailant, he met a hard kick in the ribs, and doubled in on the pain, letting slip an involuntary moan.

"Not so high-and-mighty now, are you?" snarled a voice made unrecognizable by hatred.

Digan pushed himself up to his hands and knees and peered up at the speaker through a tangled curtain of hair. It was Payter, one eye blackened and lip still swollen from Digan's earlier blows. "What do you want?" Digan muttered, pretending a bravado he did not feel.

"You'll see soon enough." Payter nodded his head.

A chill of fear ran through Digan. Sweet Hathor...he's not alone. This will be no fair fight.

The realization came too late to be of use. As Digan dove for the side of the road, two new assailants grabbed him from behind. They jerked him to his feet, pinning his arms securely--and painfully--behind his back. The boys who held him were much larger than Payter, and smelled like they frequently rolled in horse manure.

Most likely the stable boys from the Kettle. Trust Payter to run to the bullies. He dare not fight me alone.

He caught a confused impression of dun homespun and patched leggings, but was unable to turn far enough to see their faces.

One of them leaned down to his ear, breathing a foul combination of garlic and onion into his face as he whispered, "This were too good an opportunity to pass up, my lad. I've heard the songs you sing about me on the square with those jackdaw friends of yours." He kneed Digan sharply in the small of the back, and Digan bit back a cry.

Yes, I know that voice. The stupid lout was mooning over Matilde at the Traveler's Rest, the pretty, brunette chambermaid Garad is so sweet on. The song he refers to was one of my better ballads, and well received by both the girl and the cadet. Unfortunately, it appears its appeal is not universal.

"I've been waiting for this for a long time, Mordigan Bryre," Payter crowed, with a wicked sneer. He slammed his fist into Digan's midsection, and the taller boy doubled over, the wind knocked out of him.

"How does it feel, getting for giving?" Payter growled. "Where's your high-blown boasting now?"

The pair of oafs holding Digan shook him like a rat, knocking him off balance. He swayed to find his equilibrium once more. He could taste bile in the back of his throat, and the acid tang of fear, but he was determined not to show it.

"Is that the best you can do?" Digan taunted. "I scarcely felt a thing." His throat contracted in a painful spasm at the lie. In truth, Payter's powerful blow left a fiery ache in his side, and he found himself gasping for breath.

With an incoherent cry of rage, Payter fell upon him. The next blow caught him in the center of the chest, and he staggered back a step before his captors jerked him forward. Digan fell to one knee, scraping the hide from his leg as the fabric of his leggings shredded on the sharp stones. He was forced upright again, with another hard shove to the middle of his back. He felt as if his arms would be wrenched from their sockets with all the pushing and pulling.

Payter's next blow caught Digan a glancing clip in the temple, and pain exploded from the side of his face. "Not so pretty now, are you, bard?" chortled a low voice in Digan's ear, and he felt a warm glob of spittle slide down his cheek. He twisted like an eel, but his arms were too tightly pinned. He could not free himself.

Payter waded in once more, dealing blows so thick and fast now that Digan couldn't have defended himself even if he were able to. When the smaller boy finally danced back with a triumphant grin, Digan hung motionless between his two captors. Only their unyielding grasp on his upper arms held him upright.

Marshaling every ounce of will left to him, Digan raised his head slowly to flash Payter a winsome smile through battered lips. "Do you feel all better now, little man?" he inquired, his voice honey-sweet.

Payter's fist flashed out--one final time, snapping the older boy's head to the side and plummeting Digan into darkness.

When he regained his senses, Digan lay crumpled by the side of the road. His jaw ached unbearably, and he spat a broken tooth into the palm of his hand.

The only consolation is that Payter most likely fractured several fingers in order to inflict this much damage.

Wincing at the effort, Mordigan staggered to unsteady feet. The fire in his ribs was sharper now.

I hope it will not cause me greater trouble further down the road.

His right eye was swollen shut and the left little better. He explored his face with careful fingertips. There were abrasions from the skid along the rough stones down one cheek, and his upper lip was split, the cut still oozing blood as he swiped at it with the back of his hand.

What a pretty picture I must present, he thought wryly. I, always so vain....I wonder what Allysian would say if she could see me now.

The thought made his hand stray to his belt pouch as he limped down the road, and--though he was relieved to find his silver intact--his heart sank when he realized what was missing. He stumbled back to the scene of the fight, falling to his knees on the roadbed and searching the bloodstained ground for the comb.

I know I'm not likely to find it, but I can't leave without at least looking for it. True, I wasn't intending to keep the thing...but it was hers, and it was oddly comforting to know it was there.

Anger smoldered to life beneath the pain as he beat the sides of his fists against the ground in frustration. I will get Payter for this theft if it is the last thing I do! Not that I am likely to get the chance, now am I? Banished from the Hall and adrift on the road, there will be little reason for me to encounter the lout again.

Squinting to see from his left eye, Digan moved grimly on down the road for some distance, registering little of his surroundings until he found a watering trough standing before the tumbledown remains of a tiny cottage. As he stood in the dirt dooryard, he frowned. Something about the place stirred a vague sense of familiarity.

The homestead appeared to be abandoned, but there were a few inches of stagnant rainwater in the bottom of the trough. Gingerly, Digan dropped to one knee and sponged the worst of the blood from his face with the edge of his cloak. He examined his murky reflection critically. Both eyes were already blackening, and the cleaved lip would likely scar. The abraded cheek was nothing serious, but it added to his overall disreputable appearance.

Catching sight of a knuckle scraped in his confrontation with Payter earlier in the day, Digan gulped. "Thank you for your mercy, Lady Hathor," he whispered, profoundly grateful he was unable to fight back during the attack. It was the mark of the rankest fool to risk my hands, and my future, so needlessly by brawling in the street.

At least Payter did not think to damage my hands. If I could no longer play my instruments, it would not matter whether or not Master Cormeyer reconsidered his punishment.

"Thank heaven Payter is not very intelligent," Digan breathed aloud. "A creative attacker would have made sure to crush my fingers and destroy the very things that are a bard's essential tools." The mere thought of such a fate sent a wave of dizziness surging over him, and he hung his head between his knees until it passed.

Whatever else that beating did, it confirmed the fact nothing remains for me in town. Whatever Allysian's protests to the contrary, I am despised by practically everyone I know, and now even Master Cormeyer belongs among the throng....

