Roger knew better than to close up under the cowl of his traveling cloak as he walked the streets of Palmaris that windy late-autumn night. The best disguise was often no disguise, he knew, and so he walked about the gate area of Palmaris openly and seemingly completely at ease.

He was certainly not at ease.

How could he be? He was in a city he had called home for many years, a place where he had served among the ruling hierarchy, substituting for Jilseponie herself when she had gone south to become Danube's queen. But Palmaris was not his home any longer. Far from it. The city was in turmoil, the citizens confused and upset. Aydrian was here, in command of the city as the hated De'Unnero was in command of St. Precious. And all supposedly with the support of Bishop Braumin Herde, which was the most confusing factor of all. Roger Lockless understood that he would not be welcomed here - which was why he had slipped in by hanging on to the undercarriage of the wagon of an unsuspecting farmer.

He reminded himself constantly that he only had to get through this single night, and not even for much of the night, if Bradwarden's plan worked.

He made his way past the guardhouses and barracks that lined the wall, all manned by Ursal soldiers now with the bulk of the Palmaris garrison long fled to Vanguard. In a way, that was an advantage for Roger, since none of these men recognized him, as the Palmaris soldiers surely would have.

Along this wall, too, were the city's long stables, huge barns with small stalls with room for hundreds of horses. Roger knew the area well, and knew where the garrison commanders had kept the finest of their stock.

Near that western end of the stabling area, Roger hoisted a bucket and moved about with familiarity and ease, acting very much as if he was supposed to be there. He held his breath as he entered the barn area, though, hoping against hope that Symphony was stabled nearby.

If not, then he knew where the horse would be: in the finer, and undoubtedly well-guarded, stables at Chasewind Manor. The mere thought of going there unsettled him. The servants and groundskeepers would know him, after all, and no doubt the place was thick with Ursal men.

"It's about time ye got here!" an incredibly thin man with a shiny bald head and a dark and straggly beard assailed him as he entered with the bucket. "The damned mares've been screaming for their feed all the night!"

"I... I don't believe this is for them," Roger stammered, thinking fast on his feet. "I was told to deliver the meal to King Aydrian's own horse, and that one's not a mare, by all accounts."

"King Aydrian's horse?" the barn keeper replied, and his tone and incredulous expression confirmed Roger's worst fears.

"The big black," he said, hoping against hope.

"Ye got yerself a long way to carry the bucket!" The barn keeper snickered. "Or better yet, ye give me the bucket for the mares and get yerself another one at Chasewind Manor. They got plenty up there."

The man held out his hand for the bucket, and Roger readily turned it over.

"Ye best be running!" The barn keeper scolded. "I'd not be the one to keep King Aydrian's horse braying and kicking at the stall!"

Roger just nodded and walked out, devising a plan as he went, envisioning the layout of Chasewind Manor's grounds and stables - which of course were in the back of the house, in clear view of every sitting room! Worse still, that stable area was always well lit.

But Roger had to go there, and he had to hurry, for Bradwarden's song would soon fill the Palmaris night.

He had little trouble navigating the city to the more exclusive western region, and though there were more soldiers patrolling the streets in that area, there were more hedgerows for stealthy Roger to hide behind.

Soon enough, the small man was standing along the wall of Chasewind Manor, not far from the main gate. He tried to act casual, surveying the area and sorting out the routines of the skilled soldiers guarding the grounds - Allheart Knights this time and not just ordinary Kingsmen.

Then, unexpectedly, Roger Lockless got his first view of Jilseponie's son. He knew that it was Aydrian riding in the open coach that rushed out of Chasewind Manor's gate. He only saw the man for an instant, but the young king looked at him directly and there could be no mistaking that resemblance. He possessed Pony's thick lips and thick hair, and Elbryan's eyes and jaw. In that moment of looking at him, Roger almost thought that he was looking upon his dead friend Elbryan once more! To Roger's profound relief - after he had digested the truth of the encounter - the young king did not recognize him at all, and the coach wheeled away. Of even greater fortune, the guards seemed to relax almost immediately upon Aydrian's departure.

The shaken Roger grew even more unsettled a moment later, when a beautiful melody drifted across the Palmaris night. So unobtrusive was that song, so attuned to the night itself, that those around Roger didn't even seem to notice it.

But Roger surely did, and if Bradwarden was correct in his planning, then another in the city would not miss the significance of that song.

