 
### Table of Contents

Title Page

Dedication

Acknowledgements

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-one

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-one

Chapter Thirty-Two

For information about Neils Knudsen visit:
Published by Eidolon Media LLC

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control and does not assume responsibility for author or third party websites or their content.

Text Copyright ©2014 by Neils Knudsen

Header Illustration Copyright ©2014 Mikey Brooks

Interior Design by: Mikey Brooks

Cover Art by Mikey Brooks, insidemikeysworld.com

Illustraions by Gloria Miller Allen, gloriamillerallen.com

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eBook Edition

# Dedication

To:

My son, Ryan who inspired the story and challenged me to write it.

Austin, Jordan, Nathan and Neils

who have provided so much unwitting material.

# Acknowledgements

If not for Judith, my wife and muse, who has endured the crucible of endless rewrites this and future volumes would not be possible.

A special thanks to C.W. Johnson for his encouragement and enthusiasm.

My alpha and beta readers cannot be overlooked for their invaluable critiques and ideas to improve not only the story, but my writing. The prepublishing reviews and discussion with an informal, mostly sober, wine and book club of about 15 members also deserves a grateful tip of the hat for their candid feedback.

For their help with the minutiae my thanks and gratitude go out to Patti Principe, Jared Hammerstrom, Jeremy Beard and the folks at www.critiquecircle.com.

Last and certainly not least, this work would not pass muster and receive highly placed awards at the League of Utah Writers if not for the editing skills of Teresa Edgerton (teresaedgerton.com) and Tristi Pinkston (www.tristipinkstonediting.blogspot.com).

#

# Chapter one

Haegatess

Her old, bent back ached. She steadied herself against the sill of an open pub window and peered inside. She grunted her disdain into the din of the tavern as a chantey man finished a bawdy seafaring song. The pub erupted into a rousing cheer while mugs clacked and beer sloshed. The rotund singer bowed to the sailors and wenches before he stepped to a table, raised a beer to himself, and drank.

Voices rose for more singing. "Sing another verse of 'Pauline's Whistle'."

The singer wiped froth from his gray-flecked whiskers. "Nah, me throats near done for." He slapped the rump of a woman who had wrapped herself around his neck. "Besides, me wench needs a bit of wooin'."

An ovation of boots stomped on the floor as fists and mugs pounded the tables, encouraging the chantey man to continue. The old man pushed back his black woolen cap, picked up his mandolin, and led the wench away. Cheers, jeers, and whistles followed him.

A sailor stumbled out of the pub. He saw the old woman, tipped his cap with a grin, then staggered to the edge of the wharf and retched into the black harbor waters of Charlestone City.

The man continued to heave while Haegatess shifted her long gray shawl up over her narrow shoulders. She continued to the next pub, her never-ending search for a true-singer still unfulfilled. The arrival of foreign ships and their crews usually brought fresh voices, but not tonight. With another night of searching finished, she began her walk home. The ache in her stiff spine and arthritic joints slowed her pace and darkened her mood.

"Excuse me, dear lady. May we ask you a few questions?" A man's mellow baritone gave some warmth to the cool harbor breeze.

She turned and looked up into a man's bulging eyes, then focused on his aggressive, hooked nose. "What do you want?"

The light from a tavern window emphasized the man's flaring nostrils. "My name is Percival Morehouse." He gave her a gracious bow and swept his black cloak aside. He rose and gestured to a man beside him, face hidden under the cowl of his cloak. Except for a white sash, they were both dressed in black. "This is Conrad Butler. We watched you peer into the windows of the local pubs and listen to the singers."

"What's your question?" She scowled at them, expecting an admonishment and an order to move on.

"We noticed your long braid and how it was fashioned. Also, you're dressed in different shades of gray, and your shawl has a unique weave. We wondered how you came by it."

"You fella's need to get around more." Haegatess waved them off and continued her walk home. "Go pester someone else."

"No, please." The bug-eyed man moved in front of her. "You don't understand. We're scholars interested in the bygone traditions of the Rendor Empire. Your garb and braid are similar to those mentioned in ancient scrolls of the Cherished Weavers. We want to know about you and how your tradition was passed down." His voice had become oily, almost wheedling.

"Get out of my way, young man." Haegatess tried to push by him. _Those old wounds haven't healed yet._

He grabbed her arm. "I'm serious, old girl. Tell us how you came by this attire." He tugged on her shawl. "Who wove this?"

She laid her free hand on his to push him away, but she then sensed the tones in his skin, unencumbered by Priory dictates. "Well, this is a surprise."

He yanked his hand away, sensing something in her touch. "Who are you?" He backed away from her, massaged his hand, and looked nervous.

She tilted her gaze at him. "Can you sing?"

Startled and confused, he bristled. "I'm asking the questions, woman." He nodded to his partner, removed a slender white rod from his sleeve, and took a defensive stance.

_A white pirn, eh? Someone seems to think you deserve such an honor._ A thin smile edged her lips.

The other man, suddenly aware of his partner's alarm, responded in kind and moved directly behind her.

She wanted them to strike--and they did. She felt the touch of the rods on her shoulders. The sudden sensation of well-tuned harmonic weaves flowed over her body. They thrilled her. _Two masters. How wonderful!_ The men hadn't wasted any time. Somehow they recognized her for what she was, or thought she was. Cherished Weavers once had long braids, woven loosely at the top and tight at the end. Her garb was similar only in its homespun simplicity, not its color or lack thereof. However, the ancient weavers were long gone. None were supposed to have endured the great war, and their private symbols of power and status were kept secret. No scroll ever listed those private codes. Wherever these two men got their information, they must believe they'd captured a Cherished Weaver.

Haegatess let the weaves encase her. She savored the ancient, nearly forgotten caress while the rich tones swept the ache and pain from her body. Her body moved with the rhythmic motions of the supple, sensual dance held deep in her memory. She felt the vigor of youth return. Her spine straightened, though her gray hair remained the same.

She clamped on to the weaves, traced the strand of each thread back to its owner, and bound him to her. In an instant, the two men were snared. "You're mine."

They howled in terror when they realized they could not release themselves. They ran in opposite directions, but like dogs on a tether, the rope ran out and the iron spike won. The men reeled. An arm snapped. The threads whined as they drew taut. Both men struggled against the rejuvenated old woman.

She drank in their life-sustaining tones until they sated her hunger. From the two master weavers, she drew out twelve semitones, a full scale, and filled her spools with the harmonic threads of life. She couldn't be happier.

The bug-eyed man lay in an alley and gasped for breath. One hand clutched at his chest, the other lay limp and broken. She stood over him for a long moment and considered what to do with him. _Wish I could keep you. You'll recover your tones in a week or two. It sure would be nice to feed off you again --mighty nice. But there's no room for you, or your friend. I suppose I could just leave you here to die. Most folk would call me merciful if I did, but those folks are nothing but a bunch of gobsmacked, superstitious sheep._

She made her way back to the other man and found him uncloaked, fuzzy-faced and very young--maybe sixteen. _You're nothing but a boy. What are you, an apprentice? You're good, if you are. Who trained you, your partner? Who trained him?_ Haegatess pondered where they came from, why they were here and how to handle them. All five Priories strictly forbade anyone from being a multi-toned weaver--a wilder. If the priory forbade it, then so did the five Trade Houses and every king, prince, and duke. Yet a few dared challenge the old ways, and one in particular . . .

"It's to the blasted priory, then."

As the sun rose, Haegatess led her two disheveled and splinted captives to a large country estate outside the city. The sentinels and footmen let her pass without challenge. They knew her on sight and kept their distance. One raced ahead to announce the arrival of the master's aunt.

Few people in the eastern realms held as much power as Sir Tomas Campanill. People in his position, a brooding, paranoid group who normally concealed themselves, preferred a reclusive, though comfortable, lifestyle. Sir Tomas shared few of the traits associated with the glum members of the Merchant Trade house and the secretive Dewy Knoll Priory--other than to simultaneously succeed at business, curry favor with royalty, and destroy his enemies.

Two attendants heaved open the heavy double doors to Tomas' study.

"My dear Aunt Haega." The corpulent businessman and Priory Minister bellowed and slapped the top of his huge desk as he lifted himself to his feet. He dismissed his attendants with a gesture. Sir Tomas, in a white silk shirt with golden embroidery from shoulder to cuff, spread his thick arms wide and buried his chin in his jowls while he grinned between his ermine lapels. "Seeing you again is such a welcome pleasure. Simply wonderful."

"Shut up, you old windbag." Haegatess let her shawl slip down her back and led the two men into the study. "Why do you bother with that twaddle? You're no happier to see me than I am to be here." She shook a cloud of dust from her smoke-gray kirtle.

Tomas waved the cloud from his face and did his best to maintain a smile that threatened to sag. "And who are your young gentlemen friends? You didn't break that fellow's arm, did you?"

"They aren't gentlemen--they're master weavers. And no, he broke his own arm, but I splinted it." She sat in an armchair in front of his desk, not bothering to wait for an invitation. The two men stood behind her and remained silent, their expressions blank and lifeless.

"Really? Master weavers, eh, but not gentlemen?" He leaned his bulk over the desk toward Haegatess. "And am I supposed to be impressed? They may be younger than usual, but I already have more than I need. What do you want? In trouble, are you? Have you been sucking the life out of children and travelers again?"

"Just a few innkeepers and a drunken sailor, or two--until I found these." She thumbed at the hapless men behind her, scanned his desk, and evaluated his usual banquet of treats. "I thought we might come to some beneficial compromise in regards to my . . . um, inconvenient tastes." She picked a cluster of grapes from a bowl and leaned back in her chair.

"You seem especially plucky today, Auntie. Did you feed well last night?" Tomas pushed himself off the desk, pulled his winged, high-back red leather chair close, and sat down. No smile now. "You know how I love to haggle, Haega, but I'm busy. What do you want?"

Haegatess ate a few more grapes while she regarded him. "These two master weavers have six tones each and they're trained to kill. Together they're a full chromatic scale." She popped another grape in her mouth and fixed a steely gaze on her nephew.

Tomas' eyes glazed over in the time it took for the news to sink in. His ruddy face paled. He cleared his throat and leaned forward. His elbows pressed heavily on the desk. "Did you say six tones each?"

"Yes."

He lowered his brow, closed his fat laden eyes, and massaged the bridge of his nose. "Are you sure of this?"

"Yes." She stood and held her hands out for him to touch. "Let me show you--oh, I'm sorry, I forgot." She raised her hands in mock surrender. "You can't sense your tones, can you? Is that little old imbuement getting in your way?" She leaned toward him and sneered. "Well, blast and double blast it all, you'll just have to round up twelve trusty weavers to test my boyfriends, won't you."

"You don't need to lecture or belittle me on the imbuements, Haegatess." Tomas reached for a bell rope and tugged. "You know how I feel about them. If I could remove mine, I would, and anyone else who wanted to be free of them."

Haegatess planted her fists on her hips. "You need a living henge for that. Have you heard of any? No, because they're all tombs--dark and silent. Unless you find a well-trained Cherished Weaver, or better yet, a Cherished Pair who can revive one."

"Well, you're certainly melodic this morning. You must have drawn every sentient tone out of those two. It's a wonder they're still alive." He shook his head and glared at her. "You know very well I've been searching for a Cherished since taking a seat on the Priory Council. Forty-three years I've been searching. It's not an easy task when others are just waiting for me to break the law." He held up his hand to silence her usual reply, but failed.

"You arrogant, overstuffed, churlish prat." She pulled off her shawl and whipped one end over the huge desk to touch him, but missed. He had moved away. "I've been searching for most of my life. Those bastards killed my husband, then stole my daughters and killed them too." Candies, fruits, berries, and papers scattered as she gathered her shawl and recast it, trying to reach the retreating grandee. "I'll silence every one of your ungrateful, greedy senses--if I ever get ahold of you."

He pushed his chair back and walked away to keep out of her reach. "Now, be fair, Auntie. You can't blame these poor fellows." He swept a hand toward the two ill-fated men. "They weren't even around back then. What happened to your family was tragic, and you were not the only one to suffer during the Great War." He moved with deceptive grace to the two men and studied them for a moment. "We can't screen every child for those tones before their imbuement ceremony. There are many more Temple Priests and Priory Enforcers than there are of us. And now we have men like these two. They should be able to tell us . . ."

A polite knock on the study doors drew their attention. Tomas' manservant pushed open one door and entered. "You called, sir?"

"Yes, thank you, Arnold. Please send couriers to my paladins. Summon them back. I want all twelve of them here, now."

"Very well, sir." Arnold gave a polite bow and left, pulling the heavy door closed.

"What are you planning?" Haegatess settled her shawl over her shoulders and lifted her braid from under it.

Tomas finished his study of the two men before he turned to his aunt. "Why, you're going to help us tune up one of those old henge looms and see what these two have to tell us."

Haegatess barked a humorless laugh. "You want me to teach twelve one-note ninnies you call master weavers to thread a loom. Ha! You might as well throw cats at a harp."

Tomas calmly made his way to his desk and sat down. "How are your healing skills, Auntie? I assume you still have your precious heirloom."

"Why?" She yanked hard on her shawl and sat.

"Well, you see, I've been expecting something like this to happen." He began to gather the scattered treats and return them to their bowls. "There are verified reports of turmoil in the central realms, specifically in the Endless Realm Priory. I expect a new Peer will lead it within the next few years. Maybe sooner." He pointed to the two silent men. "These fellows are probably from that confused priory. If so, they confirm rumors of trained multi-toned weavers. They call themselves Inquisitors, and perform much the same duties as our Enforcers. The fact they have come here is disturbing."

"What has that to do with healing?" She didn't trust her nephew's motives, especially if he wanted to involve her.

"What happens if you use your trusty heirloom on an unborn child?" He leaned toward her. "What if we found our Cherished Weaver _before_ it was born? What if we found a Cherished Pair? What if you trained them? What if they--"

"Conquered the world?" Haegatess didn't realize she had held her breath. _And I could finally reap my vengeance._

"Well, maybe not _conquer_ the world, but at least we could keep it at bay until we convince others to join us." Sir Tomas selected a fig and popped it in his mouth. "We may not have long--only a few years if things don't go our way."

They sat and examined each other for a long moment. Haegatess searched her memory of possible candidates. A name came to her mind, one with family ties. "Do you remember a young nephew of yours by the name of Willim K'Las Campanill?"

"Yes. He's a contender for priory membership, and an excellent businessman. The boy has a lot of potential. In fact, he's a master--"

"What matters is his wife. She's pregnant." Haegatess stood and leaned over the big desk. "I've heard she can sing, too. I want you to send her to me."

"How do you know this?" He squinted suspiciously at her.

"They're tinkers. The Tinker Converse is being held near the Great Eastern Henge." She straightened, turned, and walked to the study doors. "I visit the converse . . . at night . . . and gather a few, uh . . . staples. I hear things, too." She rapped on the door, and an attendant pushed it open. She walked through.

The door closed behind her.

_SIX MONTHS LATER_

A gentle rap on the door made Haegatess sit up. She knew that rhythm.

"Haegatess, are you home?" The contralto voice confirmed the woman's arrival.

"Yes, of course I'm home. Come in, girl." Haegatess' persistent frown and the indelible scorn in her voice belied the affection she had for the young woman. Not only did the girl have a keen interest in the healing arts, but she was the true-singer Haegatess had sought for so many years. No visit from the young woman over the past six months had gone without a song and a welcome smile.

The latch clattered as it lifted. Haegatess pushed herself up from her rocking chair and shuffled toward the door. She met B'Tris at the doorway. Haegatess' grand-nephew, Willim, followed her in.

"Ah, I see you brought your husband. Why?" Haegatess eyed her grand-nephew up and down. "You haven't been around in a while, have you? You're still too skinny, and too tall and too nervous. Stop that." She slapped at his arms as they hovered around his wife's shoulders. However, he persisted and lifted her thick auburn hair from her sweating neck.

B'Tris held her swollen belly with both hands. "It's time, Haega."

Willim steadied her while she wobbled into the cottage.

"Very well, Bee. Don't get your skirt in a twist." Haegatess closed the door behind them. "Get over there to the bed. I'm ready if you are."

B'Tris clutched at her husband's green tunic when he raised her swollen feet onto the bed. She groaned in pain while a contraction gripped her.

Willim sat beside her and dabbed sweat from her brow. "Aunt Haega seems to have done you a world of good. I'm glad she . . ."

"Get out of my way, boy." Haegatess thrust a gnarled finger into Willim's shoulder. "I need to listen to the child."

Willim pulled himself up, one shoulder at a time, to his full height and loomed over her. Haegatess lowered her finger and stepped back. She never liked his even-tempered demeanor, but sometimes she could prod a reaction from him. Like now. Taking charge and granting me permission, eh? He regarded her for a stern moment then stepped aside and gestured for her to assist B'Tris. She nodded, acknowledging his right to be there.

Haegatess took Willim's place by B'Tris' side and prepared her to give birth. She placed a hand on each side of B'Tris, pressed an ear to her belly, and listened to the baby inside. Her ear knew the sounds of a normal pregnancy, and she heard them. But this time, she searched by touch for the tones she had instilled in the mother and child. Her heirloom had worked well. She gently pulled on each tone to distinguish child from mother. Only B'Tris' strength made the task possible.

With each tug, a thread formed. Her mind plucked it. B'Tris smiled. Haegatess pulled a second tone to form a chord, then a third, and a fourth, until all the tones sang and pushed against B'Tris' deep-set imbuement. She strummed every note and chord, to B'Tris' contentment. Haegatess continued until she held no doubt that B'Tris might have been a Cherished if not for her imbuement. She cursed under her breath.

Willim heard her. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing a living henge couldn't fix." She lifted her head from B'Tris' round belly. "Your wife is doing well, but I have to consider the child now."

Haegatess placed both hands near the baby's head and found its tones. Each thread she pulled from the child resounded with booming notes and chords in her mind, but they drifted, undisciplined. With each strum, B'Tris' single, unimbued resonant tone worked to pull the child into perfect pitch. The child leaped and B'Tris laughed.

B'Tris raised her head to see Haegatess. "Are the tones still there? Are they still strong?"

"Yes. With every treatment they've gotten stronger, and so has the baby." Haegatess looked from B'Tris to Willim and back again. "Are you ready?"

"Yes," B'Tris said, and Willim nodded.

Haegatess stood and pressed one hand to B'Tris' temple and the other on her belly near the baby's head. She drew out their shared note, middle C, and strummed.

The sudden, intense contraction lifted B'Tris' shoulders from the bed. She heaved a teeth-grinding groan as Willim moved to support her.

"Push."

"Will he live?" Willim sat beside B'Tris and stroked her sweat-soaked auburn hair. "We've lost four already. Will this one live?"

"Yes, of course the boy will live." Haegatess washed her hands and toweled them dry. She stepped to a storage chest, took a wooden box from deep within, and returned to B'Tris' side. "I want you to have this." Haegatess caressed the soft sheen of the box while she embraced it. "It's been in our family for . . . well, a very long time."

"But isn't that your family heirloom?" B'Tris lifted her gaze from the baby boy nestled beside her. "Shouldn't it go to Sir Tomas?"

"No, and for good reason." Haegatess lay the box next to the baby. "Perhaps your uncle Tomas will tell you the story of . . . our inheritance. He won't want to, mind you, but you make him. He's not a bad sort, for a fat, greedy old man."

Her voice softened. "But no time for stories." She tapped Willim on the shoulder to get him to move. When he stood, she sat in his place by B'Tris and the baby. "The child must have his tones sealed. I don't want them to fade away too soon. In a few years, when he's ready, we must begin his training." She shook a bony finger at the new parents. "You are his mother and father. You teach him right from wrong, and I will train him in the Weaving Arts."

Willim glanced to his wife before he met his aunt's gaze. "But I thought you were tone deaf and couldn't weave."

"I am." Haegatess caressed the boy's tiny brow, lost in thought. She then spoke in a whisper without realizing it. "I'm deaf as a post. Couldn't spin a thread if my life . . . heh, no. Oh no, no spinning wheel for me. But spools? Now, spools I have."

B'Tris and Willim gave each other a confused glance.

Willim knelt beside the bed and took his aunt's hand. "What do you mean, spools?"

"What?" Haegatess looked up from the boy, startled. "Spools? Who said anything about spools? Pah!" She shoved Willim's hand away, stood, and glared at him for daring to question her. However, her immediate concern still lay next to B'Tris. She huffed and sat back down. "I have to seal his tones."

Her hand trembled as it came to her chin and began stroking. She had never done this with an infant. _He'll be a Cherished Weaver someday, I'm sure of it. Do I even need to do this? I've done this with initiates for the Cherished --why not with infants?_ _Surely this has been done before. Why can't I remember? His tones are all there, ready to be sealed, but they're immature._

_But what happens if it works?_ She closed her eyes to relish the thought. _The world will regret what it has done to me. The Five Great Realms of Rendor will quake, the henges will break, and my revenge will be fulfilled._

"Aunt Haega, are you ill?" Willim gently shook her arm.

Haegatess flailed and slapped at his hand. "Leave me be. I was just planning how to do this."

"How many times have you sealed someone's tones?" Willim caught one of her hands and held it firm. "Uncle Tomas said you knew what you were doing and to trust you, but if there's any danger to my son--"

"There's no . . ." She grunted and tried to pull away from Willim, but failed. "No danger to the boy." She pulled again. Willim matched her glare for a moment, then let her go. She examined her wrist as she rubbed it. "I'm more concerned about . . . I need to be here for the boy."

She bent over the infant and placed her face near his. "Are you ready for this, little one?" She lifted one of the tiny hands from his chest and pressed it gently to her brow. Willim leaned in to watch.

She released the spools that lay deep within her mind. This would likely be her last chance--and a very good chance, indeed. The lad's tones had a nearly complete scale of twelve semitones. A little tuning and they would be whole and comprehensive. She would give him everything he could handle.

The spools in her mind spun up slowly, giving the child time to adjust while they unwound. Each spool surged like a sensory ocean, filled with sound, color, texture, flavor, and aroma--these were the essence of her 'tones'. The very thing every Weaver needed.

A tiny thread formed at the boy's temple and reached for her touch. She took it, and slowly spilled her tones into his hungry little mind on threads as thin and persistent as life itself. The ability of the boy to absorb so much surprised her. The spools gained speed, unwinding faster, challenging her ability to control them. Her grip on the spools began to fail. The flow doubled. Tripled. Slow down, slow down. A dull, throbbing pain began to build in her brain. She tried to release the thread, but couldn't. Panic set in. Slow . . . down. I can't . . . I can't . . . The spools spun too fast. A blinding pain knifed behind her eyes. I . . . said . . . slo--

She sagged and fell to the floor.

Pain woke her. It grated at her joints. Her back curled and twisted like a tattered rag in a tempest. The pounding agony in her brain would crack a blacksmith's anvil. She felt depleted. She forced her eyes open and found Willim sitting beside her, caressing her brow.

She rasped through a dry throat, "How's the boy?"

"Ah, Aunt Haega." Willim gently pressed his hand to her temple. He leaned closer. "K'Las is doing very well. How are you?"

"He took everything," she whispered.

Willim lifted a water-skin from his belt, removed the stopper, and offered her a drink. "What did he take?"

She sipped and swallowed through the pain. "Everything. I have nothing left." Her eyes closed. "My anger. I'm sorry. Beware of my anger."

"Of what?" Willim set his ear near her mouth.

"When he is of age, he will learn quickly." She licked her lips and spoke slowly. "His senses will come alive. Beware. His senses . . . beware, beware of . . . my . . . anger." Her mind began to slip into darkness, but she fought back. "He's a good boy. A peculiar boy. I didn't mean for him to take it all. I'm . . . sorry. Beware."

The fine weave of a soft, black veil enveloped her. Her mind reached and embraced it. A voice, perhaps her own, said, "You're mine."

She heard a familiar voice from somewhere far behind. "Good-bye, Haegatess. Good-bye."

#

# Chapter Two

Rat Hole

Tick . . . tock . . . tick . . . The pondering cadence of the big floor clock seduced the library patrons into a silent reverence. K'Las closed a clothbound book, signed his name to a folded piece of paper, and slipped the pencil into his day kit. He had finished his last exam. His feet dangled nervously from the too-tall chair his father had set him in two hours earlier. He waited for the clock to tick away the last few minutes of their allotted time. Before long, his feet began to swing.

His proctor, a brawny woman one might mistake for a constable, carried a well-used measuring stick. She patrolled three long, narrow examination tables with ten pensive students taking the same exam. All but two were children of tinkers, schooled on the roads of the eastern realms. The Merchant's Trade House set the standards for children not attending formal schools in those client kingdoms.

The head librarian, a scarecrow of a man, and his assistants roamed the floor, keeping an eye on the comings and goings of books and patrons. They carefully managed the books lent out on a long-term basis--especially to tinkers on the last day of the Tinker's Converse.

The clock finally struck a single muted tone for the noon hour. All the students looked up expectantly.

K'Las knew they couldn't leave until the doughty proctor released them. She slapped the stick on a table to gain her students' attention. In a brusque, though library-friendly tone, she said, "Close your books, children."

She tapped the measuring stick on the palm of her hand in five measured beats while she paced. By the fifth beat, all books, save one, slapped closed. She moved swiftly to the offending book and smacked her stick across it. "I said close your book, Miss Wheeler."

"Yes, Momma." The proctor's daughter obeyed, then clasped her hands in her lap and bowed her head.

_That's just mean. I don't like that witch._ K'Las swung his feet out and kicked an empty chair across from him. The chair screeched against the tile floor. He slumped down in his chair, folded his arms, and scowled.

The proctor whirled around. "Who did that?" She prowled the tables and examined each face for a hint of guilt. "You. Tinker trash. Did I give you permission to leave?"

"No, ma'am." K'Las stared at the floor, avoiding the woman's glare.

"Then why did you move?" She loomed over him with a scornful smile, tapping the stick on the tabletop in front of him.

K'Las pointed to the chair and said as loudly as he dared, "I didn't. It did. I kicked it--on accident."

"You're lying." She grabbed him by the collar of his homespun shirt.

"Let me go, you wicked witch." K'Las flailed and kicked as she sat in a child's chair. He managed to land one good punch to her stomach.

She didn't even flinch. They struggled and grunted, but she still managed to haul him over her knee. "Liars _will_ be punished." She raised the stick to swat his rump, but a hand grabbed her wrist.

The head librarian's high, syrupy voice intervened. "You seem to be in a foul mood today, my dear."

K'Las scrambled off her knee and backed away. The librarian released his hold on the proctor. She got to her feet and scowled at him.

A dowdy young library assistant began gathering the test papers and books. "Your parents can see me about your scores within the hour." When she came to K'Las' paper, she read his name and went pale. She brought the paper to the head librarian.

He read it and clapped his hands. "Listen up, children. You are now dismissed."

The scurry and clamor of escaping children echoed throughout the Charlestone City Library. The proctor gasped. "What? You can't just dimiss . . ."

The librarian raised his age-spotted hand and silenced the woman. He whispered something in her ear.

"Bosh. Are you mad?" Her scowl twisted into disdain. "They don't send their children to a commoner's library. And they are certainly not tinkers."

The rope-thin librarian handed her K'Las' paper. "Does the name sound familiar?"

The proctor pondered the block letters on the page. A moment later, the name rang her bell. "Campanill?" She stepped back, quivering. "I didn't . . . I wouldn't . . ." She slapped the paper against the librarian's beige vest and hurried from the library. Her daughter, still waiting for her mother to dismiss her, cautiously rose from her seat. With shy, downcast eyes, she quietly pushed her chair to the table, clasped her hands at her waist, and left.

K'Las was dumbfounded. "What did I do?"

The librarian came to him and handed him his test paper. "You passed quite handily, Master Campanill. Please accept our apology for the disturbance and convey our regrets to your uncle, Sir Tomas."

"Uh, sure, I guess." He took the folded paper and stuffed it in a trouser pocket.

"Please tell the Merchants Trade House Minister how much we appreciate his most generous contributions to our humble library."

"Who?"

"Sir Tomas, your uncle."

"Oh. Yes." K'Las picked up his day kit. "I get to see him tomorrow. It's my half birthday, you know. I'll be seven and a half."

"Oh, my." The librarian clasped his bony hands to his chest and smiled. "How impressive." He turned K'Las' shoulders and steered him toward the entrance. "Run along now, and be sure to give your parents our best wishes."

"Good-bye." K'Las skipped out of the library, not understanding or caring what had just happened. The burly proctor lady got mad at him for kicking a chair, and the librarian smiled a lot and said something about sending his regrets and best wishes to his uncle. He'd try to remember, but it didn't sound too important, so . . .

"K'Las."

K'Las stopped and found the voice behind him. "Hey, what happened to your hair?" He saw his friend, Rat Hole, standing by the library doors. "Looks like someone took a scythe to you."

"Flea Pit gave me a haircut." Rat Hole ran his hands over his head. "What's wrong with it?"

"Well, he nearly lopped off your head." K'Las grabbed the knees of his baggy brown trousers and laughed. "I have more hair on my toes."

Rat Hole punched him hard. "So what? It'll grow back, long and black like yours. Then your folks will think I'm you. See, I got my new clothes on."

K'Las moved closer. "Hey, you do. Now we look alike." He stood in front of Rat Hole and counted the buttons on his beige homespun shirt. "You have one more button than me. My mom must like you."

"Yeah, I guess so." Rat Hole threw his chest out. "She even pressed it for me. See, no wrinkles. Well, not too many." He pulled his too long sleeves up to his wrist and tried to smooth out the elbows. "I never had new clothes before, you know."

"You should come live with us. She can get even nicer ones than these." K'Las tugged on Rat Hole's sleeve. "Come on, let's go. I want to go down into our secret caverns again, before we leave."

"What? But, my clothes. I just got them." Rat Hole pulled back. "These are all I got."

"I have more at the camp." K'Las got behind him and pushed. "You can have those." He pushed harder when Rat Hole didn't move. "Come on, let's go. Tomorrow's my birthday and I want to go down to our caverns now."

Rat Hole continued to resist. "Let's go tomorrow. I can find some old stuff to wear by then."

"No, we have to go now. We're going to my dumb old uncle's place tomorrow before we go back on the road." K'Las pushed harder and Rat Hole began to move.

Rat Hole pivoted and walked backwards. "All right, but your mom ain't gonna like it when you tear up them clothes."

"My Pa won't either." K'Las laughed as he skipped up to him. "But, tomorrow's my birthday, so I still get cake--especially at Uncle Tomas'."

They ran through the marketplace and down side streets until they came to the westernmost reach of the city's sewer system. They scuttled down a storm drain and into the realm of the Grayfolk, Rat Hole's home. It even had its own king, of sorts--the Greywater King. A man of unpleasant odors, resourcefulness and cheerless corruption, or so Rat Hole claimed.

The drains were mostly dry, which made the first leg of their labyrinthine journey easier. Other than an occasional rat in search of food, the greywater tunnels were relatively clean. When they came to one of many identical junctions, Rat Hole scurried into one of four smaller channels feeding the confluence. A short distance later he pushed aside a drain grate and lifted himself into a large room filled with old empty crates. He struck a match and lit two candles from one of their stashes. K'Las took a candle and scurried after him. They raced across the room, dodging between crates, snuffed out their candles and climbed into another vent.

After half an hour of crawling through old vents, drains and ductwork, they entered an abandoned furnace room. A soft glow came from a row of white stones on the ceiling, giving the rusty iron monster and dilapidated furniture a ghostly hue."

K'Las stared, as he always did, and pointed at the ceiling. "One day, I'm going to be a great wizard and make glowstones like those."

"Yeah, you and me'll be great wizards and rule all the eastern realms." Rat Hole gave K'Las a nudge, pushing him off balance. "We'll sit around and make glowstones all day. Come on, let's go."

K'Las recovered from the push. "No we won't. We can make other stuff, too. Like lightning and thunderbolts."

"What's the difference?"

K'Las thought for a moment.

Rat Hole climbed into a ventilation duct, leaving K'Las to his thoughts.

"Hmm, I don't know."

They soon entered a long, arched stone corridor lit by more rows of the glowing white stones. Rat Hole ran toward the end of their secret cavern while K'Las lingered, still in awe of the grandeur. He had been here many times and explored the vacant marbled rooms along the glowing passageway. It may not be the biggest of the Great Eastern Henge caverns, but it remained theirs. No one else knew about them.

"Come here." Rat Hole pointed to a hole in the wall. "I don't think we've been in this one."

K'Las ran to him and placed his hand on it. "Yeah, and it has air coming from it."

"Wanna see where it goes?" Rat Hole started tugging on the grate. When they loosened and removed the stone screen, they plunged into the darkness, Rat Hole first.

The vent ran straight and level for a few yards then plunged downward. They careened down the smooth stone air conduit only a few seconds before they dropped headlong into a junction box. Light from a short vent shaft provided a dim light for their small sanctuary.

"Shh!" Rat Hole pressed a finger to his lips and whispered, "There's someone in there."

"Really? I don't hear anything." Excited, K'Las rose to his feet, hit his head on top of the junction box and leaned into the lit ventilation duct. "Maybe they're wizards hiding under the great henge? You know, there are stories of great wizards from the old empire still taking care of the five great henges. Maybe it's true."

Rat Hole pulled him back. A nervous edge gripped his hushed voice. "I don't think so, but if these are wizards, they're probably killers."

"How do you know?"

"When you live under the city, you know who to be scared of."

"You never told me the Grayfolk had wizards."

"No, we don't. Shh."

The sound of a door opening and closing came into the junction box. Other than the shuffle of a chair, footsteps and the riffle of pages no sounds came from the room for several minutes.

K'Las slid into the duct to get a view. He peered through the stone grate. The room appeared large and well furnished. Four chairs and a couch with lavish embroidered upholstery in the center, framed on two sides by high, glossed wooden partitions. A bald man, with a fringe of long wiry grey hair, sat at a table with his back to him. He appeared to be reading a book. A crystal wine decanter and two engraved wine glasses stood at the ready on a nearby side table.

The door opened, again, and a man stepped in. His dark green robes, embellished with gold piping, flared as he turned to shut the door. He walked to the table, in front of the bald man, and began removing his white gloves, one finger at a time.

"Read." The bald man held out a folded parchment.

"What is it?" The green man tossed a glove to the tabletop, took the parchment with his bare hand and shook out the folds. While his green eyes scanned the document, he tugged the fingertips of his gloved hand with his teeth. "Well, well, well. Another setback, eh? Who does the old man want me to kill this time?"

K'Las clapped a hand over his mouth, holding back a yelp. _They are killers._

The bald man leaned back in his chair and folded his arms. "He's no longer a mere Priory Council Member, or member of the College of Peers, or any of his other former titles. He's especially _not_ 'the old man.' I suggest you get used to the idea of addressing him as His Eminence, the Prime Councilor. Except for the Peer himself, he is now the most powerful man in the Eternal Realm Priory, and senior member of the Priory Council. Make sure you understand that little detail."

"Very well my lord." The green man pulled his other glove off, flourished his hands, spread his arms and bowed. "His Eminence, the Prime Councilor it is." When he rose, he threw the glove on the book and walked to the wine decanter. "Shall we celebrate with a glass of wine?"

"No. We have new orders." The bald man brushed the glove to the floor. "You have the unique privilege of removing a few of the Dewy Knoll Priory members. His Eminence wants control of this priory by this time next year. If you can discover the location of the local Peer and remove him, you will find yourself well rewarded."

"Tsk, tsk. Where are your manners? It's 'No _Thank You_ ', we have new orders." The green man poured wine to the brim of a wineglass. "What is Inquisitor Jerin's task in these new orders?"

"He just left with his orders," the bald man said. "Now you have yours. That's all you need to know."

"And yours?" The green man lifted his glass and sipped.

"There's no harm in telling anyone." The bald man returned to his reading. "I'm to renew the search for the Anvil of Rendor."

The green man guffawed. He pushed the cowl from his head, revealing a mass of unkept blond hair. He fell into a chair by the table. Wine sloshed from his glass as he held the decanter in the other hand. "You can't be serious. I'll bet there's a dozen scholars here, right now, searching for clues about that hoary old legend." He gulped his wine, swallowing hard. "So, you can't really say 'renew'. Maybe you should say re-old . . . no, how about 'worn-out', that's it. Here's to worn-out re-search. . ." He clinked his glass to the decanter ". . . for the Anvil of Rendor."

"I suggest you keep in mind the Prime Councilor's loom. If you prefer his method of disciplinary action, I will not hesitate in recommending you." The bald man pushed a paper to the edge of the table. "Here's your list. When you sober up . . . if you sober up, you can begin to secure your future."

The green man, still seated with glass and decanter in hand, scooted his chair near the table. He set the decanter on the floor, took the list, propped his booted feet on the table near the book and leaned back. "Let's . . . see . . . who . . . we got." He slurped wine while he scanned the list. "Hmmm. The Prime Councilor only wants five of the twelve Dewy Knoll Priory members removed." He scanned down the list. "Yeah, that fella won't be too hard. I think this gal is . . . nope, nope, I'll save her 'til last." He threw his head back and laughed. "Hah, now this fat old man will be the first to go."

"Which fat old man might that be?" The bald man calmly moved the book away from the booted feet.

The green man again lifted his glass in a toast. "Here's to sticking a pig in a wallow." He gulped down the wine. "I could send a plague of snails to run him down, or how about I just salt the slug where he sits?"

The bald man turned another page. "You're thinking Tomas Campanill?"

K'Las gasped, despite the hand on his mouth.

The green man removed his feet from the desk and looked directly at the ventilation duct. "Who else is that fat and slow?"

K'Las, stifling a yelp, scrambled to back out of the vent.

"Did you hear that? Someone's in that vent." The scrape of a chair and footsteps approached the grating.

"Rats."

Rat hole clapped a hand over K'Las' mouth. "Shh. Sit down and be quiet." He tore his dirty tattered shirt off, wadded it up to look like a rat and set it in the vent.

The chair scraped to a halt and clattered against the wall. The light dimmed as the green man's head came into view.

"Do you see anything?"

"Too dark, but I see . . ."

Rat hole mimicked a rat's squeal and pulled his tunic into the junction.

"Yeah, just a rat." The green man disappeared. A chair scraped.

K'Las pulled Rat Hole's hand from his mouth. "How did you do that? It looked just like a big rat."

"Lots of practice." Rat Hole pointed to the conduit behind him. "Come on. We gotta get outta here." He slid into the duct and disappeared.

"I hope you know where you're going." K'Las glanced for the green man one last time then clambered after Rat Hole.

#

# Chapter Three

Birthday Cakes

and TuRnovers

K'Las glowered at his friend. Rat Hole sat on the edge of the big desk in his tattered new clothes, talking with Sir Tomas and eating treats. _It's my birthday. I'm supposed to eat cakes, not him._ He lifted his folded arms and brought them down hard to his chest, hoping others would notice his displeasure. No one seemed to care. Not even his parents. They sat on either side of him in their best white silks shirts and green linens, ready for the farewell feast at the Tinker's Converse. He slumped back and stuck out his lower lip. His father pressed a hand on K'Las' bandaged knee and shredded pant leg, to keep his feet from swinging.

"So, you're twelve years old and never undergone the Imbuement Ceremony?" Sir Tomas handed Rat Hole a sugared plum. "How many other Grayfolk do you know of who are like you--I mean, who aren't imbued?"

"I don't know, maybe this many." He held up five dirty fingers then plucked the sweet morsel from Sir Tomas' fingers and stuffed it in his mouth. "Most get trapped in the top world. I think I'm the oldest who ain't been caught, yet."

"You say you and K'Las have found three passageways with those glowstones?"

Rat Hole shifted the masticated sugar plum from one cheek to the other. "Yes, m'lord. This many." He held up three fingers, swallowed and wiped his mouth. "And then we found another one with them three war wizards who want to kill you, and a bunch of other folk like you they called council members, and they were gonna do it right soon, and something called the Anvil of Rendor, and--

Sir Tomas raised his hand with a gleaming grin. "Yes, very good. Thank you, Mr. Rat Hole. I have it all written down right here." He tapped a sheet of paper on the table. "I hope you and I will get to know each other quite well. In fact, I think you have quite a future ahead of you, if you so desire." The rotund merchant tugged a bell rope. "Help yourself to more cakes."

"That isn't fair," K'Las pouted. "I was there, too."

"Quiet, K'Las," Willim said.

"But, Papa, it's my birthday."

"You only get one birthday a year, young man." B'Tris leaned in and pointed a stern finger at him. "Now, be quiet. You're lucky you're only missing out on sweets and cakes."

A polite tap on the study doors announced the arrival of Sir Tomas' manservant. "You called, Sir?"

"Yes." Sir Tomas rose and lifted the small twelve year old boy from his huge desk. "Take Master Rat Hole and find him some new clothing. Then prepare a room in the courier's quarters. He'll be with us for a few days. Oh, and, see he's well fed. Whatever he wants." He shook Rat Hole's hand and pushed him toward Arnold.

"Yes, sir." Arnold cleared his throat. "If I may, sir, Representatives from the Longshoremen's Guild and Ambassador Higgers of the Royal Trade House have arrived. Shall I see them to the library?"

"Thank you, Arnold. Yes, the library will do. Send for my secretary, please. You may go, now." Sir Tomas dismissed them with a wave.

Rat Hole smiled and waved back.

"Yes, yes." Sir Tomas gestured again. "Run along, now."

Rat Hole waved even more emphatically before Arnold took his hand and led him from the study.

The door closed and Sir Tomas went back to his high wing-backed chair. The leather armchair groaned under the man's weight. He lifted a quill pen, checked the nib then dipped it in an inkwell. Other than the hurried scratching of the quill on paper, the ornate study was quiet.

K'Las watched his father cross his long legs and tap his lips, reminding him to be silent.

Soon even his father's leg began to bounce impatiently. His mother sat up arrow straight, her downcast eyes and hands examining the lacey cuffs of her long sleeved blouse.

A polite rap on the elaborate wooden doors of the study drew their attention.

"Come." Sir Tomas finished scrawling and folded the paper as his secretary entered. He pushed the list to his side and began filling in blanks on a prepared sheet of parchment. "Burlton, take this and see to it the documents listed are ready to go by this time tomorrow."

"Yes sir." Burlton retrieved the list, but did not leave.

"Do you have something else for me?" Sir Tomas kept writing and didn't look up.

"Yes sir. It seems the young man in Arnold's charge, has bolted."

"What?" Sir Tomas pushed his chair back and stood, quill in hand. "Where did he run to?"

Burlton gestured to the door behind him. "I believe he's--"

"I'm right here, m'lord." Rat Hole's voice seemed to surround them.

"Look. There he is." K'Las jumped from his chair and ran to a vent near the fireplace. Rat Hole pushed and K'Las pulled until the grate wobbled loose.

"You gotta come see this, Kay. One of 'em's here." Rat Hole scrambled backwards, motioning for him to follow.

K'Las growled and dove into the vent. "I'm going to squish your pointy nose, Rathburn Holyard. Don't call me Kay." His father's angry voice called for him to return, but he couldn't, Rat Hole had gotten all the attention. Maybe now he would get a little credit for finding those men--and some cake. He scrambled further on, despite his father's warnings and the rising pain in his hands and knees. After what seemed like forever, he finally caught up with Rat Hole who was peering through a vent screen.

Five people had made themselves comfortable in Sir Tomas' library. Two men sat talking and sipping on a drink, while two others browsed through the wealth of books. Another, with a long wiry fringe of white hair around a bald pate stood peering out a window into the gardens. _It's him. I have to tell Uncle Tomas._

K'Las skittered back to the study on bleeding hands and knees. His bandages were gone, shredded and strewn along the way, confident he would soon have his reward. He emerged into the study and dusted himself off directly in front of the vent, preventing Rat Hole from coming out. "That bald man is here--the one who told Jeren and the green man what to do."

B'Tris quit tapping an impatient foot when K'Las emerged from the vent. Despite his announcement she felt the mixture of relief and anger surge from her son's latest antics. Nevertheless, she tried to keep her voice level, but she couldn't refrain from gritting her teeth when she spoke. "Young man, just where have you been and . . . ?"

Before she could finish, Sir Thomas burst from his chair, sending the chair skidding to a bookcase behind him. The color had drained from his face. "Where? What did you see?"

Rat Hole's head popped out under K'Las' elbow. He yelled, "We seen one of them schemers right here in your lib'ary! It's him for sure."

K'Las gave him a dirty look but didn't say anything, caught between his parent's disapproving glare's and Sir Thomas' distress. However, he clamped his arm around Rat Hole's neck.

The study smoldered in silent expectation while Sir Tomas pondered what to do. He reached for his bank of bell ropes and yanked hard and repeatedly on three of them.

"You rang, sir?" Burlton, with his baritone chant and stoic gaze, had waited patiently and unseen by his master. One of the bell ropes had been his.

"What?" Sir Charles broke from his rumination and peered at his secretary. "Oh, yes. I didn't hear you come in. You must have been very near."

"Yes sir, very near."

"Send a courier to the trade house archives." Sir Tomas paced, his head bowed as he spoke. "I want everything they have on Ambassador Higger and Jeren Swain here by tomorrow morning. Get the Auditors to search their current records, too. I'll have those two-faced slime-sucking middenslugs roasted on spits by week's end."

