At the iron-bound door, Caris lifted a knocker shaped like a female hand clasping an agate the size of an egg, and clapped it three times on the strike plate.

Willard peered at an engraved plaque beneath the knocker. "Read it, boy." Harric glanced at Willard. The old man wasn't even trying to pretend it was a test. Was it possible Willard couldn't read? The notion surprised Harric. Many knights lacked letters, but he'd always assumed it was because of their full-time martial training that kept them from it. Willard had no such excuse, as he'd had seven lives in which to learn them.

Harric read aloud:

Here abides Mistress Abellia Pergrossi

by express proclamation of Her Royal Majesty, Chasia

in the 27th year of her reign:

licensed fire-cone warden

with all powers appertaining.

A second plaque, just below, was much more ornate, and of obvious Iberg style, featured fat farm animals and children, encircled by rivers and grain fields; outside this was a ring decorated with crescents and half circles and circles, the phases of the Bright Mother. "The words along the top, are Iberg. This one says, Poverty. Then Chastity and Service."

A faint smile raised ghosted over Willard's mouth. "You're too clever by half, boy. Where'd you learn Iberg?"

"My mother. She worked abroad for the queen."

Willard snorted. "Explains your looseness toward magic."

The door opened a crack, then swung outward, and the pale ghost of a drowned girl peered up at them from within. A thrill of fear swept Harric before he realized it was not a girl or a ghost, but a tiny old woman in cloud-white robes, a figure so frail she seemed nothing more than crisp papers in danger of blowing away.

Yet there was kindness in the lines of the ancient face, and her eyes, like wet black pebbles, were clear and alive, as if the spirit behind them were indeed a child's, and an observant one.

"Mama," Caris murmured, lowering her eyes and touching one knee to the stone.

The watery eyes squinted at the blue-armored knight, who was Caris, in confusion. Then her wrinkled mouth made an O of surprise, and her attention flitted from Harric to Willard and back to Caris with astonishment. Brolli, Harric noticed, had donned a hood and kept his head down.

"My Caris!" Abellia cried, in a voice thin to cracking and an accent as thick as any Harric had heard. "My Caris! Mio doso!"

Caris laughed and carefully embraced the tiny woman as if her steel limbs might crack her to pieces. The sunken eyes went wide, and she drew away, staring in surprise. "You wearing the hard britches! All is well? These steel panty not so comforting, no? Haha! You have the mentor! Yes? O! You must to tell! You must to eat. All your friends. We having plenty spaces. Plenty foods. You must coming in!"

"Mama, my mentor, Sir Willard, is hurt."

The old woman blinked near-sightedly at Willard. Laying her hands on Caris's arm for balance. She scanned his face and bloodied armor with gentle eyes.

"You are dying, Sir."

Willard bowed with his head. "Lady. I fear we bring danger on our heels."

She dismissed the notion with a wave.  "You are this Willard they sing of?" Her black eyes glistened with pleasure. "I am always knowing Caris is mentored by a great man. You and your dangers are welcome."

From her robes she produced a glossy egg of pearly stone, which she cradled in both hands. Her witch-stone, Harric realized: as white as his was black. A thrill of excitement pulsed through him as she closed her eyes and the stone lit up her hand like a lantern.

Willard's face fell. "Beg pardon, lady." His eyes flashed to Brolli, whose face remained muffled in the hood. "I am well enough."

Abellia's eyes widened in surprise. The white light retreated, leaving only a distant glow.

"Willard, you promised," said Brolli.

"I acknowledged that in the case of unconsciousness I could not stop you from healing me," Willard said. "Unless I'm dreaming, I'm still conscious. And as long as I'm conscious I claim the Third Law."

"The idea is to keep you alive."

"I am alive. What I need is a bath, and a rest. You see I am alert."

"I see you happy-sick with promise of rest," said Brolli. "You spending all your strength."

"I'm Arkendian, Brolli. Tougher than I look. Bathe me and rest me and prop me by a window with a rag-roll and a pot of ale, and I'll mend without any god-cursed magic."

Harric glimpsed thick canines grinding beneath cover of the hood. "I think you want to die."

"I want to live right."

Abellia watched the exchange with questioning eyes. The light went from her witch-stone, and she returned it to her robes. "We have nice bathing tub," she said, simply. "I have bath filled warm, and you must to bathing right away." Abellia turned her gaze upon Harric. She raised a withered claw of a hand to his swollen cheek and eye. "But what is here?"