Spurred by a sudden realization of urgency, Roger moved swiftly along the wall, away from the gate. He knew the layout of the area well and, using strategic places of concealment, the small and nimble man made his way around the back of the compound. With a quick glance about, and a long and deep breath to steady his nerves, Roger slipped up and over the wall, dropping into the shadows of a widespread elm on the other side. Glad that there were few guards visible in the area, and hoping that no one was looking out from any of the many darkened sitting rooms at the back of Chase-wind Manor, Roger hastily made his way toward the stables, where he could already hear a commotion brewing.

"Rouse King Aydrian!" he heard one man cry from inside the opulent barn.

Every word was accompanied by an agitated whinny or the hard thump of a strong hoof smashing against wooden planks.

Without hesitation, fearful that Symphony might hurt himself in his anger, Roger sprinted right into the barn.

He found a trio of Allhearts standing before the great stallion's stall, one holding a whip and looking very much like he intended to charge into the stall and discipline the increasingly agitated stallion.

"He will kill you if you enter!" Roger cried reflexively, and he believed every word. Bradwarden was calling to the stallion with his haunting piping. Bradwarden, who had watched over Symphony and all the wild horses of the Timberlands for so many years, was musically bidding the great stallion to come home.

And there could be no doubt about the fact that Symphony wanted to go! The three soldiers turned surprised expressions over at Roger. "Who are you?" one demanded.

"A man who knows this horse well, and who has known him since before the days when King Aydrian found him!" Roger answered. He rushed up to the stall and gently called to the magnificent stallion, and it was obvious, though Symphony retained his agitation, that there was some recognition there.

"We have to let him out, to run in the paddock," Roger explained, and if he had told the soldiers to fall dead upon their swords, they could not have worn more skeptical expressions. "It is the strength of Symphony,"

Roger tried to explained. "The stallion needs to run or he bursts with energy. Quickly! Help me to guide him out into the paddock. Let him run off the excess energy and he will rest more easily."

Not a soldier moved.

"He is a wild stallion, bred and grown in the open hills of the Timber- lands," Roger desperately explained. "He can tolerate only short amounts of time in such an enclosure! Be quick, I beg you, or your king's horse will break a leg!"

"Who are you?" one of the soldiers demanded again.

"I was a stable hand in Caer Tinella when this magnificent creature carried King Aydrian's own father, Elbryan the Nightbird," Roger lied. He lowered his eyes perfectly, playing as if he was embarrassed to admit, "And I served Queen Jilseponie when she was baroness here in Palmaris, in the early days of her rule here soon after the plague. Few know of this, and I beg of you not to speak of it, but this same magnificent creature was also the favored mount of Jilseponie."

That brought a trio of stunned expressions, which was exactly what Roger was counting upon to give him enough credibility to dupe the fools.

"Please, I beg of you, if not for the sake of the horse, then to protect yourselves from the wrath of King Aydrian, help me to guide mighty Symphony out into the paddock," Roger pleaded.

"You cannot hope to control the beast!" one of the soldiers argued. "If we open the door, he will run you down!"

"No he won't," said Roger, and he looked up at the horse. "You'll not harm me, will you, Symphony?" he asked softly and the great stallion stopped its whinnying and kicking for a moment to consider Roger, as if he had understood every word. Roger didn't wait for an answer, but used the opportunity offered by the moment of calm to move to the door and quickly unbolt and open it. Before the guard could react, Symphony moved right up to Roger and nuzzled him, seeming to calm down immediately.

Roger looked to one of the soldiers, who tossed him a halter. He started to put it on the horse, but paused to stroke the horse's face - and to strategically allow Symphony to edge a bit farther out of the stall.

Roger moved as if to put the halter on again, and leaned in to whisper soothingly into the horse's ear. He didn't ask the horse for calm, though, but rather, urged Symphony to run! And then Roger fell away, crying out as if he had been injured, and Symphony bolted past him and past the three startled soldiers. Head down, the stallion galloped out of the barn, and snorting and bucking, charged about the compound.

"Catch him! Oh, catch him!" Roger wailed, knowing full well that none of them would get near the great horse. His ploy worked to keep the soldiers off of him, though, and they ran out after the horse, calling out for help.

"Run on, Symphony," Roger whispered. "Follow the centaur's call, back to one who deserves you." He paused a moment, listening intently and taking some hope as the commotion moved away from the stables, toward the front gate.

And then the small man wisely made his own escape, heading out the stable's side door and into the shadows of another great tree. Or at least, that's where he had hoped to go.

"Master Lockless?" came a call right behind him, and though he didn't immediately recognize the voice, Roger knew that it was a question of surprise alone and not of identity. He stiffened and stopped and slowly turned about, to find a stunned old Illthin Dingle, one of Chasewind Manor's gardeners, looking back at him.

"Master Lockless!" the old man said again, more emphatically. "But I thought ye'd gone out to the north with Jilseponie."