Willim took both boys by the arm and pulled them away from Sir Tomas. B'Tris followed them to their chairs and sat. Rat Hole remained standing, gaping at the Priory Minister in action.

Burlton gave his master a quick bow and headed for the doors.

"Wait." Sir Tomas scrubbed his chin in thought then snapped his fingers. "Come here." He and Burlton held a short, hushed conversation. The secretary bowed again and walked away.

The study's big double doors swung open without a knock. Burlton slipped through the open doors as two confident men strode in. They wore the same uniform as the rest of Sir Tomas' footmen, cream colored shirts under forest green vests with gold piping and tan trousers bloused in high black boots. However, unlike their counterparts, they each carried a thin white rod the length of their forearms.

B'Tris nudged Willim and nodded to the men. She whispered in his ear. "Enforcers. He's really serious. They're carrying long pirns."

Sir Tomas motioned for them to draw near and held a brief whispered conference. The men slapped a fist to their chest in salute and left as quickly as they came.

A young stableman eased his way in, wringing his hat. He scanned the room like he had never seen the place. "You wanted to see me, m'lord?"

"What are you doing here?" Sir Tomas glowered at the man. "Where's Parnell?"

"He took the--"

"Never mind." Sir Tomas strode with unexpected quickness to the tinkers and spoke rapidly. "How many horses do you have? How old are they? Are they healthy?"

Willim hesitated with a cautious turn of the eye. "Four. They're all about ten years--"

"Too old. You'll get new horses. Good horses." Sir Tomas spun to the stableman. "Give them four strong horses from the stables. Good dray horses well shod and ready for hard work and long travels."

Surprised by the order, the young man nodded, but didn't move.

Sir Tomas planted his fists on what might have been his hips and snarled a command. "Well, get to it, man."

The stableman began to back out of the study. Sir Tomas continued his pacing.

"Wait a minute." Willim stood and approached his wandering uncle. "What's going on? Why do I need big dray horses? I can't afford horses like that. Besides, mine are just fine--and healthy."

B'Tris pointed a stern finger at the boy's telling them to stay put. She stood and joined Willim at his side. "And, what's this about long travels? Where are we going?"

"You're right, Willim. Dray's would be too conspicuous." Sir Tomas reeled and pointed to the stableman. "Make those driving horses, not drays. See to it, boy. Now get out."

"Yes m'lord . . . sir." The young man bowed again, pivoted and tripped over his feet as he barreled through the doorway.

Burlton returned and presented a leather folder to Sir Tomas. "Thank you. You may go." The secretary left and the doors closed behind him.

The big merchant opened the folder and drew out a vellum sheet with flourishing script and several colorful seals. He slapped it on his desk, signed it and pressed his own seal to the document.

"There now, it's done." Sir Tomas handed the vellum to Willim. "The two of you are now official trade emissaries for the Merchant Trade House and its guilds. This charter will get you across any border, duty free. If any tax collector tries to wheedle a tax or fee out of you refer them to the trade minister of his . . . or her realm. Don't let them give you any sass."

"Trade emissaries?" B'Tris grabbed the vellum in her fist and shook it at Sir Tomas. "What in the seven hells are you doing? We're tinkers, not diplomats, and we're not going anywhere until you tell us what this is for."

Willim took B'Tris' shaking fist and brought it down from under his uncle's bulbous nose. "I presume you have plans for us." He slapped his free hand on Sir Tomas' desk. "Don't expect us give up our lives for your little intrigues. We go nowhere without knowing what those plans are and how they benefit us."

Sir Tomas pursed his lips up to his nose and frowned at the both of them. "You may have too much brass to know what's good for you."

B'Tris huffed as she gave back his glare. "I'll show you brass--"

Willim caught her before she launched a fist at Sir Tomas' nose. His voice hard and steadfast, "Don't mistake steel for brass. What's your plan and how does it involve us?"

Sir Tomas wheeled around, retrieved his chair and pushed it to his desk. He sat, plucked a cluster of grapes from a bowl and leaned back. His eyes danced between the two boys and the tinkers as he regarded his options. Finally, he leaned forward, tossing a grape in his mouth.

"We have no choice." The merchant spit a seed into his hand. "You have to leave the eastern realms as soon as possible. I have to stay here and deflect the intrigues of the Eternal Realm Priory."

Willim held his growling wife back. "Why do we have to leave?"

"No. We are not leaving." B'Tris threw the charter on the desk.

"You're not safe here," Sir Tomas replied, spitting out another seed. "The name of Campanill goes back to the time of the Cherished Weavers. Our family was closely associated with them and that little treasure of yours. The Eternal Realm Priory will soon come to realize that little nut of truth. When they do they'll be looking here for me and Haegatess--then you. It may be they already are, since they've sent assassins. They have a tendency to ask a lot of questions before they actually kill you. I don't want to tell them where to find you or the heirloom. So, you have to leave, and I don't want to know where you're going."

"What?" B'Tris shook her head. "I don't understand. Why is it so important? How are we supposed to protect it if you can't?"

Sir Tomas thought for a moment, then said, "Haegatess said it's one of five such artifacts needed to find the Anvil of Rendor. Once assembled, and the anvil is in hand, it can be used to conquer humanity. She also said we'd need five perfectly matched harmonic voices to strike the anvil. So, to be blunt, whoever is seeking your heirloom is only interested in it and a voice to use it. You are the voice. You alone will survive when they catch you up."

B'Tris sat down, confounded by the weight settling on her shoulders. _I can't believe this. Haegatess was my friend. I came to love her. Why would she do this to us, to K'Las and Will?_ She met her son's gaze. _What did she do to you? How bad was her anger? Can you handle it? But, you're alive --and well. She did that for us. She gave us you. With you came a . . . gift . . . or a curse. Perhaps her gift will help you become stronger--a better person, able to fight her anger. I'm certain it helped you survive. But, for how long and what purpose?_ Her shoulders wilted. She buried her face in her hands.

Willim sat beside her. "Our clan has always stayed within the eastern realms." He caressed her shoulders with a trembling hand. "I don't see we have a lot of choices, Bee. They'll find us sooner if we stay here, even if Uncle Tomas shelters us. We'd be shut up in a cage."

B'Tris sighed. "But, our family and friends are here. Shouldn't they count for something--some protection?"

K'Las and Rat Hole hadn't moved or said a thing. They sat quietly in their chairs with puzzled expressions. Sir Tomas had leaned forward and rested his chins on the back of his hands while he studied and waited for the tinkers to decide.

Willim turned his chair and pressed his brow gently to hers. His voice softened. "Are we willing to put at risk those we love the most for something we don't understand ourselves? The open road would protect them and give us--you--a better chance to learn about the heirloom."

B'Tris knew what her answer would be.

So did Willim. He sat up and confronted his uncle's scrutinizing gaze. "You told us you know about these Inquisitors. We'll need to know about them, too."

"Excellent." Sir Tomas sat back, smiled and clasped his hands like he relished the challenges ahead. He pulled his bell ropes again and rattled off a litany of items they had to do before they left. His secretary delivered notes detailing Sir Tomas' dealings with Inquisitors. One of his paladins arranged to teach them how to defend themselves against the multi-toned weavers. A new inventory of stores would replace their old one which would appeal to their new clients. Sir Tomas promised to have it all done in two days.

B'Tris remained in her chair barely listening to the machinations between Sir Tomas and Willim. K'Las and Rat Hole had grown bored and wandered the study examining the various objects and books. For the most part the boys had remained quiet. Her mind drifted from home and family to the heirloom and its unknown qualities. Then there were the vagaries in kingdoms beyond the eastern realms. She didn't like the unknown. Her spine stiffened as resolve set in. At last, the room became silent.

Sir Tomas pushed his chair back from the desk. "I'm sorry, but I must attend to my dinner guests." He heaved himself from his chair, looking for Rat Hole. "Come with me, Mr. Rat--where are you, boy?"

"Here, m'lord." Rat Hole crawled out from under the massive desk. "Did you know there's a big drain under your desk?"

Sir Tomas harrumphed. He tugged a bell rope. "Yes, it's a vent. It keeps my feet cool in the summer and warm in the winter. Now come here boy. What kind of name is Rat Hole? We simply must find a new name for you." He guided Rat Hole toward the elaborate study doors.

"I like my name."

"How about Rathburn Holyard. It just came to me, you know." Sir Tomas walked beside his new ward. Both doors to the study opened with a footman by each.

"I hate it."

"Really? I think it's a lovely name."

Willim and B'Tris stood, as Sir Tomas passed. B'Tris leaned to her recalcitrant son.

She gave him a stern glare and a very firm finger pointed at his chest. He jumped out of his chair with crossed arms and a pout, upset that his uncle had stolen his name for Rat Hole.

Sir Tomas stopped by the doors and turned to the tinkers. "I'll have more documents for you tomorrow. Good day." He resumed his chat with Rat Hole. "Really, my dear boy, you must be more reasonable."

"No. I got brass, too, you know."

The tinkers watched the two disappear into the hallway. The footmen at the doors waited for the tinkers to leave. B'Tris stood transfixed beside Willim, waiting for some sign this nightmare would end.

Rat Hole's echoing voice poured into the study. "If you call me that again, I'm gonna call you lard--"

A distant door closed.

B'Tris took a deep breath. "Let's do this."

#

# Chapter Four

Inquisitors

_ONE YEAR LATER_

The port city of Carol's Lee set its evening watch and harbor lights flickered to life as darkness eased in. L'don Banks and his young apprentice, A'wyn Bowyer, positioned themselves by a gangway and waited for passengers to disembark from the last tall ship expected to arrive today. Once again, nothing more than the ship's bare chested crewmen and hand carried cargo came down the plank. With the tide going out and night on the verge, they left the wharves and headed to their inn.

L'don lifted his broad brimmed hat and swabbed the sweat from his bald pate.

A'wyn loosened one more button on her shirt and dabbed her freckled throat and chest with a handkerchief. "Will it ever cool off? A year of this forsaken continent and there's been nothing but scorching sun, hot drenching rain--when it rains, and humid nights." She reached between her legs, pulled the back of her skirt up and tucked it under her belt buckle. "Are we finished? I want to get out of these girly clothes and take a bath." She stripped her yellow linen vest off and pulled the sweat soaked blouse away from her skin then frowned at him. "You and those clothes could stand to be washed, too."

L'don shook his head. He examined his red wool vest and flicked off bits of dirt. His oversized linen shirt hung damp with sweat and his loose fit tan pants hid whatever dirt might have clung to it. Most of it anyway. _I've looked worse --smelled worse, too._ "I'll see you at the inn."

"I guess you're right." A'wyn laid the vest over her forearm as she scanned his small frame. "All you'd need is a bucket for that scrawny arse."

"And clean water." L'don deflected her frequent slights about his size. "If we ever head south to the Black Sand Sea you'll sell your soul to drink my bathwater."

"And one mighty vile honey bucket it would be." She feigned a gag. "If you're still in it I wouldn't know which turd to throw out."

L'don gritted his teeth as he watched his tall red haired apprentice stride by him and disappear down a dark side street to her favorite bathhouse. He repressed the simmering urge to slap her down. _What she lacks in patience and finesse she makes up for in nerve, I'll hand her that. If the Prime Councilor didn't have such an interest in her I'd take her to the Black Sand Sea and leave her. The Kennerites would soon straighten her tongue._

He walked through a marketplace and studied the few people who continued to trade on the dimly lit cobblestone plaza. A lantern glowed on three men while they laughed, shook hands and clapped each other on the back. Their faces were difficult to see, but one wore the loud yellow hat and embroidered blue vest of a master tinker from the eastern realms. _I wonder how we missed him._

L'don stepped back into the deep shadows of an alley and watched. The tinker concluded a deal while another man loaded bolts of fabric in a handcart. The tinker bid farewell, lifted a lantern and led the carter and his handcart away. L'don trailed them through the southern gate of Carol's Lee. The remnants of a caravan encamped on an open field had settled around at least a dozen campfires. _Ah, this must be the Rios caravan. He came up from the south. No wonder we missed him. I'll wager this is the same tinker we met before. I've got to get a closer look._ He followed the two men around several small camps of wagons, tents, horses and camels. When they stopped, a woman and young boy helped them transfer goods from the cart to one of two wagons. _Ah, Ambassador Willim Potts. It is you. So nice to see you again._ The rest of the evening went by without incident. The tinker, the woman and the boy retired for the night while the carter kept watch.

L'don wandered closer to the campsite. As he expected, he found protective weaves on the wagons. Only a master could create a weave so intricate . . . especially for a single toned weaver. When he approached the horses the carter stood up beside the campfire and started to walk toward him. L'don gave the man a friendly wave and slipped into the hot night.

The morning sun bore down on the iron studded wooden doors of the customs house. A'wyn had gone to the docks and its numerous pubs to search for traders while L'don researched the tinker's credentials.

L'don followed a line of customs house employees through a wide doorway as they funneled toward two bleary-eyed men in uniform. Each employee flashed a card at the constables who nonchalantly waved them through. The officer L'don approached frowned as he handed him his wallet. The man opened it and drew out L'don's vellum credentials.

"What's your business here?" The constable's scowl grew deeper as he examined the document.

"The Traders Guild offices." L'don held out his hand and waited for the return of his wallet. People behind him began to grumble while the guard pretended to study.

A voice behind L'don complained, "Get on with it, Mondrin. You've seen him before. Let him through."

The guard cleared his throat and sneered. "Room 124." He slapped the wallet shut then handed back the unfolded document. He waved L'don through.

L'don placed his wallet and credentials in his breast pocket as he walked to the painfully familiar guild offices. He arrived in time to find the little pot-bellied manager yawn as he unlocked the double doors. The man ignored him as he entered the expansive room filled with cluttered desks, leather-bound books, scrolls and musty air. The manager opened windows to the outside and readied the office for business. L'don waited. A litany of signs above desks identified each section and each clerk. L'don only cared about one--Foreign Registrations.

The manager emerged from a back room with a cup of hot coffee. He went to an elevated desk and sat under a sign which read, 'Manager'. Clerks soon filed into the office. Most disappeared into the back room. When they returned with their own cups and sat under their own signs, they opened ledgers, trimmed quills and filled inkwells.

L'don's renowned patience grew thin--again. He hated to come here, and he envied his young partner's impetuous habits. _Half of this place would be dancing to A'wyn's tune if she were here. The other half would likely be dead. Not something I'd like to explain to the Prime Councilor, however. Especially from prison._

The clerks had all taken a desk. L'don gritted his teeth while he stared at the empty desk under the Foreign Registrations sign. He strode to the manager. "I need to see the registration book for foreign trade representatives. Where's your clerk?" L'don stabbed an impatient finger at the empty desk.

"Come back at noon." The manager lifted his coffee cup and casually slurped in the steam and sludge.

"I'd like to see it now, please." L'don met the manager's gaze with an iron glare. If anything tried his patience more than A'wyn Bowyer, it was a bureaucrat.

"Identification." The manager held out an inky fingered hand, unfazed by L'don's irritation. He slurped his coffee again.

L'don presented his wallet and waited for the inevitable display of authority.

The manager played his role to perfection. He set his cup down, opened the wallet with a casual disdain, unfolded the vellum charter, straightened his ink-stained cuffs then mounted a pair of spectacles low on his narrow nose.

The familiar itch of weaves formed at L'don's fingertips as his tolerance waned. He clamped his fist, drove his fingers into his palm and snuffed out the threads. _How can the Hospice Trade House put up with such ineptness? I hate this backward, incompetent twit. If this were the Royal Trade House I'd have this man's gullet by now._

"Ah, ye _th_." The manager's lisp and high nasal voice grated at L'don's sensibility. "Mr. L'don Bank _th_ of the Royal Trade Hou _th_ Antiquitie _th_ Board. I believe you've been in before, haven't you? You're earlier than u _th_ ual."

_I can't believe A'wyn thinks I sound like this fool. I don't lisp._ "Yes. May I see the ledger now?"

"Come back at noon."

"Why not now?

The manager gave him a peevish smile and pointed to the empty desk under the Foreign Registrations sign.

L'don didn't bother to follow the finger. He spoke through gritted teeth, "I'm well aware the clerk isn't here. Perhaps you could help me."

"I'm quite bu _th_ y, Mr. Bank _th_."

"There's . . . no . . . one . . . here."

"My clerk _th_ are here, _th_ ir." The manager must have thought this explained everything anyone would need to know. He picked up his coffee cup and began to take a drink. He grumped then whistled to a young man behind him. "Get me _th_ ome coffee."

L'don smacked the desk with his hand. "I'll get it myself." He strode to the empty desk and lifted a ledger from the top drawer. On a hunch he riffled through the pages to the date he and A'wyn arrived in Carol's Lee. He worked back from there. Lady Luck finally availed him. A tinker from the eastern realm had arrived two months earlier than they had. _Master Merchant Willim K'Las Potts, emissary for the Merchants Trade House. That's him, the tinker outside the gates._ He followed the entry across the page to a column titled, "Sponsor." A long narrative described the origin and date of the charter. It brought a rare smile to his face. _Ah, Sir Tomas Campanill, eh? That's close enough. I'll wager they're related. God's I wish I had thought of this sooner._

A heavy hand pressed on L'don's shoulder. Instinctively he grabbed the hand and set a weave on it. He turned. A fist caught his eye.

L'don woke and saw the floor move under him. His feet dragged behind him. Men's boots on each side of him took long strides through a pair of doors. Heat rose from the hot paving stones in front of the customs house. The men hurled him into the crowded marketplace. He landed on his face. He rolled over, rose to his elbows and squinted through a swollen eye at the manager. Two constables flanked the bureaucrat. An arc of people had stopped to watch as the drama developed.

"U _th_ e of the weaving art _th_ in the cu _th_ tom hou _th_ e i _th_ forbidden." The manager stuck a hand inside his belt and pushed out his pot belly. He smirked and gave his coffee cup a royal lift. "Next time I'll have you arre _th_ ted."

L'don eased himself to his feet while the bureaucrat and constables resumed their duties. The crowd muttered their disappointment and continued their private tasks. L'don pulled up his shirt and wiped his face. Blood and dirt smeared the torn linen.

Willim watched the scene from an open second story window of the customs house. The battered man looked up and for a moment their eyes met. Willim knew the face. When the crowd below dissolved and the bloodied little man wandered off, he shook hands with his host. "Thank you, Sir Arginald. I believe the Merchant Trade House will be quite pleased with this arrangement. Good day."

His business with the Hospice Trade House emissary finished, he walked down a flight of stairs to the Traders Guild office.

"Good morning, Mr. Pensand." Willim extended his hand.

"Ah, thank you Mr. Pot _th_. A good day to you, too." The manager smiled and shook Willim's hand.

"I believe I have an export manifest here which needs to be corrected, is that right?"

"Ah, ye _th_ , I believe we do." Mr. Pensand opened a file drawer and drew out two long sheets of parchment. They haggled for a moment while Willim slipped two silver coins in the manager's palm. The manifests were quickly approved, stamped and sealed.

"Before I leave, I wonder if you would tell me about your encounter with that fellow who did some inappropriate weaving here, today." Willim listened quietly as the manager expounded on his steadfastness and quick reaction. The names and origins of two antique collectors were uncomfortably familiar. When the manager showed him the register L'don Banks had seized, a chill bristled the hair on his sweaty neck. Only one question remained, were they Inquisitors? If they were, he and his family would likely encounter them soon. He needed help.

A'wyn leaned her chair back and folded her arms. "What happened, somebody stuff you in a keyhole?"

L'don approached with his usual calm demeanor. Inside he broiled with anger. "It's time you shut up and listen. Our tinker is back. If you fail to do as I tell you I'll have you on a henge loom by the summer solstice."

"If it'd get me out of this heat I'd--"

L'don kicked the chair out from under her. He pressed her to the grimy pub floor with a knee on her chest and a hand to her throat before she could recover. She became rigid. Her eyes grew wide with tension as her hands grabbed his wrists. L'don cast a cautionary eye at the few patrons seated at other tables. A bored wench gathered some mugs and went to a back room. When no one challenged him he said in a hushed tone, "I'm through with your impudence." He set a weave around her throat and drew it tight. "If you do anything to hinder me, by the gods, I'll crush your pretty little neck."

Her voice rasped as she gasped for air. "All right."

He eased the tension in the weave and leaned toward her. "I'm fed up with you, so listen carefully. This tinker is a master weaver. He saw me, so he's probably expecting us. I don't want to take any chances with him. Do you have your long pirn with you--you know, the pointy stick we use to extend our reach?"

She nodded. "In my skirt pocket."

He released his weave and sat in a chair. She sat up, rubbed her neck and came nose-to-nose with him. He scrutinized her gaze for any deceit. "He may only have one tone, but he's still dangerous. Don't underestimate him. He's likely been trained by Enforcers . . . he may even be one. This is your first encounter as my apprentice. So, when we find him, stay alert and follow my lead."

The sweet smell of a rum stained apron announced the innkeeper's arrival. "That'll be a silver and eight."

L'don got up and pushed his chair to the table. "Pay the man."

A'wyn made her way to her feet and towered over L'don. Behind her green eyes he saw the thought of rebellion, but she soon moved her gaze to the innkeeper. "Why? I only had one beer."

"You heard me. Silver and eight." The innkeeper stood a little taller than A'wyn's six foot frame and not at all intimidated by her. "We saw you settin' weaves and you broke my chair." He pointed to the chair then to a sign on the wall.

_One thread, a coppery coin,_

_Two threads, a silvery coin,_

_Three threads, a pillory joined._

_By order of the Hospice Trade House_

A'wyn huffed and untied the coin pouch on her belt. She muttered as she dug out the money. "Eight coppers for a chair, absurd." She dropped the coins in the man's hand. "That's usury. There should be a law--"

L'don grabbed her forearm and forced her out the pub door. _Burn my soul, I hate losing my temper. That was reckless. Luckily they only saw two threads. Why did I get stuck with this infuriating cow? She may be good with a longbow, but she has no wits as an Inquisitor._

L'don and A'wyn blended into the bustle of the docks. They made their way to the street which led to the southern gates of Carol's Lee and the tinker's wagons.

K'Las sat at a neighbor's campsite and tended the embers in their brazier. A cauldron of stew bubbled above it. A large family of Kennerites owned the tents, goats and horses which comprised the camp. They wore those long woolen robes all desert people wore who were from the Black Sand Sea. It was the hottest place on the world of Rendor--or, so they claimed.

A dark weathered man and his equally sun-dried wife sat with him. The man had a large mop of black hair which fell over his brow and into his eyes. A long stringy mustache covered his lips. When he blinked or talked his hairs danced. K'Las tried not to laugh. The man's wife wore a big hat. Its brim spread wide enough to shade her and K'Las together. Her voice had laughter in it, but her face frowned a lot.

Three men from the Kennerite clan sat across from them. None of them appeared the least bit happy. They talked of weaves and ancient tales about evil wizards and warriors. He would rather play with the other kids than be with these glum people, but his father told him to stay put. At least they talked about magical things, which he loved.

His father had said something would likely happen. He might even be able to help. He held the bitter end of a cord which lay buried under loose soil. It ran from him to his father's shaded trading table on his left some ten yards away. When the hair dancer or the shady lady signaled he would pull the cord. They seemed like nice people, but they were awfully annoyed now. He didn't quite understand why. _Maybe it's just the heat._

K'Las reached into a sack and drew out some hand sized pieces of charcoal. He dropped them in the brazier.

"Sit down, K'Las." The shady lady tugged on his shirt. She and her husband were from Carol's Lee and dressed in the loose fit clothes and broad brimmed hats typical of the sub-tropical port. Even K'Las and his mother had adopted the garb. Except for the white shirt and trousers, his father kept to the age old tradition of a bright yellow silk hat and the elaborate blue vest his tinker clan wore in the eastern realms.

The shady lady nodded toward his parents. "Looks like our guests have arrived."

K'Las sat and tried not to look. He gripped the end of the cord with both hands then peeked to his left. A man and very tall woman walked up to his father's canopied trading table. _That's the tall lady momma doesn't like. I remember them._

"Good afternoon, Mr. Potts." The little man removed his hat and laid it on the table. "I've learned a few things since our last meeting. May I ask a few more questions?"

"Fair greetings, Mr. Banks. And, to you also, Miss Bowyer. I'm honored you remember my name." Willim lifted the hat from his table and hung it on a canopy post. "I am honored to help any scholar in search of our true history. Was my information of any use to you since last we met?"

Miss Bowyer leaned over the table. "Mister, you sent us chasing feathers in a hurricane. There weren't any tinkers or traders at Honor Bay, or any of the islands along the coast."

Mr. Banks pulled Miss Bowyer behind him and muttered something to her. He acted angry and patted her neck. She stepped behind Mr. Banks as he faced Willim. "Please excuse my young apprentice, sir. She's not used to the heat and the traveling we've had to endure. Fortunately we didn't have to go through the Kenner Kingdom and the Black Sand Sea. She's too fair skinned for that, I'm afraid. However, in her defense, it was all for naught. Nothing came of it."

"No artifacts at all?" Willim lowered his gaze in thought. "Hmm, that is truly curious. The ancient realm of Rios is known for its jeweled relics, especially near the Great Southern Henge. In fact I've come across a few since then. I've seen some ruby bracelets and diamond earrings in Carol's Lee--"

"Those aren't the trinkets we're interested in, Mr. Potts. You may recall we're searching for henge keys."

K'Las recognized the feigned shock on his father's face. "Mr. Banks, you know full well those are controlled items." Willim leaned to the small man and murmured loud enough even K'Las heard it. "Only the priories have those. As an emissary of the Merchants Trade House I'd face death if I possessed such an item and didn't turn it in. Truly, sir, you don't think I have one."

K'Las couldn't see Mr. Banks face, but the man shifted his feet and took something from inside his vest. "Mr. Potts--or, should I say Mr. Campanill--we know you have one."

Willim stepped back, drew out a pirn from his sleeve and raised it toward the little man. "Perhaps you confuse me with my benefactor, Sir Tomas Campanill. Your open accusation and threat is without basis. I have no desire for a confrontation. Please return your pirn to its sheath."

Bowyer moved to Mr. Banks' side and took an archers stance. She raised her pirn and set it near her ear like an arrow. Willim her obvious target.

Banks raised his pirn to shoulder height and likewise targeted Willim. "Like you, Mr. Campanill, I have no desire for a confrontation. If you lower your pirn and allow us to search your camp for the henge key my partner and I will leave you in peace."

"It would be a violation of established laws for anyone to search a diplomat's belongings without cause. If you desire such a search, go to the Hospice Trade House and present your evidence. Until then, good day." Willim's expression became troubled--anxious.

K'Las got up. _What's wrong?_ He recognized the tension in his father's stance. _Papa never shows fear._ It didn't seem real. _He's trying to draw them into doing something._

Banks lunged toward Willim. He appeared to miss. Willim swept his pirn in front of Banks' rod. B'Tris emerged from behind a wagon, pirn in hand. Bowyer moved to get behind Willim. K'Las saw his chance and began to pull the cord.

"No, too soon. Wait for it." The shady woman stayed his arms. The Kennerites gathered around K'Las.

The red-haired woman stepped over the buried cord.

"Now."

K'Las pulled hard and heaved the cord high. It sprang from the ground in a curtain of dust toward the woman's legs. He nearly lost his feet when the cord rebounded as it tangled her feet. The Kennerites touched the cord with their own pirns. "What are you doing? Help me pull."

The cord lurched and stiffened then went slack as the woman fell to the ground. K'Las dropped the rope and ran through the dust toward his father. He found him on the ground, silent. His mother grappled with Banks in a desperate brawl to hold the little man down. K'Las attacked Banks. His feet kicked at the man's legs.

"K'Las, get out of my way." B'Tris continued to struggle with Banks, unable to do more than yell. Banks lay sprawled on the ground. His right side seemed paralyzed. The pirn in his left hand attempted to parry B'Tris' efforts to touch him. His deflections became less and less effective.

A Kennerite man pulled K'Las off while he cursed, swung and kicked at the man who hurt his father. Three more men joined B'Tris. The little man finally succumbed. Bowyer lay tangled in the cord with the Kennerites standing over her. She, too, lay still as if frozen.

K'Las wriggled free of the man and went to his father. The hair-dancer man and shady lady knelt by Willim and swept their hands over his body. "What are you doing? Is he hurt?"

"No, he isn't hurt." The man patted Willim's shoulder. "I think we've gotten them all."

"All of what? How come he can't move?" K'Las pointed to the little man lying nearby. "What's holding him?"

Willim sat up and searched for his hat. "Weaves, son. You'll learn about them one day--when you're little older." He pointed to his yellow cap under the goods wagon. "Hand me my hat, would you?"

K'Las fetched his father's hat then helped him stand. "When? I want to know how. Is it magic? I helped, you know. I got that tall lady's feet snagged in the cord, just like you said."

"You did a great job, son. We'll talk about all this later." Willim lifted K'Las and carried him to his mother. "This worked out quite well, don't you think?"

K'Las looked at his father with pride. "We got 'em, didn't we, Papa." He scrubbed his right hand on his britches. His fingertips itched.

"You are hereby declared to be wilders, insane and a threat to society. By the authority of the His Highness, King Horrald Gripper and the Gripperite Kingdom in accord with treaties and traditions set forth by the five world trade houses you are hereby sentenced to either death or the eternal din of silence. Upon notification of your home guild within the Royal Trade House you may choose your everlasting fate." The magistrate struck his gavel. "This court is adjourned."

The court bailiff came to the front of the court. "All rise."

Willim and B'Tris stood and clasped hands, glad of the quick trial and verdict. The judge walked out. The crowd erupted in angry shouts calling for the deaths of the two multi-toned weavers. Willim's request for help from the Southern Pillar Priory had paid dividends.

The priory had sent six of their Enforcers to witness L'don's and A'wyn's weaves. Recruiting the bucolic Kennerites had been a stroke of luck. The Inquisitors would no longer vex Willim and his family, and the southern priory had gained political leverage over the Eternal Realm Priory.

Nevertheless, they had to leave almost immediately. The rumor of a henge key would soon gain the full attention of someone in the southern priory council.

B'Tris shrugged. "Well, I was getting tired of the heat, anyway."

#

# Chapter Five

THe BoX

K'Las sat at the campfire sulking _. Nobody tells me anything. A few more months and I'll be eleven. I should know why my fingers are tingling. I should know why things happen the way they do, but no. All I get is 'later son', or 'when you're old enough, son'. It isn't fair._ He glanced up to his parents who sat across the fire pit drinking their morning coffee. They talked like they did almost every morning about the road ahead

He stared back into the flickering embers of the campfire. The dying fire no longer held the cool morning air at bay. The morning sun streaked rays across the treetops surrounding the camp. Soon they would pack up and continue their endless journey. They had come to the western realms two years ago and spent most of their time in the Greybull Kingdom. This year they would return, for a third time, to the Great Western Henge. He and his father peddled their goods in the village of Kerner while his mother spent her days searching for something at the great henge some three miles away. He never got to go with her. Whenever he asked about it he got the usual reply, 'later, son'. We'll spend another week there and she still won't find what she wants--whatever that is. Even the villagers say so.

"K'Las." His mother's voice pierced through his brooding mind. "Would you get my shawl for me, please? It's on the travel chest in the tent."

K'Las grumbled as he stood. Why can't she get it? They treat me like a slave, not their son. He walked a few yards to the tent and glanced back to his negligent parents before he entered. They aren't even watching. What do they care? If I ran away they'd have to do this by themselves. That would teach them. He went into the tent scrubbing his itching fingers on his britches.

Neatly folded across the travel chest lay his mother's old grey shawl. He lifted it and began to leave. He stopped. The box with that strange key sat next to the chest. He suppressed the urge to open it again. Every time he had tried in the past his mother appeared within seconds and scolded him. Sometimes she poked him with that boney finger of hers--right in the ribs. He rubbed his right side as he recalled the bruise she left the last time he lifted the lid of the box. She uses this every night. I know what it looks like. I know it helps her sing better. I don't know why, but it does. There must be magic in it. How else would she know when I open the box? Why else would it make her sing better? Perhaps if I--"

He laid the shawl back on the chest then stood in front of the box. Without another thought he lifted the lid, removed the shiny key and struck it on the side of the box.

_Ting._

The small, round orbs at the end of each shiny tine sang. It sang with his mother's voice. It pealed chords more pure and resonant than his father's rebec and lyre and viol and fiddle together. It unbound his senses. His body tingled. He gasped. The fingers of his left hand seemed to meld with the hilt as he raised the singing key. Wisps of color flared from his fingertips. The threads danced up the handle of the key and merged into a reverie of weaves and intangible, dancing images. His mind savored the texture and fragrant bouquet of the vibrant filaments which erupted from the silver tines. His knees buckled. He wilted to the ground and sat on his heels. He embraced the dream as his right hand reached for the vibrant vision. A cascade of colors and threads leapt from his fingers. They blended into a vibrant confusion of tenuous weaves. He was ecstatic.

Then the key vanished. His mind cramped. The sudden withdrawal of so much pleasure became too painful to bear. He passed out.

K'Las awoke to his mother's gentle touch.

"Ah, you're awake." She stroked his cheek. "You gave us quite a scare. How do you feel?"

"What happened, son?" His father's voice came from somewhere nearby.

He pushed himself from her embrace and scrambled to his feet. His father sat on the ground beside her. He searched for the key. The longing for more of what it offered foremost in his mind. When he noticed the box he grew angry. A lock hung from the clasp. "I don't know what happened. What is that thing? Is it magical?"

His father rose to his knees and met K'Las' gaze. "We'll talk of this later, son. For now let's break camp."

K'Las' eyes narrowed as his body shook at the indignity of the locked box. They had closed him out again. He clenched his fists. "No. I want to know now. What is it? What happened to me?"

"K'Las, I said we'd talk of this--"

"I know." K'Las screamed. "It's always the same. 'Later K'Las', 'when you're older K'Las.'" He glared at his father and clenched his teeth. "I am older and it's later. Tell me now."

His father grabbed his shoulders and returned the glare. "I said later. Now break camp and--

K'Las spun out of his father's grasp and ran from the tent. "Do it yourself." He sprinted from the camp and onto the rutted road. As he ran tears began to flow. He stumbled and fell. The hardened ground scraped his hands and knees. He cursed, scrambled to his feet and ran to the crest of a low rise. When he turned and looked to the campsite his father stood outside the tent and watched him. Not wanting to see the anger in his father's face K'Las quickly turned away and gazed at the long empty road ahead of him. _What am I doing?_ The loneliness of the days to come pressed at him.

He went to the side of the road and sat in a patch of dandelions. In the silence he felt his mother's embrace. As stern as she might be he knew she loved him. _I hurt her. Why did I do that? I shouldn't have touched the box or rang the key. They warned me not to, but I just had to do it, didn't I. But, it was so. . . What is that thing? It's not like any other key I've ever seen. I can't run away, I want more of it._

A conflict of emotions roiled through him. The desperate desire to use the key again clashed with being an unacknowledged slave. Nor did he want to hurt his mother again. His father had to be angry and deeply disappointed in him, as well. He desperately wanted to please his father. Tears poured down his face as he sobbed for the loss of his father's love. _And, I'll never hear momma sing again_. He examined his scraped hands and scrubbed out the grit. His fingertips showed no sign of those magical threads. Nothing. Just dirt.

He wondered what would happen if he continued to run. The chance to use the key would be lost. No chance to experience the wonder of it again. His parents were tinkers, traveling was their life. In those travels he had seen many boys his age making do with next to nothing. Most were orphans living as thieves and beggars, but free to come and go as they pleased. Others were simply outcasts relying on relatives to give them room and board while they performed menial tasks. He knew how to sweep a floor, chop wood and build fires. He built fires--and put them out. Sometimes he got to barter minor items from their goods. He had enough skills to get by.

K'Las tore at the grass beside him as he pondered his boring chores. That's all he did. He fed the horses or set them to pasture, hobbled. He gathered wood, set up the campfire, washed the pots and plates after meals then placed them back in their travel kits. It was the same old thing every day. His parents just didn't appreciate all he did for them--didn't even thank him. He threw the handful of grass into the breeze, watching it drift away as he tore more blades of grass from their roots. Surely some merchant would take him in. He picked a blade of grass from his grasp, bit the tip off and spat it out.

Then again, many of those orphans and beggars were beaten and went days without food. He had seen their scars, bruises and sunken eyes. Maybe they deserved what they got, but there were a lot of mean people out there. Some were highwaymen who tried to rob his mother and father, from time-to-time. His father always managed to stop them, usually by pointing a crossbow at them. Sometimes he just talked them out of it, but there were times the thieves came into camp and fell asleep. Why, he couldn't say.

When they traveled between villages, his mother would take the fork from the box and walk some distance away from camp. She was always within earshot when she sang with the fork. She sang all the songs he had come to love while she circled the campsite. He loved her voice. The words were mysterious and common and gave him the sense of belonging to her song. He picked a small yellow bouquet of the flowering weeds beside him.

Perhaps he had been too hasty in thinking he could make do on his own. After all, he had rarely gone hungry. This morning's meal would be his last for a long time. Maybe he should try to make amends. The next village was a long way off, and he didn't like being hungry. He could give his mother this little bouquet. Maybe she'd forgive him. Maybe his father would love him again. _Maybe I should learn to wait._

His parents were very stern with cheaters and liars, but they never turned anyone away. Not when they saw a need rather than a want.

_I'm not a very good liar. Momma always seems to know. I may have cheated a little to get a good look at the key. That doesn't mean I'm a bad person, does it?_ However, he had promised never to touch it until he was old enough. _When would that be --when I'm old enough to weave? They've never told me when that would be either. Perhaps he should have asked if he could just hold it._ Actually, he had never thought to ask. They would let him, wouldn't they?

"That's stupid. I should have asked. The worse that could happen is they'd say 'Not yet.'" His eager little bouquet of dandelions stood proud and he made his decision.

Willim followed K'Las out of the tent while B'Tris sat inside cursing her foolishness. _I should have made my weaves stronger --or put a lock on it. Will warned me about little boys. She caressed the smooth wood of the box. He has been complaining a lot about his fingers itching. Perhaps he's already dropping enough thread to cut through my weave. He's too young, though. No child threads at his age, do they? She shook her head. No, no, he's too young. I must have set my weaves wrong. That cloud of threads and weaves . . . just my imagination. They couldn't have been there._ She tugged the small lock on the key box then she set a double layer of her protective weaves on both.

She joined Willim outside the tent and followed his gaze to their son sitting in a patch of dandelions. "Well, go get him and let's get on the road."

"What?" Willim looked to her, his brow furrowed. "What about those colored threads you saw--and the weaves?"

"What about them?"

"What about . . ." Willim stopped, his lips pinched together, staring at her. "His fingertips itch and he can see and weave threads with the tuning fork. What more do you need? It's too late for an Imbuement Ceremony--we don't have the tools for it anyway. We have to finish the job and awaken him."

"I don't believe they were really there." B'Tris sniffed and set her gaze on her apron strings. "He's too young to produce anything like that, even with the help of the key."

Willim took her by the shoulders. "Bee, you can't really believe that. I glimpsed something myself before you took it from him. He's going to awaken on his own, and soon, if Haegatess was right. If we don't guide him, we may lose him to madness."

"You don't believe he'll go mad any more than I do." She untied her apron and idly examined the strings. "We've agreed, the imbuements are worthless."

"You're muddling the issue." He released her and stood to his full height. "We're talking about awakening him, not putting his abilities to sleep with an imbuement."

He was annoyed with her. She hated it when he drew himself up, one shoulder at a time. It was fine if he did it to someone else, but not her. It meant he wasn't going to budge from his position. She tied her apron strings and drew them tight with a yank, then huffed and planted her fists on her hips. "Alright, you may be right, but I don't like it, not one bit. He's still too young for this."

Willim folded his arms. She stabbed a finger into his chest. "He's too young." He didn't flinch. She pursed her lips and glared at him. She tried to fry his soul with her hardest stare. It didn't work. She persisted. He didn't so much as blink. "Burn you Willim K'Las Campanill." She threw her hands up. "Alright, we have to awaken him, but not until I've had a talk with him."

"About?"

"About Haegatess, Sir Tomas and the key."

"Agreed." Willim assumed his usual hunched position. "But, how about we just call it a tuning fork? We don't know it's a key to anything, yet. Let's not make more of it than it is."

"Fine." Frustrated, she waved a hand at the tent. "Hoobie, doobie, the key is now a fork."

Willim tsk'd and shook his head, trying to hide a smile. He glanced to K'Las. "Looks like he's about cried out, now. I'll fetch him."

B'Tris nodded. She watched her husband walk up to their unsuspecting son as he plucked at the dandelions. Another kernel of dread spouted in her mind, next to her fear of madness--Haegatess' anger.

"Well, are you coming back, or do you plan on watering these Dandelions all day?"

K'Las' sprang to his feet and into his father's arms, crying.

"I'm sorry, Papa. I'm sorry." K'Las felt his father's secure embrace and the gentle pats.

"No harm done, son. Maybe it is time you learned more about that fork. Ride with your mother, today. There are a few things you need to learn first."

He laughed and sang his way through his chores. He removed the hobbles from the horses and brought them to the wagons. All four horses smiled at him. Well, maybe the horses weren't actually smiling, but they were nickering and nudging him and being unusually cooperative while he helped his father harness them. He tried to get his mother to sing while he helped her gather the tent and camp items. Then he doused and stirred the cold fire pit one last time and said farewell to the campsite.

K'Las' father took the lead in the home wagon with their personal goods. His mother drove the second wagon filled with general stores.

K'Las could hardly sit still while he and his mother waited for his father to ask the traditional question to begin the day's travel.

"Are you ready, Bee?"

"Lead on, old man."

He heard his father's reins slap Lightning and Donker's rumps. The home wagon lurched forward.

His mother raised her reins and brought them down smartly on Blinker and Thunder's rumps, clucking her tongue at the horses. The little caravan began its lumbering daily journey settling into the rhythmic sounds of clopping, scuffing hooves and groaning, clattering wagons. The dry, firmly packed road with its meandering ruts caused them to sway and lurch occasionally. They could expect to make good progress again today.

K'Las clutched the edge of his seat, eagerly waiting for his mother to begin his first lesson about the fork. To his surprise, she handed him the reins.

"You drive, K'Las, while I tell you a story." B'Tris reached under the seat, brought out the box.

"Alright, momma."

"You've heard much of this before, but you need to hear the rest and try to understand. The fork is only a small part of it, but it is important for you to understand why we hold it so dear." She opened the box and drew out the tuning fork.

K'Las had known a little about his crazy old Aunt Haegatess. What his mother told him now seemed odd. He didn't understand how the fork could instill so much into him before he was born. The whole idea seemed to come from the old tales of wizards and their magical abilities. That suited him just fine. He liked wizards and magic.

She began to tell a story about Great Uncle Tomas, but stopped before he made any sense of it.

His mother seemed lost in thought for a while, swaying with the wagon as it rolled from side to side. She set her elbows on her knees, holding the fork with both hands so they both could see it. The silvered prongs glinted as she rolled and turned them several times before speaking again.

"Your father and I visited with Uncle Tomas a few weeks after you were born. He spoke at length about forks, in general, and about this one, in particular. Though, what he said, he said with some . . . reluctance." She stopped turned the tines and held the fork steady.

"This fork is a teaching tool--nothing more. But, it is very old, made with precision and of the best materials. Not many like this exist anymore, and those that do are usually found in one of the five Priories. If they find us with one, they'll take it, and say it's for our own good."

"Then why do you keep it?"

"Because it speaks to me of a day, long ago, when Weavers like your father and I could practice their skills freely. When the word 'Wizard' meant skill and craftsmanship, not mad magicians with evil intentions."

"Will you show me some weaving, momma?"

"Not now, K'Las. Later tonight, perhaps."

He held his breath and let his anger pass. "Then what does the fork do?"

"Every mind, like this fork, has a voice. It has the same tone as my mind, and as your father's. When I sing it hums and I feel it tug at . . . my heart. Tonight we'll see if it has your tone, as well."

"Does anyone have more than one? Tone, I mean."

"The legends say there were once Master Weavers who did, but there are none alive today, or at least none who have dared come forward."

"Why wouldn't they dare come forward?"

"Because most people would likely shun them, I imagine. But, the biggest reason is the Priory. Some of us have been trying for years to relax the laws and traditions that hold people back from their natural abilities. Perhaps there was a time when those laws were needed. Laws and traditions have their place, but some are only there to keep powerful people in power. Maybe someday we can do away with stifling traditions like the Imbuement Ceremony."

"Isn't Uncle Tomas one of the high ups? Couldn't he change things?"

"Yes, he's definitely one of the 'high ups' and if it was up to him he would. But, he's just one among twelve councilors in the Dewy Knoll Priory. Even if he convinced everyone in his priory he'd have to convince the other four Priories. If they didn't agree, there would probably be a war. It's a nasty complicated thing, K'Las. Not something you have to worry about, I hope."