There is nothing left to lose. I might as well do as Freitanya challenged--seek out Talthos and ask the wizard to make me a magical lute. Perhaps if I can gain such a prize, Master Cormeyer will see that I am no wastrel and grant me the papers I worked so hard to earn, and so desperately need.

Rising stiffly to his feet, Digan walked away from the town that held the only real home he'd ever known without even a backward glance. Digan never looked back.

Before long, the resiliency of youth reasserted itself, and the adventure of the moment seized Digan firmly in its grasp. The theft of Allysian's comb from his pouch was forgotten as Digan's thoughts turned to the future. The world lay ahead, and it was his to claim. Despite the pain, he hurried onward, eager to see what waited beyond the horizon.

Chapter Two

Allysian didn't even bother to change her dusty gown. With her hair hanging in bedraggled tangles about her ears, and her dainty satin slippers ruined by the sharp stones of the road, she ran into the castle. Skirts hiked to her knees, she pelted through the broad corridors, barely registering the fine tapestries covering the stone walls, or the smudged chalk footprints she left on the thick carpeting. She ran straight to her father's throne room.

"Good heavens, girl," King Vasileios chided with an indulgent laugh, as she curtseyed before the dais supporting his gilt throne. "You look like something the cat has been playing with. Go and clean yourself up."

Fighting to catch her breath, she gasped out, "This can't wait, Father. You must intercede with Master Cormeyer. He has sent Mordigan Bryre away!"

The king frowned. "Really? That is strange. I thought the boy was his pride and joy. What on earth did the lad do now?"

"He was late for my lesson, and he had charge of the master's lute--but that was hardly enough to merit dismissal, Father!" She hurried up the steps to place an earnest hand on the padded velvet arm of his throne. "You have to do something."

"It is Master Cormeyer's decision to make, daughter," King Vasileios replied, giving her hand a gentle pat. "Now, go and change. You look like a ragamuffin."

"But, Father!"

"I will hear no more about it, Allysian." The king's brow knit once more into a frown, and the gray of his eyes darkened to steel.

He'll never listen when he is in this mood. I could just as soon persuade the frost to spare the roses.

Allysian gave up.

It is obvious that I will get no help in this matter. If I want to get Mordigan back in my life, I will have to do it myself. "Yes, Father," she answered, her eyes downcast, and her tone meek. "I'll go and change now."

Turning on her heel, Allysian hastened through the castle to her own chambers. The broad corridors continued, lit by filigree lamps hung from golden sconces. Fine wooden tables, polished like satin, held large bowls of fragrant blossoms the garden staff renewed daily. She plucked a blossom from a bowl in passing, holding it to her nose and breathing in its perfume with absent pleasure as her thoughts raced ahead of her flying feet.

She remembered a thousand fragments: memories of Mordigan that bloomed inside her head with more brilliance than the flowers lining the hallways.

Like the day that I was seven and tripped over the bottom step of the throne room dais, cutting my chin on the edge of the marble. Her fingers strayed to the tiny scar on the underside of her chin. Digan held one sleeve to the wound to staunch the blood and wiped away my tears with the other, whispering silly doggerel until I laughed aloud and forgot what I had been crying about.

Or the time when I was nine and my poor kitten climbed too high in the elm tree beside the palace gate. His face was as pale as Dame Madeline's sheets with worry as he went up the tree, but Digan climbed right up after it and brought it safely down tucked inside his shirt. I saw the claw marks he tried to hide from me.

Every time I needed protection or comfort, Digan was there. Well, now it is time for me to return the favor.

Once she had made her decision, she felt a tingle of excitement that brought nervous giggles bubbling to her lips. I will put things right. I will go and bring Digan home. And I will do it all by myself!

* * *

It was a beautiful day, a pleasant breeze making the afternoon air cool for summer after the heat of the morning, but with a warm golden light that should last well into evening. The beckoning road smelled of baked earth and adventure. The caressing breeze carried a scent of growing wheat and promise. The pain in Digan's bruised side lessened as he walked, the stiffness gradually working itself out with exercise. He hooked thumbs through belt as he went along, humming his new song under his breath as he took stock of his resources.

The song was his lifeline. It tied him to his past, and held his hopes for the future. It comforted him and helped him sift through his thoughts. The soft humming was the only sound breaking the silence of the day.

This isn't so bad. I'm young and strong. A quick study. Surely there is something I can do with myself if Talthos will not heed my petition. But why should he not? If he wants payment, I can trade labor for the lute. I am willing to work.

The dust of the road puffed up around his boots as he walked, and he watched the play of the sunlight on the drifting motes. Despite his aches and pains, he was relatively content. His gaze wandered about him, taking in the smoothly cultivated fields, and the herd of cattle grazing in the far distance. The road was deserted as far as he could see, and he reveled in the solitude. Mordigan Bryre had always been a solitary boy, even in the midst of the bustling Guild Hall, so he was not afraid of being alone.

For the first time in his life, he had no responsibilities, no lessons to learn, or fingerings to practice. Even his recorder was hanging still on its peg in his room. Aside from his clothes--his second-best velvet and silk in honor of the princess's lesson, now bloodied and torn from the altercation--and the handful of silver Cormeyer bestowed upon him, all that he owned was his wits.

"And is that such a bad thing?" he said aloud, heartened by the sound of his own voice. "I may go where I please, and do as I like. 'Tis a fine life. I wager there is many a boy would give his arm for that freedom. Perhaps that is recompense enough. Why, I shan't miss the Hall one little bit." The bravado that was more than a little untrue grabbed his throat and squeezed. Well, maybe I should keep such thoughts to myself, he reasoned.

As for the task Freitanya proposed me...why not? I might as well seek out Talthos as anything else that comes to mind. But where should I start? The witch told me that the wizard lived "above the clouds" in his azure castle.

"On a mountaintop perhaps...?" Digan mused, his brow puckered in a thoughtful frown. "There are no mountains here in Marineaux--and the witch did say that Talthos abandoned the realm--but there are large ranges on the borders with Nausa and Gwenthed both. Though I don't think there are any along the seacoast." He was beginning to get a little dizzy at the simple thought of searching the entire perimeter of the country on foot. "Hathor's Harp! There are mountains on the islands of Gondalyn and Suranaka too. Talthos could be almost anywhere!" The last words were almost a groan as he fully realized the magnitude of the task he set for himself. And to search out a wizard of Talthos' caliber unannounced....