"This is Harric," said Caris. "Willard's manservant, from Gallows Ferry."

"Ouch," Harric said, but he smiled and bowed his head.

"Such handsome one," said Abellia. "You are hurting, too. And you will have no heal like your master?"

"I'm an Arkendian, too," Harric said, wishing he weren't. "I will heal myself."

 "But if Sir Bannus returns," Brolli said, unwilling to let it go, "you both must reconsider."

Willard nodded. "We'll cross that bridge when we come to it."

Abellia squinted near-sightedly at Brolli, smiling hospitably, but curious and apparently trying not to stare. His stature was much concealed by his position of support under Willard's arm, but his stunted legs were clear enough, and very likely she could not place his accent at all. Unable to politely remain covered any longer, Brolli removed the hood and gave a small bow.

Caris gestured to him with an air of clumsy theatricality, as if she'd saved him purposefully for last. "And this, Mama, is Brolli. A Kwendi. He is ambassador from his people to our queen, and we are escorting him back to his land."

Abellia blinked in surprise. Her hands groped down Caris's arm, eyes never leaving Brolli, until she gripped Caris's hand in hers. "You knew," she whispered, turning her deep black eyes on Caris. "You knew...you bringing him to me. O bless you, girl!"

Caris blushed. "No, mama..." she stammered, glancing at Brolli. "We needed your help, and Brolli is our charge...."

Abellia tottered forward and extended a hand to Brolli as if she feared he might vanish like a mirage. Brolli took her tiny frail hand in his huge, strange one, and nodded solemnly.

Harric glimpsed a flash of strong emotion in the old woman's eyes. Hope? Hunger? Fear?

"You are being the first of your people I meet," she whispered. "You are most to be welcome."

"It is my honor," said Brolli, "for I never met an Iberg."

For many heartbeats she gazed into his alien features. When it became awkward, Brolli bowed again, and she recovered. "Mio doso. I am sorry. Please to come inside. We must to draw bath for the Sir. We must to eat and lay rest!" As she turned up the stairs, Willard raised an eyebrow at Brolli, as if to say, Just as I foretold — she's lulu about your magic...

Brolli did not smile in return. "Bathe, and when you pass out, I use it on you."

"I don't know which of you is more stubborn," Harric muttered.

As the Kwendi crossed the threshold, his shirt shouted in a strange tongue, and he sprang back, nearly dragging Willard with him.

"What the Black Moon was that?" Willard said.

Abellia appeared in the doorway, confusion in her eyes.

"I apologize," said Brolli, sheepishly. "You keep alarms here, Mistress Abellia? I set them all off when I enter: I have a bit of magic on me."

A bit of magic? Harric thought. His very shirt is enchanted.

Abellia stared, uncomprehending for a moment, and then Harric glimpsed a flash of fear in her eyes. "You are having magicks of the Mad Moon, Ambassador?"

Brolli bowed another apology. "We use all three moons."

Abellia's eyes grew wide. She seemed to recoil ever so slightly.

"However, if the Mad Moon's powers be offensive to your people," said Brolli, "then I use none it here. Or, if you like, I show you."

Revulsion in the old woman's eyes gave way to curiosity, and possibly something stronger. "O, yes, please.... I am all these years in Arkendia searching the workings of witch-silver. I am most to be wishing to see it. I halt the wards," she said, her hand dipping into and out of her robe. "All safe now to follow. Mio doso! A wonderful day."

"Harric," Caris said, over her shoulder. "Put the horses in the barn while Brolli and I help Willard up the stairs. You'll find water and hay in the barn unless things have changed."

"I'm not your servant," he muttered under his breath. They left him standing at the door with the bad feeling that this was now the way Caris would treat him until he foreswore his so-called "tricks"—like a noblewoman treats a slave. He had no fear of her betraying the nature of his training to the others; that seemed to be against her code of honor for friends, but it appeared she intended to slight him at every opportunity.

Fabulous. Maybe I can shine her armor, too.

It made him angry because it hurt, he realized. He liked her, but she was slighting him. The knot of bitterness in his throat made him wish she'd left him as she'd intended in Gallows Ferry—that the rings had never involved her—and that he was free and on his own.

His interest in her wasn't inspired by magic, but it might as well be for all the control he had of it. His only consolation was that if the rings made her love him, it was also hard on her.

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