Roger moved a finger to pursed lips, hoping to quiet the man somewhat, and he glanced all about nervously. "So I did, good Master Dingle, and now I am back to see this king who is her son."

Illthin cocked his gray-stubbled, grizzled face. He wore his hair long and tied in a gray ponytail, giving the old man a carefree appearance that fairly well matched his often unpredictable personality. "Ye got to do better than that, Master Lockless," Illthin said with a knowing grin.

Roger looked all around, then settled himself into place. "True enough,"

he admitted. "I returned for Symphony, and Symphony alone."

"Ye didn't now!"

"I did. Symphony is not the horse of this new king, worthy though he maybe..."

"Ye're not for believing a word of that!" Illthin said with a phlegm- filled laugh.

"Symphony is not the horse for this new king," Roger reiterated deliberately.

"Oh that ye believe suren enough," said Illthin. "It's the other, worthy, part..."

Roger straightened and didn't flinch or blink.

"Many're feelin' the same way," old Illthin said. "Despite the words from Bishop Braumin. Curious, that. I'd not've expected Braumin to turn in favor of that one! Not after he had men die holding back King Aydrian at the southern wall."

"What did Bishop Braumin say?"

"He spoke for the king - the rightful and lawful king, he called him,"

Illthin explained. "And for Abbot De'Unnero of St. Precious - now there's a turn o' the moss for ye!"

Roger Lockless listened to it all silently. He didn't doubt the veracity of what Illthin was saying, and it wasn't hard for Roger, no stranger to the ways of gemstone magic, to figure out how Aydrian might have so manipulated Braumin into saying things so preposterous as that.

"Perhaps all is not what it seems to be, good Illthin," he replied, and old Illthin laughed again.

"I pray you say nothing," Roger bade the man. "For Symphony's sake, if not my own."

Illthin eyed him suspiciously.

"For Jilseponie's sake, if not my own," Roger added, and that seemed to melt the man's doubting facade.

Before Illthin could respond, the commotion moved about the side of the great house, with many men in pursuit of the agitated Symphony.

"I must be away," Roger said, and he and Illthin shared one last agreeing look before Roger Lockless melted into the shadows, expertly picking his way back to and over the wall.

By the time Roger had worked his way back around the compound, many soldiers, some astride To-gai ponies, were charging out the main gate and down the street in pursuit of Symphony. Roger did not know that it was Illthin who, feigning terror and running from the charging horse, had conveniently opened the gate to make his own escape, and thus allowed Symphony to break free of the compound.

The chase went on through the streets of Palmaris, but it was really no chase at all, for no horse could match the stride of Symphony, especially no horse carrying a rider. And none of the Allheart ponies were behaving with their usual discipline in any case, all lured by the same centaur piping that was leading Symphony home.

Palmaris' northern gate was open, as always, and no one there had a chance to close it in time when they realized the identity of the stallion charging their way. One soldier bravely and stupidly stepped out to block the horse, but Symphony just ran him down, knocking him to the ground.

And then the stallion was running free across the rolling farmlands north of the city, following the promise of Bradwarden's melody.

The promise of freedom, the promise of home.

For Aydrian, meetings such as this one were among the most useless and boring aspects of his running adventure. During all the planning with Abbot Olin and De'Unnero to design his ascent, Aydrian had been forced to sit through similar sessions, where the principals gathered to go over and over and over their upcoming actions. What amazed and dismayed Aydrian most of all was his absolute understanding that the gatherings, as they grew repetitive, did nothing productive. These were meetings to calm the nerves of the various leaders, to comfort them and reassure them that they were acting properly.

Aydrian needed no such reassurances anymore. He had his guidance from the shadow at Oracle. Day by day, he was growing more confident in his abilities and more aware of his limitations, few that they were. To Aydrian, these bureaucratic exercises were merely delays along the course to the inevitable.

He had to admit that this one was more important than most of those previous, though. This one was not for the benefit of Marcalo De'Unnero, who was busy putting the house of St. Precious in order, or Duke Kalas, who was off in the northland securing Caer Tinella and Landsdown, nor for any of the other war leaders who had traveled with Aydrian from Ursal.

This meeting concerned the leaders of Palmaris - other than Bishop Braumin, obviously, who remained locked in a room in De'Unnero's St. Precious.

Aydrian looked around the huge table in the great hall at them, reminding himself of their importance to his cause. Palmaris would be the pivotal city if Midalis ever came south, and having the support of these many lords, the great landowners and influential citizens, would go far in making certain that Palmaris was not welcoming to the dispossessed prince.