Talthos...even the name conjured up a vague tingle of foreboding that ran a shivering finger down Digan's spine.

I wonder what made him turn away from the kingdom? They say Talthos was the most powerful wizard of the age, before I was even born. Sult says that ever lived, but Garad and Roelf say Velachaz of Suranaka is stronger.

Digan found himself lecturing in his head. It was an old habit, fostered by a solitary personality. He scooped up a handful of pebbles from the road, and amused himself by juggling them as he walked, continuing the discourse as if trying to convince someone unseen of his facts.

His magic is legendary, and his skill as a musician made even Master Cormeyer jealous...but something happened about the time I was born, and I can't find anyone to tell me what. Talthos turned his back on Marineaux and disappeared. The rumors say he is dead, but according to Freitanya, those reports are false.

The crone promised him a signpost. All he could do was wait until he found it.

Digan shrugged, dropping the stones and dusting his hands.

It is not a matter of urgency yet. I will see a bit of the country first. I've never been beyond the next town, and then only under the Master's watchful eye.

By the end of the day, however, the novelty of his adventure was beginning to wear thin. His soft boots were not intended for heavy wear, and his muscles were not used to the rugged exercise. On top of everything else, his ribs were beginning to ache again, and a bruise the size of a small plate mottled his side.

As the light began to fade from the sky, Digan found himself in the middle of open country with no sign of habitation in sight. The flat fields were no longer intriguing, but instead rather ominous when he began to contemplate the possibility of sleeping under the stars. "You've really gone and done it to yourself this time, Mordigan Bryre," he scolded aloud. "What kind of a fool are you? Getting yourself kicked out of a warm bed and a fine place just when you were finally going to amount to something. Now, you've ruined that for good and all. Just like you've ruined every other decent thing in your life with your lies and laziness."

I see there isn't even the slightest twinge of pain for that reproach. It is all too true.

Footsore and bone-weary, the boy trudged on until it became too dark to see even the white chalk road. A stand of trees loomed up to his right, a few hundred feet from the road, and he made for their shelter. The field between the roadway and the grove proved less level than it looked, and he stumbled when his foot hit a rabbit hole, twisting his ankle and falling headlong. He came down hard on his bad side, and gasped at the resulting wave of pain.

What am I doing here? How did it come to this?

Gritting his teeth, he got to his feet and limped into the scant refuge provided by the trees. Through blind luck, or celestial pity, he found a huge, hollow oak, and crawled inside. "Thank you, Lady Hathor," he whispered gratefully to his goddess.

Digan curled up in the shelter for the night, wrapping his thin cloak around him tightly--more for comfort than from cold. His stomach growled complaints at him, but he ignored it as best he could.

Whoever owns the fine fields I walked past this afternoon must be wealthy indeed, because their homesteads were not even visible from the road. It gave no opportunity to buy food, and I know nothing of foraging, beyond filching sweetmeats in the marketplace....

He resigned himself to a long, supperless night.

Mordigan Bryre lay with his fingers laced behind his head for some time, staring up at the stars spangling the velvet sky outside his shelter. He replayed the entire day in his head, trying to find some sense in it.

What would I do differently if given the chance? Would I still pick the fight with Payter? Would I strike the bargain with the witch? Would I tell Allysian--no, not even to myself may I let my thoughts stray there. She is a princess.

Digan was feeling more than a little bit sorry for himself by the time he finally drifted off to sleep. In one day, he went from being a pampered apprentice with a promising future to being a homeless wanderer with no appreciable skills and little means of supporting himself, and there was no one to blame but himself. It was not an auspicious turn of events.

* * *

Allysian surveyed the tiny bedchamber built into the storage bay of the Guild Hall with mingled curiosity and pity.

I know I shouldn't be here, but I wanted to see for myself...what exactly, I'm not sure.

Her heart was beating a ragged tattoo in her chest, and she stole nervous glances back over her shoulder toward the doorway. She left it ajar so she could hear if anyone approached but her blood pounded so loudly in her ears she doubted it would do much good.

For the bribe of a handful of sweets, Cormeyer's page let her inside, and now she stood in Digan's cubicle at the Guild Hall. Just large enough to hold the narrow bed and a simple clothes chest, the room was merely six feet of space partitioned off from one of the storage areas between the two floors of the hall. However, it was a sign of his former favored status that Digan owned these private quarters at all when the other apprentices were in the common dormitory on the far side of the building.

How could Cormeyer so easily dismiss him, impossible as Digan could sometimes be? Papa is right. Digan was always the Master's pride and joy....This room only proves it. But where is Digan in this room? It is so bare and cold.

Aside from the furniture, the room held only a worn recorder hanging from a peg on the wall. There was no other imprint of Mordigan's personality.

Allysian knelt beside the clothes chest. It was a plain wooden box, bound with strips of bright brass, and she caught her bottom lip between her teeth as a sudden mental picture of Digan polishing the shining metal popped into her thoughts. She ran her finger along the band. He is always so conscious of appearances. Who else would have worn velvet on a hot day like today?

The princess opened the clothes chest, and a wave of aromatic scents wafted over her. There was the sharp, clean odor of the cedar wood itself, favored by cabinetmakers and joiners for precisely this property. Underneath the woody smell was the sweet aroma of freshening herbs that she recognized from her own wardrobes.

Another affectation of the fastidious Master Bryre...few of his fellow apprentices, and a good many of the masters, come to that, would know what the herbs are, much less use them amidst their clothing. She smiled, heart skipping a painful beat. Whenever I think I understand him, he surprises me with a new facet of his personality.

Stealing another look toward the doorway, well aware of the time she was wasting, Allysian lifted out a fine black velvet tunic, running her hand over the soft fabric like she was petting a cat.

I remember him wearing it to perform before the court last winter, regal as a young prince himself. His voice soared like a divine spirit, and I pretended he was singing only to me....

Shaking her head in irritation at her own foolishness, she laid the tunic aside with one final caress. Beneath its sable folds were more practical garments of forest green linen and black homespun. A broad smile of satisfaction bloomed across her face. These are more like what I hoped to find.

Allysian set the plainer clothes on the floor beside her and moved to replace the velvet tunic in the chest. As she did so, she caught a glimpse of something tucked carefully into the back corner of the box. Curious, she tugged it loose. What she held in her hand rocked her onto her heels in surprise.