K'Las clucked at Thunder and tugged on the reins to lead him away from a deep rut. Overhanging trees brushed against the top of the wagon. Bluejays launched into the sky. "Momma, what if I don't want to go through the ceremony? What if I want to have lots and lots of tones?"

His mother stared at the fork for several moments, and then looked to him.

"You're not the first to ask those questions, son. And, if I have anything to say about it, you can have all the tones you want. In fact, I'm glad we had this conversation. You're quite right--you should have a choice in the matter."

The Tinker caravan continued to sway and jostle as it lumbered along the forest road. Rolling hills and distant snowcapped mountains peeked through small clearings as they passed by. K'Las and his mother talked the hours away about family history and The Weaving Arts, stopping only for the midday meal and the necessary visits to the bushes.

"Weavers are ordinary people, K'Las. Anyone can learn to weave. The legends have turned the word 'wizard' into a fable. There is no 'magic' like in the stories. No one was turned into frogs and no frogs became beautiful princesses."

"Then why were the stories told? Are they lies?"

"No, not quite lies. They make for good stories, though, don't they? If you had to tell someone why the sun shines or why it burns, what would you tell them?"

K'Las pondered the question as he watched Thunder swish flies away with his tail. "Maybe it's a bunch of wizards up there throwing fire at each other." A wide grin spread across his face, just thinking of that possibility.

"Now you're making up stories. Just like those stories from people a long time ago who may have seen something happen but couldn't say why or how."

"But, doesn't that mean Weavers could throw something like fire, or lightning?"

"To answer your question, I don't know. It would be reasonable to think the High Weavers and Cherished could do something resembling lightning. But, in all my reading and from all the talk at the Tinker Converse there has been no one who could recreate anything like lightning . . . or thunder."

"Those Cherished ones are the really powerful wizards, right--the ones that made lightning and thunder?"

"Weavers, K'Las--powerful weavers."

"Yes, Cherished Weavers that made lightning and thunder?"

"No, not quite. But speaking of Lightning and Thunder, run up and ask your father to find a camping spot. It's time we stopped."

K'Las quickly scanned the skies, thinking he had overlooked some threat of rain, then realized his mother meant the horses.

"We still have several hours of daylight, momma. Why are we stopping? Is there something wrong with the horses?"

"We'll have to test your ability before we begin your lessons. That will take . . ."

Before she could finish K'Las handed her the reins and leapt from the moving wagon.

". . . some time."

#

# Chapter Six

A Song

A rocky stream meandered along the edge of a broad meadow and approached the road and forest. A much used fire pit in the center of a level clearing provided an ideal spot to camp and perform magic. Or, so K'Las thought.

He rushed to complete his chores, but the gods, horses, forest and his own feet and fingers conspired against him. Lightning bit him and Thunder resisted his hobble. The reins tangled in the harnesses. Even the firewood conspired against him. Every stick and log was too damp and refused to yield to his hatchet or to light when put to flame. When he finally got the fire built up enough to boil water, he fetched his bucket and headed to the stream. Twice he tripped and spilled the bucket on his return.

"Blast, blast, blast." K'Las groaned as he dropped a pot of water in the fire. Half the fire sputtered out in a rush of sooty steam. The pot settled beside a log in a puddle of muddy, hissing ashes. He retrieved the pot, returned to the creek and scrubbed it clean with clean sand and water.

He returned with a fresh pot of water and set it on a small side grill over the fire. His mother began dropping vegetables in it.

"Your father is waiting." His mother inspected a turnip and cut it in two. "He has a few more chores for you."

"When will my lessons begin?"

"Soon." His mother dropped the turnip in the pot. "You have to be tested first."

"A test?"

"Yes. Didn't I mention that?" She opened a bag at her feet and selected another turnip. She gestured toward his father. "Go on, now."

He found his father standing by Donker, inspecting the horse's hoof.

"I've finished my chores, papa. What do you want me to do now?" He grinned, sure he would soon see magic.

His father released the horse's hoof and stood. "Donker needs a new shoe and the wagon axles need greasing."

K'Las groaned at the prospect of greasing axles. Shoeing Donker didn't bother him. He only had to hand his father the tools. Donker, a mild mannered horse, rarely fussed, but greasing axles was a tiresome job.

"We'll still have daylight when we finish." His father pointed at the hoof. "We'll start with Donker's shoe. Fetch the tools and let's get started."

His eager grin sagged, but he knew arguing would only delay the real test. He had hoped for a lesson in magic and then a test.

He gathered the farrier tools and took them to his father who stood by Donker's left shoulder. His mother sat a few paces away, still cutting vegetables, watching.

"When can we talk about the fork, papa?"

"First things first, K'Las. I think today would be a good day for you to shoe Donker." His father rolled the leather tool harness out on the ground and sat on a stool close by.

K'Las sighed, resigning himself to a long day. Then realized he had just been handed a new chore--one requiring skill. He knew how to do this by heart, but this would be his first chance to do it. "Yes, I can do this."

"What's first, K'Las?" His father pressed his elbows into his knees and leaned toward K'Las.

"Get the shoe off with the pincers, and then we trim off the hoof wall with the nippers. Then the sole and frog of the hoof with a hoof knife."

His father cocked an eyebrow and nodded. "Good." He reached, took the pincers in his hand and offered them to K'Las. "I'll hand you the tools. Get started."

K'Las took a moment to remember what to do then assumed his position. He stooped to lift Donker's hoof, ran his hand down the horse's leg and gently squeezed just above the fetlock. The hoof rose easily and he nestled it between his thighs. He glanced to his father and caught a smile.

He worked with very little prompting while his father scrutinized each step of the process. The shoe came off without incident. He continued with cleaning and filing the edges of the hoof. Occasionally, his father instructed him on some of the finer points of the process. When he trimmed a bit too close to the quick, Willm told him to stop and wait. K'Las lowered Donker's hoof to the ground and stood, glad to straighten his back.

His father went to the tent as his mother came to his side. She placed a hand on his shoulder and spoke softly. "The world around you has a voice. To truly hear it you must learn to listen."

"What?" The oddity of his mother's comment confused him. _What does that have to do with shoeing?_ He scratched his head. "What should I listen for?"

"Not with your ears, son." She pressed two fingers to each of his temples. "It will start here, in your mind. You must use what you hear to recognize what is outside, here at your fingertips."

"I don't understand." He raised his hands and inspected his fingers. "How do I do that? How do I listen to my fingers?"

"How well you listen will determine how well you see." His father held the box with the tuning fork.

K'Las gasped and recalled the thrill of using the fork. "But, Papa . . . I don't understand."

His father sat on the stool again, opened the box and drew out the tuning fork. "Do as I tell you, and we'll see what happens." He pointed at the hoof with the fork. "First, pick up Donker's hoof."

K'Las lifted the hoof again, and wedged it between his knees.

"When I strike the fork and place it next to your right ear, you must listen." His father pulled his stool closer. "You must close your eyes and keep them closed until I tell you to open them. Do you understand?"

K'Las nodded and closed his eyes.

He felt the fork tap against the hoof. The fork sang out. The whisper of a distant melody drew near his right ear. Then nothing more happened. An odd silence embraced his mind, as if the noise in the world took a deep breath and paused. The melody resumed and drifted closer. A song. He wanted to hum along, but the music and voices glided beyond his mind's reach.

He smiled, let the song play in his head and began to lose himself in its soothing rhythm. Soon, a deep voice reverberated in his mind. A higher tone floated over it. They approached, growing louder and insistent.

"...eyes, K'Las. Open your eyes K'Las."

He didn't want to. He would rather be here, listening to the hypnotic refrain. Something pressed into his shoulder. It got sharper and began to hurt. His eyes flew open and found his mother's finger firmly planted above his right collar bone.

"Ow, that hurts."

His mother ignored the complaint. "Now watch." She stepped away.

He quickly rubbed the impact spot of his mother's finger and turned his attention back to the hoof.

His father placed his fingers near the thinnest edge of the hoof, by the quick, and seemed to caress it. K'Las watched, trying also to listen to the distant music. Soon, a polished edge rose and took form on Donkers hoof. _What is that?_

The song lingered while his father worked, though the fork no longer rang. _Where's that song coming from?_ It sounded familiar. _The overtone_ . . . _its momma._ He struggled to watch but the song distracted him. His mother busied herself with some sewing, all the while scrutinizing him. Was she humming? _No, it isn't her. Who's singing?_ He focused on the sounds and his father's handiwork. _How do I do both?_

_Listen_. He calmed himself and emptied his mind. The horses breathed steady and calm, their tails swished at the Bicker gnats. The Bicker gnats hissed their tiny wings, his heart pounded like a blacksmith hammer on anvil . . . and then he heard it. The song again, full of life. Not the fork, a real song. He could almost hear the words. In front of his eyes, before his father finished his repair, he saw threads coming from his father's fingers. _Where did he get those? How is he doing that_? It ended before he could see for himself. The song vanished. The threads gone. He studied the hoof. The repair still in plain sight, as bare as Donker's rump.

"Papa, papa, what did you do? How . . . how can that happen? Is it the fork? How does it work? I want to learn how to do that."

"What did you see, K'Las?" His parents spoke in unison.

K'Las touched Donker's hoof, stroking the mend. "I saw threads and . . ." He searched for a word to describe the repair. His father gave no suggestions. ". . . and I saw you tie the threads, like braiding a rope, only smaller."

K'Las released his grip on the hoof and stepped away from the horse.

"When did you first see the threads?" His father looked perplexed.

"A little after I opened . . . when you touched . . ." K'Las stopped and collected his memory. "Just before you finished the . . . braids."

Willim cocked an eyebrow and pondered his son. He looked to B'Tris to get her impression. She arched her eyebrows and nodded.

To his knowledge, no stories existed of anyone actually seeing weaves their first time with the tines. Typically it took a few days of close-in work for a student to see threads, not to mention a weave. _There's no question about it now. He did see those threads this morning. He probably made them, too._

Willim turned back to K'Las and told him to sit down. Pleading questions poured out of his son, seeking answers Willim didn't want to reveal quite yet. He told K'Las he would learn more later that day. K'Las settled with the promise of many lessons to come.

Willim assumed the unfinished task of shoeing Donker with a deliberate and practiced pace. He told K'Las to hobble the horse and set him to pasture.

Willim moved his stool next to B'Tris. "What do you think?"

"I've tested a lot of children prior to their imbuements, Will." She set her sewing in a basket. "Few have shown any weaving talent before the age of twelve. Of those that did, I can't say any of them could see a weave straight away."

"If there were such a person, I'm sure we would have heard about it." Willim stretched and rubbed his back as he searched his memory.

"There haven't even been rumors about one." B'Tris began massaging his lower back. "At least, not among the Tinker Clan and no place else we've been."

"Do you think we'll have to hide him?" Willim curled forward, letting B'Tris rub his back. "Hide his abilities?"

"We don't know what those are yet." B'Tris pressed a knuckle into a knotted muscle. "There must have been others like K'Las. What happened to them?"

Willim sat back up and pressed a shoulder to hers. "If there were they apparently didn't go insane. Madness has a way of making itself known. If a mad man with this kind of potential fell on us today, we would certainly have learned about it."

"I'm not reassured by that thought, Will."

"We'll have to teach him how dangerous it is to reveal his abilities." Willim nudged her shoulder with his. "Do you think we should stop?"

"I doubt we can stop it now. Since his tone seems to be the same as ours, it'll be a lot easier to guide him." B'Tris took a deep breath, pressed her hands to her knees and stood, smoothing out her kirtle. "And this only deepens my curiosity."

"Then let's awaken that tone." Willim stood and rubbed his lower back. "Maybe we'll learn a thing or two ourselves."

"Hopefully the color mystery will be solved."

"You know, I'm getting excited about this." Willim managed to dodge before he got a finger poked in his ribs.

"You're excited? I'm scared." B'Tris had a worried stare on her face.

"Of what?"

"Of what I'll learn."

The rest of the day couldn't have gone slower for K'Las. His mother insisted he tend to the camp just to torment him. He had to help make stupid repairs, like greasing the axles. They even had to stop and eat.

After they finished their evening meal she made him sit and wait while his father played the rebec and she made her nightly circuit of the camp, singing. He noticed the fork stayed in the tent.

The campfire blazed. The trees danced in the flickering light. K'Las sat on his hands. His impatient knees bounced. He wanted to talk about stuff he never heard any grown up talk about, except as folktales. Soon he would hear about real magic and see the real legends and myths come to life. He would make lightning. _That'll show Rat Hole._

His mother returned to the camp and entered the tent. She emerged with her grey shawl draped over her shoulders and the box in her hands.

His father put the rebec down and moved his stool next to K'Las. "Turn around and face the forest. Look carefully and remember what you see."

K'Las turned.

His mother handed the box to his father. She placed a stool behind him and sat. Her hands rested gently on his shoulders. He felt the soft whisper of her voice in his ear. "Relax, K'Las. Empty your mind."

K'Las felt the tension of excitement ease as her hands kneaded his neck and shoulders. She began a soft, melodic chant of ancient days and the great henges. His eyes closed as she sang.

Her foot upon the western knoll she tends her sister's call,

And, answers her kin's reprise with soothing minor fall.

Descend with her upon the heart and wake it from its slumber,

Call upon the North and South to thread and not encumber.

For others wait to learn and build a colored winsome weave,

Assemble those who wish a skill and hold it, ne'er to leave.

Forget the pain, endure the test -- the river begins to flow,

'Til morning light provides the blush of wisdom's gentle glow.

The flame stirs the singing heart to gentle the angry rhyme,

And reveals the love of kindred souls and mellows in its time.

K'Las loved the rise and fall of her voice. The chant set his mind to magical things and dreams of being a wizard.

Ting

The cool metallic touch of the tuning fork pressed the top of his head. His scalp prickled. The sensation spread quickly to his face. His chest heaved, drawing in air so fresh his lips tingled. His face flushed. The excitement swept to his hands and fingers. They reached beyond themselves to feel the hidden world around him.

His eyes flew open. His hands reached into the darkness of the forest. He tried to stand and run to embrace it. Something seized him. He turned. His father's arms held him fast.

The fork went silent.

The sensations diminished. He panted and tried to reclaim the memory of that first breath. "There's something out there. I could feel it." He took one last gulp of air then exhaled. "Again. Do it again."

"Take it easy." Willim put his hand on K'Las' knee. "You need to be calm for this to work. If you can, there'll be more to come. Just do as your mother tells you." He pointed K'Las to the forest.

K'Las had seen the proud smile on his father's face. It thrilled him. His father held up the fork with a trembling hand.

K'Las turned to his mother.

She nodded as she spread her hands to him, palms up. "Whenever you're ready."

"Yes, I'm ready.

"Then calm your mind and let's begin." She turned his shoulders toward the forest.

He calmed his mind as his mother massaged his neck and shoulders.

Ting

K'Las felt the heel of the fork against his left temple. In his right ear he heard something rip, like a bullwhip tearing the air.

The tuning fork moved to his right temple. In his left ear he heard the rip again. Then the whip exploded with a sharp CRACK. His head rang. He grabbed his head and fell forward. His father caught him.

The fork stilled. The ringing in his head subsided. He sat on his stool, dizzy. His father's arms steadied him. A tune leapt from his memory as clear as the day his father played it on his fiddle and his mother sang it. He considered his father and then his mother. They both sat quietly, watching him. "Where's that music coming from?"

"From your memory of the two veils." His mother handed him a cup.

He took a drink and relished the newness of it. "What is this?"

"Water." His mother took the cup. "Take a deep breath and hold it. Then clear your mind."

He closed his eyes. Water. I've never tasted water before. It's wonderful. The absurdity hit him. "Water." He threw his head back and laughed until he cried. When he finished he drew his forearms across his face to dry the tears. He snickered for a moment longer then looked at his father. "Is there more?"

"Yes, two more." His father cupped K'Las' chin and examined his eyes. "How do you feel? We can do more tomorrow."

"I feel great." He leaned his head back anticipating the next touch of the tuning fork. The edges of fatigue brushed his mind. "I'm ready."

The fork rang and touched between his eyebrows. He erupted in a sneezing fit. His mother pressed a cool wet cloth to his eyes and nose until it subsided. The scent of animals, forest loam, the fire, his parents and the night air galvanized his desire to complete his awakening.

His shoulders sagged. His father once again offered to stop, but K'Las had to have it all. "I can do this. More."

The fork rang and touched the base of his skull. The starlit forest lit up. He tried to blink away the painful light until tears blurred his vision.

He closed his eyes.

Willim carried his sleeping son to his bed in the home wagon. B'Tris sat on a bed of leaves by the dying campfire until Willim returned. When he sat beside her he leaned back against a log and she nestled her head in his shoulder.

"Well, Haegatess was right. He learns fast." Willim wrapped an arm around her.

"He never said anything about his song."

"By morning light he'll be hearing his song and more, I'll wager."

B'Tris sat up and looked at him. "You saw the weaves, didn't you?"

"Yes." He pulled her back to his shoulder. "Remarkable, wasn't it. Every time we set the fork on him colored threads and weaves climbed it. Could you see me ply my weave onto his?"

"Only when we both held the fork." She sat up again. "The colors . . . I can't believe the colors of the threads. No one talks of colored threads, or weaves. The old songs mention them, but almost everyone interprets them differently, saying they're only metaphors. Why can't we see the obvious? The priories tell us it's just a figure of speech for the twelve heavens. Our weaves will be vibrant and colorful on the other side of the black veil. But, it says right there in the verse,

For others wait to learn and build a colored winsome weave,

Assemble those who wish a skill and hold it, ne'er to leave."

B'Tris rose and sat on her heels. "What if the rest of the song means exactly what it says? What if the stars really are suns and worlds like ours? What if--

"What if you just relax?" Willim pulled her back to him. "Songs and legends say a lot of things. Lightning and thunder are K'Las' favorite unlikely notions of the ancients. Let's not get ahead of ourselves."

She sighed as she relaxed. "I suppose."

Willim hugged her as he nestled his cheek into her hair.

B'Tris sat up and reached for the box with the tuning fork. She opened the lid and drew out the fork. As she slowly turned the fork it caught the flicker of the dying flames in the campfire. "Uncle Tomas said the shine is a disguise to hide its true purpose. Aunt Haega kept its secret from everyone, except him."

Again, Willim drew her back to his shoulder as she twirled the fork. "He was supposed to be the heir of the fork when she died, but you came along, instead. He didn't seem too disappointed. Now will you quit futzing and stay still."

B'Tris relaxed into his side, cradled the fork at her waist and pulled her knees up to shadow the heirloom from the fire.

In the deep shadow, the silver fork glinted with starlight. "I don't know what to believe." 

#

# Chapter Seven

Jack

Still unconscious from his Awakening, K'Las lay quietly in his bed. The sweats and stifled screams had subsided. His senses appeared to be recovering.

B'Tris felt lost. Everything she had tried to do for him only made matters worse. He whimpered and sobbed with every touch, every sound, or smell. She couldn't feed him or give him water, and he refused to open his eyes. They kept the home wagon as dark as possible.

She had sat beside him, slept with him and cried with him for three nights. This morning he slept quietly. He breathed normally and she saw the hint of a smile on his face. His once sallow face and sunken eyes had regained some color. She risked giving him a drink.

Willim handed her a fresh cup of warm broth as she slipped an arm under K'Las' shoulders. He didn't struggle. She lifted him and took the cup. His head lolled to one side. He snorted and raised his head, his mouth open and eyes closed.

She brought the cup near and let the fragrance waft over his face. He inhaled. An eye opened and peered through slitted lids. Then both eyes opened wide.

K'Las inhaled deeply and finished with a gasp. He took the cup, sipped then up-ended it and gulped the broth.

He exhaled, and croaked with an unused voice. He tried again. "More? May I have more?"

B'Tris' heart leapt. "Yes, yes you may." She fought the urge to hug him, afraid he may still be too sensitive. She took the cup and handed it out the wagon to Willim.

K'Las sat up and shifted his weight. He took another deep breath, smelling the air. Then he took her hand and touched her fingertips.

A thread from each of his fingers slipped out and gently wrapped around her hand. "Can you see your threads?" B'Tris refused to let herself cry.

"Yes, momma." He released her hand and held it in front of him. "I see them, and feel them, and taste them, and . . . and . . . everything."

Willim returned with a bowl of stewed vegetables and roasted rabbit. "This ought to boost your strength a bit." He passed it in and K'Las quickly shoveled a heaping spoonful into his mouth. His eyes closed as he leaned his head back. "Ooohmm, ooohmm." He began chewing and laid back down holding the bowl tight. He chewed and hummed with pleasure.

B'Tris gave Willim a questioned look. He shrugged and grinned at her. She took the bowl from him. "Sit up and eat. Would you like some fresh raspberries and honey?"

K'Las' eyes flew open. "I want to eat them outside." He got to his feet, took a step, staggered then fell back.

B'Tris caught him and laid him in his bed. "Give yourself some time. You haven't eaten in nearly three days."

Willim winked at him with a nod. "If you feel strong enough I'll give you your first lesson later, on our way to Kerner."

K'Las sat up. "Can't we start now?" He grabbed B'Tris' arm. "Can we momma? I feel better already."

"No. Finish your stew." She propped a pillow behind him and leaned him back. "There's still a little more in the kettle." She looked to Willim to be sure she was right. He nodded. "We're going to break camp and try to reach Kerner before nightfall. When you finish eating you can come outside, if you like."

Willim helped B'Tris down from the wagon. She took K'Las some fresh raspberries and honey, hoping to see him eat more. She and Willim began to break camp. With the tent down, the irons for the fire pit disassembled and pots cleaned, they stacked everything by the wagon. Tidying up the site and dousing the hot coals were the only things left.

K'Las climbed down from the back of the home wagon dressed and ready to go. He hurried as fast as his wobbly legs would carry him to his father and pointed down the road. "Papa, someone's coming."

Willim saw a rider coming toward them. B'Tris came to his side to see for herself. She took K'Las' shoulders, turned him to her and leaned down and fixed her eyes on his. "Whatever you do, do not show your threads. Understand?"

"Why?"

"Just do as I say. We'll explain later." She fixed his gaze with a stern eye.

K'Las nodded. B'Tris stood and they all waited for the rider. He sat on a dark bay horse and rode tall in the saddle.

Willim took a step toward the man. "That's Jon Warden, the county forester. You know, Beth's husband."

"When did you meet him?" B'Tris came to his side along with K'Las.

"I met him twice in Kerner while you were at the henge." Willim waved. "Good man, by all accounts. Folks in Kerner say he's tough as iron and bullheaded sometimes, but a good man nonetheless."

As Jon approached she sized him up. He was a strong, wiry man with a weathered face which bore witness to the years he must have spent outdoors. An archer's hood with a mantel covered the shoulders of his tan linen shirt. A long sheathed blade hung from a brown leather belt which he tied through a tarnished metal ring. Muddy lace wrapped boots reached up to his knees with his brown cotton britches neatly tucked in. A recurve hunting bow and quiver hung at the ready from his saddle.

"Greetings Jon. What brings you here, today?" Willim approached the forester as he swung down from his saddle.

"Good day to you, Will." Jon pulled back his archers hood, revealing a mop of black hair, and nodded a courteous bow. The two men shook hands. "Just passin' by. This be your third year ain't it?"

Jon's clear baritone voice reminded her of Willim's. B'Tris put on a welcome expression and presented her hand as she approached. "Yes, and this will probably be our last year. I am very happy to meet you at last, Mr. Warden. My name is B'Tris."

"Call me Jon." He took her hand with a firm grip, then relaxed it when he realized it hurt her. "Beth speaks well of yeh." He waved at K'Las. "How yeh doin', boy. Phillip and Jon, Jr. will be happy to see yeh again. Yeh ready for more wrestlin'?"

K'Las came to his father's side. "Yes sir. I can't wait."

Jon nodded and addressed Willim. "Yeh might think on stayin' at Turnout Pond tonight. Kerner creek flooded about a week ago and took out the road. I figure it'll be tomorrow before they get it passable again."

K'Las examined the horse. He ran to its right side and pointed. "Look, papa. Look at the weaves."

B'Tris hurried to K'Las. "K'Las, mind your manners." She lowered K'Las' arm then began to examine a cluster of green and yellow braid hanging from the saddle blanket.

Jon came around the horse. "Yeh talkin' about that tassel? My eldest girl, Alara made it for me. Said it would bring me luck."

"It is delightful." B'Tris petted the braid. "Do you think she'd make one for me?"

"But momma . . ." K'Las pointed to her hands. She lightly slapped his finger away.

"Yep, I'm sure she would." Jon returned to the other side of his horse. "By the by, there's couple of rabid dogs been reported hereabouts, so keep a wary eye out. I'm meetin' a couple of my foresters near Bartle's Nook to hunt 'em down."

"Thanks, I'll keep my crossbow at hand." Willim shook Jon's hand.

Jon shook B'Tris' hand and waved to K'Las then mounted his horse and turned it toward the meadow. "Camp at Turnout Pond tonight. Good fishin', too." He spurred his horse to a walk. "Watch for them rabid dogs, Will. Good day, folks."

"See you in Kerner." B'Tris waved farewell.

Jon crossed the stream and onto a trail across the meadow and to the forest and foothills beyond.

With Jon out of earshot Willim folded his arms and regarded B'Tris. "Why did you put a tracking thread on that tassle?"

K'Las folded his arms too and frowned at his mother.

B'Tris huffed. "He's a lawman. "Didn't he run a tinker out of Kerner last year?"

Willim nodded. "Yes, but he left us alone."

K'Las followed his father's lead and bobbed his head.

"That doesn't mean he trusts us." She went to the home wagon and climbed onto the tailgate. "I want to know where he is so there's no surprises. What if he wants to search us again this year?"

Willim and K'Las followed her. "He only did that the first year we were here." Willim handed her the kettle and lid. "Besides, you'll have a lot of trouble keeping that thread intact through all those trees. How long do you think you can keep it up? Bartles Nook is at least ten miles away. What'll you do then--worry and futz about?"

K'Las handed her a bag of tent pegs and nodded. Willim patted K'Las' back. "You tell her, son."

"The two of you can just knock it off, now." She shook a finger at them. "As long as he's within a mile I can track him."

Jon rode steadily along a deer trail in the forest humming idly and thinking. Trees and thick underbrush often swept across his legs. The sun winked as he passed from one shadow to the next.

He always kept an eye out for the unusual and unexpected while in the forest. He usually liked the surprises it had for him. He disliked the human variety. The forest was honest. He couldn't say that for some people, especially tinkers. People were too complicated. He could read them well enough, but not like he could the forest. They used too many words and didn't always mean what they said. He could track a mouse as easily as he could a horse; even tell where they were going and why. But, people had always been a challenge, especially when it came to why they did what they did.

The trail dropped to a slow moving creek. Jon allowed his horse to stop and drink. His thoughts kept going back to the tinkers.

"Why? Why's she so curious about that henge?" Jon's horse flicked an ear as if it might answer him. "She ain't found nothin' these past two summers than the others who searched it. Nothin' but bones, twisted swords and broken shields, and there ain't much left of that, I'm thinkin'.

"Yeh'd think after 600 years folks would just give up. And what was the boy talkin' about? He weren't talkin' about this tassel." Jon considered the fringed bobble on his saddle blanket. "Weaves, he said. If he can see weaves so can his folks. That means they're either Master Weavers, priory members or Wilders. Either way, they don't want folks knowin' that, now do they?" He let his horse think about it. "They ain't crazy, so they ain't Wilders. I never seen anyone from the priory travel as a family, so I reckon that makes 'em better 'n most tinkers. Makes 'em master tinker weavers." Jon patted the horse's neck. "Yer a good listener, boy. Ain't no one can say yeh ever steered me wrong. Heh, master tinker weavers--yer right clever, ain't yeh?"

They climbed up a slope with boulders strewn among the trees. Jon gave the horse its head as they clambered up the rocky hillock. At the top a cool breeze and the midday sun greeted him as the trail broke into and skirted a wide, treeless glade.

Jon continued to follow the deer trail around the clearing until it reentered the forest. A minute later he pulled on the reins and drew the horse to a halt. He stood in his stirrups fully alert, listening. He heard faint yips and growls behind him at a distance.

"Dogs! Them's dogs!" Jon listened another moment. The horse nickered nervously, but remained still.

"Nah, 'em's wolves. Two of 'em, I'd say." At that moment one snarled angrily and another yelped.

"See, told yeh. And, I'm thinkin' Bert and Maynard ain't far behind." He swung down from his saddle, grabbed his bow, strung it, shouldered his quiver and ran back to the edge of the woods. He climbed to the top of a large boulder to gain a clear view and get the best shot. He waited, arrow nocked, for the oncoming wolves. He could tell the two wolves were close together, just outside the clearing, nearly fifty yards away.

He stretched the bowstring to his ear and pointed in the direction he thought the first wolf would appear. Moments passed. Abruptly, just beyond the tree line, he heard the scuffling growls, barking, howling anger and madness of a fight. He adjusted his aim toward the sounds. He relaxed his bow. The fight lasted only a few moments. He waited for the victor. With the breeze to his advantage, he set his feet as firm as the granite under him.

A wolf limped out of the forest, partially hidden by a small boulder. Jon drew up the bow again and aimed. The wolf's head and shoulders appeared just above the stone, moving slowly until it emerged into full view. The wolf had blood on its muzzle. The breeze changed. He adjusted his aim. The wolf, alert to his presence, raised its head and set its mad yellow eyes directly at him. It was rabid. Fury bared its teeth as froth dripped from its mouth. This is one of the dogs . . . wolves he searched for.

It crouched and began to prowl through the tall grass toward Jon. The wolf focused its fury. It broke cover and bounded toward him.

He had a clear shot. Only tall grass separated them. Jon saw the second wolf enter the clearing away and to the left of the first. It, too, saw him and began its charge. Two large boulders interfered with a clean shot on the second.

Calm intent enveloped him. He held his breath. The first wolf broke cover, snarled and bounded toward him. He loosed his arrow as the wolf leapt, then reached for and drew out another from his quiver. The first wolf plunged to the ground with a feathered shaft lodged deep in its throat.

He turned to his left, nocked the arrow and sighted the second wolf a heartbeat before it disappeared behind a boulder. It emerged in full stride, swiftly closing the gap between them.

Jon drew bowstring to ear, ranged his target, and felt his feet slide out from under him.

Maynard Woods staggered, suddenly queasy. He knelt on one knee and placed a hand to the ground to steady himself.

"Blasted greasy mutton." He clutched at his stomach, his mind reeled.

The ground in front of him began to growl, as if in sympathy with his innards.

Just as abruptly as the nausea had hit him, the ground opened up and swallowed every tree and shrub in front of him.

A moment later, as the sickness passed, he stood and peered down into a wide channel filled with churning dust. He stumbled back several steps and found a tree to hold onto. He sneezed and blew dust from his nostrils into his hand before wiping both on an immense dirty sleeve.

By any measure, he was a huge man. At least 7 feet tall with a big shaggy head, massively built with a barrel chest and arms the length and girth of a normal man's legs. He controlled it all with a bad temper. He spoke with the sound of deep rumbling thunder.

"Bert, come here."

Bert Woods walked up next to his giant friend. He stood barely chest-high to Maynard and just as unkempt and dirty, with hood, tunic and breeches ragged and faded. Nevertheless, both men kept their boots and hunting bows in good repair.

"How'd yeh do that 'Nard?" Bert scratched his matted hair as he stared into the swirling dust settling into the pit. "Yeh in a snarl 'bout somethin'?"

"I ain't in no snarl, and I ain't done nothin'. What do yeh think caused that?"

"How in the seven hells I 'sposed to know?"

"Yeh see any signs them wolves got caught in it?"

"Well, their tracks lead right up to the edge. My guess is they did. We'll have to see if there's a trail leadin' away." Bert raised a dust covered arm and pointed to his left. "You go that way and I'll go 'round this way."

The two men parted and searched for tracks near the rim of the sink hole. Dust covered everything, which made paw prints impossible to find. Maynard continued to observe the crater hoping to see some sign of a carcass. As the dust settled, something caught his eye. He called across the sunken landscape.

"Bert, look there. That one of 'em?" Maynard pointed to a boulder near the ragged upper edge of the pit. Mixed in with the dust covered forest debris he thought he could make out a pelt. Bert moved along the rim until he saw what Maynard pointed to.

"Yeah, that's one of 'em." Bert made his way to a point just above the wolf. He lowered himself to the ground and peered over the edge. He caught a glimpse of something unexpected.

"Hey, Nard. Come over here. Watch for tracks on yer way. I want to see if yeh see what I see."

Maynard made his way around boulders and trees until he reached his prostrated little friend.

"Yeh see any tracks?"

"Not even a mouse. What yeh see down there?" Maynard knew well enough not to stand near the edge. His weight alone might collapse the side of the pit. He had no desire to fall into that sinkhole of loose, sucking dirt. He found a spot near Bert and slowly lay down, inching his eyes over the craters rim.

"What's the matter, 'Nard, scared of heights?" Bert chirped a quick laugh.

"Shuddup, yeh jack wagon an' tell me what I'm seein' here."

"Yeh see the wolf?" Bert pointed to the carcass.

"Yeah."

The wolf's head lay buried under a boulder, small shrubs and forest loam nearly covered the body.

"Can yeh see an arrow in that loose brush?" Bert asked.

Maynard edged a little further over the rim and focused on the bush. "Yeah, I do."

"I didn't loose no arrows. Did you?"

"No." Maynard crept a little closer to the edge. "Could be there's someone down there. You know what, it could be Jon Warden. He was comin' this way."

"We gotta get him out." Bert got to his hands and knees.

Maynard growled, unhappy with the idea. "I ain't goin' in there."

"I don't wanna go down there neither. But, how we gonna explain this?" Bert crawled backwards, away from the edge.

"What's to explain? He's dead and buried. Why you wanna pull him out of there?"

"We owe him, that's why. He saved us both from the gallows, didn't he? Turned us into respectable foresters, ain't he? We owe him somethin' in return. Besides . . ." He waved an accusatory finger at the giant. ". . . the Squire and the King are gonna take a dim view of us not even tryin'."

Maynard pondered Bert's words. It was true. People provoked him too easily, which got him into trouble. Since he became a forester he learned to control his temper--a little bit, thanks in large part to Jon.

"And what if we can't find him? That's a big hole and gettin' bigger." Maynard pointed to the far side as more soil and forest debris slid into the depression.

Bert crawled back to the edge and peered in.

"If we can't find him then we get help in Kerner. They'll search with shovels and . . ." Bert stopped to watch as a hand reached up, pushing a shrub away from the wolf.

"Jumpin' Nyrikki." Maynard leaned toward the pit. "He is alive."

"Jon." Bert crept closer to the edge and raised his voice. "Can yeh hear me?"

"Need help." The reply was faint but clearly that of Jon.

"We're comin', Jon. Hang on." Maynard turned to Bert. "Go find his horse."

"How do we know it ain't down there, too?" Bert got to his feet.

"We don't." Maynard scrambled back from the edge and stood. "But yer gonna go look anyway. He's probably run off and yer gonna track him down. If yeh can't find him soon, then come back here and help me." Maynard walked into the forest in search of a fallen tree. "Now go get his horse. We need rope."

By the time Bert returned with the horse Maynard had fashioned a crude ladder from a tree trunk. Broken limbs and twigs lay scattered on the ground nearby.

"There ain't no rope." Bert tied the horse to a tree branch and went to the edge of the pit.

Maynard fetched a hatchet from the horse's utility harness and returned to the ladder. He trimmed off the sharp remains of broken branches with the hatchet leaving others for footholds.

He dropped the hatchet to the ground and glared at Bert as he wiped sweat from his brow. "Yeh ready?"

Maynard lifted one end of the makeshift ladder and dragged it as close to the edge of the crater as he dared. The end of the log hung over the edge by several feet. The ground remained stable. He lifted the back end of the tree and let it slide into the pit. The edge held firm as he backed away.

Bert crawled to the crater's rim and examined the lay of the ladder. "That'll do."

"Yer gonna go down there an' see what kinda shape he's in." Maynard fetched his kit and tossed it to Bert.

Bert skittered back with the kit and shoved it a Maynard. "Why me?"

Maynard gripped Bert's tunic and tossed him to the edge of the pit. "Yer goin' down there. Now."

Bert balked, squinted daggers at the giant then stepped to the ladder and began his descent. The ladder sunk further into the loose dirt. Bert lowered himself slowly and muttered obscenities at his friend.

He stepped from the tree onto the slope and carefully made his way to Jon, sometimes falling to all fours when the ground moved below him. When he reached the boulder and the stricken forester he cleared away the loose forest debris for a better view.

"What's he look like, Bert? Can yeh dig him out of there?"

"His left side's buried under this boulder. He don't look too good, neither. Gonna need yer help gettin' him out."

"Oh, gods." Maynard heaved a frustrated sigh as he headed for the ladder. His courage quavered as he surveyed the ground below. "Oh, gods." When he stepped onto the first branch the growing pit below sagged. "Oh gods."

The ground did not forgive the giant for his bulk. The ladder bucked and rolled and sank while he descended. He reached the bottom and began making his way across the slope. He found himself climbing more than crossing as the soil sloughed from under him. The ledge above became undermined, groaned and began pealing away.

"Maynard, watch out!"

Maynard tried to jump back towards the ladder, but the ground under him gave way. He fell forward onto his hands and knees. A scrambling panic overcame him as he rolled then crawled away from the avalanche, sliding further into the pit. The landslide passed him by. He scanned the sagging slope between Bert and the ladder. The makeshift ladder leaned precariously toward the missing piece of ledge. He made a choice--a simple choice.

Bert snarled and began yelling. "Nard, where you goin'? Nard! You stinkin' pile of jack, come back here."

#

# Chapter Eight

The Attendant

A'wyn Bowyer adjusted the shoulder strap of her travel kit and glanced at the early morning sky as she stepped out of the Galloping Goose Inn. Her dark blue kirtle fit like a tent and fell several inches too short. The long sleeved shirt she wore under it billowed in the morning breeze. She felt like a galleon under full sail.

She cursed the garments. "Blasted waste of cloth. Why women wear these . . ." The obscenities trailed off into a series of mumbled epithets. She preferred men's clothing, which fit her tall frame better. With her short red hair and longbow, people often mistook her for a man, an error she relished.

A'wyn refused to let the garments get the best of her. She closed her eyes, inhaled the cool, crisp air, exhaled and cleansed her lungs and nostrils of the odorous inn. She opened her eyes with a clearer mind, smoothed out her twisted clothes and enjoyed a moment of quiet. The moment did not last long.

L'don Banks, with his usual calm demeanor, exited the inn and came to her side. "We'll head to Gobblers Nob, today. Same routine. You're the doting wife and I'm the scholar and collector of ancient artifacts."

His reedy, pretentious, voice still reminded her of the man in Carol's Lee who threw him out on his ear. Both annoyed her, but at least the man had given her one fond memory of the place. He gazed up and gave her a puckered smile. His little mustache seemed to flare.

"It's the same thing every day." A'wyn, tired of the monotony, threw up her arms. "Why do you insist on telling me the same thing every day? This routine of yours isn't working either. Going from cottage to cottage, asking mundane questions is getting us nowhere. Why not try something different?"

"Have you come up with a better idea?" L'don examined her kirtle and tugged at a fold in the fabric. "You really must get clothing that fits. That blouse is too big."

"If we stayed in one place long enough to have some clothes made, they might fit." She slapped away his hands and leaned down to look him in the eye. "I do have a better idea. Will you listen?"

L'don skewed his eyes at her. "Unless it's something different, this time--no."

A'wyn stood erect and glared at her little superior minded commander.

"You have no patience, my dear." L'don lifted the strap to his travel kit and set it on his shoulder. "Every day provides another hint of the tinker's whereabouts. We find them, we find the Grand Peer the third fork for the Anvil of Rendor."

"Yeah, so you say, but we've found them three times, now and gotten nothing for it. No fork, no singer and no tinker. Those tinkers have outwitted us each time. If the Western Knoll Priory catches us weaving, they'll have our tones, if not our heads then dump us in an oubliette. The Grand Peer made it quite clear he wouldn't be coming to our aid next time."

"Then we'd better not get caught." L'don pointed his staff in the direction of Gobblers Nob and began to walk. As always, he set a slow, pace. A'wyn groaned and followed.

She glared at his backside. She hated slow walkers. Her long legs ached to stretch out and cover some distance. L'don's short legs appeared to be moving quickly, but for every one of her strides, he took two, or more.

He said nothing, ignoring her, as they walked. Every morning she objected to some part of their routine. Every morning he exercised his superior standing, and snubbed her protests and suggestions. Their pace ambled on, interrupted only by the occasional peasant who happened to be on the road. He chatted with them, asking obtuse questions about family heirlooms and itinerate tinkers. The same questions he asked everyone at every farm and village. In each conversation the tenor of his voice changed to seduce his target. Few resisted him.

L'don must have gotten some notions out of all the inquiries over the past week and fifteen slow, exasperating miles since they left Grange, but she didn't know what. He stopped at a junction in the road, turned and looked up at her.

"From here you can follow those mile markers to the Great Western Henge." He pointed to the grey stone by the road with the number 87. "I will take this other road and meet you in Kerner in four days."

A'wyn stared down at his bald, egg-shaped head and watched the little mustache dance under his nose. _Is he serious?_ L'don wasn't prone to crack a joke or tease _. In nearly three years of my apprenticeship, I've never been allowed to set off on my own. Why now? What's he up to?_

"This is your chance to prove yourself. I expect the tinkers to be at the great henge soon after. Get us rooms at the inn and remember who you're supposed to be. If the tinkers get there before I do, don't do anything until I arrive. They know who we are, so stay away from them. Otherwise, snoop around and see what you can find out. You know what questions to ask." L'don turned and walked away.

She stared in disbelief for a long moment, until he disappeared around a turn. A smile spread across her face as a laugh bubbled up from somewhere inside. She glanced at the milestone. "I'll cover that 87 miles in three days and have Kerner picked over before you get there, you imperious runt."

She bowed a manly bow, ducked into some shrubbery by the road and changed her clothes.

A'wyn felt the gnaw of hunger press at her stomach. Her long legs had carried her nearly as far in half a day as she and L'don had gone in a week. The tree lined road wound its way through open fields, farms and hamlets. She hadn't stopped at any of them.

Stone mile markers clearly marked the way to the great henge at every lane and crossroad or fork in the road. Someone had gone to a great deal of trouble to make sure pilgrims didn't get lost.

She stepped off the lane. Roots at the base of a tree provided a suitable place to sit in the soft loam and lean against the trunk while she ate her midday meal. The dried apple slices went down quickly, but she lingered on the cheese curd and sipped from her wine skin.

The tree roots were like the high arms of the Rector Inquisitor's leather armchair. Not a favorite memory of hers. Any summons to the rector's quarters had meant disciplinary action. Each one came with the expected announcement she had not lived up to some instructor's standard or came up short in meeting an objective.

Any measure of strength and endurance she missed triggered a desire to redouble her effort. She would not let anyone outdo her, especially in archery. Speed and accuracy became her trademark. Patience became her millstone.

The last time she received such an invitation, she fully expected to be honing her skills in forbearance, once again standing under a clear sky with an empty tin cup, waiting for rain to fill it. The gods were never merciful on those occasions.

When she arrived at the anteroom of the rector's quarters, she found Anton Hardwell and Nevel Sandworthy, fellow Adherents.

The rector's secretary, Mr. Messer, looked up from behind his desk. "Bowyer, stand at ease beside Hardwell and be quiet." The softness of his voice was counterpoint to the command it held.

She knew the routine too well. She marched across the anteroom and stood next to her classmates in front of the secretary's desk. She fixed her gaze on a large hourglass on a shelf behind him, set her feet at shoulder width, clasped her hands at the small of her back, squared her shoulders and didn't move.

The hiss of falling sand in the recently upturned hourglass violated the silence. Mr. Messer remained stone still, reading from a large bound book on his desk. The rustle of parchment whispered like crackling knuckles as he turned one of the outsized pages.

All attendants summoned here watched the sand fall. It tested their patience. Mr. Messer undoubtedly watched them for any break in discipline.

The last grain of sand fell. The tip of the mound collapsed as a granular river cascaded down the side. Mr. Messer rose from his desk, turned the hourglass, sat and resumed reading.

Sand fall and the crackle of knuckles were their only entertainment for another full hour. At least A'wyn presumed the glass measured an hour. It felt much longer.

Moments before the hour finished the entrance door opened. Three Inquisitors walked in, closed the door and came to parade rest in front of Mr. Messer's desk. They did not speak.

She knew them well.

Lucan Miles, tall and ruggedly handsome, fit her idea of the ideal man. A black cape over his shoulders hid his muscular physique. He was forceful, dynamic and admired by all the Adherents and the kind of leader she wanted to be. Under the Grand Peer's direction, he had reorganized the Special Auditors in the Endless Realm Priory into an effective and efficient enforcement unit since he took over less than two years ago. More children and wilders had been rounded up and recruited as Attendant Inquisitors, imbued or disposed of this past year than in the ten years previous.

L'don Banks, Lucan's partner, known for his tenacity, attention to detail, timidity and complete lack of personality served the Peer well. It wasn't until much later she realized he was not the timid soul he portrayed.