But still, it was tedious, at best, and whenever Duke Monmouth Treshay of Yorkey, the formal host at the event - though they had gathered at the home of a prominent Palmaris landowner - addressed an issue to the Palmaris lords, then referred to Aydrian, the young king had to sit up straighter and remind himself to care.

"So, as you can well see, my lords," he heard Monmouth saying, "the transition of power in Ursal was nearly bloodless, and would have been completely so if all in attendance had simply accepted the declarations of King Danube himself."

"King Danube was your friend, Duke Monmouth," said one man, a wealthy merchant who often visited Ursal.

"Indeed he was, and I was proud to call him so!"

"Prince Midalis was your friend, as well, was he not?" the merchant asked, and that got Aydrian's attention! "When he ventured south with the Alpinadoran barbarians to attend the wedding of Danube and Jilseponie, was not Duke Monmouth pleased to see him? Did you not ride with him the very next morning?"

"True enough, Lord Breyerton," admitted Monmouth. "And I shall still call Prince Midalis friend if, when he learns of the transition of power, he accepts the desires of his dead brother who was king. And I expect he will."

That brought more than a few doubting stares from around the huge table, Aydrian noticed. Given Monmouth's doubting expressions back in Ursal, Aydrian understood those doubts. Indeed, the young king had many times wondered if he might have to "replace" Monmouth, perhaps brutally so.

Thus, soon before beginning the march out of Ursal, Aydrian had visited Monmouth Treshay, not in body, but in spirit, and he had shown the man the glories he might know in Aydrian's shadow.

And he had shown the man the horror he might realize out of that protective shadow.

Lord Breyerton looked directly at Aydrian in what could only be interpreted as a challenge, which caused more than a few of the others to widen their eyes in alarm. "And if he does not?" the bold lord asked. "If Prince Midalis claims the throne as his own?"

"He has no legal claim," the all-too-convinced Duke Monmouth replied strongly. "He - "

"He has no throne to claim," said Aydrian, the first words he had spoken since the opening of the meeting more than an hour before. "The throne of Honce-the-Bear is occupied. That is the simple truth of it. If any others are to make a claim on this throne, given to me by my stepfather in his wisdom, then they are traitors to crown and country and will be accordingly dealt with by the soldiers who serve crown and country."

"Many people support Prince Midalis," the defiant Lord Breyerton dared to remark. Eyes about the table opened even wider, and more than one man gasped.

"Is Honce-the-Bear now a product of the will of the people, Lord Breyerton?" Aydrian asked. "If the people had decided that King Danube was not a good king, could they have simply found a replacement and set him upon the throne? What sort of anarchy do you profess?"

"Indeed, what idiocy is this?" asked another of the gathered lords.

"It is an honest question!" Lord Breyerton declared. "If there is to be war - "

"Then you should choose wisely your alliances," Aydrian interrupted. "If in his disappointment, Prince Midalis cannot accept the vision of King Danube and acts foolishly and traitorously, then he will face the wrath of the crown. You have seen but a fraction of my army and my power, I assure you, and yet Palmaris wisely relented their folly before the city was laid to waste. Even Bishop Braumin, so dear a friend to my mother, came to understand the inevitability and the correctness of my rule. This is no longer about who will sit on the throne of Honce-the-Bear, Lord Breyerton, for that issue is long decided.

"And as your king, I have come to understand that I must reach out to the great cities and the great men who lead them," Aydrian went on. "King Danube ruled long and ruled well, mostly because he understood that his eyes and ears alone would never suffice for a kingdom as large and powerful as Honce-the-Bear. His wisdom lay in his ability to recognize the attributes of others and to allow those other great leaders the freedom to serve the kingdom within their own judgment."

That last line had nearly every head bobbing, had several of the lords staring with hopeful and sparkling eyes. Olin and De'Unnero had schooled Aydrian well here. A king who offered the ambitious and greedy merchants free reign over their own little kingdoms within Honce-the-Bear would be a beloved king indeed - at least by those people who mattered. Even Lord Breyerton seemed a bit off-balance, as if suddenly torn between the carrot Aydrian had just subtly dangled and his loyalties to Prince Midalis.

Aydrian recognized clearly the conflict within Breyerton, and he determined then and there to sway that conflict in his direction.

The lords continued to argue amongst themselves for a bit, until a page rushed in, running over to stand beside Lord Breyerton. The young page bent low, whispering excitedly into Breyerton's ear, and the lord's eyes widened immediately.

"What is it?" Aydrian asked of him.

Lord Breyerton rose from his seat. "A minor disturbance, my King," he said, and it was clear that the man was quite unnerved. With a quick bow, Breyerton turned and started away.