"Why, Mordigan Bryre," she murmured, her voice a mere whisper of sound, "perhaps there is hope after all...."

The crumpled bit of ribbon was sky-blue satin, embroidered with tiny stars worked in threads of gold. She lost the bow years ago at her tenth birthday party....

She was in a fever pitch of excitement for weeks before the day, knowing that her father planned a very special celebration for the evening. There would be a puppet show, and jugglers, and best of all, Digan would sing. She did not get to see the boy as often as when they were younger, and such an occasion was a rare treat indeed.

The party was one brilliant spectacle after another, with glittering jewels reflecting the light of a thousand candles. The perfumed wax sent clouds of sweet-smelling smoke to collect around the stone vault of the ceiling. She was giddy with excitement, engrossed in a game of blindman's bluff with some of the gentry's children her father invited for the festivities.

Spinning after an elusive playmate, her eyes covered with a silken cloth, she tripped, and started to fall, only to be steadied and set upon her feet again. Tugging away the blindfold, she found herself standing before Digan, who looked decidedly uncomfortable to be there.

"It is high time you arrived, Mordigan Bryre," she declared, with an imperious sniff. "You have kept me waiting."

"I am sorry, Your Highness," he replied, executing a stiff bow, "I was unavoidably detained."

"Hmph. Well, now that you are come at last, you must sing at once." She spun on her heel and minced to her throne, all haughty dignity, pretending that the moment was unimportant to her. Seating herself on the miniature version of her father's gilded chair, she commanded him again, "Sing for me, Mordigan Bryre."

And sing he did...more beautifully than the nightingales outside her window. The entire chamber was silent in awe of it....

What prompted him to take away the hair ribbon? How did he get hold of it...and why save it all this time? Could it be...?

Carefully Allysian replaced the keepsake in the bottom of the box and resettled the velvet tunic. She gathered the plain garments into her arms and rose to her feet. On impulse, she lifted the recorder off its peg and added it to her bundle.

If I felt any second thoughts about my scheme, the sight of that crumpled ribbon swept them away. I will find Digan and bring him home.

Before she could step out onto the platform of the storage bay, Allysian heard the creak of heavy steps on the stairway and ducked back into the room, her heart pounding so hard in her throat she thought she would choke. She glanced frantically around the barren chamber, but there was nowhere to hide.

The door swung inward with a grating protest and she flattened herself against the wall behind it, one hand clapped across her mouth, and the other cradling her bundle to her chest. The panel screened her from view as long as the newcomer didn't close it behind him, and she held her breath.

What will I say if they catch me in here? That I was looking for Digan? No, Master Cormeyer knows better....By the Seven, don't close the door!

The door stayed open, and Allysian heard a deep, ragged sigh. A whiff of pipe smoke tickled her nostrils, and she raised her hand to press under her nose, praying not to sneeze.

"Digan, Digan...what will become of you now, my boy?"

Allysian peeked through the crack between the door and the jamb. Master Cormeyer stood in the doorway; one hand on the handle of the door, shoulders slumped. Deep furrows were carved in the crags of his face. He looked older than during her lesson even scant hours ago.

Papa was right, Allysian realized with a start. Digan is Cormeyer's pride and joy. It must have hurt him terribly to send Digan away. It wasn't the act of injustice I thought, but a painful truth that must at last be faced: Digan is not meant to be a bard.

But it is Digan's life. It is all he ever wanted...there must be some way to change Cormeyer's mind. If Digan would only come back and tell the Master the truth, I am sure Cormeyer would listen.

She would just have to go get the boy and bring him home at once.

Cormeyer sighed again, shaking his head as he pulled the door to behind him. Allysian put her ear to the thick panel, straining to hear whether his steps retreated down the stairs or went further into the storage bay. She wasn't sure, but time was wasting, and she decidedat last that she must chance it.

I did, after all, run out of the Hall this afternoon without my lute. If I am caught downstairs, I will say that I came to fetch it. As for my bundle, well I will worry about that when the time comes.

Easing the door open, Allysian stepped out onto the landing. She tiptoed to the edge of the platform and peered over the edge. The hallway below her was empty, and the great door stood open to the sunlight. Lifting her skirts out of her way, she stole down the steps and out of the Hall.

Once she cleared the courtyard, she allowed herself the luxury of a moment's reaction, leaning against the outer wall and hugging Digan's clothing to her. She felt great shudders roll through her when she thought how close she came to being discovered. "You had better be worth it, Mordigan Bryre," she whispered aloud.

Making her way back to the castle, she slipped in through the main hall, and started for the stair.

"Where were you, little one?"

The quiet question startled her, and she whirled, hiding her bundle behind her.

Dame Madeline had been her nurse before becoming her governess, the closest thing she knew to a mother.

Allysian sketched a curtsey. "I-I was visiting in the village."

Madeline tsked. "Your father gives you too much freedom. You are a princess, Allysian, not a village hoyden. Look at you! And what is that you are hiding behind your back?"

"N-nothing. I promised to do a bit of mending for one of the stable boys." The lie sprang from her lips as smoothly as one of Digan's.

"What am I do to with you, child? Will you never learn your place?"

Allysian felt the blood rising hot in her cheeks. "Not if it means a kindness is beneath me," she answered tightly. "Now, if you will excuse me?" She turned and swept up the stair, ignoring Madeline's sharp call behind her.

Why must I be a princess? All I want is to be Allysian...and Digan. I want Digan by my side.

She made it to her bedchamber without further incident, more determined than ever to follow her heart. Standing in the luxurious dressing room, Allysian drew on Digan's clothes, breathing deeply of the herbs that perfumed them. The scent brought a lump to her throat.

I caught that same slightly flowery smell under the sharper scent of sweat as I hugged Digan on the road earlier....

The thought of that embrace sent a wave of heat rushing into her cheeks, and yet her biggest regret was that she had lacked the nerve to kiss him too.

She bit her lip. What am I thinking of? I can't believe how brazen I'm becoming!

The clothes were much too large for her, the sleeves of the tunic falling to her fingertips. She rolled them up to her elbows, and moved toward her wardrobe for some kind of sash, one hand clutching the breeches about her middle. She riffled through the cabinet until she found a plain leather belt she sometimes wore when hunting with her father, and cinched it tight around her slim waist. Pulling on a pair of soft boots sweet-talked from one of the palace stable boys, she looped the recorder over her shoulder to rest against her hip.