Ragnar Punce, his clothes always slightly askew and rumpled was deadly quiet, ruthless and known for his persistent quest to capture wilders. His recruitment techniques in the northern realms were simple, join or die. His partner died in the frozen northern kingdoms to the ill-mannered cultures of the Forkelelse people. Punce claimed the Forkelelse harpooned his partner, threw him in the sea where a whale swallowed him. No Adherent dared question the word of an Inquisitor, but rumors began to spill from other Inquisitors that Mr. Punce may have hurled the harpoon and eaten the man himself. The Adherents whispered to each with grim humor that Punce started the rumor himself.

"You're early." For a moment Mr. Messer did nothing. As the last grain of sand fell in the hourglass, he closed his book and stood. He pushed his chair under the desk and went to a side door.

"Mr. Miles will lead the other Inquisitors into the Grand Peer's audience chambers." Mr. Messer opened the door. "The Attendants will follow me--quietly."

A'wyn trailed the others, passed through and drew the door shut. A long dim hallway, lit by some distant lamp, had an arched ceiling which seemed to be of solid rock. No doors or windows broke the cold monotonous surface. The shuffle of feet echoed in the tunnel. About fifteen paces later, the silhouettes ahead of her turned left. As she emerged, Mr. Messer led the Attendants to the right.

Two heavy posts with a crossbeam near the top dominated the center of a raised stone platform. Flickering lanterns hung on the outside edges of the posts. Long shadows that never met the walls or ceiling spread outward.

No one spoke. She stood beside Anton. About two arm lengths to her left stood Lucan Miles and the other Inquisitors. She wanted to touch him. All eyes looked forward.

Behind them the sound of a door opened and closed. The familiar, purposeful footfall of heavy boots approached.

The Rector Inquisitor, Director of the Priory Manse, swept between A'wyn and Lucan Miles in his heavy ceremonial robes. He carried a ceremonial staff. The rich color of those robes were her first real clue she may be about to assume the role of Apprentice Inquisitor.

Black robes would indicate silencing and expulsion from the manse. The twelve colors of his robe, representing each semitone of an octave, meant only one thing--promotion. However, the great fanfare which accompanied a promotion was missing. There may yet be another test before her promotion.

Ragnar needed a new partner. Someone with tones complimenting his own and who would not hesitate to kill. His brutal standards were of little concern to her, even though she had never killed anyone . . . yet.

Lucan Miles would be her preferred choice as a partner. Perhaps L'don would be reassigned to the killer from the north. She thought Lucan might like her. He looked at her often enough. If things worked out, there might be more to the term 'partner' than other inquisitors enjoyed. She could only hope.

The Rector Inquisitor walked to the side of the wooden frame. He faced the Inquisitors and struck the floor once with his staff. "In the name of the Grand Peer of the Endless Realm Priory, the guiding hand of the Royal Trade House and the true authority of the petite thrones of the central realms this assembly will come to order." The rector drew a scroll from his sleeve and cleared his throat.

"Inquisitors, present yourselves." The rector opened the scroll.

"Lucan Miles, attending." Lucan's commanding baritone voice thrilled A'wyn.

"L'don Banks, attending." L'don's responded with a casual formality, as if this was merely another meeting he had to attend.

"Ragnar Punce, attending." Ragnar's voice rasped with annoyance as he shifted his weight and folded his arms.

The Rector Inquisitor checked his scroll. "Crandall Bitt . . ."

"Why are you so disdainful of our little ceremony, Mr. Punce. Please come to attention." The smooth, serene voice came from the shadows, behind the rector. Punce hastily came to attention.

After a long pause, the rector said again, "Crandall Bittner, present yourself."

No response came from the missing Inquisitor. The rector repeated the call.

After the third call for Crandall Bittner, Ragnar stepped onto the platform and turned to his fellow inquisitors. He seemed to have lost some of his previous swagger. "By all here present . . . um, be witness to the absence of Inquisitor Crandall Bittner. I, Ragnar Punce, affirm and attest to the death of Crandall Bittner . . . uh, in the service of the Priory and the Grand Peer. My . . . uh, written testimony has been duly presented and . . . um, accepted."

Ragnar removed his cloak and ripped away his right sleeve. He handed the cloak to the rector. "My right is exposed. I am in disharmony. The octave is diminished." He laid the torn sleeve in front of him.

"Crandall Bittner has completed his weave for the Veil of Life." The rector, in a somber tone, read from the scroll. "The Black Veil of Death has presented a new life and a new weave to the gods. May they be pleased."

From his grip high on the staff, Ragnar set an intricate weave racing to the tip. He raised the staff above the sleeve.

"My right is exposed. I am in disharmony. The octave is diminished."

He drove the wooden staff into the cloth. His thread bloomed out from the tip and quickly spread across the sleeve. For a moment, nothing but the glint of his weave intertwined in the sleeve.

"My right is exposed. I am in disharmony. The octave is diminished."

Another thread ran down the staff. As it met the cloth vapor rose and hissed as it spread outward and flashed.

A'wyn blinked away the spots in her eyes and saw a thin layer of ash on the dais. Ragnar yanked on his beard then knelt before the Rector Inquisitor. "I, as Inquisitor of the Endless Realm Priory, um . . . request the . . . um, Priory Manse . . . give, er . . . um, grant . . . a worthy Adherent to . . . um, uh, reestablish this octave."

"Granted." The rector motioned for Ragnar to rise. "Review the Adherents present and make your selection."

The Rector gestured to his secretary. "Mr. Messer, present the Adherents."

"No need for no presentation, Rector. I know which one I want." Ragnar pointed at Anton. "If my choices ain't no better than these, I'll take him."

A'wyn remained stone faced as her heart sank. There would be no test of her metal to prove herself. No fight to the death. The process disappointed her.

The ceremony to elevate Anton Hardwell to Apprentice Inquisitor blew by with A'wyn paying little attention. At least they selected her as one worthy for elevation. Someday she would be one of them.

L'don Banks rarely displayed emotion. While he watched his irritated and restless young companion turn and stride off toward the Great Western Henge, the corner of his mouth twitched into a grin. He managed to suppress it.

Though she was a skilled weaver and archer, she posed no real threat to him. Nevertheless, he would watch his back. Even untested apprentices could get lucky. Years of experience had taught him never to underestimate people. Especially ambitious ones like her.

These tinkers had proven to be worthy opponents. Their weaves were especially tight and well woven. The man's wife had surprised him. He had had no clue her skills matched her husband's.

This side trip was a simple misdirection. He had a very good idea where these tinkers would go, the route they would take and when they might get there. He would wait and choose the place and time while A'wyn distracted the villagers and worried the tinkers. No mistakes this time. He alone would be the one who carried out the directive - without her interference.

He had annoyed A'wyn to distraction before finally sending her on her way. If his estimates were right, she would stretch those long legs and arrive in Kerner a day or two ahead of the tinkers. Her credentials would verify her as a scholar of antiquities. While she waited for her "husband" to arrive, her questions would seem natural, if not a bit unusual, to the villagers. That is, until someone pissed her off. In the mayhem he would strike.

His mustache developed an expectant twitch. "I think I'm going to enjoy this." 

#

# Chapter Nine

BetRayal

A'wyn strode the country lanes. The miles sped by as she stewed about her selection as an Apprentice Inquisitor. She cursed the split rail fences which clumped livestock and blocked the lanes. The fields of wheat, oat and barley went by barely noticed as she pondered her ordeals.

When Lucan Miles found her in the gutters of Kanarah she went with him willingly. Her poverty compelled her to find something better. She immersed herself in training and study. Long hours of drills with weaves, tuning forks, bells, weapons and the practical theory behind each had gotten her close enough to smell success. Then as the other female recruits failed the harsh physical tests or crumbled under the constant harassment from the boys she found herself alone with the leers, smirks and name calling. Taller and stronger than most of the boys her age she soon came to dominate them one-on-one in every test of skill. However, several of the abler boys continued to pester and challenge her. Two nearly died from her weaves. The arrow lodged in their torsos may have played a part, too. From then on only the instructors and Inquisitors belittled her and got away with it. The misery might have been worth it if her selection had been fair.

As she walked, the pungent bouquet of a nearby pig farm wrenched her brooding mind to the present. She would soon need to stop for the night. Ahead of her a man led a team of oxen from between two trees and into the lane. She soon caught up and slowed to match his pace.

"Good afternoon, sir." A'wyn gave the man a courteous head bow. "May I inquire about nearby lodgings?"

The man examined her as he leaned heavily into one of the oxen and directed it forward. He tapped its muzzle with a stick and didn't respond to her.

"Well?"

"Well, what?"

"Will you tell me about lodgings?"

"I dunno." He batted the ox with his stick, keeping his eyes on the road.

"What don't you know?"

"You a man or a woman?"

"I'm a woman." A'wyn swallowed her annoyance.

"Couldn't tell. Not for sure." He stroked the side of the ox then pointed to her chest. "But, seems yeh might not be, too."

"What does that have to do with lodgings?"

"Most folks 'round here won't take to no one armed up like you. Won't take no half man, half woman, that's for sure." He scrubbed his chin. "I ain't seen a girl set up like you. Don't know if anyone'll take yeh in."

"What about inns and taverns?"

"Hmm, don't know I'd recommend one to a girl, a lone one, that is." He pushed his wide brimmed hat back and wiped his brow. "We got a few young bucks 'round here like to strut their stuff."

"I'm not worried about them." A'wyn took the man by the sleeve and stopped him. The oxen began to wander off the road.

"Hut, hut!" The man pulled his arm free and tapped heavily on the shoulder of an ox with his switch. "Bernice, get back there." He scowled at A'wyn and continued to walk. "If yeh can't walk and talk at the same time, yeh best wait for someone else."

"Alright." She matched his slow pace and reconsidered her approach. She decided on meek and mild. "I'm sorry about the oxen, sir. I didn't mean to interfere."

"Don't be doin' no girlie sweet talkin' on me." His eyes squinted. A sneering smile crossed his face. "Grow up. Get some skirts girl and make yerself presentable. Ain't no one gonna take yeh in without 'em, be they hovel or inn." His sneer deepened as he shook his head.

The condescension was more than she could bear. She stepped in front of him. He began to brush her aside, but stopped short as her hand spread across his brow from temple to temple.

"I don't tolerate men who smile at me like that." Her weave laced across his forehead. His eyes blinked and rolled in confusion.

She pushed his head back as she severed the weave. "Thank the gods I don't kill you." The man staggered backwards against the moving team of oxen then rolled off. His hands gripped and massaged his temples. He wandered aimlessly down the road and would be distracted for some time. The oxen meandered off the lane to a grassy area between fence and lane and began to graze.

A'wyn scrubbed her hands, trying to remove the foul memory of an older sneer. She wondered if it would ever go away. She resumed her journey to the henge, no longer concerned about where she would rest tonight.

The memory of Lucan's disdainful, dismissive smile sustained her anger as she strode. When Anton Hardwell had been elevated to an Inquisitor ahead of her, she had become lost in her own world of disappointment and renewed resolve. She had ignored the rest of the proceedings.

She had to find a way to impress one of those Inquisitors, or her promotion to Apprentice Inquisitor would never happen. _If I could challenge Anton or Nevel, and kill one of them . . ._

"Bowyer." The angry reverberation of the Rector Inquisitor's voice yanked her into the proceedings. Judging by his glare this wasn't the first time he called her. "Kneel and submit." She quickly dropped to her knees, bowed her head and presented her hands palms up, fingers and thumbs curled in to show she could not create an effective weave. _"Gods! How long was I daydreaming? Everyone else was already kneeling. Why?"_

"Adherent Bowyer, confess your transgression. Why were you not attending to the proceedings? Do you not care about the tests that lay ahead of you?"

_"Tests? Blast my tones to the seven hells . . . what did I miss?"_ A'wyn scrambled to collect her thoughts. To beg for forgiveness would be a sure sign of weakness, playing into Ragnar's perception of her. She cleared her throat.

"I was considering how to impress upon Inquisitor Punce's mind that I would have been the better selection as his partner. My mind became occupied with the task and lost track of the proceedings. Please accept my apologies. I fear my mind is still competing for the post."

A'wyn remained still, maintaining her submissive posture.

"You will--

"Fascinating." A strong, mellow voice in the shadows interrupted the Rector Inquisitor. The rector closed his mouth and bowed his head. "No plea for forgiveness, just an apology. An honest confession, I suspect. Well played Adherent Bowyer."

Three figures slowly emerged from the shadows behind the rector. In the middle, assisted on either side by two women in commoner's clothing, a small hunched man stepped onto the platform. His black cowl spread across his shoulders, revealing a white satin-like cloth on the inside. A white porcelain mask plumed with black feathers and encrusted with gold and jewels framed two black pits where his eyes should be. His pleated cloak unfurled as he walked to the center of the dais. It was the Prime Councilor. The protective weaves of a Master Weaver laced the cloth he wore. The obviousness of the defensive layer made her wonder what else he might literally have up his sleeve.

He stood in front of the heavy beams at the center of the dais. The two women held the end of his cloak off the floor.

"Perhaps we will modify our proceedings, Rector Inquisitor. Inquisitor Punce has made his selection. We will honor it." The Prime Councilor revealed a narrow, silver rod, much longer than a traditional pirn, which tapered to a point and reflected the glow from the lanterns. It seemed on fire. He directed it at Ragnar and Anton. "Dismiss the Northern Realms unit, Rector Inquisitor. Adherent Bowyer and Adherent Sandworthy will remain."

The rector stood and formally discharged Ragnar and his new partner. Mr. Messer escorted them from the room. A long moment of silence followed. Everyone waited and watched the Prime Councilor.

"I think we will proceed with selecting a new apprentice for Inquisitor Banks."

A'wyn's mind reeled. _Three on one team? Why? No. It doesn't matter, I'll be assigned with Lucan. This is better than I hoped for."_ She jumped to her feet. "My Lord, I'll do whatever it takes to be an Apprentice Inquisitor."

Hands on her shoulders slammed her down to her knees. Whoever it was remained behind her. Beside her Nevel hissed a laugh at her. He was one of those sneering ill-begotten maggots who mocked her. _Prepare to die you ass kissing midden slug._

The Rector Inquisitor slinked to the Prime Councilor's side. "My Lord, may I remind you a formal announcement has not been made concerning Lord Miles ascension to the Supreme Commander's post."

The Prime Councilor raised a dismissive hand to the rector. "The deed is done. No need for fussy formalities now. Let's find out about our prospective apprentices, shall we?"

Lucan Miles opened his black cape and exposed the gold braid of his office on his black coat sleeves. "We could put them to the Loom."

_"The Loom?"_ A'wyn quaked, unsure if it was fear or excitement. _"Of course. It had to be. Those posts and crossbeams must be the Loom. It's oversized . . . huge . . . but it's just like an old fashioned warp-weighted loom."_

"A little excessive, don't you think?" The Prime Councilor spoke to his secretary while he moved to the two Adherents. "Bring me the chromatic appraisals for these two and Inquisitor Banks."

Mr. Messer, who had just returned, bowed and scurried back into the darkness. A'wyn tried to stand, but a hand caught the back of her neck and held her down. She fought to keep her head up. "My Lord Prime Councilor, may I speak?"

The Prime Councilor gestured to the person behind her to move back. "You may speak, Adherent Bowyer."

"Thank you, my Lord." She filled her lungs and gathered her thoughts. "In years past Adherents sometimes demonstrated their knowledge and skills in combat to prove they were worthy of becoming an Inquisitor. I wish to do the same. I challenge Adherent Sandworthy for the apprenticeship with Inquisitor Banks." She glanced at L'don Banks. He hadn't moved or said anything on the matter. His chin rested on his chest with eyes closed.

"Hmmm, a noble idea." The Prime Councilor looked from his new Supreme Commander of the Score to the Rector Inquisitor. "I'll keep it in mind."

Mr. Messer emerged from the shadows with three velum documents folded once in the center. He unfolded each and handed them to the Prime Councilor.

He examined them then handed them to the Supreme Commander. "What do you think, Lord Miles?"

Lucan studied the vellums and clenched his teeth. He lifted his eyes and pursed his lips as he took a deep breath. "They share the same tones and compliment Inquisitor Banks'. Per protocol it is now up to him to choose."

The Prime Councilor nodded. "Inquisitor Banks, what is your decision, Adherent Bowyer or Adherent Sandworthy?"

A'wyn fixed her gaze on the little mustachioed man. Without opening his eyes, or hesitation he said, "I select Adherent Sandworthy to complete my octave."

"I challenge." A'wyn shot to her feet and pointed to Nevel. "I'm better than he is. I've defeated him--" She spun and swept aside the hands on her neck. The guard crouched and lowered a pirn at her chest, ready to strike.

"Let her stand." The Prime Councilor gestured for the guard to back away then for the Rector Inquisitor to approach. "So, Adherent Bowyer, you are prepared to die in order to become an Apprentice Inquisitor?"

"Yes, my Lord Prime Councilor." A'wyn curled her fingers and thrust them under her armpits as she faced the Prime Councilor. "I will live here, or die battling those in my barracks. I must move forward."

"Adherent Sandworthy, stand and be heard." The Rector Inquisitor stamped his staff on the dais. "Do you accept this challenge or concede the post to Adherent Bowyer?"

Nevel started to rise. "I accept." He lunged at her throat, his weaves already formed.

Her arms rose and deflected his hands. She fell to the side as he careened off her. They scrambled to their feet. Each clapped once and spread their hands. She stretched a severance weave, taut as any bowstring, sharp as any steel blade, laced like a cats cradles between her hands, ready to shred and kill.

They circled each other. Nevel fanned out his fingers and threw out a barrage of colored threads. They withered before reaching her.

"Peacock." A'wyn kept her weaves taut as she gauged her prey.

Nevel feigned an attack. He smirked.

A'wyn refused the bait. He knew she hated it.

He feigned again, then lunged toward her left leg. His weaves formed a vibrant stiletto as they reached for her thigh.

She poured energy into her defensive weaves as the dagger sliced through.

Nevel rolled, regained his feet and put some distance between them. He was panting as he smiled with satisfaction and pointed to her leg.

She glanced to the weeping wound. Blood spread over her shorn pant leg. "Oh dear, I must have cut myself shaving."

A'wyn let threads drop from her fingertips. _Catch him while he regains his energy._ She stepped toward him.

He backed away.

She strode toward him. Her threads ran side by side and braided together.

Nevel braced himself with no more than a thin black defensive canvas at the ready.

She ran at him. Hues of cabled energy hung from each hand. She threw one toward him.

Canvas and cable collided and each collapsed into nothing.

She hurled the second cable at him.

A golden clap of thunder came from nowhere.

Nevel dropped to the floor. Her cable flashed into a glowing cloud of embers.

A pair of arms grabbed her from behind and clamped her arms to her side. She kicked, cursed, and tried to rake the shins of whoever held her. The arms were too strong.

"I had him. I had him."

"Stop." The man's voice rasped with anger and grunts. Two guards joined him, took her hands and covered them with leather sheaths.

Another two guards lifted Nevel from the floor and carried him into the shadows.

A'wyn struggled to release herself from the man's hold and noticed the gold braids on his sleeves. Lucan had his arms around her. Frustrated, she thrashed one last time and grunted through clenched teeth. She wanted to strike at him for denying her victory, but she relaxed into him as the guards laced up the sheaths on her hands. _I finally got his attention. He knows who I am._

Lucan breathed heavily. His hushed whisper caressed her ear. "You stupid cow. You'll never really be an Inquisitor. The Prime Councilor wants a woman to tempt and seduce L'don. To make a man out of him. But you're no woman. Not one L'don, I, or your barracks would ever bed. Unfortunately you're the only one left."

"Release her." The Prime Councilor and his two attendants approached them. "You have won your apprenticeship, Adherent Bowyer. Your installment ceremony will begin immediately."

Lucan freed her. She turned and looked in his eyes. The edges of his sardonic smile curled up in a sneer. His contempt ripped through her. Her hands and jaw clenched. _I won't break. I won't let him win._ She glanced to L'don. He hadn't moved. His head, still bowed, shook in disbelief. He rolled his head back, stared up into the darkness and sighed.

_It's true. They will never accept me as an equal, just Lucan's love-addled wench and L'don's whore. Lucan's smiles meant nothing. Had he smiled at all the girls? I'm such a fool. I didn't have to challenge Nevel at all, did I? I fought for their entertainment._

The Rector Inquisitor tapped the dais with his staff and began the ceremony. "Inquisitor Banks rise and accept Adherent Bowyer as your apprentice."

_They aren't even asking him if he wants me._ She straightened her spine. _I won't bend. I won't break._ She tried to smooth out her shirt and vest, but the hand sheaths prevented it. When L'don came to her side he tugged at her clothes. She held back the venomous threat in her throat as he brushed and smoothed the shoulders and front of her vest.

"There, you look much better now." He nodded to her. "Are you ready for this?"

"Yes." She avoided his eyes.

"Kneel and receive your articles of office." L'don took her elbow and turned her to the dais. She knelt.

The ceremony was short. The Rector Inquisitor presented her with a set of three pirns. One silver ceremonial pirn and two durable pirns made of legendary and rare Dwarfwood. She received two registered tuning forks to test potential recruits, diplomatic documents and another sneer from Lucan Miles. Whatever longing or admiration she once had for him was gone. She detested the man.

The Prime Councilor laid a black cloak around her shoulders then touched her temples. "We declare you Apprentice Inquisitor Bowyer, collaborator and partner of L'don Banks. You now complete a chromatic scale. The two of you are now partners in an Octave of the Endless Realm Priory. You are among the finest and will one day be served by those who are not. Together we will conquer and rule."

The ceremonial voices faded. Her mind longed for the simple world of her childhood where all she cared about was her next meal.

A'wyn shook her head and found herself standing in the lane motionless, uncertain where she was. She scrubbed the blank stare from her face, found her bearings and resumed walking.

The memory of Lucan haunted her. Since that day, a few well-placed hints from L'don and some deductive reasoning on her part clearly pointed to the collusion of Lucan and the Prime Councilor. Her sole purpose was to make L'don a man. She wasn't sure he liked women. He hardly looked at her, much less touched her.

Being a tool for the Prime Councilor didn't bother her. As an Inquisitor she expected as much. Nevertheless, conspiracies left a bad taste in her mouth. She had been naïve, and she knew it.

She stopped and twisted her face into a frown. For several minutes she paced in a circle, first one way then the other.

"You blasted silly cow. Get over it. Bend a little. Wear the cussed skirt."

She didn't like it, but in the middle of the road for all the gods, country and nature to see, cursing every moment, she changed into a vulnerable young woman. However, she might have some trouble explaining the bow, quiver and knife. 

#

# Chapter Ten

The Twins

A'wyn leaned into her long bow and scanned the Great Western Henge. Here she stood, on her own for the first time, making her own decisions. She had left L'don to his methodical, boring, search for the fork three days ago. The journey did enlighten her to the realities of local customs and sensibilities. Grudgingly, she continued to wear women's clothing, refusing to admit her partner was right. _It's just the hide-bound traditions of the ancient realms suppressing women to this archaic, out-moded garment._

When she arrived in Kerner the innkeeper of the Fiesty Wench Pub and Inn, Bernard Brewer, insisted she stow her bow and quiver with him. She talked him into letting her keep the knife to defend herself if the need arose.

The patrons in the Fiesty Wench Pub turned out to be very friendly and informative. When she asked about the Great Western Henge, they introduced her to a woman who knew all about it.

Cassandra Miller provided a wealth of information. A'wyn relished how she manipulated the woman with questions. Even L'don would be proud, though he likely wouldn't admit it. When she hinted about tuning forks and where she might find one, Cassandra leaned in and whispered she knew someone who had a small horde of them.

"At least three, maybe more." Cassandra, with a furtive glance at other patrons in the pub, seemed eager to spread whispered rumors about an old hengekeeper. "I see him use them all the time. If you go out there in the morning, you'll see him."

A'wyn couldn't believe her luck. The Grand Peer had found the first of the five forks near the Great Heart Henge. It was perfectly logical to search for the others at the other great henges. She wondered if they had not been duped into thinking some mysterious Tinker Clan possessed the remaining forks. There was only one way to find out. She wanted to visit the henge, anyway. This would be the perfect excuse.

Cassandra leaned across the table and laid a hand on A'wyn's arm. "You aren't an Enforcer, are you? I've never heard of a woman Enforcer, but . . . well, you have that look about you. You know, strong-minded."

A'wyn placed her hand on top of Cassandra's and leaned toward her. "I'm more than strong-minded, I'm an Inquisitor." She ground to a halt. Her pride had betrayed her again. She sat up straight. "I suppose it would be more accurate to say, I'm very inquisitive about ancient artifacts. My husband is dedicated to his search for the truth about the great henges and the tools the old masters used."

Cassandras shrugged. "I understand. We're used to scholars trying to find something new at the henge. I only told you about Thad because . . . well, you're a woman. We don't get many lady scholars here. I hope you succeed."

"Oh, I'll succeed." A'wyn stood, dropped a few copper coins on the table for her food and beer. "Thank you, Cassandra. I'll let you know how it goes."

A'wyn viewed the great henge with awe. Except for the mountains and forest, it was exactly like the Great Heart Henge near Kanarah. She put her mission aside for the moment just to enjoy the mythical grandeur of the place.

She didn't have to measure or explore the ruins. The historians had measured and explored all the great henges time and time again, though she would be hard pressed to call this one ruined. Each of the towering black stones was smooth, elegant and covered with delicate, elaborate, cryptic designs. On knolls at each compass point, north, east, west and south, stood twelve enigmatic megaliths. The great henge spanned a full mile with another circle of twelve megaliths at the center. Within the center henge lay a large, smooth stone like an upside down stone platter.

She liked the serenity of the place. The high mountains, cool forest and the sway of tall grasses in the crisp morning breeze eased her mind. However, the place also seemed at odds with itself. The stones stood quiet and peaceful yet, brooding, mysterious and patient, waiting for something to happen.

Her self-imposed mission was to acquire, by any means necessary, a tuning fork from an old hengekeeper named Thadeus Stonebreaker.

Her patience paid off when she saw a man carrying a large kit and a daypack. He dressed as most peasants did, but his tunic and britches were a dark green. From under a sagging, broad brimmed hat, she could see a long, raggedly braided trail of white hair fall half way down his back. The deep shadow of his hat hid his features. She followed him from the eastern knoll to the southern knoll as he used one fork after another on each of the standing stones. The man had dozens of tuning forks, a veritable gold mine. He surely wasn't authorized to possess any of them. Few people outside the priories and temples held those powerful tools.

A strange silence surrounded her from time to time. This struck her as odd. She could see him strike a fork, but heard no tone. All the simple noises around her died, as well. No grasses whispering in the breeze, no birds, nothing. The silence only lasted a moment. At first, she thought some coincidence of nature had occurred, but it happened each time he struck a fork.

Sometimes the old man simply imbedded the heel of a fork into a standing stone then struck the tines. Other times he placed two or more forks in the stones, struck the tines and listened. Nothing happened from her standpoint, but the old man was obviously satisfied, as he stroked and patted each of the giants. At times, he pressed an ear or his hands on the stone. Occasionally, he barked a laugh or carped at the huge stele and waved his arms.

By midday, she had seen enough. After watching him travel the course of stones on the two knolls she felt there would be no danger in approaching him and collecting the bonanza of the highly prized, and regulated, forks. If she delivered such a collection to the Grand Peer, it would be an added feather in her quiver. One of them might be a key to the Anvil of Rendor. If so, she would have to haul this old sot back to the Grand Peer.

She made her way around the southern knoll, across a small stream to a path leading up to the steles. Hiding her bow and quiver under a low shrub, she made herself look as much like an innocent country girl as possible and walked up the path. There she found the old man picking up his kit of tuning forks.

"Good day, sir." A'wyn smiled as pleasantly as she knew how.

"Ah." The old man turned, lifted the brim of his hat with a gaunt hand and squinted at her. "There you are my dear. I've been waiting for you. What took you so long?"

The old man's coarse voice didn't surprise her, but his remarks and demeanor did. His eyes held a glint of madness in them. His face furrowed with worry and orneriness.

"I'm sorry." A'wyn shook the surprise from her mind. "You were expecting me?"

"Burn you, Cassie, you said you'd be here by morning." The old man looked skyward shading his eyes from the sun. "It's near mid-day, now. Come along. Help me with these tuning forks. They're getting too heavy for me."

Slipping the strap from his shoulder, he handed the kit to her. "Where's your kit? Didn't you bring any food or water?" He shook his head. "Never mind, I've enough here for the both of us."

"You're just handing these to me?" She took the kit and shouldered the strap.

"Why not? You always carry it for me." The old boy stepped back and gestured for A'wyn to lead the way to the western knoll. "Let's go."

She didn't move.

"My name isn't Cassie." She curtsied and smiled sweetly. "It's A'wyn. A'wyn Bowyer. I just came by to--"

"Don't be telling me your silly little stories, Cassie. You can scare the little ones in Kerner with them, but not me. I've heard them all. Everyone knows A'wyn Bowyer is an Inquisitor. One of the meanest, they say." He reached into his tunic and drew out a slender metal rod.

"What? How did you . . . ?" She stopped, hoping to hide the fluster in her voice. _He shouldn't know about Inquisitors, or me. Did Cassandra come out here last night and tell him?_

"I want to show you something." He pushed one end of the rod in the soft turf.

"Hand me a B-flat, please."

"What?" She looked at him with his hand out, waiting for her to comply.

"It's your primary note, isn't it?" He thrust his hand at her. "Come, now. Hand it to me."

"What?" She couldn't believe this. "How did you know my note?" The question was out before she could stop it. Alarm bolted up her spine.

"I'm a little surprised you actually used your real name." He drew out a tuning fork from his tunic. "You now have a choice, my dear. You can forget everything you've learned at my henge, or you can die."

_What's going on, here._ A'wyn's innards churned. _How does he know all this? What is this choice all about?_

Neither option was plausible to her. For her to forget meant some kind of multi-toned imbuement thread in her mind, which required at least two Inquisitors or a team of Enforcers . . . or, a disciplined wilder. _Gods, not a wilder._

Death . . . well, she'd prefer not.

For the first time since becoming an Inquisitor, panic slithered through her thoughts. Who is this man? Is he really a Wilder? How strong is he? She centered her mind, focused on her song and quelled the jangling fear. She had to strike first.

She dropped to the ground on one knee, placed her knuckles on the soil, thumb and index fingers together, gathered her strongest weave and sent it racing toward the old man. Though no easy path existed, she pushed a winding braid that ripped through rocks, grass and twigs to the old man's feet. Her weave died.

Shocked by the turn of events, she looked at the old man's face. He smiled. A tuning fork hummed atop the rod he had planted in the ground. The fork hummed her note. He had cancelled the weave with her own tone. That was unfair. Anger flaired.

"I'll make you the offer again." He silenced the tines. "Forget or die."

"There's another choice, old man." A'wyn snarled as a smug smile crossed the old man's face. "Live and remember."

She picked up a rock and hurled it at the fork. She clapped her hands and spun threads with a different tone. With her hands back on the ground, she prepared to attack. The rock missed its mark and hit the rod instead. It still achieved her intent. The fork toppled to the ground. Her weave, reborn, raced across the ground and found the old man's feet.

She pulled, cinched the weave around his legs and sent him to the ground. With arms flailing, he scrambled to sit up. She stood and walked to him. The old man simply looked up at her, smiled then sagged into submission. She set her strongest weave on him and bound his hands, arms and legs.

"You are pathetic." She tied off the last of the threads. "Using a tuning fork to cancel a thread. How amateurish. That may work on a monotone Enforcer, but not me. Perhaps you're too old to learn how a multi-toned Inquisitor works their weaves."

"You did very well, my dear." His smile remained. "But, I fear you mistake me. I don't wish to harm you, only to protect my henge."

"Yes, well, death is a rather unpleasant option and I don't intend to die anytime soon. However, your days may be limited." A'wyn wove a sleeve around his neck and checked the tautness to make sure it was firm. "And offering to set a deep memory imbuement in me isn't much better than death."

"Oh, I wasn't going to kill you, just your song."

"Even worse. I've seen those the Priory have silenced. It takes twelve powerful Weavers to silence someone's song, Mr . . . uh . . . Stonebreaker, isn't it? And you're just one old man with limited skills."

"Yes, limited skills, indeed. Thadeus Stonebreaker, at your service, my dear. But, you can call me Thad."

"Well, Thad." She sat on the ground next to the old man and placed the kit on her lap. "You must have quite a story to tell. How did you come by all these tuning forks?"

She opened the rolled leather kit beside her and removed a fork from a pocket.

"Oh, I've had them for years. I have more back at the Heart Henge."

"The Center Henge, you mean?"

"Yes, but I prefer Heart Henge. My home is there, too."

A'wyn considered searching his home. If her hunch was right, this old man might have access to more than just a bag of forbidden forks. He obviously knew more about these ancient ruins than anyone else did. Old stories told of recluses who lived among the standing stone having strange powers. None of those stories had ever panned out, but maybe this one would. After all, he had all these forks. Such evidence could lead to other compelling possibilities.

"How did you know about my primary tone?" She held up and examined one of the forks.

"I think I'm lying on a rock." Thad squirmed a bit. "Will you help me?"

"Tell me how you knew about my note."

"The henge told me." He groaned, trying to roll away from his complaint. She pulled him back.

"You talk to the henge?"

"Oh, yes." He chuckled. "It's sings, too. It has the most beautiful voice. You should hear it."

That was all she needed. The great henges had been dead and silent for 600 years. This old man's mind was draftier than all the ancient bell towers of the Rendor Empire. He might have some skills as a Weaver, but a talking and singing henge pushed credibility. Obviously, the madness of being a Wilder had taken its toll.

"Mr. Stonebreaker." She turned to him. "By the power conferred upon me by the Grand Peer, Supreme Peer of the five Realms, Grand Master of the five trade houses, Voice of the Veils, I place you under arrest for possession of a controlled item. Namely, tuning forks. A total of . . ." She counted the forks in the roll. ". . . twelve with one wooden mallet."

"What about that one?" Thad thrust his chin in the direction of the toppled fork.

"Thirteen." She reached out and gathered it up.

"And, what about the one in the stone?" Thad tried to roll and nod to the nearby megalith. She turned to find where he indicated.

"Oh, yes." She quickly examined her binding weaves before she stood. "That makes fourteen tuning forks."

She walked to the standing stone and pulled on the fork planted in the base. It didn't move. She twisted, pushed and pulled again. Nothing happened. "How do I get it out?"

"Tap the tines and turn it. It's best to use the mallet. Be careful, though. Don't touch the tines after you strike it."

"I know how to use a tuning fork, Mr. Stonebreaker." She fetched the mallet and returned to the megalith.

She positioned herself to grasp and turn the exposed handle of the fork and strike at the same time. With mallet in hand, she gently tapped the tines.

_Ting_

The sound of her signature tone engulfed her. The thrill of a major lift both familiar and godlike twisted high then plunged into a terrifying minor fall, foreign and malevolent. Her song, angelic at first, fighting to gain supremacy, soon became harsh and grating. The sound pierced and sliced through her brain. She clutched her head and fell to the ground, the world spun violently. Her scream went silent, drowned out by the shrill bloody pain seeping from her ears and her heaving stomach. Vomit spread on the ground before her face.

Her world went dark.

Thad sat up and swept the shredded weaves from his body as his beloved henge sang. The weaves had withered the instant she struck the fork. He stood, walked to the singing stone and silenced the fork. The writhing woman sagged and became still, though she continued to whimper.

"Be still, now, my beauty." He patted and caressed the stone with a tender touch. "Be still."

Thad turned to the soiled Inquisitor and stood over her. "Can you hear me?" He toed her shoulder.

The unconscious woman, lying on her side, opened unseeing bloodshot eyes, which simply rolled up and closed again. Drool sloughed from her mouth and joined the pool of vomit which drenched her hair.

He knelt beside the stricken woman and rolled her onto her back. Vomitus mud covered one side of her ashen face. He opened a small water skin from his belt and began cleaning her.

A few moments later, she stirred and muttered incoherently. After several minutes, she sat up and complained about the headache ringing in her skull.

"Gods, that hurts." Her voice rose barely above a whisper. She pressed the heels of her hands hard into her eyes and groaned. "What in the seven hells happened?"

She wiped her hands across her brow and temples before raising her swollen eyes to Thad. "Oh." She groaned again and lay back down.

"Sit up, woman." Thad stood over her. "You have a decision to make."

A'wyn tried to rub away the pain in her head. "I feel awful."

"There's a stream nearby." He gestured to the path. "You stink, I suggest you go bathe."

A'wyn nodded, her voice weak. "What happens now, old man? Are you going to silence my song or quiet my memory with an imbuement?"

"Your choice, my dear." He folded his arms. "I didn't think to bring any soap. I'll let you bathe in private while you think about your future."

"I don't suppose there are any other choices you could offer?" She slowly rose to her feet.

"Well, there is another option." He offered his hand to steady her. "You could give up being an Inquisitor, renounce the Grand Peer and have your Ceremonial Imbuement removed. But, I'd need some help with that and it would take quite a while to arrange."

"You're saying you've done this to other Enforcers?" She looked at him doubtfully.

"Yes, quite a few." He grinned at her obvious skepticism.

"Who?" She backed away from him.

"I doubt you'd know them. One who chose to forget is now a full-fledged Council Member of the Craft Trade House and the Western Knoll Priory."

"Amazing." She rolled her bloodshot eyes. "And you would remove my Ceremonial Imbuement, too? I'd end up being as mad as . . ." She caught herself, looking wide-eyed at him.

"Me?" He laughed, dug out some bread and a hunk of cheese from his kit then gestured for her to go bathe. "Don't take too long. I want to finish this before dark. It'll take a little time to prepare for . . . your future."

"I assume you have a tracking thread on me." A'wyn stood stiffly. "Is that why you're just letting me go off alone?"

Thad handed her the food, smiled and pointed in the direction of the stream.

A'wyn ate the bread as she staggered down the narrow path from the crest of the knoll. As she walked, the pain in her head began to clear as well as her thinking. _"Where is that tracking thread attached? How am I going to cut it?"_

She walked by the shrub where she had hidden her bow and quiver. An idea began to gel as she ate the cheese. She walked on to the stream, stripped and bathed in the cool water. While she rinsed the filth from her clothes, her idea coalesced into a plan of action. _"It's a chance, at least. And, I'll take my chances with the gods before I'll submit to that gnarled lunatic. I'll have to report this. Let's see if he can handle a dozen Inquisitors."_

She walked to the hidden bow and quiver wearing only her small clothes. She selected an arrow, nocked it and resumed walking. As she crested the knoll, she found Thad standing by a megalith within easy shot, looking straight at her. With the practiced expertise of a champion archer and the cold purpose of an Inquisitor, she launched an arrow at his heart. Barely two heartbeats later, the shaft had found its mark and pierced the old man's tunic. To her dismay, the projectile rebounded off his chest as Thad recoiled from the impact. Man and arrow fell to the ground.

Another heartbeat and she realized her backup plan was now in effect.

Run.

Her long legs served her well in rare situations like this. With bow in hand she sprinted back down the path, gathered her quiver, ran past her wet clothes and across the stream toward the forest.

She ran as fast as she could, along the path, knowing the old man could not possibly follow for long. If she made it into the trees, she could lose him easily. She left the path when it turned away from the forest and her bare feet began to protest the coarse, uneven ground. A distant tone rang in her ears.

She hummed, in an effort to counter the hateful noise. Trying to ignore the rising pain in her head, she forced herself forward. The trees stood only a few more paces ahead. She had to get more distance between her and the old man. Somehow, he was able to use the henge to extend the range of those tuning forks.

Her vision began to swim as she stumbled into the tree line. _"Deeper, I've got to get deeper."_ She ran into the shadows, rolled over a fallen tree and fell into a shrub. She scrambled from the grasping shrub, panting, sweat streaming into the fresh cuts and scrapes on her body.

She tugged her quiver from a clutching branch, stumbled and braced herself against a tree. Tree sap clung to her hand. Seeing an opportunity to quell the piercing tone she quickly set a weave and drew out more sap. Forming the sticky liquid into two small balls, she stuffed them in her ears and sealed them from the agonizing noise.

The silence was beautiful. She put her back to the tree and slid down the trunk, ignoring the grasping bark and sap. Her panting subsided and her heart slowed as she sat on a mound of moss between the tree roots, bow and quiver across her lap. A sense of relief began to rise within.

_Where is he?_ She peered out from the cool shadows of the forest trying to see the henge. She crawled back to the log she had rolled over to get a better view. Trees obscured her vision, but she could make out most of the distant southern henge and trail.

She jolted with alarm as Thad emerged from behind a tree at the edge of the forest. She stood, nocked an arrow, loosed it and watched it pass right through a shadow. _Good gods, I could swear that was him._ The wraith continued straight toward her holding out the silhouette of a fork in one hand. She wouldn't waste another arrow on a shade.

She ducked behind the log pushing the sticky earplugs in further. _Why didn't I run, instead of sitting here, waiting for . . . what, death?_ She rose and peered over the log again. He was coming straight at her. She lowered herself and began crawling away, deeper into the forest.

Scrambling through shrub, brush, bush and vine she found a pair of large upright boulders and crawled up to a tree growing between them. She stood behind it and scanned the shadows for the old man. Sunlight dappled the undergrowth of the forest floor, but the shade was too deep, swallowing her vision.

Silence brooded heavily upon the forest, birds fluttered from limb to limb without a sound, the breeze . . . _"Oh gods, I can't hear anything."_ The loss of one of her senses, at first so welcome, now stood her hair on end. She didn't dare remove the safety of her earplugs. _"How much noise have I been making?"_ Her skin crawled with apprehension, her eyes leapt from shadow to shadow in a frantic search for the henge man. Behind her, she saw the hope of light in the distance.

She ran. The forest opened on a rutted old road. With no one in sight, she crossed it and dove into the forest beyond.

Thad watched her jump down from her perch. He made his way to the twin boulders, patted each of them and set his kit down. He would need something other than his little wooden mallet to activate this pair.

"I wish they wouldn't run like this." He poked the ground between the boulders with the metal rod. "Now, where is that blasted cache?" A solid _thunk_ soon told him he had found it. Clearing away dirt, leaves and twigs, he lifted the granite lid of a small stone box. He drew out a book, caliper and steel mallet.

He unrolled the kit of tuning forks and selected two. His hands swept away the weaves that hid a keyed hole on each boulder. The forks slipped in easily. He opened the book, thumbed through several pages then ran a finger down a column of figures. He found what he wanted, dialed in the calipers to the desired length and adjusted each tuning fork to span the distance from the stone to the saddle of the tines. With the forks locked in position, he picked up the steel mallet and struck one.

A'wyn stumbled from the forest into a clearing. Before her, she saw a man standing on a boulder. He loosed an arrow toward a charging wolf. In the distance, she saw a giant pressing a hand to the ground. She began to call out.

Waves of disharmony overcame her. She felt, but could not hear, the ground falling out from under her. Like a rippling pond, the silent meadow fell away. She fell into the choking dust. Her body slid, tumbled and absorbed the crush of stone and soil. Then it stopped. The silence and darkness suffocated her.

The black veil reached for her.

Thadeus Stonebreaker watched Bert curse as Maynard left him alone with Jon Warden in the sinkhole. Thad drew further back into the deep shade of the forest, muttering questions about his sanity.

"You blasted fool. What were you thinking? How could you have miscalculated that tone? That pit never should've happened, even with a cavern under it. She was a B-flat for sure and I used the right fork, didn't I? The calipers, maybe I . . ."

He palmed his forehead with both hands wiping the stress from his brow.

"Even if both A'wyn and Jon are B-flat's that sinkhole just should not have opened up. There's something wrong here. I've got to check that reference book. Must've figured it wrong, somehow." He scowled as he turned, clasped his hands behind his back and began to walk toward the twin stones.

"Nah, never happened before, why now?" Frustrated at his mistake he kicked the ground sending a flurry of leaves and twigs in the air.

"Because you're losing your grip, old man, that's why."

Thad counted his steps to the Twins. The two huge stones waited for him to prove them wrong. He double-checked his original estimation of the distance to A'wyn with his paced distance. He re-examined the tables in the reference book and confirmed his process.

"Close enough." He clapped the book closed and threw it hard to the ground. His thoughts turned dark as he pressed his forehead to a megalith. "So, what went wrong?"

The surfaces of the twin steles were flawless, as he expected.

A dark thought crossed his mind. He got to his feet, set his back against the stone and tried to repress an impossible thought. "How could you do this to me?" The Twins silently mocked him. "What's the matter with you? You killed one person and damn near killed another."

A growl rumbled in his chest when he could no longer avoid the prospect. His henge must be out of tune. "It just isn't possible. Not now. I'd need a dozen Master Weavers to fix it."

If Thad were the type who cried easily, he would have. Instead, he sighed heavily, slipped down the side of the stone, gazed at the treetops and shook his head in denial.

Minutes passed as he recalled each event of the day. A nagging thought fought its way forward. He slapped his forehead.