"Lord Breyerton!" Aydrian said suddenly, stopping the man in his tracks.

Breyerton turned about to look at the king.

"What have you learned?" Aydrian coolly asked.

"There is a disturbance by the north wall, my King," Breyerton admitted.

"A group of Palmaris soldiers have taken control of the smithy. Some of your Kingsmen were wounded, I am afraid."

Aydrian rose and moved beside the man. "Lead on," he instructed.

"My King, the area will be dangerous," Breyerton protested, and several of the others, especially the escorting Allheart Knights, seconded the notion. "You have not even your armor to wear."

In response, Aydrian gave a wry grin and put a hand to the hilt of Tempest, belted at his hip. "Lead on, Lord Breyerton. I wish to speak with these... confused men."

"My King - " Breyerton started to argue, but Aydrian cut him short.

"Lead on," he insisted, and he practically shoved the man out of the door.

The Allhearts and Duke Monmouth were close behind, followed by the other lords. This particular house wasn't far from the northern wall and the area of the disturbance. As soon as they exited the building, they could hear the sounds of battle.

Needing no guidance, Aydrian moved ahead of Breyerton, striding confidently toward the sounds. He found many of his Kingsmen encircling a small barn set against the northern wall of the city. Nervous horses nickered and skittered about a small corral to the side of the structure.

A few men lay dead about the place, most wearing the armor of the Palmaris garrison, but a couple showing the insignia of Kingsmen. All about the area, hundreds of Palmaris citizens looked on at the spectacle, mostly from distant balconies or from behind the protection of stone walls or water troughs.

Their focus quickly shifted, though, from the fighting to the unexpected arrival of the new king of Honce-the-Bear.

As always, Aydrian found that he liked the feeling of so many people looking at him, of so many people looking on in awe of him. He shook away the distraction, though, and continued ahead, reaching into the pouch on his hip to sort through the gemstones.

The front of the smithy was open, an orange-glowing hearth showing within, but bales of hay had been piled there. Every so often, a man would pop up and loose an arrow out at the encircling force, only to have it answered by a barrage of return fire.

Aydrian drew out Tempest and put a soul stone into his left hand and continued to stride right past the ring of his own soldiers, heading for the smithy. When one of the commanders took the cue and started to call to his men to follow their king into battle, Aydrian turned and hushed him and waved him away. Similarly, when Aydrian's Allheart escorts rushed up beside him, one grabbing at him to pull him back to safety, the young king shoved them away and ordered them to stop.

"You cannot approach, my King!" a frantic Allheart Knight cried.

"Find cover and watch," Aydrian commanded. "These men do not understand the truth of their new king, so I am going show them."

"I am sworn to protect you!" the Allheart insisted. "With my life, and I willingly give it, my King!"

"King Aydrian, be reasonable!" cried Lord Breyerton. "Allow the soldiers to put down the traitors! That is their duty."

"Come not another step beside me," Aydrian said, and the young king kept walking.

"You have not even your armor!" Breyerton protested, but Aydrian merely grinned, knowing from the receding voice that the man had not only stopped, but had rushed back behind some cover.

Aydrian strode out from the encircling ring of barricades and cover, into the open area before the confiscated smithy. He was in plain sight of all of them now, of the rebels, of his own soldiers, and of the many Palmaris onlookers.

He saw an archer pop up from behind a hay bale at the side of the door and he fought hard not to flinch, not to slow his stride at all. The greater shadow in the mirror of Oracle had told him he could do this, that he could find a place between spirit and body where he could not be harmed.

Aydrian clutched the hematite more tightly and fell into its swirl. He kept enough of his physical consciousness to witness the archer let fly his arrow -  and Aydrian had to fight hard to resist the reflexive urge to snap Tempest across to attempt a deflection.

The arrow dove into his side and he felt a burning explosion of pain.

But only for a second, and the young king didn't swerve a step. He kept his breathing steady and focused his thoughts on the wound, visualizing the damage and sending waves of soul stone healing power to the region.

Still keeping stride, the young king reached down and pulled forth the arrow, casually tossing it aside. He lost some blood, but not much, for the waves of healing magic had the wound closing almost immediately behind the withdrawing arrow.

Another archer popped up, straight in front of Aydrian.

But Aydrian didn't want to feel that pain again and so he raised Tempest's tip even as the man leveled his bow. And he reached into the graphite set into Tempest and sent forth a bolt of lightning even as the man loosed his arrow. The line of cracking energy blasted the arrow into harmless splinters, then slammed the archer, launching him into a short flight back into the smithy.