Glancing at her reflection in the polished brass mirror, Allysian caught her breath with a gasp.

How could I have forgotten?

She swept up her sewing scissors and took a deep breath. Her hair hung in golden waves to well below her waist. Taking a large hank in one hand, she sawed it off roughly at her chin and tossed the strands to the floor at her feet. It became easier after the first cut was made, and soon she stood in a heap of spun gold.

She studied her reflection once more, turning her head this way and that as she marveled at how light it felt. Without all the great weight of hair pulling it down, it feels as if my head will float off.

She giggled at the notion.

"That is a habit you must break, my girl--lad," she lectured her reflection with a stern frown. "No self-respecting boy your age would giggle like a ninny." She fluffed the ragged ends of her hair with one hand, shivering a little from the feel of airagainst her neck.

The cut isn't very even, but it will have to do.

Allysian refastened her belt outside her tunic and bloused it out above her waist. She scowled at the resulting reflection with a dubious frown. Her features weren't what one would call "pretty" in a classic sense, but more boyish, and her figure had more angles than curves.

Maybe I will be able to manage the deception--if no one looks too closely....

Allysian shrugged. There is no time to ponder the matter further. Digan already has quite a head start on me, and I will be stopped if I don't go now while everyone is busy preparing the evening meal.

She left the chamber without another thought, ignoring the tangled pile of gold on the stone floor.

* * *

When Digan awoke the next morning, he suffered a moment's disorientation as to how the walls of his room had crept inward until he remembered where he was and why. The ancient tree smelled of decayed wood and damp leaves, and there were bits of moldy bark in his hair. He raked fingers through the tangled strands with a grimace of distaste. His hand ran across something slimy, and he yanked it out of his hair with a startled cry. Glancing down, he flung the fat slug into the field outside his tree.

Resting head on bent knees, he gave in to a moment's despair. How am I going to survive in the world? Great Hathor, I ruined my life for good this time.

The gray light of pre-dawn filtered through the opening of the great oak, and Digan sighed. There is no point in putting things off. Day always began with the sun at the Hall, and I can see no reason to alter that routine.

He scrambled out of the tree on his hands and knees, and levered himself to his feet, groaning over twinges from muscles he never knew existed. His body ached all over. The injuries sustained in Payter's beating had stiffened overnight, and the walking done the previous day had also taken its toll.

Hungry, sore, and mouth parched from thirst, Digan returned to the deserted road, and began to limp on in the direction he was traveling the day before. He knew not where the road would take him, but it was far away from the Hall, and that was enough for the moment.

A vista of cultivated fields surrounded him on both sides of the roadway, but he still saw no signs of habitation. "Not that I can see much of anything at present," he said aloud, comforted by the sound of his own voice as he scanned the countryside through his slitted left eye. The right was still swollen completely shut. "Ah well, probably for the best. I doubt I present a very good case for charitable hospitality. Not if I look half as bad as I feel."

The renewed exercise soon began to work out the kinks in his muscles, but it only aggravated his other problems. His stomach began to provide a steady commentary on his sad state of affairs, and he remembered with longing the musical fountain in the town square. The gleaming white stone of the buildings; the polished marble of the basin with its ceaselessly tumbling spray; the lounging boys in homespun or silk--depending on their rank in the unofficial hierarchy of the square--it all seemed a dream.

Was it truly only yesterday morning that I stood on the sandstone flags and knocked Payter down for insolence?

This lonely beckoning roadway was the only thing that held any reality to him in the growing light of his first full day of exile.

Going a day, or even two, without food or water won't kill me--I've done it often enough before--but this time there will be no hearty meal waiting when the punishment is over.

He wracked his brains to remember how far it was to the next town or village, but there was only a vague impression of several hours spent in the back of a plodding cart.

Even so, the draft animals put your limping progress to shame, jeered the voice inside his head.

"At least I didn't break my ankle in that hole," he reminded himself in a stern tone. "It might be much worse."

Or a damn sight better, his subconscious replied, the ghost of a pain teasing his throat as he tried to lie to himself.

The thirst is the most annoying thing. He kept watch along the side of the road for a spring or pond, but not even a puddle presented itself. I would settle for the brackish water from the bottom of that trough.

Remembering a trick Master Cormeyer taught him in order to improve his diction--and how it always made his mouth water--he found a round white pebble and popped it under his tongue. It helped to trick his mind into thinking he no longer thirsted, and now that his biggest problem was solved, he could indulge his curiosity.

While the area immediately outside the town was flat, and mostly under cultivation, here the broad chalky road wound through increasingly wilder countryside. The endless fields were disappearing, and he could see stands of trees curving away on either side of the roadway.

As the morning wore on, ranks of tumbled clouds began to build in the sky, and Digan kept an uneasy eye on the horizon. Rain would make his travel even more miserable...

The summer heat pressed down in palpable waves. Imprisoned in the rags of his velvet doublet, Digan mopped the sweat from his brow with his ragged sleeve. He contemplated removing the garment, but his pride still forebear it.

Humping swells rimmed the road where the land was beginning to rise towards foothills that would grow to mountains over the border. The grass on the verges of the road was thick and green, but just beginning to yellow as the summer passed its halfway point. When the fall harvest arrived, the owners of the small farms and tenant peasants would cut it for winter feed, but at present, it provided a restful distraction as he walked. The breeze cut patterns in the waving stalks that constantly shifted and reformed as he watched. Its wayward breath eased the heat a little, and lifted Digan's heart.

By the time the sun climbed to noon, however, no amount of distraction could take his mind off his growling stomach. His last meal was a snatched biscuit in the dining hall yesterday at dawn.

Just as the sun reached its zenith, he spied a lazy curl of smoke rising from the chimney of a small cabin nestled snugly in the wooded skirts of the road. The friendly breeze brought a tantalizing whiff of something wonderful, and he followed his nose to the source of the fragrance. Digan could smell fresh bread baking, and a savory aroma that promised heartier fare.

Cutting through the knee-high grass to the dirt dooryard of the tiny dwelling, he rapped tentatively on the wooden panel. It opened a crack, and he saw a bright button eye.

"What?" asked a suspicious female voice.

"Fowgif mwe--" Digan hurriedly spat the pebble into his hand, whipped his dusty green cap off his head, and began again. "Forgive me, mistress," he said, in his best bard's purr, "but I have walked many miles this day, and I wondered if you might spare a crust of that new baked bread. I'm willing to work for it--" he added hastily.