"The Southern Reach." Thad sat up and fixed his gaze north, toward the henge. "Yes, the Southern Reach." He jumped to his feet, looked south to the sinkhole, then north again. "Yes, yes, there may still be a chance."

#

# Chapter Eleven

Wood Talc

K'Las watched Jon Warden ride away. When the warden disappeared into the nearby forest his mother knelt in front of him and took his hands. "What can you tell us about the weaves you saw? Were there any on his bow and saddle?" Her voice sounded tense.

"I don't know what you mean?" He shrugged. "They were just . . . weaves . . . like on Donker's hoof, but not as tight."

"Were there a lot of loose ends?" His father laid a hand on his shoulder. "Did they look frayed?"

"Yes, they were kind of fuzzy. Didn't you see them?"

His mother sighed and gave him a pat on the back. "No, we didn't. They were probably old weaves left over from a master saddler and boyer. That's a relief."

His father smiled, tousled his hair and walked to the lead wagon as his mother stood.

"Will you teach me how to make a thread like you put on Mr. Warden's saddle blanket?" The thought of such a magical thing excited him.

His mother chuckled and nudged him to the home wagon.

"Ride with your father. He's going to teach you how to lay threads today."

K'Las yipped then ran and climbed into the lead wagon just as his father loaded a small bundle of wood into the footwell. "Do we need the tuning fork, Papa?"

"For what?" A quizzical expression came over his father's face while he donned a rain slicker.

"To teach me how to lay threads." A wide smile of anticipation spread across his face.

"No, I don't think we'll need it quite yet." His father climbed into the wagon and took the reins. "Tie the canvas flaps closed. I expect a dusty day." K'Las scanned the sky and trees for any hint of wind.

"Why are you wearing your rain gear, Papa?" His father's smile simply turned into a knowing grin.

"Are you ready, Bee?"

"Ready, old man."

His father raised the reins, slapped the horses' rumps. The wagons rolled from the meadow onto the road and quickly settled into their traveling routine.

His father took a piece of kindling from the bundle under the seat. "Watch how I lay a thread along the side of this stick."

K'Las chirped happily at the sight and took the stick from his father. The strands didn't fade or change shape except to merge into the wood, following its contour.

"You've done well learning to listen. Now use your other senses. What you see, feel, smell and taste in that piece of wood will help determine how you lay your threads and weaves. Use your song to form each thread; the more soothing your song the smoother and straighter the thread. Now, see if you can lay a thread next to mine."

K'Las gazed at his father for a moment trying to absorb what he had seen and been told. He examined the stick. His father clucked at the horses and gently slapped the reins on their rumps again.

"All of my senses?" He studied the stick, unsure of himself.

"Yes, use them all. Later we'll teach you how to adjust your senses for each thread and each purpose. For now just try to lay a thread next to mine."

K'Las turned the stick to view it from every angle, trying to understand what he saw. He held it to his nose and smelled it and stuck out his tongue to taste it. He glanced at his father who sat on the bench, impassively staring at the road ahead, giving no hint he was doing the right thing.

"Clear your mind and let your senses tell you what has to be done." His father pulled the hood of the slicker over his head. "Then think about how to use what they tell you."

K'Las held the stick firmly in one hand, imagining his mother's finger pointing at his chest. His mind cleared. He felt the bark and splintered grain, smelled the fragrant resin, heard the bark crackle as he slid his hand along the length of it, sensing its coarse exterior. Awareness grew in his fingertips as his mind wrapped itself around the wood. A familiar feeling climbed up his arms into his neck and brain blooming into a thought. The thought gelled into desire. Desire raced down his neck, his arm, into his fingertips. K'Las saw threads erupt from his fingertips. Every hue of green, brown, red and yellow seemed to encase the branch. His threads were disorganized and chaotic. They ran the length and breadth of the wood as each thread split and frayed.

_CRRRAAAACK!_

The wood exploded into a rapidly expanding cloud of dust. The startled horses leapt forward. K'Las fell backward into the canvas as the wagon lurched forward.

His father fought to regain control of the normally placid horses.

The team snorted and settled back, coming to a stop. K'Las' hands, clothes and face were covered with dust. The entire front of the wagon and half of Donker was covered.

His father chuckled and shook the dust from his hood and slicker. K'Las was not amused. He stood and began dusting himself off, irritated. "You knew that would happen, didn't you? Why didn't you warn me?"

"There were two lessons there, Son. What do you think they were?"

K'Las finished dusting himself, cleaned off the bench and sat in a huff. Despite his annoyance he forced himself to consider the lesson.

"The first, to lay a thread."

"And you did a magnificent job. Five threads, all at once. Quite impressive, Son." His father tousled his hair and smiled broadly. "What else?"

K'Las felt his anger subside.

"Bad things can happen if you don't do it right?" He gave his father a questioning gaze, uncertain of his answer.

"Very good, Son. Now try again."

The forest gave way to a shadowed clearing as the road forked. Willim examined the sky with its high, crimson clouds and deep blue expanse. "Looks like we have about an hour of daylight left. That's enough practice for now."

"Just one more, Papa." K'Las continued to concentrate on the stick in his hand. He slowly laid two parallel threads beside his fathers.

"Put that down, Son. Let's get ready to make camp. We'll go up this rise and camp near the pond." His father drew the reins taut and stopped the wagon. K'Las focused on the stick, unaware of his surroundings.

"K'Las." His father grabbed the stick. K'Las reached after the kindling then withdrew as he met his father's stern glare. "Go dust yourself off before we make camp."

K'Las petulantly shook dust from his tunic and slapped at his sleeves.

"Mind your manners, young man." His father, with a stern squint, pointed the stick at him. "You'll have plenty of time to learn afterwards. For now, focus on the business at hand."

K'Las reached for the stick, but his father held it back.

"You're getting tired, Son. But, if you're up to it, I'll teach you some weaves after the dinner. Until then, we set up camp. Understand?"

K'Las gave him a peevish stare then nodded and climbed down from the wagon.

"Will we be using the fork to make weaves?"

"We'll see." His father pointed at the road. "There's some deep ruts ahead. See if your mother needs help through them."

When the tinker train got underway Willim followed the right fork leading to Kerner and the camping spot by Turnout Pond. They made camp near the water with their usual efficiency. The horses were relieved of their burdens, hobbled and allowed to graze on the grasses by the water's edge. B'Tris erected the protective camp weaves.

Their evening meal consisted of more rabbit stew, honey biscuits, raspberries and dried apples. K'Las hardly ate and sat quietly trying to lay threads on a stick, but frequently nodded off, nearly falling from his stool. He finally lay down between his folks and the campfire still trying to focus on his task. Willim and B'Tris sat, drinking tea and watching their son slowly succumb to sleep. The sky was getting dark as frogs began croaking.

"He's certainly put a lot of effort into his threads, hasn't he?" B'Tris poured more hot tea into their cups.

"He's been at it all day," Willim lifted his cup and took a sip. "I'm surprised he lasted as long as he did. Did you see this?"

He leaned over, picked up a discarded stick K'Las had been practicing on and handed it to his wife.

"He laid five threads down at once on this. There's no question in my mind he's ready to weave."

B'Tris took the wood and studied it. "He's gone from knowing next to nothing to this in three days?" She considered the threads again. "Do you want to lay over here at the pond a while to teach him?"

"I think so. We're fairly isolated here so there won't be many eavesdroppers. We could set up some weaves along the road to warn us of any travelers. While you teach him I can run into Kerner to see if the road is repaired and get some supplies. It's only about an hour's walk."

B'Tris rose and looked westward to the forested hill on the far side of the stream. "Jon's moving this way, in a hurry."

"Can you sense where he is?" Willim rose and stood beside her.

"I would say he's about half a mile or so to the west of us." B'Tris set her cup down then placed a blanket over K'Las lying at her feet.

"In a hurry, eh? How soon will he be here?" Willim sipped his tea.

"At the rate he's moving it won't be long." B'Tris casually picked up her tea and sipped. Willim lifted the lid on the kettle and peered inside to see if there was enough stew left for the warden.

Maynard paced himself. He needed to conserve his waning strength to get to Kerner. He was no sprinter, but when it came to moving through the thick understory of the forest he was unequaled. He powered his way through ferns and brush making his own trail. His knowledge of the forest led him around the steeper, more dangerous slopes toward Kerner Creek and Turnout Pond.

He had left Bert and Jon in the sink hole with all the water and food they had with them; which wasn't much. He hadn't taken the horse simply because he didn't like the beasts and he had never ridden one. For luck, he did take the one of the pretty little tassels hanging from the saddle blanket.

Bert was still screaming at him when he left, but he had promised to be back by late morning with help. His first goal was to get to the road before it got too dark. And it was nearly that now.

The big forester crested a hillock and began his descent toward the road to Kerner. He caught the flicker of a campfire through the trees and took heart that help might be closer than expected. As he approached and got a clear view of the camp site he stopped and found cover in a copse of trees. He recognized the campers for what they were. He hissed. "Tinkers. Blasted theivin' tinkers."

Giant though he was Maynard could creep through thickets as quiet as any shadow. And in the night he was invisible. He made his way to the brush that lined the edge of the creek. The tinkers were not more than a stone's throw away.

"Two wagons." He began to consider his options, muttering in his sleeve. "I ain't never seen no tinker with two big wagons. Pretty easy pickin's, I'd say. An old man and a scrawny old lady. Have to take out the old man, first."

Though he approached them as stealthily as he could, the woman kept glancing right at him, as if she knew he was there. The old man stood up and hitched one shoulder then the other. Now, he seemed bigger, more powerful.

_"Now that just ain't right. It ain't possible."_ Maynard looked around to see if there was anything else they might be seeing, but he heard and saw nothing in the growing darkness. The two tinkers talked and then a boy got up. "That be all of 'em, I'm thinkin'." Dismissing his concerns about how they could have seen him he decided to act. "They ain't goin' to like this, but I got thing's gotta be done."

Maynard left the thicket and crossed Kerner Creek onto the road. As he made his way up the low rise to the pond he called out. "Hey, the camp."

"Don't come any nearer, mister. What's your business?" The man, who didn't seem so old anymore, started walking toward him.

"I need some rope and harnessin' and yer gonna give it to me." Maynard increased his pace and menace.

"I'm warning you again. Don't come any closer until we can talk." The man gestured for him to stop. "Stop now. Don't come any closer."

"We'll talk when I have the rope and har . . .."

Maynard felt something brush across his legs as a rush of nausea rose from his gut. He saw nothing. He continued to approach the camp. Fatigue crept up his legs. His pace slowed to a stop. The man said something and drew closer. He got bigger, younger and more dangerous.

Maynard cursed and pulled a hunting knife from his belt to defend himself.

"Mother of Nyrikki." His arms became leaden, the knife slipped from his hand. He collapsed to his knees and gasped for air. He sat back on his heels. Exhaustion overtook him. He slumped face first into the dirt. A hand pressed against his temple. 

#

# Chapter Twelve

Lightning

Maynard woke up. He tried to shake the cobwebs from his brain and found himself bound, gagged and strapped to a wagon. The woman sat by the campfire, her head resting on folded arms across her knees. She sat up and looked at him with a startled expression. He glared at her and tried to talk through the gag. No sound came from his throat. He tried to wriggle free of his bonds. His head didn't move. His legs were lifeless. The woman placed her hands on his temples and he fell asleep.

Maynard stirred and opened his eyes. He tried again to shake the cobwebs from his brain. The old man was at the campfire on one knee adding wood and stoking the flames. Once again, the woman met his gaze with surprise. The man glanced over his shoulder, then gave a start and glanced again. The man scowled and came to him. Again, he felt a hand on his temple and fell asleep.

The next time, Maynard woke in a fury. He struggled against the bindings. Much of his childhood had been spent tied in ropes. His father beat him until Maynard was so weak he could not resist while his mother tied him up. Sometimes he spent days bound, lying in his own filth. Until the day he was big enough. The day he knocked his father to the floor, pushed his mother aside and ran away.

He stumbled, bleeding, to the cottage of his friend. Bert's uncle refused to let him in. Then Maynard went from house to house, pleading for shelter, but every family refused, out of fear of his violent father. His own reputation for using his fists didn't help. For three days he hid in the forest, but in those days he lacked skills to survive in the winter woods. Starvation and the cold finally drove him back home. The ropes were still there.

Now, his rage swelled as the woman stood over him a moment too long. He fought his restraints, the wagon groaned, her hand pressed against his temple and he calmed. But his legs had moved this time. He felt a surge of triumph with his small victory. She smoothed out her skirt and kirtle before kneeling in front of him and removed the tassel gag. She looked him straight in the eye. He tried to spit profanity at her. His tongue and jaw seemed to swim in tar.

He broke their dueling stares and tried to turn away. He couldn't. She was directly in front of him, his head wouldn't move. He closed his eyes. _"Go away."_ His heart pounded in his throat. _"Go away."_ Scrunching up his face into a grimace he willed the woman to leave him alone. If he held it long enough she would, just like his mother did. He felt his heart slow, confident his tactic would work. He counted the seconds until he knew she would give up and pried open one eye to peek out.

_"Blast her to the seven hells."_ She still held her cold stare. He clapped his eye shut.

"Are you going to answer my questions?" The hard, determined tone in her voice allowed for no defiance. He ground his teeth, opened his eyes and nodded.

"You will tell me where you got this tassel and what happened to the man you got it from. Understood?" She leaned toward him. "Your fate depends on your answers."

For the first time in recent memory Maynard felt a curious, instinctual, fear arise in his stomach. _"What is that?"_ The unfamiliar sensation grew.

He tried to see his bindings. All he saw were his legs bound with what looked like normal ropes and a leather strap. Something very firm kept his head still. The gag was gone. What was keeping his tongue so tight? There didn't seem to be anything in his mouth but his teeth and tongue. _"She wants me to talk, but I can't. Like I got some . . . spell . . ."_

A sensation he had long ago forgotten crawled up his spine, along with a boyhood nightmare which embodied it. _"Wizards. Blasted wizards."_ Cold fear engulfed him.

B'Tris saw a dramatic change in the man's demeanor, a near panic leapt into his eyes followed by abject resignation. B'Tris was too deep in her angry interrogator persona to outwardly reveal surprise, but a corner of her mind paused to consider the man's sudden change. She decided to release the threads and weaves binding him and his tongue.

"Where did you get this tassel?" She held the green and yellow braid before him.

"How did yeh . . .."

B'Tris shot her hand forward and jammed a finger at his jugular vein. "I will ask you one more time. If you don't answer you _will_ die. Where did you get this tassel?"

"J . . . Jon Warden." The giant seemed to shiver with fear. "He's bad hurt. About half hour from here. Needs help. I came to fetch help and some medicine. Didn't mean no harm."

"Didn't mean any harm, eh?" B'Tris' finger ran up his neck to just behind his jaw.

"Your intent was writ all over you. You have this tassel. You pulled your knife on us. There's blood on your rag of a tunic. Is that Jon's blood? And you reek of filth. I could kill you with a clear conscious just for that."

"Ma'am, the blood's mine. I . . . we . . . me and Bert, we tried to get him outta that sink hole. I got scratched up a bit gettin' out and comin' here. A tassel is good luck. I just took it, is all. Yeh got to believe me. He's half buried under a rock. Him and Bert are dead for certain if that hole falls in on 'em."

A long pause followed as B'Tris considered his words. She finally released his jaw and stood, mulling over his story and not liking the fact she believed him. She began cursing herself for the lost time. Although Jon was no friend of theirs he was married to a friend and he had never done them any harm. They also had a code to live by: When compassion leads, success follows. The simple rule demanded a response.

B'Tris returned to the campfire and sat by Willim. She kept her voice low. "I think we may have made a mistake with this one. Instead of binding him up like we normally do with highwaymen, we should have listened to him. Despite his appearance he's probably telling us the truth."

Willim glanced to the woodsman. "We still have about an hour before sunrise. Let's eat and see what we can do for him."

B'Tris nodded. Willim went to the forester.

"I see you've met my wife." Willim smiled wryly. "Normally she's quite gentle and kind, but she can be a bit hard to live with sometimes. I mind my manners when she gets her breeches in a snarl. She rather likes me. She _really_ likes our son. And, well . . . you know how it is. You don't get between a cub and a momma bear. My friend, last night you went right to the top of her list of unwelcome guests. Now, you're going to have to deal with one mean mother."

The giant's eyes glazed over with fear.

"You are going to lead, without hesitation, my gentle wife to our friend, Jon. _She_ will do her _best_ to help _our_ friend, Jon. _You_ will do _your_ best to help _our_ friend, Jon. _You_ will do whatever _she_ wants you to do. Do you understand?" The big man nodded with a wide eyed stare.

"I'm going to trust you about as far as I can throw you." Willim began loosening the leather strap around the man's knees. "Honor your task and I won't _have_ to throw you. Fail and . . ." With the strap released he drew close to the giant's ear. "Tell me, can you out run Lightning?" Willim chuckled in the big man's ear.

Willim released the bindings and threads around the man's feet and asked, "What's your name, my friend?"

"Uh, Uh, Maynard . . . Maynard Woods . . . sir . . . er, m'Lord."

Willim released the final bindings on his hands and arms. The limbs fell limp to the ground. After a moment the big arms slowly rose, flexing and grasping as if testing them for strength. The big woodsman slowly made a move to stand, and froze. He looked to Willim for permission. Willim extended a hand and helped him up. Maynard stepped back, leaned heavily against the wagon and massaged his thighs.

"Mr. Woods, my name is Willim Campanill. My wife's name is B'Tris. Our boy's name is K'Las."

Willim pointed to the fire. "Some beer, pottage and bread have been served up for you. When we get some sunlight and you have regained some strength you will lead B'Tris to Jon."

B'Tris brought a large towel and a cake of soap and handed them to Maynard. "Go down to the creek and clean up before you eat. Rinse out your shirt and tunic, wash your face, hands and arms with soap." She paused as she examined him. "In fact, just take a bath, and be quick about it. We want to leave by sunup."

Maynard's face reddened. He growled and grimaced. Nevertheless, he took the towel and soap, staggered to the brook and did as he was told.

Willim collected the rope and harnesses.

B'Tris gathered up her best estimate of what she needed from the herbs, ointments and bandages she had on hand and a brown jug. She carefully packed them in a sealed basket and took them to the campfire.

The sky grew lighter and the forest began to stir with the chirps of birds and squirrels. Dew glistened on the grasses as the stars winked out. K'Las still slept in the home wagon. Willim sat on a stool idly stoking up the fire as she approached him.

Willim glanced to the creek at Maynard then stirred the coals around a bit and looked up to his wife as she sat beside him. "Are you sure you want to do this, Bee? You've been up all night."

"Yes, I think I can handle it." She poured herself some hot coffee. "A few cups of this ought to see me through."

"What about Maynard?" Willim held his cup up while B'Tris poured. "There's something odd about him."

"He's big and has a lot of unbridled anger." She sat close to Willim, cradling the hot brew in her hands. "If I can keep him focused on the task I think he'll be alright."

"You'll let me know if there's a problem, won't you? There's another unknown element waiting at that sink hole."

"You know I will, honey. As soon as I get there I'll let you know."

"If it takes more than half an hour, like he says, stop and tell me what's going on."

"Alright." She bumped her shoulder against his, looked in his concerned eyes and smiled.

Maynard scrubbed his face furiously, ignoring the stinging cuts and scrapes as the soap trailed down his arms. He didn't know if he was just cold, scared or in a hurry. What he did know, they would light him up like a Kindermas Bonfire if he tried to run off. His fear told him to run, to hide in the deepest cave he could find. He wondered if lightning could reach him in a cave.

All those childhood stories of wizards and warlocks flooded his mind. His father would tell those tales just to scare him awake all night. As a kid he always shunned the darkness. Not because of the dark or the critters in it, but because of a childhood fear called black magic. Now he was going to travel with a wizard in broad daylight. He didn't know if that was better or worse. He just couldn't figure out how to avoid it. And there was Willim's veiled warning. He had heard the same honeyed tone from King Gerald the last time they met and the gallows was an issue.

He finished cleaning up, gathered his wet tunic, soap cake and rag and made his way to the camp. Unlike his fear, his gut instincts said tough it out. Those instincts had served him well. He walked up the road as a shaft of sunlight skimmed the treetops. He had taken the same route into the camp last night. As he started up the gentle slope and neared the wagons he saw the wizards watching him. Willim looked impassive, but B'Tris watched as if a ball of lightning was gathering under her eyelids.

Maynard froze in his tracks. Fear welded his feet to the ground. He had to choose, flee or consort with wizards. Slowly he lifted one foot, then the other. He saw the spot where he collapsed the night before. He willed himself through it. An eternity seemed to pass before he reached the wagons. As he got closer to the fire and put the memory of last night behind him, he saw the promise of beer and smelled the assurance of food.

His pace quickened.

#

# Chapter Thirteen

BouldeRs and Peas

Maynard wolfed down his morning meal, gathered his still damp tunic from a drying rack by the fire and put it on. "Let's go." The two tinkers looked at each other, nodded and stood. The boy remained seated by the fire pit, staring at him.

"You can carry the rope and harness, Mr. Woods." B'Tris handed her cup of coffee to Willim and smoothed her kirtle. "As well as the medicine kit. I will carry the water skin."

Maynard glared, but curbed his tongue. He picked up the provisions and walked to the edge of camp. B'Tris kissed her husband, hugged her son and made her way to join him.

Maynard watched Willim and K'Las as B'Tris approached. Through his anger he felt a stir of regret for a lost childhood. Then he met Willim's gaze. A gaze that said, " _Remember what I told you."_

Maynard gathered a coolness he didn't know he had and returned the intense gaze with a nod. _"I will,"_ he gazed, hoping Willim could read his thought. The exchange gave him a curious thrill. The warning was plain, but held the air of strong counsel more than dire threat.

The woodsman turned and led B'Tris down the road, across Kerner Creek, onto a deer path, into the thicket.

K'Las watched his mother disappear into the forest. She was awfully small compared to the big woodsman. He gripped his father's hand.

"Will she be alright, Papa?" He couldn't keep the tremor from his voice.

"Did you see the weaves we placed on him?"

"Yes. Why so many?"

"He's a big man, K'Las. For some reason our weaves don't last as long on him as a normal sized person."

"Why? You've placed weaves on the mules and they seem to stay on all day. What's different with him?" K'Las gestured to the thicket where the giant walked into.

"Well, to begin with he's a human being. For some reason the more intelligent a creature is the stronger a weave needs to be to affect them. And the bigger they are the more layers it takes."

"Then why did you ask him if he could outrun lightning? Momma said weavers couldn't make lightning."

"Oh, you heard that, eh?" Willim hugged K'Las' shoulders. "Your mother and I don't lie if we can help it. So, what do you think I might have been talking about?"

K'Las looked up at his father who nodded toward the horses. "Lightning? You mean our horse?"

"Mmm, could be." Willim winked at him. K'Las laughed as he imagined the big man racing ahead of their horse.

Willim tousled K'Las' hair and pointed to the tent. "Go get the tuning fork. Let's practice some weaves while we wait."

"Will it be alright with Momma?"

"Oh yes. I told her we would be practicing while we waited. Don't worry, she won't come back and poke a finger in your ribs . . . but, I will."

Willim grabbed K'Las and began poking his sides, right in his most ticklish spot. K'Las squealed as he struggled to free himself from his father.

Maynard didn't take the most direct path back to the sink hole. That path was too steep and his burden too bulky. Besides he had a wizard right behind him; a woman wizard, no less. Having a boulder come loose, clonking her on the head was probably inadvisable. She might take offense.

Since he didn't know how much she could handle he took an easier route. Besides, she had loaded him up with the most cumbersome of the provisions. The water skin she carried lay conveniently slung on her back. Her hands were free. His weren't.

They made their way through the forest without saying a word. That didn't surprise him. Women didn't talk to him. Most men avoided him as well. Kids, on the other hand, couldn't seem to stop, especially Bert's three kids.

Now, Bert's wife, Fancy, had qualms about Maynard, partly because of his fierce reputation. He had to admit Fancy had done a good job taming Bert, who had achieved a measure of respect with folks.

Maynard was trying, too, but found changing old habits difficult. He liked the solitude of the forest. Trees didn't taunt him. He didn't have to fight. His world accepted him for what he was. Like Bert's kids.

Maynard didn't slow his pace or wait for B'Tris to catch up. He didn't have to. She kept within a few paces of him the entire way. Half an hour after they left Turnout Pond they stood near the edge of the sink hole. Maynard dropped his burden on the ground near Jon's horse and eased himself to the edge of the pit.

"Hey, jack wagon." Maynard peeked over the escarpment. "You still alive?"

"Nard! Yer back, and early, too." The relief in Bert's voice was apparent. "Who's that with yeh?"

"This here's our help."

"Is Jon alright, Mr. Wagon?" B'Tris shaded her eyes as she peered into the pit.

"What?" Bert coughed and scowled.

"Is Jon alright?"

"What did yeh call me?" Bert's hostile reaction took B'Tris by surprise.

"Uh, your name is Jack Wagon, isn't it?" She looked to Maynard. Her confused, embarrassed expression delighted him. She didn't know what a jack wagon was, and the expression on her face . . . oh, now that was choice. He exploded in guffaws. The sheer volume of his howls shook dust from the trees and birds of prey fled for their lives. He staggered backwards from the pit.

Each time he looked at her he laughed all the louder, clutched his sides and doubled over. He gasped for breath, grabbed his britches at the knees, inhaled, shook his head and said, "Yer a human bein' afterall. Thank the gods, I thought . . ." He raised his eyes to her, saw her perplexed face and resumed laughing.

"Mr. Woods, we have serious business to attend to." B'Tris stood with her hands on her hips and glared at the giant. "I see no humor in this. Pull yourself together and help me." She positioned herself near his head and extended her hand.

Maynard froze as her hand approached his temple. He quickly stepped back in a defensive stance. "What were yeh gonna do, put me to sleep again?" Suspicion laced his voice.

She just stood there and cocked her head, as if considering his question. She didn't answer.

"We have work to do Mr. Woods. I suggest we get to it." Her voice was even and filled with purpose. She turned and walked back to the rim of the sink hole. After a moment he followed, but kept his distance from her.

"I apologize, sir. We have not been introduced. My name is B'Tris Campanill. Mr. Woods has asked for our help. Would you tell me your name and how well Jon is doing?"

"Who else is up there?"

"Just Mr. Woods and I, why?"

"You said, 'our help'. Who else is up there . . . besides you two?"

"Ah, I see. Well, my husband couldn't come. He had to stay with our wagons, Mr. . . . uh, I'm sorry I did not hear your name."

"Bert Forest."

"Thank you, Mr.--"

"Nard, why in the seven hells did you bring a woman." Bert spit into the dirt, waving his arms in protest. "If you can't lift this blasted boulder what made yeh think she could. We need a team of horses, harnessin' and rope to get him out. Not to mention some strong backs."

"She thinks she can do it, Bert." Maynard hunched his shoulders. "Besides, she's a healer."

"Yeah? Well, I gotta see this." Bert shook his head and threw his arms up. "She's gonna have to be some kinda wizard to get him outta here, healer or not."

Maynard gulped and watched for her reaction. She began picking something from her kirtle at the shoulder, like plucking strings on a guitar. She paused, stared back the way they came and patted her shoulder again, more forcefully. The picking and plucking went on for a few moments before she walked back to him. He couldn't help but wonder why she had done something so odd. _Wizard stuff, I 'spose._

"Mr. Woods, what's the best way into the sink hole?"

"There's a ladder right over there." Maynard pointed to the tree ladder a few yards away.

B'Tris scrambled down the tree with the water skin and made her way across the soft slope to Jon. Bert sat near the stricken man. Another water skin lay nearby. It appeared to be empty, or nearly so. Jon's face was pale, but clean. Bert had obviously cleaned him up. His eyes opened as she approached.

"Good morning, B'Tris." Jon's voice was weak.

"Good morning, Jon. How are you feeling? Are you in much pain?" B'Tris knelt to be closer to him. He could do little more than roll his eyes to see her. She felt his brow and the back of his neck.

"Considerin' the situation, I ain't feelin' much, at the moment. Pain comes an' goes."

"You don't feel fevered. Have you coughed up any blood?"

"Yeah, did for a while. That and mud."

"Can you feel your arm or leg under the boulder?"

"Like I said, not feelin' much right now. Pretty sure they're broke, though."

Her hand still on Jon's neck, she closed her eyes and freed her mind. Threads eased from her fingertips and followed the fabric of Jon's tunic, across to his buried shoulder. The Weaver's threads found his sleeve and continued to his wrist. _No blood, but definitely broken._ She anchored the threads at the cuff of his sleeve and began to weave them into the shirt.

"I need you to remain conscious while we work." Her threads ran the length of one sleeve. "Let me know if you feel any changes in your arm or leg. When we move this boulder you may pass out if it moves too fast or too soon."

"What?" Bert barked a coarse laugh. "'Ceptin' the ground opens up again that boulder ain't goin' nowhere."

"Just tell me if you're in pain." She ran a weave along his other sleeve. "We'll have you out of here soon."

Bert coughed derisively.

"Mr. Forest, would you find a good, solid stone to use as a hammer, please."

"What for?"

"Mr. Forest, stop resisting me and do as I've asked. Please find a stone to hammer with."

"And I asked you . . ."

"Just do it, Bert." Maynard made a slicing gesture across his throat. "Don't get her in a huff, yeh jack wagon. Yeh won't like it. I can promise yeh that."

Bert squinted doubtfully at Maynard before moving off to find the stone. B'Tris turned her attention back to Jon. She began tugging on her weaves until Jon flinched. He soon relaxed and she pulled some more. The weave collapsed around his arm. She gathered and cinched the sleeve into a firm brace. Tying off the buttressed cloth she ran another set of threads down his back and along his buried leg, searching for injury.

She found damage in his leg. Both bones in his lower leg were broken, badly. One had penetrated the skin with a sliver of bone. His pant leg and boot, soaked with clotted blood had staunched any heavy bleeding. _I'll have to take a closer look at that._ Once again she interlaced her threads with the weave of his clothing. His trouser leg gathered up and his boot became rigid, immobilizing his wrecked limb.

Though he cringed, Jon slowly placed his free hand on her shoulder and whispered, "Thank you for comin'. Use whatever skills you have and we'll sort it out later." His face became even more ashen. His eyes rolled as his hand slid from her shoulder. He passed out. _All for the better, I suppose._

She laid a weave across his forehead to ensure he remained asleep.

Bert dropped a granite rock beside her.

She picked the stone up and rolled it in her hands to examine it. "This will do."

"Course it'll do." Bert rolled his eyes. "That there's good solid granite. It'll hold up to a lotta poundin'." He laughed as he gestured to Jon's prison. "What yeh gonna do, chisel that boulder down to pea size."

"No, I'm not, Mr. Forest." B'Tris stood and held out the stone to Bert. "You are."

"What?" Bert clenched his fists and glared at her. "We ain't got time for this nonsense."

He called to Maynard. "Nard, what demon possessed yeh to bring this nit . . ." Bert doubled over in pain. His ribcage angry at the finger wedged between his ribs. He fell to his knees.

"Do you know nothing of stone, Mr. Forest?" B'Tris pointed to the boulder. "That stone is Serpentine Granite. It will break apart with ease. Now, compose yourself and take up your hammer."

"Told yeh," Maynard said.

Bert kept his eyes on her while he eased himself to his feet, massaged the soon-to-be bruise and took the stone. B'Tris stepped to the boulder.

"Since you are not acquainted with Serpentine Granite, I will show you where to strike." She ran her hands over the granite searching for any crack or crevasse to run her threads through. Choosing one of the many she found, she set her weave.

"Strike here, Mr. Forest." She pointed to a random spot above her laces and stepped back with the bitter end of a thread.

Bert stepped to the boulder and struck. Twice.

She had miscalculated how quickly he would move.

"Well, so much for peas." Bert nodded contemptuously at the still intact boulder.

"A little to the left, if you would, please." She would be ready, this time.

Bert shook his head in doubt. He lifted the rock to strike. B'Tris released a surge of energy into the thread. Bert's hammer came down hard. The boulder crackled. One side of the big stone slumped away. Thousands of walnut sized bits of gravel scattered down the slope in a cloud of dust.

"Well struck, Mr. Forest. Well struck." She stepped back to the remaining portion of the boulder to search for another fissure. Bert didn't move. The stone in his hand bewildered him. He looked to Maynard. Maynard leaned heavily against a tree and appeared ill.

"Mr. Forest. Strike here, please." B'Tris pointed to a spot on the much reduced boulder.

"What?" Bert gazed blankly at her.

"Strike here, please, Mr. Forest."

"Serpentine Granite, eh?" Bert muttered to himself as he moved to the spot she had indicated. "Go figure. Ain't never heard of it." He pointed to the spot and looked to B'Tris with a questioning gaze. She nodded.

"Make your strike, sir."

Bert struck the stone as before and again a large section slumped away. He watched the walnut sized pebbles scatter. "Big Peas."

"Let's dig, Mr. Forest." B'Tris knelt beside Jon. "I think we can free his leg now."

A rubble of stone covered Jon's leg. A sizable stone remnant remained over his arm. They cleared away the debris of stone and, as they did, Bert drew back, sat on his heels and stared at the broken leg.

"By the gods . . ." Bert inhaled sharply. "How did that happen? The pant leg and boot is all cinched up neat like a . . . like a splint."

"It's just dried blood caked on the cloth." B'Tris wanted to avoid further explanations. "Don't be seeing something that isn't there."

"But, its plain as day! Look!" Bert pressed his finger on Jon's leg to prove the point. He paused. Awareness seemed to dawn on his face. He scanned the stone rubble then her. Blood drained from his face.

"Yer. Yer a . . . wizard." His quavering voice trailed off as his face and shoulders slumped. "Yer a wizard." His voice barely a whisper. He stared at the rubble of stone.

B'Tris reached up, placed a hand on Bert's temple and spread a weave across his brow. He toppled onto his side and succumbed to a nap.

B'Tris looked to the rim of the pit. Maynard stood rigid and pale, staring at her.

#

# Chapter Fourteen

Wave a Needle

Willim watched K'Las strike the tuning fork and practice a new weave. They sat by Kerner Creek as it spilled from Turnout Pond and babbled on its way under the warm morning sun. Concern for B'Tris nagged at the back of his mind and the lack of sleep would catch up with him soon.

She had taken the first watch during the night while he slept. Then he spent the rest of the night arguing with her about the giant and why the weaves hadn't affected him as much as they should. He contended the man was smarter than he looked or acted while she held he might be a giant, but not a mental one and some other reason may be at work. She had no idea what the reason might have been, but in her stubbornness, she maintained the idea. _What a stupid argument. Why do we do that? Up all night and nothing to show for it._

As typically happened when they discussed such conundrums it came down to the fact the answer was beyond their knowledge and they may never find it. Perhaps time would tell. It didn't matter any. The one thing they agreed on, the man was a common thug. Normally, they would haul him into the nearest constabulary in the morning after questioning him and let them handle the problem.

Still, there was the issue of Jon Warden, who had been part of their discussions as well. What had this thug done to the forester to gain possession of the tassel? How did Jon get injured? Did the giant ambush him? It seemed unlikely. Jon simply gave Alara's good luck tassel to this itinerant. There were too many questions and too many poss--"

Willim bolted awake. He hadn't realized he had dozed off. The tracking thread he shared with B'Tris hummed angrily. _"Willim, Willim. Answer me."_ Willim got to his feet and began tapping his shoulder.

_"Here. Fell asleep. Sorry."_

_"As Maynard said. Jon in sink hole pinned by boulder."_

_"Problems?"_

_"No. All is well. Back by mid afternoon. Have strong broth and beer ready."_

_"Alright."_ Willim caressed his shoulder as if it were hers.

_"I love you, too. Get some sleep."_

Willim found K'Las standing next to him.

"What were you doing, Papa?"

"Talking to your mother."

K'Las' eyes went wide. "You can talk? With the tracking thread?"

"Well, not really talk. It's code. If I tap or pluck the thread a certain way, in a certain rhythm, we can talk to each other. If we were closer it would be different."

"Will you teach me? Now?" Eagerness filled K'Las' eyes.

"Not now, Son." Willim hugged K'Las' shoulders. "You'll learn, I will insist on it. For now, however, I'm going to take a nap."

Willim examined the banks of the stream for a likely spot with some shade and comfort. He found a spot and pointed. "I'll be over there, under that bush. You go tend the camp and practice your weave. Catch some fish, if you like. Wake me up in a couple of hours. We have some preparations to make for your mother."

K'Las bounded off to the camp, tuning fork in hand. Willim settled himself under the bush as the hypnotic babble of Kerner Creek swept away his fatigue.

Maynard's bearing left little doubt he knew about her skills as a Weaver. He took a step back from the edge of the pit and planted himself, as if ready for an onslaught.

He would likely call her a wizard, regardless of her argument against the moniker. She wondered if he was going to become an even bigger problem after seeing her put Bert to sleep. Some of the weaves she and Willim had placed on the giant were beginning to unravel. Those weaves were her first line of defense. If they broke down . . . well, it could get ugly.

When he had his little fit of hilarity she tried to reach out to mend those weaves, but he mistook her intentions. For now, however, she would have to talk him into helping her--not one of her better skills.

B'Tris jumped, startled by a sudden, loud snort from Bert. Maynard crept closer to the edge of the pit.

"Bert." Maynard kept a close eye on her as he called to his friend. "Bert, you alive?"

"He's asleep, Mr. Woods. Nothing more." B'Tris calmed herself after the sudden noise.

"What'd yeh do to him?"

She ignored the question. Bert rolled further onto his back, his snoring a rhythmic constant.

"Fetch the horse and prepare to lift Jon out of this hole. I'm going to clear the last of this boulder away."

"What about Bert? Yeh gonna leave him in there?"  
"Mr. Forest will awaken and join us shortly. In the meantime, do as I ask, please."

Maynard stood near the rim for a moment, glanced from side to side and muttered something. He obviously argued with himself then finally left. B'Tris set her attention to Jon and the section of boulder that still pinned him. She found another fissure in the stone and set her weaves. With a yank the stone fractured. She lifted and tossed the pieces of granite to the side, freeing the stricken forester.

A few moments later Maynard tossed the rope down to B'Tris.

"Got it tied to the horse. Just slip that noose 'round Jon and I'll haul him up." Maynard hauled Jon then Bert from the pit.

B'Tris climbed the tree ladder and found Jon and Bert lain out on the soft loam of the forest floor. She pulled her kit of medicines close to Jon and knelt beside him.

Maynard searched Bert's neck for a pulse. Apparently satisfied his friend was alive, he moved near Jon's feet. His stance seemed more protective of his friends than hostile to her.

"Help me remove his clothes, Mr. Woods." She released the weaves splinting his arm and leg. Together they removed his breeches, tunic and shirt, cutting or tearing the tattered garments away. When Jon lay stripped down to his small clothes Maynard sat back on his heels and whistled.

"He don't look so good." He scratched his shaggy head. "Should I get him some real splints . . . er, I mean . . ."

"Yes." B'Tris ignored his slip as she examined Jon. "And a litter, please."

"Litter's done." He pointed to poles and blanket near the horse.

"Well done, Mr. Woods." She opened the kit as Maynard stood and walked away. She listened to Jon's heart and inspected the broken limbs until Maynard returned. He knelt at Jon's feet and set some wooden splints near her.

"Can I ask yeh a question?"

"Yes, what is it, Mr. Woods?"

"Are yeh a wizard? One of 'em weavers from the Priory I hear about?"

B'Tris, a bit taken aback by the direct question, saw plenty of room to equivocate, but recognized it would do little good. The man had not beaten around the bush and had apparently made up his mind.

"Yes, I suppose I am what you would call a wizard." She sat up and met his gaze. "But, I'm not from the Western Knoll Priory, or any other priory."

"Are yeh one of 'em wilders folks talk about, then?"

"No, Mr. Woods, I wouldn't last long as a wilder. All sorts of problems with being a wilder, you know." She drew out some clean strips of cotton and the brown jug from the kit.

"Yeah, I heard tell 'em Enforcer's take a dim view of wilders. They'll hunt 'em down and haul 'em into Grange for some kinda secret trial. Sometimes even kill 'em outright." He leaned forward and sniffed the air as she removed the stopper from the jug.

"What is that stuff? And what's 'em things in there?" He pointed a thick finger at the flagon.

"It helps clean the wounds. And those things . . ." She poured liquid onto a strip of cloth, "are needles."

B'Tris scrubbed her hands with the soaked cloth then drew a needle from the jug. "Would you like to help me?"

"What? What can I do? I ain't no wizard."

"If we work together we can be done within an hour, and you get to see a Weaver in action. If you don't . . . well, it will take considerably longer."

"I already seen wizards in action." He put his hands to his temples. "Kind of experienced at it, yeh know."

She saw the question in his eyes, asking if she was still angry with him.

"Yes," she gave him a gentle smile, "I suppose you have. Perhaps you'd like to see the good it can do, too."

"I thought . . . well, I thought yeh might just . . . you know, wave yer magic . . . needle . . . over him and he just gets up and walks home from here."

"It's a bit more complicated than that, Mr. Woods."

Maynard helped set Jon's broken bones and handed the wizard various items from the medicine kit. B'Tris inserted a needle on each side of the open wound on Jon's leg. Maynard winced as she rolled each one between thumb and index finger. She explained she was weaving a sheath around the newly set bones.

He could only take her word for it. She repeated the process on Jon's broken arms, back, ribs, chest and hips. The wizard claimed to be looking for other injuries. Since Jon's color seemed to be returning and he was just lying there comfortably, Maynard didn't raise any objections. He found himself captivated by her skills. He also wondered why she was being so straightforward about her abilities. _Downright chatty, she is._

Within an hour, bandages and splints in place, she rolled up her kit and stood. "Mr. Woods, I believe he's ready to move. Let's lift him onto the litter."

Maynard brought the litter, set it beside Jon and knelt to lift him. Without warning, a hand pressed against his temple. He fell to the ground next to the litter. His mind whirled. Through twitching eyelids, he saw the wizard kneel beside him, her voice seeping through the nausea.

"I am so sorry to surprise you like this." She sounded sincere. Her voice soothed him. He felt her hand gently caress his brow and temples. He was aware of his hair slipping between her fingers as his mind calmed. "It's for your own good, though you deserve better. But, if too many people know about me and my family we are all in jeopardy. Sleep, my gentle giant, you'll soon forget about my talents. You have earned my trust. Perhaps, someday, I can earn yours. May the gods desire such a friendship."

Her words pierced him. They weren't what he would have ever expected. As his mind cleared, he lay still, watching her wake Bert and Jon from their slumber. Bert sat up in a confused babble. Jon sat up in a rush and tried to stand. She held him down and warned him not to put weight on his leg, urging him onto the litter.

Maynard knew he should be angry, but he wasn't. Sure, the woman had threatened his life for smelling bad, put him to sleep, tied him up and made him promise to help them.

Well, they may not have been as unreasonable as he first thought. So what if they are wizards? They had him bound up and ready for roasting, but they hadn't hurt him, or anyone else. In fact, she treated him with a certain kind of respect; firm, but . . . well, not cruel. _I can live with that._ The idea she meant no harm surprised him. _She seems to like me, too._

As B'Tris helped Jon settle on the litter Bert shook his head and pointed. "Who are you? And, what's the matter with them?"

#

# Chapter Fifteen

Grindall

K'Las began the chores. He put the tuning fork back in its box and hurried to gather enough firewood from the surrounding forest to last through the night. Turnout Pond, more a lake than a pond, offered a fine opportunity to do some fishing. He would make the most of it. With fishing creel and tackle in hand, he made his way to the water's edge, dug up some worms and fashioned a pole from a willow. He chose a shady place to cast his line.

He sat on the spongy turf and settled into the quiet routine of fishing. A nearby log provided an ideal place to set his pole while he waited for his first catch. He emptied his mind, then found his song, crossed his legs and began to practice his threads and weaves. He used a flat stone for a worktable.

The occasional fish disturbed his practice. He absentmindedly removed each fish, baited the hook and recast. His water bound creel began to fill.

Time drifted by until the shuffling of footfall from behind drew him out of his contemplation of wizards and magic. He turned toward the sound, expecting to find his father.

"What yeh up to there young fella? Been fishin'?" K'Las caught his breath. A scrawny, bristly-faced man approached from the direction of their wagons.

"Um, yes sir, we're expecting . . ." K'Las bent down to pick up his creel.

"How many yeh got?" The stranger stepped closer, a smile twisted his grubby face.

"Um, six, I think."

"Who said yeh could fish here?" The man's voice grew hard and mean.

"Who are you?" K'Las sensed menace in the man.

"Name's Grindall Sykes. I'm a Forester for King Gerald. Where's yer Ma and Pa, boy? They out poachin', too?"

"Poaching? No, sir. We were told we could . . ."

"Yeh were told wrong." Grindall grabbed K'Las by the arm and threw him face down to the ground. He set his knee in K'Las back then bound his hands. "Yer under arrest, boy, for poachin' King Gerald's game without permit. Caught yeh, fair n' square, now ain't I?"

He lifted K'Las to his feet, slipped a leash over K'Las' head and cinched it at his throat.