Aydrian changed the sword's angle and loosed another stunning bolt, this one hitting the ground right before the hay bales with a thunderous report, shaking every building on that side of the town and blasting away the makeshift barricade, and a couple of hidden defenders, as well.

"You defy me?" Aydrian shouted as he calmly and confidently strode into the smithy.

A man came at him hard from the right, spear stabbing, but Aydrian casually reached Tempest out that way, rolled it about the man's spear, over and inside, and shoved the thrusting weapon out wide. A quick retraction and sudden stab, and then again, and then again, had the spearman falling backward, a stunned expression on his face, his hands clutching at his chest in desperation.

But Aydrian hadn't finished any of the three stabs, putting only superficial wounds into the rebellious Palmaris soldier. Enough to stop him, certainly, but not to kill him. Aydrian didn't want to do any more of that than was necessary.

Another desperate man charged out from the shadows, and then another beside him, both brandishing swords. They came in hard and fast - too much so! - and Aydrian knew that they were terrified.

And Aydrian knew that they were right to be terrified.

Tempest slashed across hard to the left and down, taking the thrusting tip of one sword with it, then came back up and across in the blink of an eye, deflecting the second blade only an inch from Aydrian's face, moving the sword up and out.

Falling into the stance of bi'nelle dasada, the young king moved back suddenly, out of range, and the pair of hastily retracted and then rethrust blades fell short of the mark. And both attackers were suddenly off-balance from the unexpected and clean miss, with not even a parrying blade to counterbalance their desperate thrusts.

Now Tempest snapped right and left, tapping one blade and then the second just enough to open a lane between them. Before the two soldiers could even put their weapons back in any kind of defensive line, the perfectly balanced Aydrian rushed ahead and stabbed the man on the right in the thigh, sending him howling to the floor. Aydrian retracted Tempest way back, then turned the tip over to the left and shot the blade that way, cutting under the second swordsman's weapon as he tried to swing it Aydrian's way.

Up went Tempest, lifting the swordsman's blade and arm as it went, and Aydrian stepped in behind, moving right near the man, and hit him with a short and chopping left hand to the chin.

He went down hard.

Instinctively, Aydrian spun about, slashing his blade across, and picking off an arrow as he did! The archer was in the loft, along with at least one other man.

Aydrian picked out a path to the ladder, but before he even started away, he heard a feral roar behind him.

De'Unnero, he knew before he even turned, and sure enough, the former monk, half in human form and half in the form of a great tiger, bounded past him and easily leaped the ten feet to the loft, bowling over the archer as the man frantically tried to fit another arrow to his bowstring.

Aydrian gnashed his teeth as he heard the monk's devastating work up above, as blood began to run freely through the spaced planks of the loft.

One man came to the edge and moved as if to leap out, screaming wildly, but he barely got off the ledge before a great paw hooked his shoulder and brutally tore him back to the loft. His screams continued, even intensified, and Aydrian could see one arm flailing wildly.

And then it suddenly stopped.

Commotion from behind stole Aydrian's focus and he turned about to see the Allheart and Kingsmen soldiers rushing into the smithy. With a sigh of frustration, Aydrian sheathed Tempest.

Before he put his soul stone away, the young king went back to work one last time on the wound from the arrow, just to make sure he had properly repaired it. A few moments later, satisfied that he had, he slipped back out of the trance of the stone. He heard Marcalo De'Unnero, who had come down from the loft and was standing over by the door, shouting at Duke Monmouth, scolding him for allowing Aydrian to walk into such danger.

Aydrian smiled, considering that Monmouth had been given no choice in the matter. Or maybe he was just smiling because he liked hearing De'Unnero so utterly outraged.

One of the rebels from the loft came forward then and pitched over, falling hard to the floor at Aydrian's feet and splattering the young king with blood.

De'Unnero was there in an instant, lifting an arm that was still a tiger's paw as if to finish off the man.

But Aydrian held him back, then reached down and grabbed the wounded Palmaris soldier with his right hand. He fell back into the soul stone and sent a burst of healing energy into the man, but the poor fool was too far gone, fast falling into the realm of death.

Aydrian snarled and fell into a kneel beside him, and then, as he had done on the field with Duke Kalas so long ago, the young king's spirit leaped through the portal of the soul stone and chased the spirit of the dying man into the dark realm.

A few moments later, Aydrian opened his eyes and fell back, and on the floor before him, the seemingly mortally wounded man coughed and sputtered and looked up, completely overwhelmed.

But very much alive.

Aydrian grinned and looked around at the many obviously impressed, obviously awed, onlookers.

Only Marcalo De'Unnero didn't seem very pleased. He came forward to crouch before Aydrian and roughly pulled the young king to his feet.