"Hmph," the woman sniffed. "And what does a beggar in silk and velvet know of work? Mayhap you got those bruises from a dissatisfied employer--or was it a potential victim who caught you before you could complete your theft?"

Digan flushed. It stung his pride to the quick to be named beggar and thief--but his empty stomach was more than willing to overlook the slight...and let it be known...loudly.

"Well, I suppose it would do no one good to have you starve to death on my doorstep," the woman grumbled. "Come inside."

"Thank you, my lady," murmured Mordigan, with his deepest court bow.

The woman tittered like a serving wench, and stepped back from the doorway to let him enter. The inside of the little house was spare and neat, reminding him of Cormeyer's personal quarters at the Music Hall--a day and night contrast to the cluttered office.

His hostess was a tall, buxom woman with soft, brown hair pulled back in a neat bun, red highlights shimmering in the sleek waves. Her sparkling brown eyes were wide set in her tan face, and the crows-feet in their corners bespoke of frequent laughter. She wiped strong hands on her apron and gestured to the table.

"Have a seat, young sir. You look like you could use a bit of rest. I'll fetch you a bowl of my soup and a slice of that bread. What are you doing so far from home? For you are not from hereabouts, that much I know."

"I seek my fortune, lady," he replied with an airy wave of his hand. "Destiny called to me, and I answered it."

"Pretty words. What do they mean?"

Digan frowned. "I don't understand your question...."

"What do you seek as 'fortune', boy? What 'destiny' had time to dicker with you personally? Was it the one who disliked your pretty face so violently?"

"I--" Again he was pulled up short by his promise to Freitanya. I cannot reveal my quest, and I cannot lie.

"I was dismissed from my place," he said at last, staring at the work-polished grain of the tabletop with a sullen scowl. "I have nowhere special to go. As for the beating, lady--I assure you, I did nothing to deserve it." The last statement contained more than a touch of falsehood, and he paid for it, coughing as a sudden painful contraction tightened his throat.

"I've just the thing for that cough," commented the woman, moving to the cupboard and pulling out various odds and ends. "It will fix you right up," she promised, stirring a bit of this and a pinch of something else into a mug of water. "Here, boy. Drink this."

Digan took the cup and examined it with a dubious frown. He sniffed the liquid. It smelled of herbs and sunlight. What can it hurt?

He took a tentative swallow. The concoction ran smoothly down his aching throat, and left a pleasant aftertaste of precious honey and something lemony...but there were hints of other ingredients he didn't recognize at all. It took away the last dregs of the pain in his throat, however, and seemed to soothe his other aches as well.

"Thank you, my lady," he murmured with sincere gratitude as she set down a platter heaped with bread and a large wooden bowl of soup.

"Eat hearty, boy. You could use some fattening."

Digan was more than willing to oblige. The food was plain but tasty, and he soon cleaned the dishes. "It was a splendid meal."

"You looked as if you needed it," she replied as she whisked the dishes into and out of the rinse bucket. "Lord knows, it was little enough." She plopped down on the bench opposite him and fixed him with a level stare. "What has set you wandering upon the road, Mordigan Bryre?"

Digan started back. I know I never mentioned my name. How does this woodcutter's wife know of me...?

"I-I do not understand, lady...as I say, I lost my place--"

"And there was no other to be had in the whole town? It is most unpopular you must be."

Something about the tone of her voice made a ripple of fearful recognition shiver up his spine, but it was gone before he could grasp hold of it. "I fear 'tis true, my lady," he affirmed ruefully, "I'm not the best beloved youth in the town. There will be more people glad to see the back of me than sorry."

"A sad state of affairs for one so young." She rose from the table and busied herself about the kitchen. "No skills, no education...whatever shall you do with yourself, Digan?"

He was beyond being uneasy to being frightened. How does she know so much about me? I am not quite so vain as to believe my history is common knowledge throughout the countryside.

He made a sign against evil under the table, and leapt to his feet. "P-perhaps I should be going--"

"And what about my payment? You promised me work for my food."

Digan fumbled in his belt pouch and held out the silver coins in a trembling hand. "H-here. I will pay for it."

"Foolish boy. Not everything can be bought. I have no need of your silver. On the other hand, I could use a strong back and another pair of hands in the field this afternoon. Help me with the weeding, and we will call it even."

Digan wanted to put as much space between him and the woman as possible as soon as he could. But it would be rude to deny her request when I made the offer--and if she is the seer she appears to be--it might be dangerous as well.

"As you desire, my lady," he replied in his meekest tone.

By the end of the afternoon, he was beginning to wish he had taken his chances with flight. He lost sight of the woodcutter's wife as he tolled in one section of the field, and she in another. It made the work both easier and more tedious to bend over the rows alone.

Only strength of will kept him moving by the end of the day. His fingers, while bearing thick calluses gained from long hours of plucking the strings of his lute, were unaccustomed to other work, and they were blistered and bleeding before the sun set. His battered ribs ached like dull coals, and his back was strained from bending to pull the weeds. To top everything off, his tunic was torn in three more places.

He examined the rents in the black velvet with a mournful eye. This is my favorite suit of clothing, well cut and flattering in fit. It took me half a year to earn its price. Now it looks like beggar's finery indeed.

Digan sighed. What am I doing here...? If I swallow my pride and beg Master Cormeyer to give me another chance, I feel sure he will relent. Maybe I should just go home.

But the thought was only a fleeting one. Payter would have trumpeted the news of his defeat throughout the town. I can never go crawling back. No, I cannot return without the lute that will prove my merit--at least to myself.

"That's enough for today, boy," commanded the woman, coming up beside him with cat-like quiet, as she dusted her hands on her apron. "You more than paid for one meal. Come and eat some supper, and I'll give you a bed for the night. You can be on your way in the morning."

Digan nodded with a weary sigh of acceptance. It was sensible advice. Even the thought of trying to strike out tonight made him feel faint at heart. Wincing at a particularly fierce twinge of pain from his hands, he bit back the moan that rose to his lips.

"Let me take a look at those," the lady clucked, reaching for his hands with a gentle touch. He examined them along with her, running a critical gaze over the damage. His long fingers were torn and swollen, and the palms blistered and raw. "Poor boy," she scolded with a sympathetic cluck of her tongue. "'Tis a good thing you have no concert tonight. Why did you not say something? You near ruined your fine hands."

