yet he knew there was much more to learn. Still, with his tutoring he now had the means to find other sources of knowledge. The secrets known to few but the greatest masters – to pass between worlds by strength of will, to move through time, and even to cheat death – he now understood were possible. And with that understanding, he knew he would someday discover the means of mastering those secrets. If he was granted enough time. And time was at a premium. The leaves of the trees echoed the rustle of the distant darkwind. The man in black set dark eyes upon the ancient being floating before him, as both withdrew their minds from the matrix. Speaking by strength of mind, the man in black said, So soon, Acaila?
The other smiled, and pale blue eyes shone forth with a light of their own, a light which when first seen had startled the man in black. Now he knew that light came from a deep power beyond any he had known in any mortal save one. But this was a different power, not the astonishing might of that other but the soothing, healing power of life, love, and serenity. This being was truly one with all around him. To gaze into the glowing eyes was to be made whole, and his smile was a comfort to see. But the thoughts that crossed the distance between the two as they gently floated earthward were troubled. It has been a year. It would have served us all had we more time, but time passes as it will, and it may be that you are ready. Then with a texture of thought the black-robed man had come to understand was humour, he added aloud, ‘But ready or unready, it is time.’
The others rose as one and for a silent moment the black-clad one felt their minds join with his, in a final farewell. They were sending him back to where a struggle was under way, a struggle in which he was to play a vital part. But they were sending him with much more than he had possessed when he had come to them. He felt the last contact, and said, ‘Thank you. I will return to where I can travel quickly home.’ Without further words he closed his eyes and vanished. Those in the circle were silent a moment, then each turned to undertake whatever task awaited him or her. In the branches the leaves remained restless and the echo of the darkwind was slow in fading.
The darkwind blew until it reached a ridge trail above a distant vale, where a band of men crouched in hiding. For a brief moment they faced the south, as if seeking the source of this oddly disquieting wind, then they returned to observing the plains below. The two closest to the edge had ridden long and hard in response to a report by an out-riding patrol. Below, an army gathered under banners of ill-aspect. The leader, a greying tall man with a black patch over his right eye hunkered down below the ridge. ‘It’s as bad as we feared,’ he said in hushed tones.
The other man, not as tall but stouter, scratched at a grey-shot black beard as he squatted beside his companion. ‘No, it’s worse,’ he whispered. ‘By the number of campfires, there’s one hell of a storm brewing down there.’
The man with the eye-patch sat silently for a long moment, then said, ‘Well, we’ve somehow gained a year. I expected them to hit us last summer. It is well we prepared, for now they’ll surely come.’ He moved in a crouch as he returned to where a tall, blond man held his horse. ‘Are you coming?’
The second man said, ‘No, I think I’ll watch for a while. By seeing how many arrive and at what rate, I may hazard a good guess at how many he’s bringing.’
The first man mounted. The blond man said, ‘What matter? When he comes, he’ll bring all he has.’
‘I just don’t like surprises, I suppose.’
‘How long?’ asked the leader.
‘Two, three days at most, then it will get too crowded hereabouts.’
‘They’re certain to have patrols out. Two days at the most.’ With a grim smile, he said, ‘You’re not much as company goes, but after two years I’ve grown used to having you around. Be careful.’
The second man flashed a broad grin. ‘That cuts two ways. You’ve stung them enough for the last two years they’d love to throw a net over you. It wouldn’t do to have them show up at the city gates with your head on a battle pike.’
The blond man said, ‘That will not happen.’ His open smile was in contrast to his tone, one of determination the other two knew well.
‘Well, just see it doesn’t. Now, get along.’
The company moved out, with one rider staying behind to accompany the stout man in his watch. After a long minute of observing he muttered softly, ‘What are you up to this time, you misbegotten son of a motherless whoremonger? Just what are you going to throw at us this summer, Murmandamus?’
JIMMY RACED DOWN THE HALL.
The last few months had been a time of growth for Jimmy. He would be counted sixteen years old the next Midsummer’s Day, though no one knew his real age. Sixteen seemed a likely guess, although he might be closer to seventeen or even eighteen years old. Always athletic, he had begun to broaden in the shoulders and had gained nearly a head of height since coming to court. He now looked more the man than the boy.
But some things never changed, and Jimmy’s sense of responsibility remained one of them. While he could be counted upon for important tasks, his disregard of the trivial once again threatened to turn the Prince of Kondor’s Court into chaos. Duty prescribed that he, as Senior Squire of the Prince’s court, be first at assembly, and as usual, he was likely to be last. Somehow punctuality seemed to elude him. He arrived either late or early, but rarely on time.
Squire Locklear stood at the door to the minor hall used as the squires’ assembly point, waving frantically for Jimmy to hurry. Of all the squires, only Locklear had become a friend to the Prince’s squire since Jimmy returned with Arutha from the quest for Silverthorn. Despite Jimmy’s first, accurate judgment that Locklear was a child in many ways, the youngest son of the Baron of Land’s End had displayed a certain taste for the reckless that had both surprised and pleased his friend. No matter how chancy a scheme Jimmy plotted, Locklear usually agreed. When delivered up to trouble as a result of Jimmy’s gambles with the patience of the court officials, Locklear took his punishment with good grace, counting it the fair price of being caught.
Jimmy sped into the room, sliding across the smooth marble floor as he sought to halt himself. Two dozen green-and-brown-clad squires formed a neat pair of lines in the hall. He looked around, noting everyone was where they were supposed to be. He assumed his own appointed place at the instant that Master of Ceremonies Brian deLacy entered.
When given the rank of Senior Squire, Jimmy had thought it would be all privilege and no responsibility. He had been quickly disabused of that notion. An integral part of the court, albeit a minor one, he was, when he failed his duty, confronted by the single most important fact known to all bureaucrats of any nation or epoch: those above were not interested in excuses, only in results. Jimmy lived and died with every mistake made by the squires. So far, it had not been a good year for Jimmy.
With measured steps and rustling red and black robes of office, the tall, dignified Master of Ceremonies crossed to stand behind Jimmy, technically his first assistant after the Steward of the Royal Household, but most often his biggest problem. Flanking Master deLacy were two purple-and-yellow-uniformed court pages, commoners’ sons who would grow up to be servants in the palace, unlike the squires who would some day be among the rulers of the Western Realm. Master deLacy absently tapped his iron-shod staff of office on the floor and said,