"What folly is this? " the monk cried, then quickly lowered his voice.

"Less carnage and more manipulation, if you please," Aydrian calmly replied, and De'Unnero could only stare at him in a stupor.

"You think this a game?" the monk asked.

"I think it an opportunity," Aydrian answered, and he pushed De'Unnero aside - pleased to see Sadye standing there directly in his line of sight, watching closely.

Aydrian went to the man he had just saved and roughly pulled him up. "Do you not understand who I am?" he asked the man, who was trembling and obviously completely overwhelmed. "Do you not understand that I was born to be your king?" As he finished, Aydrian looked up, as if addressing them all.

"Ye... yes," the healed man said, blinking, crying, trembling, and melting down to the floor.

"Clean this place, bury the dead, and bring the prisoners and wounded to Chasewind Manor," Aydrian commanded his soldiers. "But do not mistreat them! We will learn much from them," the young king declared. "And they will learn the truth of King Aydrian of Ursal. They will learn that we are not their enemies."

The others began to filter off, giving Aydrian and De'Unnero a moment alone together.

"What are you..." De'Unnero started to ask, but then he just stopped and shook his head, clearly at a loss, clearly caught completely off his balance here - almost as much so as had been the man Aydrian had pulled from the realm of death.

Aydrian certainly understood that nearly blank expression. It was not easy for De'Unnero to see his former student step so far ahead of him! With a snort and another helpless shake of his head, Marcalo De'Unnero walked away.

Sadye went up to Aydrian then, though she was looking back at her departing companion.

"He is only beginning to understand who I am," Aydrian said to her, drawing her eyes to his own. "He is beginning to recognize that I am beyond him now."

Sadye looked at him curiously, and a bit suspiciously.

"He fears that his own position will be compromised," Aydrian went on.

"He fears that I do not need him, perhaps that I will even begin to see him and his well-earned reputation as a detriment to my progress."

"What are you talking about?"

"The truth," Aydrian replied, and his blue eyes sparkled with intensity, boring into her. "And you know it. But Marcalo De'Unnero does not."

"He has done so much for you," Sadye reminded. "He found you in the Wilderlands and showed you the way - all the way, from the Timberlands, back south to Ursal and all the way to Entel. The gemstones of Pimaninicuit were his doing, and those riches more than anything else have funded your ascension. Are you so quick to forget?"

"I have forgotten nothing," Aydrian replied. "If I had, then I would have left De'Unnero in Ursal, for his true usefulness to me ended on the day King Danube died. Do you not believe that I would have found more acceptance here in Palmaris if I had not arrived beside the hated former bishop? "But I'll not forsake him," Aydrian went on. "And I will grant him his Abellican Church, as he so desires."

"You act as if everything from this point forward will be your doing alone."

That wry grin returned, and it was a quite convincing and clear answer.

"I taught these rebels the truth of Aydrian this day - those who were not slaughtered to satisfy the blood thirst of Marcalo De'Unnero. That man who was so close to death will welcome Aydrian as king, and will tell others of rebellious disposition to lay down their arms and embrace the savior that is Aydrian." He paused and tilted his head back, just a bit, so that he was looking down at Sadye more completely, and more suggestively. "When will Sadye come to accept that same truth, I wonder?"

Sadye brought a hand up to brush a strand of hair from in front of her gray eyes, a gesture that told Aydrian just how much he had rattled the normally unshakable woman. She held his stare for a short while longer, but then had to relent, and she turned and started away.

Aydrian touched her shoulder lightly and she stopped as surely as if the strong young man had grabbed her and tugged her back, and when she glanced back at him, he moved his hand from her shoulder to the side of her face, lightly running the back of his fingers down across her pretty cheek.

Sadye closed her eyes and her breathing deepened for just a moment, then she blinked her eyes open and walked away.

Aydrian knew that he had gotten into her soul in that moment. She was walking away from him, stubbornly defiant to the bitter end, but he knew beyond any doubt that she wanted to turn about and leap into his arms. He knew something else, too, and the knowledge rang sweetly in his thoughts: in many ways, Sadye almost hoped that he would kill De'Unnero and be done with it, alleviating any guilt or fears that she might harbor.

Oh yes, he had touched her soul.

Pony pulled the blanket tight about her, never blinking as she stared at the elven Lady. She had no idea how Dasslerond had accomplished this feat, taking her from Dundalis so completely that she was still wrapped in the blanket she had thrown across her shoulders when she had sat on the floor of her room to meditate.

"Aydrian is my son," she said.

"He is," Lady Dasslerond answered, her tone flat and showing no emotion at all.