Digan shrugged. "What matter? I no longer have an instrument to play anyway. I suppose I should become used to working with my hands. I shall have to do something to earn my keep."

"Come inside, lad." The woman draped a comforting arm around his shoulders. "I'll tend to your blisters and give you something for the pain you are trying so stoically to deny. You mustn't keep everything hidden from the world. Even the bravest man sometimes knows fear and loneliness."

Digan wanted to pull away from her encircling arm, but found himself powerless to do so. A chill ran through him. What have I gotten myself into?

* * *

Allysian was also having second thoughts. Her first night was spent huddled in a miserable ball in the middle of an open field without even the slim comfort provided by Digan's light cloak. She left the village some hours behind the boy, and although she didn't know it, veered quite a bit off his course by mistaking the way at a fork in the road.

On the second day, while Digan worked for his meals at the woodcutter's cottage, Allysian plodded along the road towards the Nausean border, working herself into a fine state of temper. "What in the name of the Seven Virgins am I doing here? Chasing after a no-account, lying, cheating scoundrel like Mordigan Bryre when I could be home in my nice safe palace with my nice soft bed, and I wouldn't look like a bloody fool."

Hot tears of fury welled behind her eyes, and she screwed up her face and willed them be gone. "I cut my hair for you, Mordigan Bryre," she murmured into the empty afternoon, one hand straying to the ragged fringe about her neck. "Do you know how long it took to grow it? Do you care? No! Do you care about anything except yourself and your stubborn, stiff-necked pride? No! Damn you, Mordigan Bryre!"

She was no longer sure that the whole affair was worth the aggravation. "It's not as if he was ever nice to me any more," she continued, her anger building. "After all, Digan hardly seems to know that I exist. A crumpled hair-ribbon in the bottom of some stupid chest doesn't constitute eternal worship." An awful thought struck her, and she froze in her tracks. "By the Circle, for all I know, he doesn't even remember it is there. He could have thrown it into that chest years ago and forgotten all about it!" Just because I harbor some childish infatuation doesn't mean he feels the same towards me....

And then the image of Digan's stricken face when Cormeyer dismissed him flashed through her memory. There is no one else to care. He needs me.

Allysian continued down the road. The sun was beginning to set on her first full day as a vagabond. It slipped toward the horizon in a blaze of golden splendor. She caught her breath at the sight of it. It was dazzling in its beauty. The sky was awash with scarlet and purple banners of cloud, embroidered with the gold thread of the last sunbeams.

I've never seen such a lovely sunset.

"Do you see it, Digan?" she whispered in awe. "Wherever you are, do you see it? Are you thinking of me...?"

Her voice trailed away to wistful silence, and one of the tears she was reining in managed to slip her leash. She dashed it away with a sigh.

The sunset might be beautiful, but it means another lonely night is coming.

Allysian shuddered at the thought of another night alone in the fields, with every whisper of the wind sounding like approaching bandits, and every night bird like avenging ghosts.

"The night will be a cold one," commented a cracked voice.

Allysian whirled, every nerve in her body tingling, and her heart thundering with shock. A stooped form leaning on a crooked staff peered back at her intently. "G-good day, mistress," the princess murmured. Her manners instinctively came to her rescue. She curtseyed before she remembered her assumed disguise, and then stood in awkward dismay, not knowing how to extricate herself from the mistake.

"Prettily done, my dear," chuckled the crone, "but hardly the greeting one expects from a page boy."

Allysian bit her lip, berating herself soundly for making such a stupid error. You must start thinking like a boy if you want to deceive anyone, you little fool.

"It will get easier, Princess," promised the withered hag, and Allysian felt the hair on the back of her neck stand on end.

"H-how did...who...?"

"You are not as well-schooled as your Digan in the ways of the world, are you, Allysian?" the woman tsked. "What do they teach you in your ivory tower? I am Freitanya!" She threw her arms skyward, and thunder cracked in the now cloudless heavens. "All who know of me fear my wrath!"

Allysian gulped. She was not so sheltered that the name was unknown to her. She took an involuntary step backward.

"Don't look so terrified, girl!" the witch continued in a milder tone, a merry twinkle in her dark eyes. "I gave up eating children years ago. 'Twas bad for my stomach."

The princess giggled in spite of her fright.

"That's better, my pretty," Freitanya cooed, patting Allysian's arm with a twisted, claw-like hand. "Now, come with me. We have much to discuss." She ambled off, crooking a finger at the girl over her shoulder.

Allysian ran to catch up. "Um...excuse me, mistress...but where are we going?"

Freitanya turned back to the girl, her eyes suddenly serious. "We are going to examine whether or not you truly desire what you seek, my child...because if you don't--you'd best return to Vasileios' pretty palace now, before two fragile hearts are needlessly shattered."

Allysian cocked her head and frowned. "If you mean do I 'truly desire' to help Mordigan Bryre, then the answer is yes. He needs me. He thinks that everyone in the world has abandoned him, and I won't let him keep on feeling that way. I won't!" The princess folded her arms across her chest defiantly, but her quivering chin gave her away. She was tired, hungry, and emotionally battered. There was little left for her to give, but what little there was belonged to Digan. She was more determined than ever to find him and bring him home.

"I believe you, my dear," murmured Freitanya in a voice like silver honey. She grew taller as her twisted limbs straightened, and her dark eyes seemed to eclipse the world. "There is steel in you, and softness as well. That young man is lucky to have you on his side...does he realize that?"

"I-I don't know," Allysian whispered, ducking her head. She felt the prick of the harnessed tears behind her lashes, and again willed them not to fall. She must be strong. She had to be...for Digan's sake. When she found him, it would take every bit of that strength to get him to return home.

Suddenly, she felt warm arms around her, and a soothing voice murmuring words of comfort. "We will save him, little one. From himself as well as from the world. But you must trust me."

Wordlessly, Allysian nodded. She walked with the witch into the last rays of the setting sun. The golden beams shimmered and danced about them...and the road lay bare among the lengthening shadows.

* * *

Digan collapsed onto a bundle of straw in the woodcutter's shed well before Allysian's sunset, and slept like the dead. He half expected the man would come home before nightfall, but the goodwife brushed aside his worries, stating that her husband was often afield for days and would never even know the boy was their guest. She'd bound his ribs tightly under a poultice, and given him a draught he suspected aided in his heavy sleep.