"Papa." K'Las tried to step back as he yelled, panic welled up in his mind. "Papa."

"Yer Pa's nowhere to be seen, boy." The forester yanked on the rope. "Make it easy on yerself, kid, and just come along quiet like."

"Papa, Pa . . ." The leash cut K'Las' cry for help short as Grindall tugged.

"I searched them wagons, boy. Did yer folks steal all that stuff? Did yeh pay the Lord's tariffs? Where's yer--"

"His Pa is right here, Mr. Sykes." Grindall spun and pulled K'Las in front of him. Together they watched his father swiftly stride up from the creek. Grindall kept K'Las close to his chest with a firm grip on the leash, but stepped back as Willim got closer--and bigger.

K'Las almost cheered as his father towered over the man. _Mister, you're in so much trouble._

"You say you're a sanctioned forester, Mr. Sykes?" His father took another step toward him and held out his hand. "Show me your credentials."

K'Las heard the grit in his father's command and knew the anger hidden within. Most folks didn't recognize it like he did. The cold detachment of a practiced negotiator concealed the threat of an angry parent. K'Las never loved his father's voice more.

Grindall's grip on the rope trembled. "Well . . . I guess I could . . ." He grabbed K'Las' tunic at the shoulder and shook him. "No, I'll not be showin' my papers to the likes of no high-minded tinker." Grindall released K'Las' shoulder and thrust a finger at Willim. "Yer boy here's been poachin' the King's fishes."

"Mr. Sykes you have two choices. Release my son, unharmed, or face attempted kidnapping and assault charges."

Grindall grunted and spat on the ground. "The boy goes before Sir Charles Windhammer in Kerner to plead his guilt in the Forester's Court. Then I haul him to Grange and the high court. Yeh can bring yer charges with yeh and see how far they get."

"Perhaps you'd care to clear it with Jon Warden, first. He's the one who gave us permission to camp here and gather provisions."

"If yeh was a local man, I might think yeh knew Jon, Mr. . . . ?"

"Camp--"

"Potts! That's yer name ain't it? That's what I calls all yeh thievin' tinkers--Potts." Grindall screwed his mouth into a toothy smile at his own perceived cleverness.

"As you like, Mr. Sykes." Willim nodded. "Nevertheless, Jon Warden will have his say about this. He'll be here soon, along with Maynard Woods and another forester."

"Pah." Grindall spat again, and paused while he thought. He shifted his weight. "How do yeh know when he'll be here. Yeh some kinda soothsayer, or somethin'?"

Willim pointed to the forest behind him and the trail on the far side of the creek.

Grindall hesitated. "Well, I ain't sayin' yer right, but just so's yeh know I am what I says I am . . ." He reached into his tunic, pulled out a leather wallet. "Here's my charter."

Willim took the proffered wallet, removed a vellum document and examined it carefully. His face calm, he stared coolly at Grindall then returned the vellum to the wallet and handed it back to him.

K'Las remained as still as his impatient mind would allow, wondering why his father hadn't simply put the man to sleep, like he did the giant. _Wait, he said he went through the wagons._ He tried to wrench around to examine the camp. Grindall yanked his shoulder back, but K'Las succeeded in getting his father to look.

Willim's eyes returned from the tent and wagons and met his. _The camp weaves must be down._ His father's gaze fell to the ground, jaw muscles flexing behind clenched teeth. A smoldering stillness followed. A moment later he raised his eyes to K'Las. "Do as you're told, son."

K'Las stiffened. _He's going to do something._

"What's the matter, Potts?" Grindall pushed out his lower lip in a mock pout. "Run outta reasons to interfere with the Lord's business, have yeh?"

Willim's throat rumbled as he scowled. "You searched our wagons."

"Course I did. Kinda wooden-headed, ain't yeh?" Grindall tapped his brow. "I got me a list of things in yer wagons, too." He patted his tunic indicating something hidden. "Some of my tax collector friends might think yeh didn't pay yer tolls, now don't yeh know."

Grindall's voice hardened as he took a step backward, pulling K'Las with him. The coarse rope grated at his neck. "Now, I'm leavin' here with the boy and I don't want no trouble. Yeh can see him tomorrow in Kerner at Sir Charles' Forester Court. If yeh follow me, I'll have to--"

Willim met K'Las' gaze and stepped closer. "Rake him."

K'Las ran his heel down the forester's shin.

Grindall yelped. He raised the offended leg to rub it. Willim, in a single stride, drove a fist into the Grindall's face and jerked the rope from his hands. The forester collapsed to the ground, wailing.

Willim removed the rope from K'Las' neck and hands then knelt beside him on one knee. "Let me see your neck."

"We got him, huh papa." K'Las wrapped his arms around his father's neck and hugged him.

"We sure did." Willim embraced K'Las then held him at arm's length. "You don't seem too much the worse for wear. Your mother's ointments ought to soothe that burn."

Grindall got to his feet and angrily pointed at them. "Yer in big trouble now, Potts." He lowered his hand and gaped at the forest beyond the creek.

K'Las glanced past his fathers shoulder and watched Maynard emerge from the forest. He carried one end of a litter. A stranger carried the other end. A moment later, his mother followed, leading a horse.

"It would seem you may be delayed yet a little longer, Mr. Sykes." Willim kept his eyes on Grindall. "As you can see, your boss just arrived."

"Yeah, well, we'll just see what he has to say." Grindall picked up the creel. "We'll meet 'em in the camp."

"Set him by the fire, please." B'Tris tied the horse to an iron ring on the tailgate of the home wagon. She stepped near Willim and examined K'Las before setting her gaze on Grindall. "What's going on?" The grit in her voice, like his father's, was telling.

Maynard and Bert set the litter near the hearth and walked to Grindall. Maynard loomed over him, his brow furrowed, eyes squinted and jaws flexed. "Whaddya think yer doing, Grin?"

"I caught the boy poachin'." Grindall pointed to the creel full of fish. "Caught him red--"

Maynard grabbed Grindall at the throat of his tunic. "Yeh dimwitted turd, yeh know blasted well this here's a commoner's forest and so's Turnout Pond. Yer overreachin' yer charter again, and yer given me n' Bert a bad name."

"Bad name?" Grindall's chortle died as Maynard squeezed his collar tighter. "Yer no better liked than me, yeh ignorant, oversized yob. Yer nothin' but--"

Maynard growled as he drew Grindall's nose near his own. For a long moment his toes searched for the ground before Maynard set him down.

"Get outta here." Maynard shoved Grindall backwards. "Just the sight of yeh makes me cross. Yeh know how I get when I'm feelin' cross, now, don't yeh, Grin?"

"They assaulted me." Grindall hiked up his pant leg. "See, the kid done raked my shin, he did." He pointed to his ruddy cheek. "Then Potts hit me. See?"

"The only pots I see are over the fire." Maynard stepped closer. "If yeh don't be leavin', yer heads gonna be bangin' the insides of one. Hot porridge and all."

"All right, all right, I'm leavin'." Grindall straightened out his hood, pulled his tunic smooth and glowered at Maynard. "They ain't got no lawful permit. Sir Charles'll be hearin' about this, yeh can mark my words."

"That he will." Bert stepped up to Grindall, standing nose to nose with him. "In fact, why don't you and me go see the Squire together?"

"Jon." Grindall's voice rose in a panicked plea. "He'll thump me hard if he comes with me."

Everyone turned toward the fire and found Jon sitting up. "Let him go, Bert. Yeh best be leavin', Grindall. Get yerself to Kerner and stay there. I'll be talkin' to yeh later."

Grindall backed away then scuttled up the forest road. He glanced furtively to the camp until he disappeared around a bend.

Maynard picked up the creel and peaked inside. A big smile crossed his broad face. He closed the lid. "Looks to me like yer a few fishes short of a full creel, boy. Do yeh think yeh could snag a few more? I'm hungry."

K'Las, surprised by the offer, glanced at his father unsure of what to do.

Willim looked to Jon. "Yeh can trust Maynard, boy. He's big, ugly and ornery, but he won't lead yeh wrong and no one can say he's a liar."

"Yeh got that right." Bert laughed. "Ugly and ornery."

"Shaddup, yeh jack wagon." Maynard cuffed Bert in the chest and sent him to the ground. B'Tris and K'Las gasped as Bert rebounded and leapt at Maynard. He threw futile punches in the air with his head leaning into the grip of Maynard's big hand.

Bert broke free and bit the big hand clutching him. Maynard yelped. Bert kicked him in the shin and danced back with fists raised as if a fistfight was to his advantage. Maynard growled, stepped toward Bert who backpedaled down the road toward the creek. Maynard pursued and caught him as the road forked and crossed Kerner Creek. They fell into the stream and created a fountain of mud, stone and water as they continued their frenzy.

They all watched, K'Las mesmerized by the fury of the two men, as they disappeared behind bushes along the stream.

"Does this happen often?" Willim gestured in the direction of the brawl.

"Couldn't say how often." Jon tried to shift to one side of his bedding. "I'd say once, maybe twice a week, now."

"Now?" B'Tris hiked her eyebrows in surprise. "Is that better or worse?"

"Hmm, well, I suppose it depends on yer point of view. Used to be they fought every day; Maynard more often if yeh count 'em troublesome pub fights and such. Then, one day, Bert got sweet on a girl in Grange by the name of Fancy Winger. She and Bert wound up married and the hard fightin' stopped. At least for Bert."

Jon winced as he leaned to one side and tried to remove something from under him. "I wonder if I could trouble yeh for a biscuit or somethin' 'til there's some fish to fry? I'm famished."

"Go catch some more fish, K'Las." Willim pointed toward the pond then bent down to stoke the fire. B'Tris headed toward the home wagon.

"But, aren't we going to tell them our story?" K'Las' whimper searched for some sympathy for himself, as well.

"The story's finished, son." His father tousled K'Las' hair then drew him close. "The day is on the wane and we're all hungry. We should've had something ready by now. Now get. We'll talk later."

K'Las scanned to the creek, hoping to catch a last glance at the fight, but neither sight nor sound came to him. Disappointed at not learning the outcome of the fight or the abuse he suffered he walked to the pond.

He sat in the lengthening shadows of the surrounding forest and cast his line into the water. The rush of events caught up with him. The pole in his hands began to shake. He gripped the quaking rod harder to steady it. It shook even more. He dropped it.

Tears welled up in his eyes. His arms shook. An unfamiliar fear engulfed him. Deep sobs overwhelmed him as he realized how close he had come to losing the life he knew so well. The orphan boys he envied a few days ago didn't seem so enviable, now.

He drew up his legs, hugged them and laid his head on his knees. The song he learned only a few days before rose from within and began to soothe his fear. The danger he had experienced still dwelled in his mind, but the sense he could have done more began to rise along with his song. "I know I could've done more."

The more he thought about it the angrier and more determined he grew. He imagined thunder and lightning scorching the man, rendorquakes opening great chasms to swallow him and even turning the man into a toad. What his parents told him about wizards and magic soon brought him back to reality. Experience is what he lacked. The kind his father and mother had.

"I need to learn. And by the gods I'm going to." Grim determination sparked. He picked up his fishing pole and recast the line, staring intently at the thin twisted filament settling on the water. "I need to know what Mama and Papa know. I need to listen and watch better. I need to practice and practice and practice."

The wet line glistened atop the rippled water. While he waited, he began to lay random threads and weaves.

Over the next hour, or so, he managed to catch most of the fish he needed. Occasionally he glanced at the campsite in hopes of overhearing a story or a call for him to return. But, as his idle weaves were set and reset, he became more and more focused on the plaits he laid. Something very curious happened when he interlaced and twisted several weaves across a fishhook on the flat stone in front of him.

He could hardly see it.

#

# Chapter sixteen

Becka

It seemed like a good idea at the time. Now, he wasn't so sure. Grindall had searched the tinker's camp for some small object to lift and maybe sell for some easy coin. If Jon and his fellow Foresters hadn't shown up he might have bargained for something bigger in exchange for the kid. _Curious how that Potts fella stayed so calm. Most folk get pretty twitchiddy when I grab one of their kids. Otherwise, I could've had me a bolt o' cloth or somethin' that'll keep Becka off my back for a while._ He turned and hissed at the unseen distant campsite.

Grindall resumed his journey and pulled the tinker's tuning fork from his purse as he walked. He held one end, then the other and rolled it from hand to hand. _What is it? Mighty shiny ain't it. Don't look like it's any use for diggin' holes or stabbin'things. Hmm, that little mallet in the box . . . I wonder._

He stepped to the side of the road and tapped it against a tree limb. The fork rang. The vibration startled him for a moment as he gaped at the thing. He held on, listening to the steady tone, until it faded abruptly a minute later. "Guess I shoulda took that mallet, too."

Grindall tapped it several more times, touching the tines to feel them vibrate. "Becka just might find this trinket interestin'. Could be she'll know what it is."

He tucked the treasure in his purse and made his way to Kerner.

Grindall entered the village about an hour after leaving Turnout Pond. He went straight to Kerner's only pub, "The Fiesty Wench". It served passable homemade beer, mead, biscuits or a bowl of pottage for a copper. If you had a good story to tell, you might get all of it for that same coin.

Like most pubs, it had an endless supply of rumor. He sat on a barstool, trying to ingratiate himself by spinning yarns. The tuning fork spun in his hand as he described the finest attributes of his recent acquisition. He hoped his spiel either got him some pottage with his beer or some coin for the fork. All he got was stale beer and a scowl when Bernard didn't get a straight answer for any of his questions. Stupid questions like, "What is it, where'd yeh get it and how'd yeh get that bruise?" After an hour of fruitless haggling, he went home.

Grindall ducked under the low hanging thatched roof and stepped through the narrow front door of his home. He set the fork on the table and looked around the one room house for his wife.

"Thank the gods for small . . .."

His wife burst through the front door carrying a small pail. "What yeh got there, darlin'?" Her voice, high and acerbic. Twig thin but heavily bosomed she had a bite as rabid as her bark was thick and cared nothing about the bruise on his face.

"I don't know."

"Whadya mean yeh don't know?" She set the pail by the hearth. Grindall looked into the container and stole two of the tangy, succulent raspberries from inside.

"Like I said, I don't know." He popped the morsels in his mouth and licked the red juice from his fingertips. He smacked his lips. "I think it's some kind o' musical thing." Grindall picked up the fork and struck the table's edge.

_"Ting"_

Becka stood there for a moment, unimpressed. "That's it?"

"Yep, far as I know. Sounds kinda pretty and its nice and shiny, ain't it."

"How much it's worth?"

"Don't know that, neither."

"Well, yeh don' know much do yeh?" She took the fork from him by the handle and twirled it in front of her. Then she squinted at Grindall with one eye and sneered at him.

"Do yeh know where yeh got it?"

"Got it from some tinker out by Turnout Pond. Caught 'em poachin' and they give me this to forget the whole thing."

"Pah, looks to me like yeh got the stinkin' end o' that deal." She gripped the fork in a fist and held it at arm's length under his nose. "Now what yeh gonna do with it?" Which meant she expected a financially favorable answer.

She tossed the fork on the table.

"I don't s'pose yer wantin' it, are yeh?" Grindall tried to delay the subject.

"Yer not too bright, are yeh? It's somethin' to do with music, I'll bet yeh that much. Sell it to someone who makes music."

Becka glowered at him for a moment before dishing up two bowls of pottage with biscuits and tossing it all on the table. She sat across from him and began to eat.

Grindall sulked, picked up the fork and studied it just so he wouldn't have to look at his wife.

"I think I'll just try old Pete Turner." He twirled the fork idly. "He plays flute during festivals and such."

"Why not ask Jon Warden if he wants it? He plays a fiddle."

"No." He didn't mean to snap at her.

Becka glared suspiciously.

He realized he may have overreacted. He continued to sulk and spin the fork. "He's off chasin' stray dogs, or somethin'. Probably won't be back for a while yet."

"Well, then, how about Stefan Windhammer, the Squire's son. He's a fiddler, too. Word is he's doin' work out by Bartle's Nook. Might be, he'll buy it?"

"I don't know. Might be I could . . ." He trailed off unsure of what he might do. He didn't really want to deal with the Squire's son. Too much like talking to the law. Pete Turner had a farm south of Kerner, back towards Turnout Pond. If Pete didn't want it, there were quite a few farms between here and Bartles Nook. Maybe he could pawn it off on one of them before he had to deal with Stefan.

With the flood damage on the road nearly repaired he had little doubt the tinkers would be in Kerner tomorrow with his boss. He should get rid of the fork in case they found it missing. He figured on selling it and being back home before Jon arrived. If he didn't have it, there would be no reason to suspect him, but he'd have to get started right away. All he had to do was get out the door, unscathed.

Becka picked up her bowl, poured the last of her meal into her mouth, tossed the bowl down and picked up the tuning fork.

"Yeh know, what? I bet this here is made of steel. Last year at the harvest festival the Squire hisself showed off some steel tool he got. He said it were real pricey." She paused, slammed the fork to the table and barked at him angrily.

"Yeh stole it, didn't yeh." She stood, slammed her fists on the table, leaned over and punched her palm into his forehead. He fell backward off his stool. She stabbed a finger in his direction, still leaning over the table.

"Yeh just up and took it from some folk on the highway when they weren't lookin', didn't yeh?" Becka leaned back and raised her fists to the ceiling. "Arrgh, yeh were born stupid and yer standin' fast to it, ain't yeh." She brought her fist down and glared at Grindall. "The Squire's gonna take a mighty dim view of this if he hears about it. Yer already a sour note to him. Ain't no tellin' how much more he's gonna put up with." She hovered over him. "And, yer _not_ likely to get no favors from King Gerald, neither. Yeh could end up hung, for this."

She paced.

Grindall rubbed his forehead and waited while his wife thought of what he had to do next. She was every bit as greedy as he was. If greed got you in trouble, find a way to blame it on someone else. Failing that, plead stupidity, or if possible innocent victim of circumstances. When her husband regained his feet she informed him of the necessity to sell the fork and the dire consequences if he failed to achieve an ample return. Profit being his goal all along, he happily obliged.

Grindall grabbed hardtack and jerky from the larder and quickly put them in his kit. He slung his kit, then his bow and quiver over his shoulder and promised to be back the next night, or the day after at the latest. Becka had heard that story before and he hoped she'd believe him one more time.

Grindall scurried out the door. While Becka hurled insults about his family history, she picked up a potted plant and chucked it at him. The clay pot shattered near his feet, dirt and withered flower scattering after him. He kept walking and tried to ignore the barks from his wife. It wasn't the first time she had thrown a pot at him, but it was one of the few times she missed.

Grindall set a quick pace. Twilight was upon him. The ruts in the road were hard to see, so he tended to walk on the shoulder. Though the firm grassy soil by the road made it easy on his tired feet, he could easily break an ankle over half buried stones if he wasn't careful.

Dogs began to howl as Grindall approached Pete Turner's home. He rapped on the door until it opened.

Pete held a candle in hand and frowned deeply. The portly dairyman, already in his nightgown and cap, filled the narrow doorway.

"What do yeh want?" Pete filled the gap between one of his snarling dogs and the door jamb.

"Got somethin' here yeh might be interested in, Pete." Grindall grinned an oily smile, drew the fork out of his pouch and handed it to the dairyman. Pete took it by the handle and studied it for a moment. He tapped the lintel of his doorway and the fork produced its distinctive note.

Pete squinted at the fork as if he saw something. His eyes flew open and thrust his arm straight out, flicked the fork past Grindall and slammed the door.

"Go 'way." Pete shouted from behind the door. "I don' want it. Go 'way."

A dog snarled. Another barked.

Grindall stood facing the door in dismay. He glanced behind him at the fork lying on the ground. "What is it, Pete? What is that thing?"

Pete yelled above the barking dogs. "I don't know. I don't care. Go 'way."

"Tell me what it is, Pete. What is it?"

The door flew open and a fist planted itself firmly in Grindall's right eye. He recoiled from the unexpected blow and fell, landing heavily. "The next thing yer gonna feel is my hound's teeth in yer arse if yeh don't git outa here." Pete shook his fist. "Now git."

The dogs barked furiously.

Grindall, greatly astonished by the knuckled insult, picked up the fork and got to his feet. Pete growled and shook a fist at him then slammed the door one last time.

Grindall left the farmhouse nursing his offended eye. It was too dark to travel. He made his way to the forest's edge and found a spot to bed down. The woods were even darker. He cleared out a small sanctuary with practiced efficiency in some heavy undergrowth, unrolled a blanket and bedded down for the night.

He drew out the fork, felt it and wondered, once again, what this thing was. Pete's reaction perplexed him. Why would the farmer be so afraid of this thing? Did Pete think there was some kind of magic in it? There were certainly a lot of stories around about secret people with special tools and places with secret powers. They were just fairy tales as far as he was concerned. Maybe, just maybe, those fairy tales were true. That would mean those tinkers may well be magicians, or worse, wizards.

"Pah! Don' be stupid, Grin." He shook his head. "It's just some kinda musical . . . thing. Prob'ly for tunin' fiddles and such. I bet ol' Pete's never seen the like and got scared. Stupid ol' coot. If Stefan don't want it I'll just toss it and be done with the blasted thing."

He rolled onto his side, pulled his cloak over his head and went to sleep, clutching the fork.

#

# Chapter Seventeen

MaynaRd

The day came to a welcome close. They supped on griddled fish, oatcakes and cheese and drank a mug of beer with particular vigor.

Enthusiasm drove Bert's storytelling as he told Jon the whole story of chasing rabid wolves and finding him at the sinkhole. At least what he could remember. His story sputtered to an end when he scratched his head and shuffled his feet. Maynard recounted a few things to fill in for Bert, but remained reluctant to tell everything he remembered. B'Tris smoothed over her part in the saga and deflected Jon's questions about the extent of his injuries.

Maynard noticed the sidesteps and skips B'Tris and her husband used to massage the story. He didn't mention needles, open wounds and broken bones mending like new, broken boulders, or Bert being asleep. He found it odd Jon did not press for any of those missing details. K'Las remained silent, but his wide eyed expression left little doubt the boy enjoyed the tale.

The hour grew late. B'Tris insisted, over her husband's objections, on staying up to tend to Jon. Bert said he'd relieve her at midnight. Willim surrendered and demanded the third watch. He and K'Las went to their beds while Bert and Maynard bedded down under the wagons.

Maynard kept a vigil on the woman. She did not stir from her seat other than to touch Jon's brow or hum a soothing tune. If she didn't hum, she sang a soft, sometimes melancholy song, while firelight and shadow danced among the trees and wagons.

When the slow breathing and snoring of the slumbering camp joined the whispers and hoots from the forest, B'Tris stood. She regarded the sleeping men for a moment then walked to the edge of the camp and the waning strength of the firelight.

She spread her arms and began her gentle song, once again. Maynard could barely follow her movements from under the wagon as she walked around the camp. He didn't dare move for fear she might notice him and stop. She waved her arms out, as if sowing seed. Sometimes she stooped as if to pick a flower. He lost sight of her from time to time, but he always heard her song.

On her return, she checked Jon and sat with her back to Maynard. She stoked the fire and continued humming. A few moments passed, her tune ended and she became still.

Maynard moved with quiet ease from his bedroll, approached the hearth and sat with legs crossed on the ground, near her. He sat there for some time and stared into the fire, pondering how to say what he wanted to say. B'Tris nodded to him and continued to hum softly. Jon slept with a soft snore.

"Ma'am, I been wantin' to talk to yeh. Mind if I bend yer ear for a bit?" Maynard picked up a piece of kindling and prodded the glowing embers at the edge of the fire.

"Not at all, Mr. Woods. What would you like to talk about?"

Maynard took a deep breath. _Here goes._

"You and yer husband are wizards, ain't yeh?"

A long moment passed before she answered in a quiet voice. "We prefer to be called Master Weavers. We aren't wizards like the Cherished Weavers you hear about in fairy tales."

"What about yer boy, he a wiz . . . weaver, too?"

"No, K'Las is not yet, a weaver. But, he has promise."

"Seems like a good kid."

"We think so. He sure is taken by you and your friend." B'Tris gave him a warm smile.

Another few moments passed while he stared into the flames. "Why'd yeh tell me it was best to forget what I saw?" He kept his gaze in the fire.

"Oh, gods." B'Tris stiffened. "You remember that?"

"Yeah, I think I remember near everythin' that happened."

"What are you going to do?"

"Whaddya mean?"

"Are you going to tell anyone else what you saw and heard?"

"Why would I do that? No one'll believe me if I do."

"You could get us into a lot of trouble. A lot of folks think of Master Weavers as evil wizards and remember tales of black magic. Most weavers today use their skills to make their products stronger and better. Sometimes, like today, a weaver has to use their skills to help people out of difficult situations. Some folks don't care if we can help them or not. They will claim we're evil witches and warlocks out to hurt and kill."

"Well, I ain't one of them." Maynard hesitated. "Maybe, I was, but I ain't now." He bobbled his head. "Well, not as much anyway." He tossed the stick into the fire.

"Why not?" She leaned forward and met his gaze. "I was willing to . . . hurt you when you came into our camp."

"I 'spect yeh could, seein' what yeh did to that big rock." He broke from her eyes and stared into the fire. "Have yeh ever killed anyone?"

She stared at him for a moment. "What do you think?"

"What I think don't really matter, now does it." He raised his eyes and met hers. "Did yeh ever kill someone?"

She blinked, as if startled by his response. "I'm a healer, Mr. Woods. Sometimes people are beyond my help and they die, but I've never killed anyone." She stared at him with curiosity. "There's more to your question than if we've ever hurt anyone, isn't there Mr. Woods?" She moved her stool close to him. "Tell me about yourself. Where do you come from? How did you come to be a forester?"

"What? I ain't nobody."

"Yes, you are." She pointed to Jon and nodded behind them to Bert. "You mean a lot to your friends. I imagine you have others."

"Nah, there ain't no one else, 'cept maybe their kids. Other'n 'em I 'spect I done hurt more folks than helped."

She smiled at him and nudged his shoulder with her elbow. He didn't quite know how to respond. She smiled and nudged him again. He produced a timid smile. She grunted as she nudged again, pretending to push harder. A smile spread unrestrained across his broad face. They both chuckled.

She had actually laughed with him, not at him.

"First of all, ma'am, I . . . I . . . just as soon yeh be callin' me Maynard. Or, just 'Nard, if you please, ma'am." The name "'Nard" was not a moniker he let many people address him with. Until this moment, Bert and Jon were the only one he had sanctioned with that rare privilege, and Jon never used it. Why he suddenly offered her that particular liberty, he couldn't say.

"Thank you." Both hands covered her mouth, _not_ hiding the broad smile behind them. "But, I think I'll just address you as Maynard. And, please call me Bee . . . or, B'Tris, if you prefer."

"Yes, Ma'am." Maynard nodded, not quite absorbing her offer of familiarity. "Bert, over there? He's a straight up fella." Maynard gestured toward his sleeping friend. "He's rude, crude and insultin' at times, but he's gettin' straighter all the time. Ever since he and Fancy got themselves hitched and had kids, he's been gettin' straighter and straighter. I wanna be like him."

A nervous excitement pushed aside any remaining fear. He smoothed out his face and beard then took another deep breath. "Me and Bert grew up together . . . well mostly. Neither one of us had regular folks. He got to live with different families and I lived in the forest. He brought me food when food was hard to find . . ."

Maynard talked. His story poured out of him and the woman listened to every word.

Both he and Bert were orphaned as young boys. Most of their troubles had come from being a general nuisance and minor thieving. Bert managed to live with a series of different farming families he was kin to, and some he was not. He also managed to get kicked out of them all. Maynard had also tried working for his keep on farms. Farming did not agree with him and he would run off into the forests to find some cave or other hole to live in.

Maynard's voice stumbled and grew softer when he told of eating whatever he caught or root he dug up in the woods. He tried to smile when he recounted those memories. The winters were the toughest. He would beg or steal what the forest did not provide for him.

"If not for my little buddy, I'd be long gone dead. I owe him. I owe him cuz he was there, even when he needed help, too. I reckon we got through 'em years bein' kids by leanin' on each other."

The older Bert got the more he had trouble finding families who would take him in. Eventually, they both stayed in the forest. Bert would venture into a village occasionally to find a friendly wench, but Maynard stuck to the forests. Girls didn't like him. He thought it was because of his size. Certainly none found him suitable, or thinkable, for marriage. They teased him, relentlessly. Even the poorest of the orphaned girls rejected him saying they would never marry an outlaw.

Maynard shrugged. The old pain of rejection lingered. He tried to smile to show it didn't really hurt.

B'Tris poured herself another hot cup of tea. Her third cup since his story began and, only the third time she had taken her gaze from him during the tale.

"Then, Bert and Fancy said I could stay at their place last Kindermas Holiday, bein' as cold as it was. I was glad of it, too, even if Fancy made me take a bath. She said it was on account of the kids. Didn't want the house and kids infes-tickated. I guess she don't know ticks ain't out that time of year.

"Anyway, I tussled with them three kids and had the best time I can remember. They had good food, and folks from there 'bouts were singin' songs. It was a good time. Bert says its them kids of his and Fancy. They're what's straightenin' him out. That's when I figured on tryin' harder at makin' my life a bit straighter."

B'Tris finally broke her silence. "How do you plan on doing that?"

"First off, I gotta control my temper. Stop hittin' people that don't deserve to be hit."

"Why do you hit Bert, then?"

"Oh, he don't count."

"Why not?"

"He said so. He said, if I had a need to hit someone, I was to hit him, instead."

"You had no need to hit him earlier. Why did you do it?"

"Yeh heard him. He insulted me--said I was ugly and ornery." Maynard feigned astonishment she hadn't understood. "He hurt my feelers. I ain't ornery, just playful. So I showed him how fun it was to take a bath."

"Reminds me of K'Las." B'Tris rubbed the back of her neck. "Sometimes he needs to be shown, too."

He winked at her. "How can yeh not like the little guy? Bert's kept me outta more fights than I can count. And, Jon has kept me from the gallows. With the likes of them two, why, I just might turn out to be a decent fella with a good wife and a bunch of kids."

He grew quiet. The silence stretched as he thought about the remote possibility he'd ever have a family. He had never before said any of this out loud.

Maynard sat in amazement that he would ever say these things to anyone, much less to this woman, this stranger, this . . . wizard. She was still a deep mystery to him, but he saw her as someone he could trust.

He abruptly recognized the expression of fatigue in her bloodshot eyes and sagging shoulders. "Ma'am. I'm sorry I went on so long." He got to his feet and held out his hand. "Yer needin' some rest. I'll tend to the boss. Go join yer husband and get yerself some sleep."

For the first time in his life he saw, in the eyes of a woman, trust and pleasant surprise.

B'Tris took his big hand, thanked him and accepted his advice. She walked away and, before she ducked into her tent, turned to look at him, smiled and nodded.

He tossed a small log into the fire and stared while the fire licked away the bark. 

#

# Chapter Eighteen

Typical

B'Tris struggled to stay asleep. She thrashed through disconnected and frayed dreams. During the long night, she heard Bert relieve Maynard and in turn, Willim relieve Bert. The transitions were quiet enough, but she covered her head to keep from hearing the muted conversations. Sometime during the night, unease settled in, which troubled her even more. She sensed something missing.

Willim hadn't been gone long when she heard him slip back into the tent. She lifted the pillow from her eyes to see him approach and kneel beside their bed.

"Bee, we may have a problem."

"Can't you deal with it? I need to sleep." She had no desire to deal with problems and let the pillow fall back in place.

"Did you set the camp weaves?"

"Yes. Now please let me sleep."

"They're down."

"Why are you bothering me with this? Go fix them." She pulled her blanket under her chin.

"They're all down, Bee. Didn't you sense it?"

"What?" She sat up in alarm. "No. I didn't . . ." Realization set in. "Of course. That's what's been keeping me awake." She got up, stepped by Willim to the entrance of the tent and looked out. "When did it happen? Why didn't I feel it?"

"I don't know. I set up a simple trip thread to warn us, for now." He came to her side. "Why didn't you link with me when you came to bed?"

"I did . . . I think." She was so tired when she came to bed she couldn't remember for sure. "Even if I didn't I should have sensed them coming down. Are you sure they're all down?"

"Yes, they're all down. I've walked the entire perimeter and there's nothing left of your weave. Not a shred."

"You don't suppose our friends from the Endless Realm Priory have caught up with us, do you?" She returned to the bed, sat and cradled her head in her hands.

"I expect they would have attacked by now, if they had." Willim sat on his heels in front of her. "They couldn't sever those weaves anyway without you knowing."

"Just the same, shouldn't we have more than a trip thread up?" She tilted her head from left to right trying to ease the rising tension in her neck.

"The camp weaves are just part of our problem." Willim lowered her hands and brought his face close to hers. "Jon is awake and Maynard is gone."

"You're quite the bundle of news, aren't you?" She sat up straight and regarded Willim. "Any idea where Maynard went?"

"Jon just said he had a surprise for us."

"And Bert?"

"He's sitting with Jon, at the moment."

"Explain why this is a problem. It seems obvious Maynard has somehow managed to sever the camp weave and remove the bedding weave I placed on Jon." She shook her head. "No, I mean, yes that's a problem, but . . ." Her shoulders slumped as she sighed. "oh, gods . . . I can't think straight."

"I'm just a bit paranoid about this. What surprise does Maynard intend? He has some strange skill which would be very handy to our less than friendly Heart Henge Inquisitors. If he has gone off to meet with A'wyn Bowyer and L'don Banks to let them know the camp is vulnerable we may be in for a very rough day."

"Well, now." She straightened her back and looked at Willim. "That's an understatement worthy of any Peer. Do you know of any Enforcer, or Inquisitor, who has made our days enjoyable?"

B'Tris forced herself to think about Willim's suspicions. She didn't think Maynard had any idea about his effect on the weaving arts. Nevertheless, she understood Willim's caution. He had never been enthusiastic about using the tuning fork at the Great Western Henge, or any henge. The exercise was pointless, in his mind. He supported her, nevertheless. Together, they had fended off and evaded those same Inquisitors several times. She tended to trust his suspicions.

"Alright, let's get K'Las up." She stood and began to dress herself. "He can see more threads than we can. At least we have that edge over A'wyn and L'don."

"He's already up, preparing some coffee."

"Good, I'm going to need it." She reached for her kirtle on her clothes chest.

"I'll have a cup ready for you." Willim stood and walked to the tent entrance. The early morning light poured in as he opened the flap and left.

She let the weariness take her. She leaned heavily against her travel chest to steady herself. The chest and table jostled. The box sitting beside the chest slipped to the edge of its perch and toppled. It caught a shaft of light from the partially closed flap. She reached for it, but was too late as the rich, oiled wood flashed in the sunlight and tumbled through the dust-laden air. She gasped as it plummeted.

The box hit the ground and flew open. The mallet within, tumbled out as the box came to rest on its side. She stood, staring, waiting for the inevitable appearance of her treasured heirloom. Her heart chilled when nothing happened.

She went to her knees and picked up the box. The tuning fork was missing.

Light poured in as she yanked open the tent flaps. In a frenzied search, she shook out blankets, tore through her storage chest and upended everything in the tent.

Willim stepped into the opening of the tent, K'Las at his side. "Move." She waved angrily. "Get out of my light." Before they budged, she reached out. "No, wait. K'Las, where's the fork?"

"I put it in the box, Momma." K'Las pressed against his father. "It should be there."

"Where's the fork, K'Las?" She grabbed his tunic and pulled him close. "Where is it?"

She began searching his tunic. K'Las raised his arms as she spun him around, grasping at his clothes.

"It's got to be here Momma. I put it back. I did, honest." He fell to his hands and knees, and began pushing through the strewn clothing. She turned to Willim.

"Willim, did you use it? Do you have it? Why aren't there any weaves on the box?" She clutched at his clothing, crying and begging for her treasured heirloom. He went to his knees and tried to embrace her.

"There aren't any weaves because K'Las was training with it. I forgot to put my own on it. We'll find it, honey. It must be . . ." Willim gasped as he stiffened and stared into the distance. "Oh, dear gods, it must have been that forester."

"Hey! Rabbits." Outside the tent, Bert's unexpected exuberant yell stung B'Tris' ears. "What yeh doin' all wet and half naked, 'Nard?" His laughter chafed her spine. "Did yeh drown them coneys, or did yeh use 'em to scrub yer arse."

"Yes!" B'Tris leapt to her feet and pushed Willim away. "He took it!" She stormed out of the tent and found the giant approaching the camp. He was bare-chested and wet, carrying a brace of rabbits in one hand and a wet tunic in the other. He grinned with pride as he held the hares high and thumped his chest with his wet tunic.

"Got us some nice, fat conies for yer pottage, Ma'am, and I done took a bath so's not--"

"You!"

Maynard froze. His jaw dropped. He looked to Jon and Bert.

"B'Tris, wait." Jon struggled to sit up. "What's happened?"

Bert stood, dismayed at first then took a few steps in Maynard's direction.

Willim stumbled out of their tent and ran toward him, but he seemed focused on his wife. The woman came straight for him. She lowered her brow and fixed her eyes on him with a black, iron hard stare.

Maynard scrambled to understand why she would be so upset at him. He tried to think of anything he might have done. Maybe it was the rabbits. He tossed them aside. Did she think he was going to charge them with poaching? Why would he do that? Last night she had gone into the tent happy enough, it seemed. What happened in there to change that? Whatever it was she was blaming him. _Typical._ _No matter what I try to do right, I get blamed for everything that goes wrong. Typical._ He lowered his head and shook it. _Typical._

His chest filled with air and he groaned a deep, deep sigh. His trust in the woman and the hope for a fresh beginning, collapsed around him. He bowed his head, closed his eyes and awaited his doom from the wizard.

He slumped to his knees and waited for the inevitable. Doom did not come. He should be dead by now. He raised his head, opened his eyes and saw the tinkers kneeling on the ground. She was crying. Her sobs were much like his own, though he had no tears for them. Her husband pressed her head to his chest. The boy knelt beside her with his arms around her. Maynard closed his eyes again. How he wished for relief like that. His chest heaved and something bubbled out of his throat. His eyes moistened.

A distant rumbling voice slipped his mind. "Maynard," the voice said. "Maynard."

Maynard raised his head and saw the wizard man before him, just out of reach. He sprang to his feet in a fury.

"What? What do yeh want from me? I ain't done yeh no harm. Been tryin' to help yeh. Got yeh some meat. Took me another bath 'cause yer wife says she wants to be my friend. But, yer false, just like everyone else. Yer thievin', lyin' tinkers. False as yer tin pots."

Willim extended his hand. "Please listen."

"Get away from me or I'll kill yeh." Maynard stepped forward, threatening the wizard. The wizard stood his ground, without threat or fear.

"Yer all alike." Maynard shook his fist at Willim. "I try doin' right and get blamed for everythin' that goes wrong, just the same." He raised his eyes, fists and tunic to the sky. "Aaargh!"

He threw the wet tunic to the ground, found a nearby stone, fell on the luckless garment and pounded it with every ounce of fury he could muster. With each strike he cried, "Die, die yeh motherless bastard, die."

#

# Chapter Nineteen

Just Like EveRyone Else

B'Tris had paused in front of the tent long enough for Willim to react. He and K'Las followed her. They had come out in time to see the giant's expression change from pride to confusion. Willim knew something irreversible would happen if he didn't act fast. He raced to intercept her. She advanced on the giant with gathering speed, preparing to cast her weaves and engage Maynard in battle. Willim collided with her. Both fell to the ground from the impact. She struggled, but his grasp held fast, quelling her attack.

"Stop, Bee. Stop. Think." He braced her temples with both hands as she began to settle. "Think. He couldn't have taken it. He never went into the tent. If anyone took it, it had to be Grindall Sykes.

B'Tris stared at him. "Who?"

"The forester who tried to arrest K'Las."

K'Las came to his mother's side, fell to his knees and embraced her. "Momma. What's wrong?"

B'Tris inhaled deeply and held it for a moment. She looked down and clenched the hem of her kirtle. "The tuning fork is gone, Will. We have to find it."

Willim and K'Las tried to console her as they watched the giant thrash the tunic and grind it to shreds.

"Oh, merciful gods, what have I done." B'Tris held her hands to her mouth, staring over her fingertips at Maynard. "Will, do you really think Grindall Sykes took it?"

"Yes, if we can't find it here."

The mangled and shredded tunic Maynard had cursed lay before him. He sat back on his heels with shoulders slumped, head bowed and arms hanging to his sides. He held a stone loosely in his lap.

Willim rose, stepped close to the exhausted giant and knelt before him. He spoke Maynard's name several times before the giant looked up.

"You are right to condemn us, Maynard." Willim bowed his head. "We _are_ just like everyone else and we have wronged you. We wish to be better and we want to apologize and beg your forgiveness. If possible, we wish to make amends."

Willim waited for a long moment while Maynard regarded his apology.

"What'd I do wrong?"

"Nothing, Maynard. Nothing." Willim met Maynard's gaze.

"Why's yer woman so angry?" Maynard nodded toward B'Tris

"There's something missing from our tent. Something she cherishes, dearly."

"What is it? Maybe I seen it somewhere. Bert and me, we're good at findin' things, if yeh'll let us."

"It's called a tuning fork."

"Don't know nothin' about tunin' forks. What's it look like?"

"Just like a regular two-pronged fork except it has blunt, square tines." Willim spread his palms. "It's about this long, but it isn't something you use to eat with. We use it for music."

"Tines is the pointy end of a fork, right? Is it shiny?"

"Yes. Have you seen it?"

"No. But, I'd bet the King's wages Grin took it."

B'Tris lowered her head and placed her hands over her face.

For several silent moments the two men knelt face to face. Willim extended a hand. Another moment passed as Maynard regarded the proffered help then, at last, the men clasped wrists. Willim stood and helped the big woodsman up to his full height.

"Well, ain't that a kick in the head." Maynard examined his mud splattered chest and shook his head. "Look at me. I'm a mess. Now I gotta take me another bath. A thunderin' kick in the head, I tell yeh. Two baths in one day. Pah!" He threw his arms up in exaggerated disgust, stone still in hand. He brought the stone down behind his back and sheepishly dropped it as he glanced at B'Tris.

B'Tris sat on her heels, hands still covering her nose and mouth, watching the interaction of the two men. Tears welled up as she got to her feet and walked to Maynard. She embraced him. "I'm so sorry."

Maynard was at a complete loss. He looked to Willim who just shrugged. K'Las clapped his hands then ran to Maynard, took his massive hand and shook it. Maynard wrapped his other arm around B'Tris' shoulder and tried not to break her. He didn't know what to say.

B'ert walked up behind him. "Fancy'll never believe this. Maynard havin' five baths in two days. She's gonna die laughin'." He threw his head back and howled.

Apparently Bert thought he could die laughing, as well. Bert thought wrong. He left the ground and found himself draped over Maynard's shoulder. Protest and profanity exploded and faded as Maynard carried him away. Moments later Bert was dying from his second bath of the day.

The two freshly bathed foresters returned to camp and ate a hearty breakfast of pottage fortified with fresh roasted rabbit and taters. Jon, propped up against a log, ate just as heartily and wolfed down the last of the raspberries. The three men each nursed a tall mug of beer.

They finished off the kettle. Maynard and Bert covered themselves with blankets while their shirts, tunics and britches dried. The hot pottage and coffee had kept them warm in the morning chill. Willim and K'Las sat on their stools listening to the two foresters as they continued to threaten each other with dire deaths and bellowed humorous tirades. Jon did his part by egging them on. At times K'Las danced in mock battle with the foresters.

B'Tris was more subdued as the loss of the heirloom weighed on her mind. A thorough search of the camp had produced no sign of the tuning fork. She now wanted to push ahead and find the thief who took it.

Willim broke the news that they would have to start for Kerner. "We have to get Jon home so he can get better care and begin our search for Mr. Sykes. We'll also need to replenish our food stores."

"No worries there, my friend." Jon upended his mug. "Beth will be mighty impressed by your healin' skills, B'Tris. As far as yer larder stock, well, I'll see to it yer well provisioned."

Maynard caught her eye as he stood and gestured toward the village. "As soon as we get to Kerner, Bert and me'll fetch Grindall and get yer fork back."

"Grindall ain't gonna do nothin' with it unless his wife says so." Jon swept away some foam from the edge of his mouth. "Don't fret too much. We'll have yer fork back soon."

"If me and 'Nard don't know what it is, then sure as Becka's bark, he don't know neither." Bert set his empty mug on the ground. "They won't wait for next market day. She like's to hear the clinkle of coin, she does."

The promise of a quick retrieval of the fork eased her mind somewhat. She just didn't want it passed around too much. It might raise questions she did not want to answer, especially if certain people got wind of where it was.

Willim began directing the breakup of the camp. B'Tris prepared Jon for travel and rearranged K'Las' bedding in the back of the home wagon to accommodate the forester. K'Las cleaned plates, mugs and the now empty kettle. Bert and Maynard collected the horses and hitched them up.

K'Las fetched water from the creek. When he arrived at the fire pit, he saw the two foresters walking toward him, each with a bucket filled from the pond. Bert carried a shovel, as well. K'Las waited for them to arrive and with nothing more than a nod they all doused the fire at the same time.