"You stole him from me, on the field outside of Palmaris."

"I did."

Pony felt her legs go weak for just an instant, and then felt a sudden surge of strength course through her body, imploring her to leap ahead and throttle the diminutive elf.

"And if I had not, then both mother and child would have died on that field, the victims of the demon dactyl," Lady Dasslerond went on, stealing a bit of that urge. "The victims of the same demon dactyl who had defeated Jilseponie and was chased away by the rescue of the Touel'alfar."

"That does not afford you the right - "

"The same demon dactyl that once found its way to Andur'Blough Inninness, after I had rescued yet another group of humans from its clutches. Once there, the beast placed its stain upon the ground, upon the lifeblood of our valley. Only the child taken from Jilseponie on the field, where she and he surely would have died, offered the promise of defeating that growing demon rot."

Pony stammered and sputtered, recognizing the logic but denying the conclusion. "That does not give to you the right to steal my child!" the completely frustrated woman yelled at last.

Dasslerond's reply came as an emotionless and distant stare, as if Pony's words had meant nothing at all to the Lady of Caer'alfar.

Which of course, was true.

"How can you stand there and look at me like that?" Pony asked. "Do you care not at all what you have done to me? To Aydrian? "

"I saved your life, and his."

"You stole a child!" Pony yelled at her, but her strength was going even as she finished the sentence, and she continued with a voice that was clearly wavering. "Could you not have come back for me? Could you not have brought me to him? Have told me at least that he was alive and well?"

Dasslerond did flinch, just a tiny bit, but it was stopped by a strong resumption of her icy visage. "Your life was saved at a price."

"Never one that I agreed upon!"

"It does not matter," the Lady of Caer'alfar said. "I acted as my people needed me to act, for the good of the Touel'alfar - indeed, for the very survival of the Touel'alfar. That was my concern, and not the broken heart of a human woman. You are no enemy of the Touel'alfar, Jilseponie.

Do remember that our intervention back in Dundalis those decades ago when the goblins overran the town allowed you to live. Do remember that our sacrifices were considerable in the war against the demon dactyl, and for the good of man as much as for the good of the Touel'alfar. You know bi'nelle dasada, and many other secrets of my people, and yet we have taken pity on you and allowed you to live. This is no small matter, Jilseponie. Release your anger toward us, here and now. Our days together are at their end."

"We have never had any days together," Pony spat back at her.

Dasslerond conceded the point. "My duty is to my people, as yours is to your own, first and foremost," she said. "And your duty now demands that you do battle against the forces that have darkened your lands."

"You ask me to wage war against my own son?"

"Do you believe that any of us have a choice?" asked Dasslerond. "You do not understand who he is. He is mightier with the gemstones than any who have come before, and greater with the blade, perhaps, than was Elbryan himself! He has Oracle - we thought that the gift would inspire him to follow his true path. But alas, he has found naught but ill counsel there!"

"And ill counsel from those humans closest about him," Belli'mar Juraviel added, and neither Pony nor Dasslerond was about to disagree with that.

"Fear him," Dasslerond warned the woman. "You cannot understand the truth of him until it is too late for you."

"For you, you mean," Pony accused.

Dasslerond didn't flinch at all, didn't even blink. "Return to your people," she said, and she moved her hand holding the emerald up before her. "Defeat your son, for the good of the humans if not for the good of the Touel'alfar. Forget that we exist, Jilseponie, for your own sake..."

The elf's voice began to waver and fade, and Jilseponie felt herself receding, back to Dundalis, she knew. But she lifted her own stone, too angry to let it go at that, with too much hatred for the superior-minded Lady of Caer'alfar. She dove into the hematite, releasing her spirit, and charged at Dasslerond.

She nearly overwhelmed the elven lady in that initial assault, nearly got through the iron willpower of Lady Dasslerond that had kept together the Touel'alfar and their enchanted valley for centuries.

But then there came a sudden distortion of distance, a spinning vision of landscapes, as Dasslerond, in her horror, abruptly retreated.

Pony felt as if she was falling from on high, as the spinning ground leaped up to swallow her.

And then it was over, suddenly, and she lay in a pool of cold water on a field of clay and soft mud. Her body aching from the hard landing, she pulled herself up to her knees and looked all about.

She was in the Moorlands, she realized. The desolate, goblin-infested wastelands far to the west of Dundalis. She glanced all around, though she knew that the elves were not with her. In that moment of confusion and attack, Dasslerond had retreated - likely back to Andur'Blough Inninness.

And Pony was left alone in a desolate and hostile region, without food and without a weapon.

She fell back and put her wet and muddy hands over her face, defeated.

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