After a good night's rest, Digan felt better able to face his search for the Azure City. The pain in his side was relegated to a vague ache, and his right eye was actually usable this morning, if still a bit swollen.

"Thank you for the hospitality, my lady. I will never forget your kindness."

"Pretty words, young sir--but like as not you will forget an old woman like me the moment some dainty miss catches your eye."

"I would not lie to you, my lady," Digan protested. I dare not...he added to himself silently.

"Go on with you, rascal!" scoffed the woodcutter's wife, handing him a neat parcel of food for his journey. "Follow the road west into Nausa until you reach land's end, and you will find what you seek."

"But I--" began Digan, and then broke off in confusion. He had not told her what it was that he sought, but an uneasy suspicion told him that she knew anyway. "Thank you again for the food and shelter, lady." He gave her his finest bow, and started off in the direction she indicated.

* * *

Two days after that fateful meeting on the road with Freitanya, Allysian was beginning to wish that she had never listened to the witch's advice, even though she parted with the crone more determined than ever to rescue Digan from himself.

Freitanya counseled her to come to Nausa and wait for Mordigan Bryre to arrive. So far, however, there was no sign of the boy, and the princess could not believe that she was so far ahead of him. "He like as not turned aside and is halfway to Wyndwell," the girl grumbled to herself. "You have only the witch's word he was even heading in this direction, fool. He could have gone to sea and crossed to Suranaka by now!"

Allysian crouched behind the wheel of a market cart, studying the baker's wagon across the way with a covetous eye. Her hair hung in greasy straggles about her ears, and there was a wide streak of dirt across one sunburned cheek. There was little hint of the dainty princess in the grimy, bedraggled urchin contemplating the theft of a currant bun.

And Allysian was starving.

Nervously smoothing her tunic about her hips, she squared her shoulders and strolled casually across the open market square. With a slightly off-key whistle, she thrust thumbs into belt and sauntered past the baker's cart. As she drew even with the wagon, she snaked out a hand and snatched one of the buns.

"Hey! You there--" an angry voice shouted.

Clutching the bun, Allysian took to her heels, weaving through the stalls of the market. She heard the sound of pursuit behind her and increased her speed. Glancing back over her shoulder to gauge how closely she was being followed, she barreled into a hard but yielding surface, which knocked her to the ground.

Allysian looked up to find a huge figure in the uniform of a city guard glowering down at her. "Oops," she gulped.

In for a penny...she shrugged, cramming the bun in her mouth as the guardsman jerked her roughly to her feet. He shook her like a puppy, and then cuffed her hard across the face.

"You won't get away with a trick like that on my watch, boyo!" growled her captor.

Head whirling dizzily, Allysian was quietly--and thoroughly--sick. Oh well, she thought miserably, I tried....

The guardsman swore, dragging her behind him. "We'll just see what the court has to say about this."

Stumbling after the soldier, the princess tried to devise a plan of escape, but she couldn't think of a thing. Perhaps I will be able to talk my way out of trouble before the magistrate. I can always wheedle Papa around to my point-of-view; he is firmly wrapped around my finger when it comes to unimportant matters. Why, in the name of all that is holy, did he not intervene with Cormeyer and save me from this wretchedness?

She drew her sleeve across her throbbing lip, and it came away bloody.

I certainly hope Mordigan Bryre appreciates all the trouble he has caused me--whenever he deigns to show himself.

* * *

Digan stared upward with a sinking heart. "Until you reach land's end" the woodcutter's wife said--and here it was. The cliff towered above him, a forbidding rock face with slim hand and footholds vaguely visible among the shadows.

It was his fourth day of travel, and he crossed the border into the neighboring kingdom of Nausa just at noon, following the sun until the road played out at the base of the mountain.

To go around it will take a day at least, and that passing farmer advised me there is only sea beyond it. The cliff must be the landmark of which the goodwife spoke...and the Azure City lies above it. There is nothing to be done but to climb the sheer stone.

With a shuddering breath, he set his boot onto the first foothold and started up. Digan moved slowly and carefully, testing each step before he committed his weight to it. The higher he rose, the harder it was to breathe.

It was not that the air was actually thinner, but it certainly seemed so. His battered hands were soon raw and bleeding from scrapes and nicks garnered among the sharp rocks.

Reaching for a hold that proved to be just beyond his grasp, his foot slipped, and Digan's scraped cheek slammed against the side of the mountain with bruising force before he caught himself, heart pounding in his chest. He clung spread-eagled and motionless for an infinite space of time, eyes squeezed shut as images of plunging to the jagged ground below played behind his lids.

Chapter Three

Digan moaned low in his throat like a wounded animal, eyes squeezed shut as he fought to regain control. Behind his closed lids, a vivid scene replayed in sharp detail.

"You can't to it, Digan! You're too little." The jeering voice of Portean, long since gone from the Hall, but senior apprentice on that long ago day. "Stay down there where it is safe."

The sun beat down on the dusty courtyard, drawing perfume from the roses in a heady cloud. It was a half-holiday, lessons over for the day, and the boys left to mischief.

"I ain't scared," Digan replied hotly. He knew he was small for his age--his growth still in the future--and sensitive about that fact. He grabbed onto the ivy snaking up the rough wall of the Hall and began to climb.

It was a dare. Climb to the roof of the Hall and touch the flagstaff supporting the Guild pennant. It was a rite of passage for the apprentices, and all attempted it at some point or other. But most were nine or ten before they tried. Digan was six.

He wouldn't be climbing now, but Portean and Laeran were teasing him about his size, and lack of family. He must prove them wrong. He was not too little. Not a homeless mongrel. He was a bard, and fearless as a lion. He would show them.

It was an easy climb at first, but as he reached the edge of the roof and started to swing onto the slates, he slipped, and fell backwards. The sensation of helpless terror seemed to stretch forever. His heart thundered like a drum in his ears and then the ground slammed into his back and the world went black.

When he awoke, he was ensconced in the Master's bed, a bandage round his head, and his arm broken in two places. Cormeyer sat on the edge of the bed, shaking his head. "What am I to do with you, son...?"

Well, now he knew....

Ever since the fall, Digan was deathly afraid of heights. It was another secret he hid behind his bravado and boasting, but the fear was a demon he could never completely shake. Only the thought of the wonders he would be able to p