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 you lot. 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.

She could not wait to be shed of me. Was I such a burden?

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. 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' 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.

"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 started. 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 such 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. "T-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 forgot 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 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 Hathor'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 musical 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.

It all comes down to lies, it seems. One way or the other, I cannot 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 is 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 a bearer of news as well as entertainment. He is expected to pass on new edicts to the countryside. He is trusted to carry 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 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 chords softly as she worked on the correct positioning. She appeared to be oblivious of 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 thought of Digan dallying with a sweetheart among the townsfolk....

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

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 much easier to collect the odd smile or friendly snatch of conversation from Digan, but the two year gap in our ages widened so 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.

Her mother died in childbirth, and her father raised her alone. It made their relationship a very strong one, but it also made Allysian a bit young for her age. 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 has Digan got 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. I'm in for more than a light caning this time.

. Mouth working without success for several seconds, Digan finally managed to stammer, "I-I can't tell you, sir. I promised I would not." He twisted his cap nervously in his hands, steeling himself for whatever was to come. He tried to convey through his melodious voice his sincere desire to obey his master's command without angering Cormeyer further, but Mordigan 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 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....

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 bolting 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 fill with 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 that 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 always 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 impressions 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 returning to my room for those few possessions I own. Here I am, thrust upon the road with only the clothes on my back and a handful of small silver—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 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' 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 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 right now, 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 it is a vain search, but I cannot leave without at least trying to find 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 shop boy 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. A creative attacker would have made sure to crush the fingers that are a bard's essential tools.

"Thank heaven Payter is not so intelligent," Digan breathed aloud. 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 alone, 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 world lay ahead, and it was his to claim. Despite the pain, he hurried onward, eager to see what waited beyond the horizon.

The theft of Allysian's comb from his pouch was forgotten as Digan's thoughts turned to the future. He would live to regret the oversight.