Bert stirred the embers into mud. "I do believe they be out."

K'Las knelt and put a hand on the cold, wet ash. "I thank thee, friend, for thine warm company."

As he stood, K'Las noticed the raised eyebrows and confused expressions of the foresters. "The fire, you big oafs, the fire."

"What's an oaf, Bert?"

"I dunno, 'Nard. I think he just called us a bad name."

The foresters gave K'Las a feigned snarl. He squealed, dropped his bucket and ran around the two men, straight to the home wagon, laughing in pure delight. Bert gave chase and caught him just as he was about to climb into the wagon beside his father.

Bert lifted him up. "Yer kid, here, has hurt me and 'Nard's feelin's. He called us oafs's."

B'Tris gasped in feigned disgust. "Why, that's just awful. He'll be taking a bath every day for the next month for such a foul crime. You can count on that, Mr. Forest."

K'Las twisted to see his mother. "But, momma, I already take a bath every day."

"Twice a day, then." Willim's hard voice startled K'Las, thinking there may be more to the threat than he thought. When he saw the grin on his father's face, he relaxed and giggled.

"Oh, that is a most harsh torture, m'lord." Maynard approached the wagon, carrying three buckets and a shovel. "Have mercy on the poor lad. Perhaps he could pay a fine or somethin' more suited to the crime. Like fishin'."

"Hmmm." Willim rubbed his chin as if pondering the evidence. "I will consider your counsel, Mr. Woods, and confer with my lady."

"I await m' lord's merciful judgment." Maynard bowed deeply. When he rose, he turned to his friend. "Let's go Bert. I'll take the last wagon."

The tinker train began its final leg to Kerner. They expected to be in the village by midday, if not sooner. The day was another pleasant spring morning. The sun warmed the air and a slight breeze whispered through the trees. The road to Kerner skirted the eastern edge of the pond for a short distance then dove into the forest.

"Do you really think I could go fishing with Bert and Maynard, Papa?"

"You'll have to ask them, son. It sounded like a real possibility, didn't it?"

"I'd say it was more than likely." Jon called from the back of the wagon. He sat facing the tailgate with his legs stretched out and covered with a blanket. He was close enough to hear their conversation over the rumble of the wagon.

"So, Grindall lied about the poaching charges." B'Tris didn't bother to restrain her anger over Grindall. Willim grunted in agreement.

Jon winced and braced himself as the wagon slipped into a rut. "Grindall has been a bloodsucking tick in my ear since the King gave him that forester's ticket near Bartle's Nook. He tried to claim he was a nephew to King Gerald's sister-in-law. The sod ain't no more royal than I am. He's actually a brother to one of the house maids at the King's Ashford manor. How he finagled that forester's ticket the god's only know."

A sneer crossed Jon's face as he shook his head. "Last year, just before Harvest Festival, Grindall hauled ol' Pete Turner's ox team in on a charge of disturbin' the peace for breakin' wind in the forest. Silliest damn waste of time I ever seen. Let's just say, the man has an exaggerated sense of his own importance. Yer boy weren't in no real danger of gettin' fined."

"Are you doing alright?" B'Tris braced Jon as he flinched when the wagon jolted.

"Doin' fine. If I were a complainer I'd say my arm's achin' somethin' fierce. The leg is achin' a bit, too, but not bad, considerin'."

"How's your side? Do you taste any blood, at all? Any trouble breathing?"

"Yer not 'spectin' any broken ribs, are yeh?"

"No, I don't think so. You're badly bruised, though. I've wrapped your ribcage, just in case. You breathed in a lot of dust and dirt in that pit and your nose was broken."

Willim warned them of some rough road ahead.

Jon braced himself. B'Tris had placed some baskets and rolled blankets by Jon's sides to help buttress him during the trip, but he would have to endure any heavy rocking.

B'Tris supported him as best she could until they cleared the rocks. She glanced beyond Willim and K'Las to the road ahead before she sat back. "I'd like to learn more about Mr. Sykes. Is he--"

"Sorry, B'Tris, but we're gonna have to talk about that missin' fork of yours." Jon's intent gaze troubled her. "Those are controlled items and I'd rather not have a bunch of unwelcome folks inquirin' about it. If yeh have documents sayin' yeh can have one, I got no reason to make a fuss. If yeh don't, I'll have to confiscate it from yeh when we find it."

For a long moment, the sound of clopping hooves and the groan and clatter of the wagons were the only sounds to be heard. B'Tris didn't want to discuss that now, but she was a captive in her own wagon. "What kind of unwelcome folks are you talking about?"

"I think yer well aware of what folk I'm talkin' about; official type folk from the Craft Trade House. They take a keen interest in things like this."

"You're talking about the Priory?" B'Tris leaned forward, waiting for him to say the word she was looking for.

Jon cocked his head to one side and peered at her. "Yeah, and the men they send out to enforce the rules."

Movement caught the corner of her eye as Willim turned and handed her his wallet. She took the leather case, laid it in her lap and rested a hand on top.

K'Las, sitting quietly by Willim's side, watched. She knew he had never heard any of this before.

"Alright." She resigned herself to the inevitable and drew out Willim's Merchant Trade House Charter. She unfolded the vellum sheet then handed it to Jon. "I have one much like this in the chest behind you, but this will be enough to tell you who we are." She placed a hand on his arm. "Please, Jon, we'd like to keep our identities quiet. We want a simple life."

Jon took the parchment and laid it on his lap. An embossed symbol of the Great Eastern Henge spread across the top. A broad, green silk ribbon laced with gold thread and sewn into an oval crest below the henge symbol slipped across the folds and came to rest over the carefully embellished script. He lifted the ribbon over the top and secured it between his fingers behind the sheet.

Jon scanned down the document then inhaled sharply. He grew ridged and glanced at B'Tris. He cleared his throat. His hand remained steady as he picked up the parchment. A nervous timbre crept into his voice when he resumed reading aloud.

_Merchant Trade House Rank: Partner, Junior Chair. Trade Emissary At Large_

_Weave Certification: Master, High~Second Order Rendor ~ Oeste Peerage Candidate (offer declined), IMB_

"Yer rather highly ranked to be wanderin' around these parts, ain't yeh?" He glanced to B'Tris then to the charter.

The forester ran his finger down the parchment and stopped. "Are these names Willim's ancestors?"

"Yes." B'Tris leaned in and pointed to the list. "These names go back to when the eastern henge was built. This name, Dorian Coda Campanill, is the name you'll find on the next document. He is the link to the tuning fork."

Jon nodded and continued running his finger down the sheet. He grew somber as he scanned down the page to the signatures at the bottom. He lowered the parchment to his lap and then raised his hand to his brow. His palm covered his eyes as his fingers massaged his temples. He took a deep breath. "May I ask what IMB stands for?"

"IMB simply means Willim has been imbued."

Jon nodded and extended his hand. "Might I see the next parchment?"

She carefully slipped the second vellum from the wallet. "Most of this will be difficult to read. It was written during the last days of the Rendor Imperium."

She took a corner of the folded document and lifted straight up. It hung from her fingertips as if it were a wisp of tawny smoke. Jon paused for moment as his eyes grew wide. He began to reach for it, but she pushed his hand away. "We need to spread it out on your lap so you can read it. Look for the name, Dorian Coda Campanill and . . . oh, no."

B'Tris crumpled the smoky vellum into her hands. "Will, I need the fork to prove the guild's trademark."

Willim turned and met her gaze for a moment. "Jon, the trademark is the same as on the tuning fork. Will it be enough to show you the symbol now so you can recognize it on the fork, when you find it?"

"Yeah, I think so." Jon reached for the vellum sheet. "What's that parchment made of? Can I see it?"

"I'd like you to read it first." With care, she laid the thin parchment across his legs. It seemed to disappear on the brown blanket, though the edges were clearly visible.

"Do you lay any weave, Jon?"

"Nope, never took the time to learn. I've known a few in the army who could, but they weren't keen on teachin' others. You know how it is, special units keep to themselves."

"Then I'll have to do the weave for you." She tugged on the blanket and adjusted the vellum to smooth out the remaining rumples.

She ran her fingertips from corner to corner, and across the horizontal and vertical parallels setting her weave. With each pass, the symbols and letters began to appear in bits and pieces. "You need to read quickly, my weave won't last long."

Grand, flourishing script spread across the page. Age weathered what had obviously been a once impressive document. The faded letters, still legible, were cracked and broken, their edges dappled and dull.

Jon fixed his eyes on the vellum. He seemed mesmerized, until B'Tris shook his shoulder. "You'll have to hurry, Jon."

"Oh, yes. Sorry." He swept a hand from brow to chin and shook his head. "Help me out. Where's that name?" Jon adjusted his wounded arm and leaned over his legs to peer at the document.

B'Tris shifted to see past his head and pointed. "It should be right about here. Yes, there it is."

He ran his finger under the name. "Ah, yes. Dorian Coda Campanill. What's all this after the name?" He leaned closer, stumbling through the words. "Major . . . Chord . . . Rise . . . Carillon . . . Canon . . . Conductor." He sat up with an unfocused gazed out the back of the wagon. "Ain't a carillon some kinda bell tower?"

"Yes, one of Willim's paternal ancestors, Dorian, served with one of the Cherished Weavers at the Great Eastern Henge. He was in charge of the carillons in the eastern realms. The oral family history places him here at the Western Henge, too." She pointed to the last name. "The last person, before me, was Willim's Aunt, Haegatess Brasswind Campanill. She gave it to me."

"So, yer bellringers." He glanced at B'Tris and leaned over the document again. "That don't sound too dangerous. Now, which of these is the trademark?"

"Here." B'Tris pointed at the mark. The sigil was a tall, flourished, crowned letter 'R' with smaller, equally flourished letters 'G' and 'W' on each side. Twelve distinct stars encircled the letters. A white burst marked the center, with each flare pointing to a star.

"This looks like it's been stamped on here." Jon rested a finger on the emblem.

The letters began to fade. B'Tris lifted the vellum from the blanket. "Yes, that's right. The fork made that mark." She handed him the tawny parchment.

Jon held it up with one hand to the light streaming in from the rear of the wagon. "If these documents say this missin' fork is tied to Willim's ancestors, how come it's yer heirloom?"

"A provision in this parchment makes me the heir. You see, the fork and I have the same tone. That means I inherit it based on that one condition."

"Yeh know . . ." Jon lowered the vellum and handed it to B'Tris. His brow furrowed. His eyes narrowed as his fingers threaded through his hair. "I ain't got no clear notion of what all this means. Maybe I don't want to know."

He met her gaze, gently shaking his head in disbelief. "I got here before me a powerful member of a trade house who also happens to be well placed in the Dewy Knoll Priory. I ain't never met one before, and sure as the gods' twiddlin' thumbs, I ain't never expected to meet one in the wilds."

Jon pointed to the smoky thin parchment. "I reckon that's as close as I've ever been to seein' actual wizard work done. If yeh hadn't saved my life I'd be askin' yeh to move on. I owe yeh somethin' for that. We'll find yer tunin' fork and restock yer larder. If I can repay yeh with more, I will. My life yeh can have, but I ain't givin' yeh my wife and kids, my foresters or my village."

"The gods forbid it comes to anything like that." B'Tris slipped the parchment into Willim's wallet. "We've visited Kerner twice over the past two summers, without incident. If we can recover the fork quickly and no other problems arise, may we stay for a while?"

Jon said nothing for a long moment.

"I'll have to talk to the Squire. He should know about this. If he's a mind to let you stay on for a bit, I have no qualms."

#

# Chapter Twenty

Thaddeus StonebReaker

Grindall woke to the sound of chattering squirrels somewhere overhead. He yawned and raised his fists to knuckle out the sleep from his eyes.

Instead, he raked the fork across his previously affronted eye. Cursing, he thrust his arm straight out to throw the fork, only to wedge his wrist in the crook of a branch. The fork escaped his grip, rebounded off a bough and returned just as forcefully back into his eye. With a howl of pain, he yanked his wrist free, and cursed the branch that restrained him. He vented his rage and grabbed the bough with both hands, raised his knee to break the stubborn limb only to have his leg tangle in his cloak. The branch broke. He fell back to the ground. The woody stem crashed into his face and rasped him from forehead to nose tip.

Grindall's day had not started well. He lay still for a time, whimpering and blinked at the little bit of sky visible through the tangled wood above him. He seriously thought of just tossing the cursed thing away. If not for Becka he probably would.

He paced his breathing and calmed enough to make a move. With calculated intent, he gathered his belongings and made his way out of his sanctuary. He drew out a piece of jerky and ate as he followed the tree line due west. Each farm he passed he stopped to sell the fork. No one expressed any interest.

He met the road leading to the hamlet of Greens-by-the-Hill and turned north. After about a mile, he entered the tiny hamlet and found it deserted. Everyone had gone to tend the nearby apple orchards. He washed the dried blood and grit from his face with water from a rain barrel. With only six small houses to look in he made quick work of finding nothing worth stealing that he could carry easily. Still determined to make a profit, he resumed his journey and headed northwest toward more farmland.

Several farms later, and as many futile negotiations, he strolled into the larger hamlet of Bartle's Nook. A dozen wattle houses, a barn, a well and a fenced sheep pen made up the village. The beginnings of a new village square near the center was a bit of hopeful thinking, as far as Grindall was concerned. There he found Stefan Windhammer.

"Fair Greetin's, Master Windhammer. What bring's yeh to Bartle's Nook?" Grindall touched his brow in a casual salute to the master carpenter. Stefan turned and removed a small dowel from his mouth.

"Fair greetings, Mr. Sykes. How are you?" Stefan tipped back his broad brimmed hat and pointed at Grindall's forehead with his mallet. "Got some nasty scrapes and bruises, I see. Look's like you've had some forester issues to contend with."

"Yeh, that I have, sir. A poacher and me got into a tussle. Happens sometimes."

"Who was it?"

"Not too sure of that, sir. Ran into him over by Turnout Pond. He slipped away. Hopin' to come across him tonight in Kerner." Eager to change the subject, he presented the fork to Stefan. "Yeh ever seen anythin' like this?"

"Yes, indeed. It's a tuning fork." Stefan tapped the fork on the mallet. For a long moment he stared at it and listened. He then silenced it, cleared his throat and faced Grindall. "Nice tone, too. Where'd you get it?"

"Uh." Grindall was stuck. He sure couldn't tell the same story he told Becka. Telling one of King Gerald's men, not to mention the Squire's son, he had been bribed would be rather . . . awkward. "Well, can I trust yeh to keep this under yer hat?" Grindall stepped closer to Stefan.

"That depends on how far under my hat you want me to keep it." Stefan handed the fork back to the Forester.

"Well, I near stole it from some tinker." Grindall took the fork. "I don't think he knew how much this here is worth. Truth tell, I don't neither. But I know it's more than I give him for it." Grindall practically burst over the notion he had just told the truth without telling it. He chuckled. "What yeh think this here tunin' fork's worth?"

"Well, I don't want it, if that's what you're asking. I don't need it. I've got a pretty good ear for music."

"Well, what do yeh think it's worth?"

"You know those are controlled items, don't you?" Stefan pointed to the fork. "The Craft Trade House regulates them. Did that tinker give you his permit as well?"

Grindall squeaked as his eyes bulged. Panic rose from his gut. He didn't know he needed one and hadn't seen any permits in the tinker's box, either. For all he knew the tinkers had stolen the blasted thing from someone else, which made this riskier than he wanted to think about.

"As for what it's worth?" Stefan placed his mallet in a well-organized toolbox. "Well, I suggest you go see Thaddues Stonebreaker. He collects all kinds of stuff. He might do some trading with you."

"Ol' Thad? Yer pullin' my leg." Grindall groused at the idea. "He's as tetched as a wet cat. He wouldn't part with a spoonful of midden to buy his own ma a cup of tea. What makes yeh think he'd buy this here treasure?"

"Like you said, he's tetched." Stefan shrugged. "What do you have to lose? You're going that way anyway." Stefan pointed east to Kerner. "You might as well stop in and see what he has to offer."

Grindall was trapped. He had talked his way into returning to Kerner whether he wanted to or not. He groused about, scuffed the ground with his feet and finally submitted.

"Blast it all!" He growled and jammed the bothersome prize back in his pouch. "I guess it's worth a try."

"And if Thad doesn't want it, there's always King Gerald or the Craft Trade House. They might take it off your hands for a tidy sum." An odd smile curled the edges of Stefan's mouth.

"I 'spect King Gerald would want me to be about me job before I run 'round sellin' trinkets and such." He wanted nothing to do with the Royals or the trade house, except, of course, in his official capacity.

"Tell you what, Grin. I'll go with you. He's doing some stonework for me and I'd like to see how it's going." Stefan walked to his cart, took off his apron and gloves, and placed them on the top of the toolbox. He dusted himself off, squared up his hat and turned back to the Forester.

Grindall noticed the unlatched toolbox. "Ain't yeh gonna lock up yer tools?"

"No."

_Maybe I could snatch one of them chisels._ Grindall offered to let Stefan lead the way, but a firm hand on his shoulder nudged him onwards.

"Where's yer horse?" Grindall grimaced and stooped to rub his legs. "Do yeh reckon we could ride? My feet are a might soresome."

"Oh, I'll be here a few more days, so Bud Trencher set him to graze near his place." Stefan picked up his kit and gestured to the east. "Shall we go, then?" Grindall winded a grumpy sigh and began walking. Stefan patted him on the back. "Don't worry, I think you'll get something out of the old man. But, like you said, it might not be as much as you'd like."

The walk to Thad's house took about an hour. Their conversation was sparse, but Grindall had to endure a series of songs about sailing and sailors. He knew the carpenter's father had been a sailor of some sort but hardly understood any of the lyrics. Many of the words were meaningless. Words like binnacles, barnacles and brass monkeys were nothing but gibberish. Stefan obviously enjoyed himself, but Grindall just tolerated the nonsense.

The well-traveled road made the walk pleasant. As country roads go, the way gently curled back and forth, over and around the rolling hills, pastures and farms. Half a mile from Thad's house, they came to a stone outcropping at the top of a hillock.

"I heard about these things." Grindall walked to one of the larger stones and touched the surface. "Never really been out here, though. Got no reason to, I 'spose."

Stefan removed his hat and wiped the sweat from his brow. "Why not? They're beautiful, don't you think?"

"Smooth, ain't they? I ain't felt no rock this smooth before." Sykes examined the surface more closely. "What's all them lines?" He slapped and pressed his hands to the stone and gasped. "By the gods! That looks like gold and silver and . . ." His excitement grew as he recognized what looked like precious stones. "These must be worth a fortune." His hands began a frantic, greedy search over the megalith in hopes of plucking a morsel of wealth from the stone.

"That they are, I'm sure." Stefan threw his head back and laughed. He went to the side of the road, picked up a large rock and brought it to Sykes. "Here, pound away. See if you can break off a hunk of henge."

Grindall eagerly grasped the rock and began hammering and gouging at the dark, silent giant, to no avail. His hammer finally gave up and shattered. He bent down to select the largest remnant, only to realize Stefan was laughing at him. He picked the two largest then stood and faced the master carpenter.

"Give it up Grindall. People with bigger, stronger hammers and arms than ours have tried to free that treasure. Even if you could, King Gerald and the Craft Trade House would be here to collect anything you managed to break free." Stefan took him by the shoulders and directed Grindall's attention to the horizon. "You see those three other henges in the distance? Those three and the one we stand in are each at a compass point. And the one there, in the center? Those are more of the same. Twelve in each of these five henges. Each equally filled with treasure and mystery. But, that center henge? It has one more stone that looks like an upturned platter that's even--"

"These ain't natural. Someone made 'em." Grindall squinted at the carpenter, impatient and undeterred. "And, if someone made 'em, someone can break 'em."

"Well, my greedy friend. There's only one person who knows anything of the sort about the henge. I believe you want to trade that tuning fork of yours. Perhaps he'll teach you something in return."

When they arrived at the old man's house Thad was sitting in a porch swing. He swayed at a leisurely pace in the deep shade of a canvas-covered pergola which ran the length of the house. Young grape vines at each end of the porch had begun their climb over the rough-hewn wooden frame. A dismaying sense of dread wafted over Grindall at the sight of the cantankerous old coot. Thad watched as they approached the house but did not acknowledge them.

A stone path of flat, closely fitted, slate green flagstone led them to the front door, with its large, low lintel of creamy white limestone, the doorjamb of deep gray granite. Under the pergola lay a deep green, almost black, slate floor. On the border of the slate floor were laid rough chiseled limestone, the same as the door's lintel.

At the four corners of the house rose huge hewn tree trunks oiled to a dull sheen. The trunks framed interlocking granite blocks of varying sizes which formed the walls of the old man's home.

Two shuttered windows with creamy lintels and sills penetrated the thick walls, one on each side of the door. The roof was heavily thatched and draped low, well over the eaves. At each end of the house a stone chimney extruded from their respective walls. A thin curl of smoke rose lazily upwards, disappearing into the midday sky.

Grindall could not grasp the wealth this home represented. _How is it no one spoke of the old man's home? How come I ain't heard about this?_

Stefan set his kit down at the front of the pergola and gestured for Grindall to do the same. Grindall unshouldered his bow, quiver, and kit and set them beside Stefan's. They walked under the pergola and into the shade as the old man, humming a low tune, raised his head. The swing hung by ropes as it swayed with a creaky hypnotic cadence. Two chairs and a small table were set nearby.

"Hello, Thaddeus." Stefan removed his hat and held it at his waist. "I've come to see how that ordered stonework is coming along. And Mr. Sykes, here, has something to trade."

Thaddeus Stonebreaker looked like chewed gristle. He was long, thin and swarthy. Whether he was naturally dark skinned or just weathered, Grindall couldn't tell. Thad's hair was long and white, pulled back tight, and woven into a long braid which hung over the back of the swing. The eyes of this gnarled old man were keen and black with bristling white eyebrows. He wore a dusty gray shirt, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, dark gray britches and sandals. A dusty brown leather stonemason apron draped heavily over the back of the swing. A pair of gauntlets and a sagging, very broad brimmed hat lay on the chair. Thad sat on the far end of the double swing, polishing a small stone. A basket full of the finished stones rested on the slate floor, between his feet.

"Stone's out back." Thad's graveled baritone voice held an immodest note as he thumbed in the direction of the stonework. "Go take a look, boy."

Stefan tossed his hat on his kit, turned and walked through the open door, into the house. Grindall wanted to follow him to see what fortune lay within. However, he wanted to know how to mine the treasure from the henge even more. With only one gambit to play, he was glad to see Stefan leave.

"Sit down, boy." Thad pointed to the nearest chair. "Let's see what you're peddling."

Grindall stepped around the basket of stones and sat. "Whats that yer polishin' up, Thad?"

"The name is Thaddeus, boy."

"Sorry." Grindall shifted uneasily in his chair. "What's that yer polishin', Thaddeus?"

"Marble."

"Marble, eh? Where'd yeh get it?" Grindall wondered if he might find leverage over the old man with a charge of thievery. He knew of no marble quarries in the kingdom.

Thad ignored him and just sat, polishing the stone.

"Is it from around here?"

Grindall's annoyance began to rise as, once again, he was ignored. The old man wasn't going to bite. He pulled his chair closer to the old man, drew the fork from his pouch and told the same story he told Stefan. Then he tapped the fork on the swing's armrest.

"This here fork sings like the angels of the twelve heavens, don't yeh think? How can yeh resist such beauty, eh?" He twirled it, wishing he had some sunlight to show off its brilliant surface. "And have yeh ever heard of steel? Well, that's what this is. Pure steel. The finest in the land."

Thad dropped the stone in the basket, took the twirling fork from Grindall and gazed at it for a long moment. He turned a suspicious eye to Grindall. "Pah! You wouldn't know steel if it hit you in the head, boy." Without warning, he whacked Grindall over the head with the fork. Grindall reeled from the strike.

Thad continued to examine the fork. "I'll give you a dozen eggs for it. Not a cluck more."

"What? A dozen eggs? Grindall leapt to his feet, incredulous, rubbing the whacked spot. He grabbed the fork from the old man. "Yeh never seen the likes of this here fork in yer life, yeh daft ol' dodger. A dozen pearls and yeh got a deal. A dozen eggs? Pah! Sit on them eggs ol' man. Might be yeh'll hatch one of yer own. Or, might be yeh can hatch one o' these." He kicked over the basket of marble stones and began to stomp away. However, his first step landed on a cluster of the scattering little orbs. His foot flew forward while his back foot stayed firmly in place.

Grindall lay spread eagled on the slate floor. His legs splayed in opposite directions. He groaned.

Thad laughed himself to tears.

Grindall rose slowly, with Stefan's help, and sat in the chair nearest the door. Still groaning, he clutched his groin and rocked, trying to ease the pain. "I've had my fill of this thing. Bad luck all 'round, it is." He raised the fork over his head. "Here, just take it."

Stefan took the fork and passed it to Thad.

Thad leaned forward, hand stretched out to receive the trophy. "Had a bad day, eh, boy?" Thad wiped a tear from his eye.

Grindall stopped his rhythmic rocking and took a deep breath and sat up. "Yeah, yeh could say that."

"Well, I'll give them eggs to you, still." Thad slapped his leg. "It's a good thing young Stefan heard you bellowing, or else you might still be on the floor." He leaned forward, rested an elbow on his knee and buried his weeping face in his hand. "That was the funniest thing I have ever seen." He burst into a heaving, tearful laugh again. After a few moments he sat up, arms spread out, pleading. "If you do it again I'll give you another dozen . . . no . . . two dozen eggs."

Grindall wrapped his arms around his legs to keep them from twitching. It took several more minutes for him to recover.

Stefan collected the eggs from Thad's larder, put them in a small basket with straw, and set Grindall tottering off toward Kerner.

Thad struck the fork on his armrest and studied the cloud that erupted. "Hmmm, faceted thread spirals with . . . five . . . ten, eleven, twelve woven layers. Looks like varying thread count to each weave. Only seven thread variables that I can see. Blast. Stefan, come here." With a gentle push on his porch swing he poured over the possibilities the tuning fork presented. He allowed some hopeful excitement rise in his voice.

Stefan finished sweeping up the loose marble orbs and sat next to Thad. "A bit hard on Grindall, weren't you?"

"What? No. That worthless piece of skin deserves harder luck than that. Besides, I hadn't even gotten started when he kicked over those stones. I couldn't have planned it better if I'd tried."

"Do you think he's telling the truth about that fork?"

"Mostly, yes. I'm sure he got it off those tinkers. What I'd like to know if they gave it up willingly? Unless I miss my guess, no prince, king or Priory Peer would give that thing up without a fight. It's a good thing you got him to bring it here." Thad handed the fork to Stefan.

Stefan struck then examined the ringing tines. "When he showed it to me, I knew you'd want to see it." He pointed at the saddle of the fork, where the tines met. "I see a number of very tightly woven threads here, but there seems to be some missing. Do you think we could use a set of your forks to reveal more?"

"You don't need to." Thad took the fork and struck the armrest of the swing. "Look again? Look past the colors and thread cloud and focus on the saddle."

Stefan again studied the fork. "Yes, there seems to be at least four strong, faceted threads with some partials. I count . . . no, those are all underlying weaves tightly bound to the saddle." His voice rose in excitement. "At least four that I can see, for sure, with two partials. How many did you see?"

"I saw seven full weaves." Thad barely held his delight in check. "Allowing for overlap in our chromatic scales, I'm still short three weaves. But, if I'm right about this, there are twelve full weaves layered over the length of this very ordinary looking tool."

"What's it used for?" Stefan silenced the ringing tines.

"There's supposed to be one of these for each great henge. If you can believe the histories, it's to make a High Weaver into a Cherished. See the sigil on the heel?"

Stefan examined the heel. "What makes you think this might be one of those forks? Is it the sigil, the weaves, or what?"

"It's the quality and intricacies of the tones and weaves. So far, they match those of my henge. If we can find a voice to wield this thing, then we'll know for sure."

"I'm a pretty good singer. What should I sing?"

"It doesn't really matter. Any solid semitone will do. Go ahead, sing something."

Stefan stood, cleared his throat and took a deep breath. He proudly belted out a single, steady note for several seconds. Thad stood and held the fork to receive the full force of Stefan's voice.

"Nope, it didn't hear you." Thad patted Stefan on the shoulder. "Don't worry, my boy. You've got a fine voice. Just not one tuned to this fork. Now sit down and help me polish more of these stones. You need the practice." Thad returned to his porch swing.

"Why only five forks?" Stefan sat next to the old henge keeper.

"Power, my boy. Power." Thad placed the fork in his tunic and patted the pocket. Thad pulled a handful of coarse pebbles from a leather pouch and offered them to Stefan. "If I had all five keys, I could rule the world." _And I'd have the Anvil of Rendor._

"Or, destroy it again." Stefan picked one of the nuggets from Thad's hand.

Thad returned the stones to his pouch and stroked the pocket hiding the fork. "The person Grindall got this treasure from must have stolen it from the vaults of a Priory Archive." Thad stared into the distance, beyond his henge. "I doubt any ordinary tinker picked this up in a trade."

Grindall walked slowly along the road to Kerner. The pain receded from his legs bit by bit as he ambled. The road led him to the eastern outcrop of the great henge where he placed a covetous hand on one of the huge stones.

"One day you'll be mine. By the gods, you will." Palm sized stones covered the ground beneath the megalith. He picked two that appealed to him, walked meekly a few paces away and hurled one at the indifferent henge.

The megalith rang a somber tone.

Grindall stared blankly, the ringing in his ears faded. He dropped the second stone and wiped a cobweb from his brow, wondering where he was. 

#

# Chapter Twenty-one

Bustle BeRry Pie

On the road to Kerner, the tinkers met the crew as they were finishing their repair of the road across Kerner Creek. Hewn stone for a half-built retaining wall lay piled by the creek bank. Willim stopped to make sure they could cross and told them of Jon's injuries.

Little Tommy Collins, who had been fishing and watching the repair work, eagerly volunteered to run ahead and tell Jon's wife. He, his fishing pole and his wild red hair soon disappeared over a low rise heading to the village.

The wagons rumbled across the creek, made their way past a few farms and along the outer stone walls of the village. A crowd of villagers streamed through the south gate as they drove into a broad clearing.

"Hi ho, Willim," a villager called. "Li'l Tommy tells us Jon's all busted up and yer bringin' him home. How's he farin'?"

"Yes, he's in the back and doing well." He thumbed over his shoulder to where Jon lay. The man hurried by Willim to the rear of the wagon. The crowd enveloped them, asking about Jon and bringing them to a stop.

Jon greeted folks as they drew near, asking about his health and saying he looked better than they were told. The sound of Beth's panicked voice was soon heard over the milieu.

Beth raced to the back of the crowd. The villagers let her and Tommy Collins through. When she came into view of her injured husband, she stopped. Tommy, just tall enough to rest his chin on the open tailgate, stood beside her.

She cocked her head and squinted a suspicious eye at Jon as she placed her hands on her hips. The crowd went silent.

Beth stared at Jon for a moment, looked to B'Tris, to Willim and to K'Las before returning her gaze to Jon. She bent toward Tommy and wagged a fierce finger at him. "What yeh got to say for yerself, young man?"

Tommy's unshorn red hair seemed to flail as wildly as the finger he pointed at Willim. "But . . . but . . . that's what Mr. Campanill said."

"Tommy, Mr. Campanill would never use words like mashed and mangled unless it was true." Beth turned him around and gave him a quick swat on the butt. "Now, you git home."

Tommy jumped, rubbed his hind quarter and ran off through gaps in the chuckling crowd.

Beth climbed in next to her husband, crowding B'Tris aside.

Jon took Beth's hands. "Yeh know, mashed and mangled weren't far from the truth."

The villagers brought a stretcher and carried Jon home. Bert and Maynard offered to help the tinkers set up their camp outside the south gate, but B'Tris pressed them to begin the search for the tuning fork. "I'll have some food and beer ready for you when you return. Dare I say better beer than you'll find at the Feisty Wench Pub."

Maynard's eyes lit up. "One hour."

"If I smell beer on either one of you the deals off and I do my own search." She pursed her lips and thrust a finger towards Bert. He jumped. She pointed to Maynard. "And, that goes for you too."

Maynard grabbed the shoulder of Bert's tunic, spun him around and began walking. The two men made their way through the village gate and headed to Grindall's home.

"Yeh know, 'Nard, I got me a fine bruise right about where she was pointin'." Bert rubbed a tender spot on his ribcage. "Yeh don't suppose..."

"Yer darn right I 'spose, and yeh better be 'sposin', too."

"But, I don't remember her doin' nothin' like that."

"Well, yeh done the right thing when she pointed at yeh." Maynard laughed. "When she points, yeh best jump."

Bert gaped as he backed out of Becka's home. Becka Sykes picked up a Bustle Berry pie cooling on a porch bench, held it out to Bert as she leaned over, drew her elbows together and lifted her bosom, revealing a deep cleavage. "It's yers if yeh want it, Bertie dear."

Her flirtatious blinking and lilting voice left little doubt in Maynard's mind what she was really offering. Maynard had to yank his own beard to pull his eyes off the rippling mounds. He didn't know much about women, but he knew a dangerous one when he met her. Becka might even be more dangerous than B'Tris.

"Wake up, Bert." Maynard backhanded his friend across the chest. Bert staggered backward, still gawking. "We'll take that pie, Becka, and thank yeh for tellin' us about Grin."

Maynard scooped up the warm pie. Becka took the time to throw a daggered stare at the giant, but quickly returned to enticing Bert. Maynard handed the pie to Bert who managed to collect his mind enough to stare at the one sweet treasure he was allowed to touch.

"There's more sweetness where that come from, Bertie." Becka batted her eyes and glanced at her breasts with a demure smile, drawing Bert's attention, once again.

Bert continued to gawk. Maynard licked a finger and stuck it in Bert's ear. Bert jumped and slapped his ear, nearly dropping the pie. He fingered out the dripping spittle and shuddered. "Uh, gotta go."

Becka's demeanor changed from sweet to sour. She picked up a clay flower pot and reared back to hurl it at Maynard. He raised a hand and caught hers as it came forward. He wrapped his fingers around both the pot and her hand, and pulled her to him.

An all too familiar anger crept from the back of his mind. Other women had tried to hurt him--beat him. He lowered his brow and narrowed his eyes as thunder rolled from his mouth. "I near killed a woman I wanted to love for doin' things like that." He drew her closer. "I don't even like yeh."

Becka paled to white ash. Her jaw slacked and her breathing stalled. Maynard took the pot from her hand and crushed it with his. Becka kept her eyes on Maynard and stepped back to the door of her house. She paused, found the latch to the door and disappeared inside.

Bert and Maynard began walking back to the tinker's camp. A scream and the sound of breaking pottery erupted from the home behind them. They both walked in silence. Maynard brooded about his anger.

Jon had made good his promise to replenish the tinker's larder. Dried peas, taters, carrots, sausage, bacon, salted pork and other necessities filled their stores. As more villagers became aware of what they had done for Jon, the more gifts they received. Even the bartering for their dry goods and ironware was easier and more profitable.

Willim thanked a villager as he completed another deal. He handed the matronly woman a brass windproof lantern in exchange for a handmade quilt.

"Mrs. Conger, are you sure you won't take another bolt of cloth or lantern for this beautiful quilt?"

"No, Mr. Campanill." She pushed the offered lantern away and waved a finger at him. "What yeh've done for Kerner is more than I can ever repay. I shouldn't even be takin' this lantern." Her hands trembled as she began setting it back on the makeshift countertop. "I'm embarrassed to take it."

"Please, Mrs. Conger--"

"Call me Bessie. I insist you call me Bessie."

"Bessie, please keep it. I'd be appalled if you didn't. I'm going to have trouble sleeping because of all the generosity of folks like you. We didn't do that much. Bert and Maynard deserve most of the credit."

"Yes, they have become much more than they used to be, yeh know." Her expression went from a frown to a smile. "A couple of years ago, Jon woulda been a dead man, for sure. Now, them two are like our own kin. Still troublesome sometimes, but good men just the same." Bessie nodded twice and smiled. "I thank yeh now. Good bye." She took her lantern and walked away.

"That Bessie Conger's a real nice lady, ain't she." Willim jumped at the unexpected voice behind him. B'Tris ducked and jostled the bowl of soup in her hands. They both turned and found Maynard standing behind them.

"She gave Bert a big ol' quilt when he and Fancy got married. Yep, real nice lady."

"Where's Bert?" Willim looked behind the big forester.

"Oh, he's sittin' over there." Maynard pointed to the campfire. "Becka Sykes gave us a pie. She done pinched some Bustle Berries from the King's own forest, so she was eager to get rid of it when we pointed out the error of her ways." Maynard scanned the campsite. "Where's K'Las?"

"He's getting reacquainted with the kids in the village. Alara Warden and the twin Baker girls are cooing over him at the moment." B'Tris handed him the bowl of soup. "Here, taste this. If you like it there's more in the kettle. I was going to start more pottage, but this sounded better."

Maynard lifted the bowl to his lips and sipped. He smiled and swilled the rest of it down. "Yeah, if yeh can spare more, I'm for eatin' it."

Willim led the way to the campfire. He got another spoon from the camp kit and ladled up more soup into Maynard's wooden bowl. "Did you learn anything from Mrs. Sykes?"

"Yeah, Grin's gone off to sell the fork." Maynard took a spoon and a loaf of bread offered by B'Tris and sat on the ground. "He's gonna try the farms here 'bouts, but they ain't likely to want somethin' they don't know nothin' about. Stefan Windhammer is workin' out at Bartle's Nook. Becka said Grin's headin' that way, and I figure that's who's gonna buy it, if anyone does."

"That's the Squire's son, right?" Willim prepared his own bowl of soup. "Why him?"

"He's a smart man. One of King Gerald's master carpenters. Him and the Squire are on good speakin' terms with the King, himself. If yeh wanna know somethin', or get a favor from the Royal court, Stefan's the one to ask."

"How long will it take us to get to Bartle's Nook?" B'Tris stifled a yawn.

"Us bein' who?" Maynard tore off a piece of bread and dipped it in his soup.

Willim moved to B'Tris and sat on a stool beside her. "You or me?"

"Me, of course. I'm tuned to the fork. If I'm close enough I can find it, even if it's hidden."

"We've never met the Squire's son. Are you sure you can deal with this? You haven't had much rest. If he's that well connected he may have some strong weaving skills."

B'Tris cradled her head in her hands. "How far is it, Maynard?"

"If we set a strong pace, we can be back by sundown." Maynard served himself a bite of creamed taters and peas from his bowl. "If he has yer fork."

Willim didn't like the undertone in Maynard's voice. "Is there someone else who may buy the fork?"

Maynard grimaced and shifted. "Maybe. Yes. I hope not."

"What does that mean?" B'Tris gripped Willim's hand. "You aren't thinking of that old henge keeper are you?"

"Yeah, I am." Maynard shook his head. "I ain't too sure Grin'll take a chance of losin' the fork to that old coot. Thad can talk yeh outta yer sanity if he gets the notion. But, if Grin don't come back with a profit, Becka will boil him down to a pot of suet."

"I think we should find Grindall as soon as possible." Willim stood and paced slowly. "If he doesn't have the fork, he can tell us where it is. Bee, that means I go. You stay here and get some rest. With some luck we can have the fork back tonight, or tomorrow. Hopefully, Grindall will still have the fork when we find him."

"That means another day the fork is exposed. The more who learn of it, the greater the chances of things going terribly wrong."

"I'd prefer both of us attend to Mr. Thaddeus Stonebreaker. We don't know him well enough to deal with him cold. We'll need an edge." Willim stopped pacing and turned to Maynard. "Who knows Mr. Stonebreaker well enough to know what he likes and dislikes?"

"Stefan prob'ly knows him best. Him and Thad build stuff together. I reckon Stefan's the old man's only friend." Maynard dished up another portion of soup.

"There's the Squire." Bert belched as he stared at the remaining half of the pie. "Thad's been seen visitin' the Squire's Manor." He slowly took another bite of pie.

"Is there someone else at the manor, besides the squire?"

"Will, we don't have time for this." B'Tris stood and straightened her kirtle. "You're right. Go find Grindall. We'll worry about who knows who when we know where the fork is. I'll see what I can find out while you're gone."

#

# Chapter Twenty-Two

Get out, TinkeR

Midafternoon, Willim and Maynard set out at a brisk pace for Bartle's Nook. Since Grindall had at least an eight hour head start, they decided to try to intercept him at the tiny village in hopes of finding him or Stefan Windhammer with the fork. Bert set off toward Pete Turner's home and Greens-by-the Hill just in case Grindall was able to sell the fork to a farmer.

An hour later Willim and Maynard crested a low rise. The road fell into a shallow dell with a brook meandering through it and the eastern outcropping of the great henge rising in the distance. On the far side of the brook, Grindall sat on the ground with an unfixed gaze.

Maynard brought Willim to a stop. "I'll get him."

He left the road and walked down the grassy slope and quietly snared the hapless thief from behind. When Maynard signaled, Willim trotted down to join them.

"What'd I tell yeh?" Maynard stood with his fists on his hips and nodded to Grindall. "Thad done talked him outta his wits. Grin's as barmy as Bert in a brewery."

As Willim approached, he began to notice the scratches and bruises intermingled in a disparate weave across the thief's face. "Looks like he's had a rough time since last we saw him."

Willim stepped close to Grindall, set his travel kit on the ground and searched the forester's kit and clothing. The basket held nothing but straw and eggs.

Grindall sat, glassy eyed, humming incoherently. Willim moved closer. _Weaves. He's covered with them. Probably a layered Distraction Weave._

A chill rippled up Willim's spine at the thought of someone with that much talent. _It would take me and Bee an hour or more to weave anything close to what I . . ._ Willim sat up straight. _. . . to what I can see. How much of this_ do _I see?_ They looked a lot like K'Las' weaves. Some of the weft and waft seemed to be missing, or . . . interrupted.

Willim patted Grindall's clothing to see how tightly the weaves were bound to the cotton. Loosening the laces of Grindall's tunic, he checked to see if the weave had penetrated through to the skin. He cupped his hands under Grindall's ears and moved the forester's head from side to side and examined the invasive threads lacing into the man's mouth, ear canals, tear ducts and nose.

"Fascinating." He sat back on his heels and regarded the stricken forester. "Masterful. I'm impressed." He met Maynard's confused gaze and pointed to Grindall. "That, my friend, is the cleanest, most intricate Distraction Weave I've ever seen, and I can't see the half of it, I'm sure."

Maynard shrugged and rolled his eyes. "Whatever. What good is he now? Look, now he's droolin'. We ain't gettin' nothin' outta him. Let's haul him back to Kerner."

Willim lifted a corner of Grindall's tunic and wiped the drool away. "Yes, you're right. I'm going to need help unraveling that weave. If we can even do it." Willim considered his own words for a moment. He turned and regarded the giant who began backing away.

Maynard stopped. "What's the matter? Did I do somethin' wrong?"

"No, no. But, I am wondering about something. What do you know about weaves . . . about magic?"

"Nothin'. And, I don't wanna know nothin'."

"You've never been taught anything about weaving?"

"Just stuff like sewin' up my own britches."

"Not the same." Willim got to his feet and faced Maynard.

"Have you ever been taught anything about sound, touch, taste, smell or light?"

"I ain't never had no real schoolin'. Just stuff Bert and Jon taught me, like readin' and writin'."

"Were you ever given the Imbuement ceremony?"

"Only ceremony I ever had was bein' swore in as a forester?"

"Anyone ever _make_ you listen to bells?"

"Yeah, I've heard bells before. Who ain't? Yeh got yer cowbells and barge bells and such, but yer talkin' somethin' else, ain't yeh?" Maynard stroked his beard in thought. "Come to think on it, me and Bert had to listen to some bells once a few years back. We was in the stocks. A couple of people come by and stuck something on my head. I couldn't see what they was doin', but they rung bells, one right after another. Took a while, but they kinda gave up."

"What did they say?"

"They said I was deaf." Maynard threw his arms up. "Can yeh figure that? I hear better'n most folks."

"I think they meant tone deaf." Willim began to pace, wondering how someone who was tone deaf could possibly affect a weave. _Few people are truly without any ability to hear some tone. I wonder. Haegatess was supposed to be tone deaf._

"Are you willing to do an experiment?" Willim took Maynard by the sleeve. "Bee and I have noticed you can do things we can't explain. I'd like to see if it's true." He tugged on the sleeve to lead Maynard to Grindall. The giant didn't budge.

"Whaddya want me to do?"

"Just touch Grindall's forehead and let's see what happens."

"I ain't touchin' him unless I'm stranglin' him."

"Why?"

"I just ain't, that's all."

"You touched Jon's forehead. What's the difference?"

"Jon's my friend. He was sick. I got no reason to be touchin' Grindall's forehead."

Willim regarded Maynard's stance and expression. "I see. Well, if you're willing to strangle him, would you touch his throat?"

Maynard stood quietly for a moment before shifting his weight. "How 'bout I just grab him by the neck."

They knelt by the drooling forester. Willim wiped away the moisture. Maynard, behind Grindall, began to reach for his neck, but Willim stayed his hand. "Wait. I need a clear view of the weaves." Willim further loosened the leather laces on Grindall's shirt and tunic and spread the collars, exposing most of his shoulders.

Willim set a light weave of his own over the existing weaves and kept a bonded thread to himself. "I'm ready. Take hold of his neck. But, only part of it. That big hand of yours will wrap all the way around it."

Maynard set thumb and fingertips to each side of Grindall's neck.

The weaves began to shudder, but Willim had no sense of it through the linked thread. His weave remained intact despite the convulsions.

A moment later Willim noticed his fingertip with the bonded thread became numb. "Fascinating." The numbness began to crawl up his finger to his palm, but his weave still held together. "Alright, that should be enough."

Willim released the linked thread and Maynard dropped his hand.

"I reckon yeh saw somethin', didn't yeh?"

"Yes, though not what I hoped for." Willim shook his numb finger and rubbed it back to life. "I'd like to try that again. Maybe I can sever . . . unravel those weaves with your help."

"Maybe I could shake him a little. Like shakin' dead leaves off a tree." Maynard draped his hands over Grindall's shoulders and shook him.

The weaves strained. Like a huge bubble in a great cauldron of hot, nine day old pottage, the weave lifted. The warp and weft strained to hold together. Gaps opened and spread. Threads lost their twist and fibers snapped under the stress. Shreds lifted, twirled and drifted away, like Dandelion seeds in a breeze.

Caught by surprise, Willim tried to react, but it happened too quickly. He leapt to his feet. "That. That is what I wanted to see."

Grindall came to life. "What in the seven hells . . ." He struggled to release himself from Maynard's grip and spotted Willim. "What're you doin' here, Potts?" He quickly became aware of his circumstances as his gaze moved past Willim. "Where am I?"

Maynard grabbed him by the back of the neck and stood, bringing Grindall with him. "How 'bout that. It worked."

Grindall reached over his shoulders and found Maynard's arm. He tried to turn to see who had hold of him. "Maynard, is that you?"

"Yeah, Grin. It's me. Yeh've gone head first into a midden heap, this time, yeh thievin' skunk. Course, yeh seem to like livin' like a slug, so nothin' new there." Maynard held Grindall out to Willim. "That what yeh wanted?"

"Not quite, but it will do." Willim picked up his kit and slipped the strap over his shoulder. "Let's get back to Kerner. We'll question him on the way."

Grindall's reluctance to answer questions and his foot-dragging slowed their return. The information Willim got was not encouraging. The fork had, indeed, gotten into Thaddeus Stonebreakers hands. Although the law was on their side, the strength of the weaves he had seen on Grindall concerned him. Based on the rumors he heard and their own experiences, negotiating with Thaddeus would not be easy. The very real possibility . . . probability . . . that he was a very advanced weaver didn't help matters.

On their arrival in Kerner Jon wrote a script for Grindall's arrest based on the man's own testimony. He told Maynard to take him to Squire Windhammer. The Squire's manor had rooms set aside in its basement for situations like this. Grindall would become one of the rare occupants.

Willim had questions he only trusted Jon to answer. When Maynard left with Grindall, Willim lingered. Beth hovered over her husband and their five kids were in and out of the bedroom, making any private conversation difficult.

"Beth, see if yeh can keep the kids out. I think Willim wants to talk. Have Jake take 'em over to the bakery for some crispels, or somethin'." Jon pointed to his five-year old daughter, Tess. "You, young lady, deserve a piece of horehound. I saw yeh help yer Ma with the bandages and makin' tea. Now get."

Tess squealed and raced through door of the bedroom. Jon called after her. "And, tell Junior he can have one, too."

"Yes, Papa." Tess disappeared from view.

"I'll be right back." Beth followed Tess through the doorway.

Willim watched Beth leave and turned to Jon. "How much have you told Beth?"

"Nearly everythin'."

"Nearly?"

"Yeah. I'll tell her the rest tonight, when we're alone. Why? You afraid she'll say somethin'?"

Willim shifted in his chair. "Yes, I suppose so. I'm nervous about all this. I'd prefer no one else knows about the fork or who we are."

"If yeh got more secrets yeh don't want her to know, yeh best not be tellin' me."

"No, no, I just need to talk something out about this whole situation. I don't know what to expect, and that makes me nervous. You're the only one I trust to give me a straight answer."

Beth entered and closed the door behind her. She took a seat at the head of the bed and tugged on Jon's pillow.

Willim took a deep breath and continued. "Beth, you know about our fork?"

"Yes. I know it's been stolen. Grindall admitted to it when he was here, so that much is settled."

"And, now Thad has it." Jon leaned forward as Beth slid another pillow behind him.

"Yes, Thad has it. It is imperative we get it back. When we do, we have to leave soon after. Once the Priory learns of it, you'll have Enforcers out here to get it."

Beth chuckled. "Willim, we get Enforcers through here more often than we like. Just a couple of days ago we had one. A woman. You don't see--"

"A woman Enforcer?" Willim's hair stood on end, his spine grew rigid. "What was her name?"

Beth lowered her gaze and placed a finger to her lips. "Hmm, A'wyn, yes, A'wyn Bowyer."

"Was there anyone else with her?"

"No, she was alone. Curious, huh? They usually travel in pairs." She glanced at Jon and back to Willim. "Do you know her?"

"Where is she? Have you seen her since then?"

"No." Beth's posture grew tense. "She went out to the henge. Why?"

"What's goin' on Will?" Jon sat straight up, clutching his side as he did.

Willim sat in dejected silence. A'wyn was here and had gone to the henge, which meant Thad probably knows about the fork. _Gods, A'wyn and L'don Bank may already have it._

"Yer lookin' rather poorly, Will. What's wrong?" Beth reached out and laid a hand on Willim's knee.

He cradled his head in his hands and shook his head. "It's all my fault. I didn't ward the fork when I should have. I didn't . . . I fell asleep by the creek and forgot all about the fork. Gods, I'm such a fool. I should have been more vigilant."

"Will, yeh best tellin' us everythin'. I'm not likin' what I'm hearin'." Jon's voice was firm. "Let us help yeh, if we can. How many Enforcers are you expectin'?"

"Just L'don Banks and A'wyn Boyer, so far." Willim sat up, but kept his eyes on his hands. "If they have the fork they'll come for B'Tris and then head straight back to the Heart Henge."

"The Heart Henge! Why's the Endless Realm Priory sendin' Enforcers here? They're way out of their jurisdiction. Our Priory won't like that one bit. Wars have been fought for less."

"A war is what we'll have if we don't get that fork back and keep this under wraps." Willim studied the Warden, knowing he had another piece of bad news for him. "You should know that L'don and A'wyn are called Inquisitors by their priory. They were not imbued like everyone else, if they've been imbued at all. We've learned they can use multiple tones in their weaves and are actually trained wilders. If they believe our fork is one of the keys to the Anvil of Rendor they will stop at nothing to get it."

The rules and traditions of the Craft Trade House, and its priory, bound Jon and Beth. Willim didn't blame them for wanting to protect the lives they knew and the family they loved. He saw the rage building in Jon. Beth reflected her husband's anger, mixed with her own confusion. He couldn't, and wouldn't, fault them. This was all on his head.

"I don't . . ." Willim sighed. "You warned me, Jon. You said you wouldn't sacrifice your family or the village for the fork. It seems it was already too late. I'm sorry."

"Yer sorry! Yeh ain't begun to be sorry. Yeh shoulda told me the Eternal Realm Priory was involved. People are gonna die here and all yeh can say is yer sorry?" He swung a leg over the edge of the bed.

He dropped another foot to the floor. "I don't send good men to tend to my dirty work, but I'll have Bert and Maynard on yer arse by nightfall if yer not outta Kerner. Yeh best be outta the county this time tomorrow. By the gods I'll have yer carcass feedin' wolves if yer not."

Willim didn't meet Jon's angry gaze. "It doesn't much matter. My family is as good as dead. I can only hope for a few more months, at most."

He turned and stepped to the door. Beth blocked it.

"Let him out, Beth." Jon growled in pain and anger as he struggled to stand. "Get out, tinker."

Beth kept an intense stare on Willim as she stepped aside and let him pass. She followed him to the front door and slammed it after he stepped through.

The tavern keeper hustled to keep mugs filled, paying little attention to the mousy little man in the corner. The unassuming man dropped two more coppers on the table.

Within seconds his mug brimmed over with the house's best brew--it's only brew. He always wondered how an innkeeper could hear coin fall with a pub full of bedlam and wild rumor. There was nothing like rumor and scandal to fill a pub. He had to admit, it was intoxicating in its own right.

L'don Banks nursed his brew, listening, sober and focused. 

#

# Chapter Twenty-Three

Choices

Beth slammed the door behind Willim. Irritated and angry with her husband and the tinkers, she silently cursed the unanswered questions she had. The cheerful and playful woodsman she married had become somber over the years for good reason. Jon had already been through two vicious border wars defending the Greybull Kingdom and bore the scars to prove it.

She knew him well. He never talked of those brutal wars. Those horrible memories lay hidden behind a mask of evenhandedness. Her heart broke when he descended into those deep shaded places. She never asked what was there. The only comfort he allowed was her silent embrace in the privacy of their bedchamber.

His angry, cursing outbursts still erupted from the bedroom. She wanted answers not vivid reminders of the horrors of war. Her mind turned to the tinkers.

She knew their story did not include her. Not directly. Not yet. Something very serious had happened and her family, the village and the tinkers were about to pay a heavy price. She needed to know more about them.

She walked into the bedroom and helped Jon back into bed. He continued to rant, though his voice was weakening. He cursed the tinkers, cursed the Priory and cursed his life. Her shattering husband groaned as she laid him back on his pillow. She tucked in the blankets around his legs, caressed his angry brow and kissed him.

She recognized the signs. His anger was turning further inward. Soon he would become morose. She rolled up her sleeves, set her jaw and strode from the house.

Willim, B'Tris and K'Las sat, facing the campfire. Willim told them of Grindall's capture and his conversation with Jon. When he finished, B'Tris lowered her face as she shook her head. Her shoulders sagged. K'Las stared at his parents. The news made no sense to him.

"What are we going to do, Will?" She pressed her stomach and rocked. "I thought we could get some help, but now we're alone again. People were so friendly here. What's happening?"

"I'm sorry, Bee." Willim placed his hand on her knee. "I've handled this poorly. But, we have to leave, now. Bert and Maynard will be coming for us soon. We'll decide what to do next when we make camp tonight."

K'Las stood beside his mother. "But papa, why do we have to leave. People like us here."

"I just told you, son. Jon has ordered us to leave." Willim looked to the sky. "We haven't much time to pack up and leave. We'll be doing well to get to Turnout Pond before it gets too dark."

"I can help fight the Inquisitors, Papa. I've been practicing. Look." K'Las went to his knees and placed his hands on the ground. Fibers slipped from his fingertips, slid across the ground, spinning into threads along the way. The coalescing threads from each hand snaked between the hearthstones and found the remains a small charred stick.

"Watch, papa." A proud grin spread across K'Las' face. He sat up on his heels, pressed his palms together and gently tugged the weave.

"Oh gods." B'Tris lunged for K'Las.

The wood erupted straight up in a mushrooming column of talc. The fire gripped its new fuel source and followed the cloud of dust.

Flame and light led a pillar of smoke to a climactic burst of light.

Willim stood and backed away. B'Tris yanked K'Las' arm hard and chastised him for his indiscretion. "What are you thinking? Didn't you hear what your father just . . .?"

Gasps and a squeal of delight burst from behind them as the smoke drifted away. Willim and B'Tris spun around.

Pete Turner, his two sons and Tommy Collins stood staring at the burnt cloud.

Tommy clapped. "Do it again, do it again." He laughed and skipped, waving his arms with glee.

B'Tris wrung her hands and glanced at the road leading from Kerner to the safety of the forest and Turnout Pond.

"K'Las was just showing us how his new trick was coming along. Maybe later, Tommy." Willim moved toward Pete. "We were hoping to have a magic show for folks in a few days. Do you enjoy magic tricks?"

"We're havin' a magic show, yahoo!" Tommy yelped and ran off.

"Everyone likes a magic show." Pete tilted his head and fixed his gaze on the tinkers. "Magic's one thing, weavin's another. Are yeh weavers or magicians?" His slow, ambling words made Willim want to lean forward and push them along.

"Uh, well, we--"

"Do a little weavin' myself." Pete pointed to the vanishing haze." Can't do nothin' like that. Never thought to use it that way, don't yeh know. But, I can curl a thread or two, if yeh take my meanin'. Comes in useful at times."

"Is there something I can help you with, Pete?" Willim didn't want to get into a long conversation with the man. This one had already taken too long.

"Saw that lantern yeh sold to Bessie Conger. Thought I could use one, too. Gettin' tired of the wind blowin' out my candles, don't yeh know."

"I do know, Pete." Willim turned back to K'Las. "Fetch two of those brass lanterns, K'Las. Please be quick about it." B'Tris released K'Las. He ran to the stores wagon.

"I got nothin' with me to trade. Just thought I'd see if yeh still had some. If yeh did I thought I might trade some cheese and butter for one. Got me a dairy farm just yonder, don't yeh know. I seen yeh go by when yeh brought Jon home. Right fine deed yeh done, yer wife and--"

"You have one of the farms outside of Kerner?"

"Yep, just yonder there. Last one before the tree line." Pete pointed south, towards Turnout Pond. "Got me six good milkin' cows and four--"

"Will, look." B'Tris tugged on his sleeve and nodded to Kerner's southern gate.

Beth Warden led two people they didn't know. An odd looking man with a shiny bald pate and well-trimmed salt and pepper beard walked beside Beth. He looked like he might have just walked off a royal galleon. His bloused trousers, blue vest and brass buttons told of his seafaring background. A woman with smooth features, auburn hair cinched up in a loose chignon, ochre colored blouse under a lavender kirtle followed close behind.

They did not look happy.

Willim sighed. "Well, at least Bert and Maynard aren't with her." K'Las ran up with the lanterns and presented them to Pete.

"We need to talk, Willim." Beth folded her arms as she came to a stop in front of Pete.

"If Tommy told you about the fireworks, I can explain."

"The fireworks do need some explainin'. Especially, now." Beth turned to Pete. "Yeh got someplace to go?"

"Yeah, always got someplace to go. Fact is--"

"Then go."

Unfazed, Pete handed a lantern to his son, Pete Jr. "This got somethin' to do with that fork of yours, Will? My Pa had one of them, yeh know. He got--"

"Pete, I said, go." Beth squared up on Pete. With a fist on one hip she pointed to his home with the other.

Pete leaned into her and glared right back. "I ain't done sayin' what I got to say to Will." He raised a calloused hand and pointed at her. "And, I ain't leavin' 'til I'm done sayin' it, young lady. You got a problem with that?"

"Say it then and be quick about it. This is important."

"So's this. For me, anyway." Pete shifted his attention to Willim. "I was sayin' my old pap had one of them forks. The Priory came and took it. Killed him in the doin' of it, too. I was just a kid. I seen it happen."

Pete pointed to the village. "I just come from the pub. Folks are talkin' wild things in there. Some stranger said somethin' about yeh killin' off the Priory." He stepped closer to Willim. "I lost me a boy and two good daughters. I done my duty to pay the Priest's Pence and get them imbued only to get back three dead kids. So, you ever need help killin' 'em, I'm yer man."

Pete handed the second lantern to his oldest son. "Frank here's been gobsmacked bad. He ain't been right since they imbued him five years ago." He wrapped an arm around Frank. "He does what he can and he's a good kid. Junior's up for the imbuement this year, and it scares all the hells of creation out of me. I'm thinkin' hard on not doin' it."

The dairyman pointed to Beth. "I'm bettin' these three ain't here to give yeh no help. Don't get me wrong, Beth. I'd be first in line to help yer husband, if needs be, but when that means killin' my kids for some stupid law, I'm steppin' outta that line. Jon's on his own."

Pete became quiet then took his son's hand. "Well, I guess that's all I got to say." He pointed to the man standing beside Beth. "That's the Squire's man and he's gonna tell him what I said. Might be I signed my own death warrant, now didn't I? But I ain't gonna lose li'l Pete, here." He rested his hand on his son's shoulder. "That be as good as death to me anyway." He stepped to the odd looking man. "Yeh all best be dealin' with that stranger. I'm thinkin' he's an Enforcer."

"Alright, Pete. Yeh made yer point." Beth separated Pete from the Squire's man. "I just talked with the Squire. Seems Jon's right about a war comin' and there ain't no way we can stop it. It seems our tinkers are more than we thought, too. Could be we can come to some sort of . . . uh, truce. Maybe an alliance."

Beth moved to Willim. "Maybe together we could come up with a plan."

They threw all their merchandise and camping gear in the wagons and fled to Pete Turner's dairy farm. Pete and his two sons went about their normal business of milking cows. K'Las sat and listened to the conversation between his parents and the three villagers.

Beth Warden introduced the two other villagers as people who knew Thad well. The man, Bernie Scribner, was the squire's manservant and wore clothes that reminded K'Las of the old sailors he had met in the port city of Charlestone. Bernie seemed entirely out of place in this landlocked kingdom. The woman, on the other hand, had taken K'Las' breath away.

Cassandra Miller, the other stranger with Beth, was the prettiest woman he had ever seen. The color of her hair, the warm glow of her face reminded him of his mother. Her rich blue eyes gleamed and smiled at him. When she spoke, her words were melodious and as warm as her gaze. He pulled up a stool and sat at the corner of the table between her and his mother. Moreover, she was the Squire's daughter, almost a royal.

His parents sat beside each other in two of three ladder-back chairs. Beth Warden sat on a stool at the far end of the table. The funny looking Mr. Scribner stood behind the empty chair.

K'Las moved closer to Cassandra hoping to hear her ask for something . . . anything.

"That Endless Realm Inquisitor is stirring up trouble in the village, Will." Beth gestured toward the village. "Practically all Enforcers visit the pub just to pick up on local gossip. If they don't go there they'll talk to the blacksmith or they chat someone up at the bakery. It appears our visitor has been to see all of 'em. They let Cassandra and the Squire know when one arrives."

Beth pulled herself close to the table. "Cassandra and Bernie can tell you most anythin' yeh wanna know about Thad. Cass lets Thad know about any enforcers who come to Kerner and Bernie . . . well, Bernie, you tell 'em."

Scribner tugged on his brass buttoned vest and cleared his throat. "Mr. Campanill, we see Thad at the manor on a regular basis. He and Sir Charles have a long standing arrangement. It is not well known and the squire would rather like to keep it that way, if you don't mind."

Willim and B'Tris nodded their agreement.

K'Las stood. "I agree, too. I won't tell anyone." Cassandra smiled at him and patted his back. He met her gaze and blushed. "Just thought I'd let you know." He bowed to everyone and sat back down.

"We quite understand, Mr. Scribner." B'Tris took Willim's hand. "What can you tell us about Thad?"

Scribner placed a thin wooden case on the table. "Before I can tell you what we know about our henge keeper, Sir Charles wishes to know what your part will be when the storm strikes. Our village appears to be at particular risk, beyond that of the Inquisitors. Mrs. Warden and her husband have told us what they know about you, the fork and this foreign Enforcer, L'don Banks."

Willim leaned back in his chair. "We've shown Jon all our documentation about it and told him what we know."

"One can read a document and still not know what it means." Scribner pressed his hands on the table. "Sir Charles had a visit with his son, Stefan this afternoon. He delivered some disturbing news. Perhaps you could start by telling us why you came here and how the fork is involved."

Cassandra shifted in her chair, a grimace crossed her face at the mention of her brother.

K'Las wondered if she was uncomfortable. "May I get you something softer to sit on Mrs. Miller? A pillow or blanket?"

"No, thank you, K'Las." Cassandra placed a reassuring hand on his wrist. "I'm fine."

Her touch coursed through him like a clap of thunder. He was spellbound, sure his heart would stop. He ignored the tug on his sleeve until it became insistent then turned and found his mother.

She pointed a finger at him and whispered, "Pay attention."

"We've been coming here for the past two years, as Beth can attest." Willim gestured to her as he stood. "We, like others before us, have been trying to gather information about the henge. We made no secret of that. We also wanted to know how it relates to the fork and still do. Each visit was no more than two weeks, and at midsummer. We had hoped those Inquisitors would choose not to come here at all. They prefer to confront us in or near the cities where their interference would be less noticed. We only go to cities to pick up goods then leave as soon as possible. Since L'don Banks and A'wyn Bowyer are persistent if not . . ."

"A'wyn Bowyer?" Cassandra's eyebrows rose in surprise. "You're saying A'wyn Bowyer and that mouse L'don Banks are . . ." She glanced from Willim to the others as if searching for a shared sense of absurdity. "um . . . partners?"

Willim pressed his palms to the table. "That mouse, as you call him, is from the Endless Realm Priory. Probably sent by the Grand Peer himself. He's a highly skilled Weaver and I have no doubt he would gladly slice your heart out before you knew you were dead. Now, where did you see A'wyn?"

Cassandra visibly swallowed as the tinker peered at her. She pressed back in her chair and glanced to Beth and Scribner. "I talked with her the night she arrived at the inn. She said her husband would meet her there, but didn't give me his name. I just assumed . . ." She dropped her gaze to her trembling hands that picked at nothing on her kirtle. She cleared her throat. "Then she left for the henge the next morning. I haven't seen her for two days. Thad probably did something to scare her off."

"What would he do to scare her off?" Willim sat and folded his arms on the tabletop as he inclined toward Cassandra. "How do you know she isn't still out there?"

She shrugged. "I don't know what he does to Enforcers. I've only been doing this about four years. Of the dozen or so I've sent to him I rarely ever see them afterwards. Those I do see leave rather quickly and say nothing. I don't know where A'wyn is now. She's not at the henge, of that I'm certain. Thad is not known for his hospitality to outsiders and does not take in guests."

Scribner tapped on the table to gain everyone's attention. "Mr. Campanill. Before we carry on about the Enforcers, or Inquisitors, I must insist you tell us what you intend to do now you no longer have the fork."

Willim kept a probing gaze on Cassandra, trying to gauge her reliability. "There may be a tie between the three of them . . . the fork, the henge and B'Tris. In hopes of avoiding problems like this we didn't want to stay long unless we found that connection. Unfortunately, those problems have heralded our arrival. The gods have not favored us, this time. We have to assume L'don and A'wyn either have or will have the fork. They'll try to capture B'Tris on their return to the Grand Peer. Perhaps we can turn the tables on them."

Scribner appeared dubious. "You think you can overcome two trained wilders?"

B'Tris pressed a hand on Willim's arm. "Mr. Scribner, more than Inquisitors, Peers and henges are involved. Legends and myths tell us there may be four other tuning forks like ours. Those ancient tales say these five forks will discover an anvil of some kind. That anvil, along with the five great henges, will conquer the souls of man. That is what we believe the Endless Realm Priory is pursuing. We intend to deny them the means to acquire the anvil . . . if it exists at all."

"One last question about the fork, if I may." Scribner sat and rested a hand on the wooden case. "You said they wanted to capture you. Why?"

"My voice affects the fork. You might say I'm tuned to it."

"Satisfied?" Willim leaned back in his chair.

"Yes, for what you have told us." Scribner folded his arms and stroked his beard. "But, we have one last problem to resolve."

"And that is?" Willim and B'Tris asked in unison.

"Normally, when an Enforcer or Temple priest has been asking too many questions and we've subdued him, we offer them a few options. Those options usually involve a trip out to the henge and a deep memory imbuement induced by Thad." Scribner's hand returned to the thin wooden case.

He began drumming his fingers. "The Squire smells a cold northern breeze turning to a squall, Mr. Campanill; a wind that'll be driving us to barren reefs if we're too late trimming our sails. We need strong masts, sound cloth and a sturdy keel. The question now is, will you make us stronger or weaker and to whom do you owe fealty?"

Scribner studied each of them, as if looking for a reaction. He shifted in his chair as his arms crossed over the case.

"Your choices are rather limited. If you are found not to be trustworthy and unwilling to help you may choose torture and certain death from the Endless Realm Priory, an uncertain outcome with Thad, or, at worst, a deep memory imbuement from us." When Willim and B'Tris gave no outward reaction Scribner seemed a bit thrown off balance. He lifted and idly dropped the case and shifted his gaze to Beth.

K'Las jumped to his feet and ran to stand between his mother and Willim. His eyes shifted from one villager to the other. "I won't let you hurt momma and papa."

Beth and Cassandra avoided eye contact and looked down into their hands. B'Tris gazed stoically at Scribner.

Scribner gestured to K'Las. "It appears your son is alarmed by what lies ahead for him, Mr. Campanill. Perhaps you can clarify it for all of us."

"Don't be alarmed, son. Listen to your song and settle yourself." Willim nodded calmly toward their hosts. "I believe we may have other choices here."

"What other choices might those be?" Scribner shifted in his seat.

Willim gathered his thoughts. "If I may, I'd like to address a few points you've made."

"Please do."

"First, the squall you mentioned will likely last for as long as the fork remains here. At best it will come in waves. If we can stop L'don now, it should be another year, more likely two, before another pair of Inquisitors arrives. If we can stop those two, the next wave will be several Inquisitors. That will be the Grand Peer's last chance before the Western Knoll Priory declares all-out war. Then, of course, there's your own priory. If they learn of the fork and decide to get it for themselves you'll need all the help you can get. They won't be happy you kept it hidden."

Willim gestured to Cassandra. "You and her brother lead me to my second point. If Thad retains the fork for his own use you have another problem. Since Thad knows the henge so well and has some grand notion of what the fork can do for him, you are now facing the possibility of having your own self-anointed Grand Peer in your own backyard . . . literally. That puts you at the center of four powerful, competing forces. Thad, your own priory, the so-called Grand Peer and King Gerald."

"Well met, Mr. Campanill". Scribner sat up straight, his hands holding each end of the case as it rested on the table. "How does that affect the choices laid before you? Who do you wish to surrender to, us, Thad or the Grand Peer's Inquistors? I suppose King Gerald is an option, too."

"Come now, Mr. Scribner." Willim looked askance at Scribner. "Neither you nor I want us to surrender to L'don Banks. We still have a card to play. The fork is little more than an ordinary fork without the voice that goes with it. L'don will want both."

"And what of Thad?" Scribner took a firm grasp of the case. "He has the fork now. Perhaps he doesn't need the voice. The henge is an unknown factor and he is the expert in residence with the knowledge to combine the two."

"I agree with most of what you just said. However, based on the old legends, we are certain Thad needs the voice too." Willim paused and looked at B'Tris, then met Scribner's gaze. "Chords, Mr. Scribner. He needs a chord."

"Why?" Scribner glanced to B'Tris before fixing on Willim. "He has the henge and a boat load of forks to create any chord he wants."

"Three notes to a chord and the harmonics they produce. There are elements here we are not aware of, Mr. Scribner. If all he needed were forks, the henge and any itinerant singer Thad would be a much more potent fellow, don't you think? Then we'd have potent fellows everywhere."

Scribner didn't respond. His eyes narrowed in thought.

"You see, Mr. Scribner, we . . . me and my family . . . have no choice but to defend ourselves. Whoever has the fork, or has the voice to match, is at risk. Our best option is to find allies who share a common purpose. My question to you, the Squire and the folks of Kerner would be, is that an option worthy of your consideration? Would Thad agree to work with us to that common purpose--an alliance?"

Scribner was visibly uncomfortable as he pondered the question. He stared at the case and his hands flexed as his thumbs rubbed the polished surface.

"Oh, by the livin' gods, Bernie, do it. They're good folks. I know we can trust 'em. Yer the one who ain't sure." Beth slapped a hand on the table as she stood, leaning toward Scribner. "Measure 'em, then we can decide."

Scribner kept his gaze fixed on the case. He ground his teeth and pursed his lips.

"Bernie . . .?" Cassandra slowly came to her feet. "We don't have time to ask the Squire. He trusts you to make a decision."

Scribner studied the two women for a moment, then turned his attention to the case and opened the two latches on the front.

"This goes against our tradition, Mr. Campanill." Scribner lifted the lid. "We've always kept this practice within the families of Kerner. You'll be the first outsiders we've ever done this to."

Scribner removed a long, green felt cloth and spread it on the table. Then he began lifting tuning forks from the case and carefully laid them on the felt. "I normally would be using these to set imbuements in you."

K'Las grabbed Willim's arm and cried in a shrill voice, "No, no. Papa, please don't let them imbue me."

Willim lifted K'Las onto his lap to comfort him. "There won't be any imbuements today, son." K'Las clung to him.

Scribner lifted a fork for K'Las to see. "My apologies, K'Las. There is another use for these. Thad made these to measure our children and local folks who have already received their imbuements."

He laid a twelfth fork out and placed his hands in his lap. "As you know, children don't come into their tones until their pre-teens, at the earliest. That's why the Priories insist on setting imbuements by their tenth birthday. We measure them later with these as they grow older, and that is what we're going to do here."

Scribner stood. "As you say, you need allies and so do we. I'm taking a great risk in trusting you. We're revealing more about ourselves than we ever have to outsiders."

"Trust is earned, is it not?" As Willim stood he brought B'Tris with him. He cupped a hand to her ear and whispered. _"There's something much deeper going on here. They don't want Thad to have the fork. Do we get it for them and stay to help?"_

B'Tris regarded the villagers for a moment then nodded. He took her hand. "We will do whatever it takes to earn that alliance, but not at the expense of our freedom."

"Very well, Mr. Campanill. You have nothing to fear from us. Recite, chant or sing your chromatic scale, if you would, please." Scribner lifted one of the forks. "Are you ready?"

"Yes."

"Please be seated, ladies. You too, K'Las." Scribner waited for the chairs and stools to scrape into silence. He set the fork on end in front of Willim. "Do not begin until I tell you."

Willim nodded and Scribner began setting up the forks. When the last fork was in place Scribner stood silently for a moment, as if listening for some errant tone. Satisfied, he nodded for Willim to begin.

Willim began cautiously and only spoke the first note--his unencumbered note. A fork whispered in response. He felt a curious thrill. _This must be what Bee feels with her fork._ He recited the next note. There was no thrill this time, but a fork still whispered a reply. His song began to stir as if from a long sleep. He felt a curious tug deep in his mind, like an urge trying to break free. He started over. The first note, so familiar to him, shone as the fork gave a full reply. The second note tugged harder at the prisoner keening in his mind. A desperate need to scratch made him sing louder.

His voice rose through the scale. With each note an insatiable hankering that demanded relief. He sang at the top of his voice trying to satisfy the urgency. Eight forks replied. Four remained silent. None, but one, satisfied his yearning. He stopped, opened his mouth wide and rolled his jaw to scratch the evasive itch. He ached to have his imbuement lifted.

Willim pointed to the forks. "Does that mean what I think it means, Mr. Scribner?"

Scribner, Beth and Cassandra gaped at the still ringing tines, their jaws slack.

Scribner recovered first and toppled the forks to the felt, silencing them. "Uh, yes. Yes, I believe it does. Under the shroud of your imbuement you have at least eight tones. That's as many as Thad has. Only the henge can tell us with certainty." He stood motionless for a long moment, lost in thought.

"Bernie?" Beth stood and rapped the table. "You have yet to test B'Tris. We finally got someone who might be able to help us. I'm guessin', we got two. Two that can stand up against that stony, constipated old scat out there." She gave an irritated wave toward the henge.

"Oh, yes. Of course." Scribner wiped his hand across his face as if to clear away a distraction. He then repeated his instructions. Silence was called for as he reset the forks.

Scribner nodded.

B'Tris cleared her throat and began to sing.

_The mind may taste the pangs of hate and bitterness in the breast,_

_With acid fist, recants the sacred truth that beats within the chest._

_Prepare the heart to cleave distaste, perchance the spice renew,_

_And learn a gentler tongue, to discern the sav'ry morning dew._

_The fading darkness, at dawn's first light, reveals the tender feast,_

_With mended thought and ardors rise, hurl in the baker's yeast._

_Knead and curl the sweating brow with discipline's perspiration,_

_'Til failure is refined, by success and gripped by inspiration._

_The idea's buffet provide the vigor to search beyond the hate,_

_And learn to love the endless realm and live beyond one's fate._

The forks rang, one after another. A third, fourth and fifth rang strong and firm. B'Tris' excitement escalated with each response. The song lifted upwards, everyone's eyes were fixated on the tines.

Willim soon heard a second voice. A voice so soft and familiar he would not have noticed if not for the years of quiet nights, campfires and the fork.

K'Las was humming counterpoint.

Two forks rang at the same time, then three, four. B'Tris' joyous voice resounded, escaping the confines of the house. The villagers were on their feet. They watched the tines. More forks rang in unison.

Pete Turner burst through the door, yelling. "What are yeh doin'? Yer gonna bring the whole blasted village down on us. I can hear yeh clear out . . ."

Pete strode to the table as Scribner grabbed the felt cloth and wrapped the forks, silencing them.

"Dear gods, oh my dear gods." Scribner collapsed into his chair, the bundled forks clutched to his chest.

"What're yeh doin' Bernie?" Pete grabbed Scribner's collar and shook him. "Yeh ain't tryin' to imbue these folks, is yeh?" He shook harder. "Is yeh?"

"No, Pete, no." Beth took Pete by the wrist. "The most wonderful thing just happened. We got ourselves a Cherished Weaver."

#

# Chapter Twenty-Four

Spun Up In a SnaRl

A rush of people, led by an officious braggart, entered the undersized Feisty Wench Pub and caught L'don Banks unaware. Trapped, he rose from his seat and pushed his way toward the doorway. It was time to find the tinkers.

The torrent of bodies pushed back. A few well-placed weaves would easily clear the way, but he didn't need the attention. He found himself pressed against the bar rail, next to the braggart. The tavern owner handed the man a beer and encouraged him to talk.

"Tell 'em how that tinker lady got that boulder offa Jon." The innkeeper swept up the coppers dropping on the bar and poured more beer.

"Yeah, Bert. Did she use that fork thing?" An uproar of more speculation followed the unidentified voice.

"Hold on, hold on, give a man time to brew up a little, eh?" Bert swilled a few gulps from his mug. The room grew silent.

"Well, here's what happened." Bert belched as the room erupted in cheers. "Yeh see, that tinker lady, she stuck a finger out and hit me with a bolt of lightnin', she did."

Some voices bellowed their doubts. Others shouted their agreement.

"Here, I'll show yeh where she got me. Maynard don't hit near that hard. Knocked me out cold." Bert upended his tankard, spit a frothy belch and set the vessel on the bar.

"Yeh gonna show us or not?"

"Show yeh what?"

"The scorch mark, yeh dolt."

"Oh, yeah." Bert removed his belt and raised his tunic and shirt. "Right there, see?"

Bodies pressed closer as those in the back tried to see the bruise flaring on his ribcage. L'don found himself fighting for room to breathe. Gasps and groans swept through the pub.

"That ain't no lightnin' strike, it's just a big ol' bruise."

"Is too lightnin'. My best pig got hit by lightnin' two years ago. Looked just like that."

"It don't matter anyhow." Bert lowered his shirt and tunic. "Ol' Grin Sykes sold that fork to that daft ol' henge keeper, Thaddeus Stonebreaker. Do yeh know how much ol' Grin sold it for? Huh? What's yer guess?"

The pub went silent. L'don heard someone whisper a question. "How'd we go from lightnin' to old Thad?"

Someone shouted from the corner. "I think Bert's finally lost his liver."

"We don't know, Bert. Hell's bells, we don't even know what it is."

"I do, it's a vegtible fork."

"That's a turnip fork, yeh nit. I got one of them in my barn, too."

Another argument broke out, wasting more of L'don's time. He wanted to get out and find the tinkers.

L'Don needed to thin out the crowd. Perhaps he could send this one grumbling to the Squire like he had earlier. He waited for the inevitable lull. "I hear the tinkers were gonna use that fork to destroy the Priory."

The pub went silent. It worked. Then it erupted into a loud cacophony of disparate voices quarreling about the existence of a priory, enforcers and wizards. Someone began calling out for the room to be quiet.

L'don found the tavern keeper's face leaning over the bar. "This here fella said that very same thing a while back."

Unnamed faces stared at L'don.

A voice from the back called. "Yeah, I was here. I heard him say it, too."

Angry faces turned to L'don.

The innkeeper squinted an eye at him. "Yeh tryin' to get us spun up in a snarl mister?"

"Hey, hey." Bert exhaled a long, frothing belch, dropped his tankard on the bar and pointed to the doorway. "Jon's ordered us to arrest . . . them tinkers . . . at nightfall. Look . . . look out . . . there. I gotta go." Bert dug into his britches and searched for coin.

Someone yelled. "Nightfall." Another voice called out. "Get some lanterns. Let's go get 'em and make 'em talk."

The tavern keeper provided two lanterns and a few candleholders to the crowd and lit them as people filed out of the pub.

Bert drew out a handful of coins, tried to count them and gave up. He leaned into L'don and opened his mouth. L'don turned his face away preparing for the inevitable belch. When nothing erupted, Bert closed his mouth, grinned, smacked his lips and blinked.

Bert extended his hand and dropped the coins, none of which found the bar. He and five copper coins hit the floor at the same time.

L'don dropped two coppers on the bar then stepped over the befuddled forester. He thanked the pub owner and walked out the door to follow the crowd.

Bernard Brewer threw a bar towel over his shoulder and followed the strange little man to the door. A moment later, when he could no longer see him in the dying light, he walked back to the bar and stood over Bert.

"Alright, Bert. On yer feet." Bernard held out a hand. "We done it."

The tinkers were gone. L'don felt the tinker's hearth as the crowd milled around him. He knew the tinker's habit of dousing their fires. The ashes were dry and cool, indicating they had left quite some time ago. But, the rock hearth was still warm to the touch. Which should he believe and why would they bother with such a deception? L'don wanted to pace and work out what he knew. He just stood and listened. _No point in drawing attention._

The villagers grumbled about the lost opportunity of questioning the tinkers. They settled for more conjecture about the dealings of the tinkers and Grindall.

"They ain't been gone long. Might be we could catch 'em up."

"Must've gone south. Prob'ly out to Turnout Pond by now."

"Might be they took the wall road to the east gate and headed to Grange."

"Nah, no good campin' spots for them wagons that way."

"Why'd they up and leave in such a rush?"

"Bert says Sir Charles told 'em tinkers to leave."

"Yeah, and if Grindall took that fork 'cause they don't got a permit, then Grindall was in the right. What about that, eh?"

"Nah, Grin ain't that smart. I bet Becka's stuck her nose in the squire's door and talked her hubby out of trouble again."

"Well, the tinkers don't have no fork now, that's for sure. That old toad at the henge has it, for sure and certain."

"I still don't understand what the fuss is. I got me a big ol' turnip fork in my barn. Ain't got no permit for it, neither. What about that, eh?"

"Shut up, you twit. Gimme that lantern, I'm goin' home."

The crowd disbanded and drifted back through the village gate, leaving L'don alone in the darkness. Now he could pace and think.

When his thoughts coalesced into a plan he left the tinker's silent campsite and began his walk to the Feisty Wench Inn. As he passed through the village gate, the patter of footsteps followed. Apparently they weren't going to leave him alone, even though the tinkers had made good their escape. He would ignore them for now.

He walked through the pub with a casual stride and to his room upstairs. He put on his traveling cloak, selected two long pirns from his kit and swept from the room with staff in hand. At the bottom of the stairs he studied the few customers chatting in the pub. They were the same ones he'd seen earlier. _My shadowy escort must be waiting outside._ He moved down a short hallway to the back of the inn and slowly pulled opened the door. The moonlit alley was quiet. Nothing more than sparse chatters from the pub disturbed the silence. He slipped into the stone-walled alley and closed the door.

He hated villages. They were much too quiet. The faint echo of his own footfall accompanied him as he skittered through the deep shadows. He counted his steps. Too many followed. He slid from alley to street to alley and avoided any light spilling from windows. Still the light patter of footfall followed.

L'don hung a weave across an alley then lay in wait. The patter came to the entrance and stopped. The minutes passed. L'don began to wonder if his mind was slipping.

A moment later a moonlit head peered into the alley. A small figure crowned with shaggy hair crawled under L'don's weave, into the lane and behind a barrel. _These villagers are a wily lot. Will they ever quit pestering me?_

L'don remained still. The figure peered from its hiding place then stood. It was only a head taller than the barrel.

He whipped his staff out and struck the skulker across the head. The figure dropped and lay still. He stepped to his victim, knelt and felt for a pulse. A freshet of blood oozed into a pool on the cobblestone. _You're just a boy. If A'wyn ever shows up she'd love to recruit a slippery little redhead like you --if you live. _

He left the alley and quietly made his way out the east gate of Kerner and to the Squire's manor. _This should be easy enough. Once Grindall is free they'll have their hands full searching for him instead of watching me._

The manor had a high ancient wall surrounding the estate. The manor itself was huge, a vestige of the old Rendor Empire. The remnant weaves of Cherished Weavers were still visible on the mansion and its walls. The gates, however, were more recent.

L'don approached the single guard posted outside the gate. The flame of a single lantern hissed in its brass cage. Its light bronzed the guard's helmet and halberd. "Good evening, sir. Is the Squire available?"

"Squire's retired for the night and Mr. Scribner ain't to be disturbed. What yeh need, Mr. Banks?"

"Ah, you know me then." L'don examined the heavy planks on the gate. "Am I well known in Kerner?"

"Don't know about that." The guard stepped in front of L'don and obstructed his view.

L'don clenched his jaw, annoyed by the impertinence of the guard. He lifted his staff and prepared to strike. The guard quickly moved back against the gate and gripped a bell rope. Light from the lantern spread across the gates.

"I'm told yer a Master Weaver, Mr. Banks. If I go down, me and this here bell will have the whole village on yeh right quick."

L'don stayed his hand. _Weaves. The gates are covered with them. Those are a wilder's weave. Even if I get through this one there'll be more inside. Blast it, what other surprises do they have?_

He stepped back and gave the man a slight bow. _I'll find another way in._

#

# Chapter Twenty-Five

one Jug oR Two?

Becka Sykes practically leapt out of her shoes as someone rapped sharply on her cottage door.

"Who's there?"

"A friend of your husband." The quiet, mellow voice of an educated man fixed her gaze on the door. She rarely had visitors, and those she had usually meant trouble. For a moment--a very short moment--she felt drawn to the door. She shook herself free of the fantasy.

"Go away, he ain't got no friends." Becka, angry at the embarrassment of her husband's imprisonment, threw the last chunks of lamb into the stew pot bubbling over a hot brazier. "He ain't here. If yeh wanna see him yeh gotta go see the Squire."

"Madam Sykes, it is you with whom I wish to speak." The man's mellifluous voice churned her insides to butter. She wiped her hands clean on her apron, spit in her hands, smoothed down her hair and swept a loose strand from her face. As she made her way to the door she evened out her apron and kirtle, scrubbed a finger across her teeth and sucked it clean.

She opened the door.

A man about the same size as her husband stood in front of her. She didn't let the man's size distract her from his smiling, handsome face and well-made traveling clothes.

"Good evening Madam Sykes, my name is L'don Banks. May I come in?"

"Yeah." Becka demurely placed her hand on her mouth and cleared her throat. "Yes. Yes, of course, Mr. Banks. Please do." Becka stepped back and, as genteelly as she could, swept her hand across the jamb, inviting him in.

L'don bowed and stepped through the door. Becka swiftly surveyed the lane to see if anyone might be spying on her. With no one in sight, she unbuttoned her collar to reveal as much of her bosom as she thought the handsome, presumably rich, man might handle and pinched her cheeks into a blush.

She closed the door and followed L'don to the table at the center of the room. L'don stopped and unclasped his cloak.

He just stood there, holding the clasps up, as if he expected something of her. She became flustered, not knowing if she should touch him, or his cloak. Her hands flitted in front of her, undecided about what to do.

"Would you be so kind as to hang this up while we talk. It is quite warm in here. I wouldn't want to foul your lovely home with a man's sweat." L'don's warm, sultry voice melted and sautéed her over an open pit of hot coals.

"Whaaa." Becka let her breath out slowly. She took a step towards him and pressed her ample breasts into his back.

He didn't move. She pressed closer, ready to nibble on his ear. He pushed back but said something. She breathed on his neck.

"My cloak, Madam Sykes. Please take it."

His voice seeped into the sauce of her fantasy. She whispered in his ear. "Uh, humm."

"My cloak, please." L'don's stern voice finally pierced her imaginings. She quaked and stepped back.

"Oh, yeah. Right yeh are, then." She lifted the clasps from L'don's hold and hung the cloak a wooden peg next to Grindall's. At the sight of her husband's coat she took it, rolled it up and tossed it in the wood bin by the hearth.

"Thank you, dear lady." L'don gestured to a chair. "May I sit?"

"Yeah." She cleared her throat. "Yes, please do, Mr. Banks."

She cleared away a cutting board and loaf of bread from the table as L'don sat. With a flurry of busyness she removed her apron and brushed crusts and crumbs from the table onto the floor. A mouse scurried out, grabbed a chunk of crust and fled back to its hideout.

"What can I get for yeh . . . you? Want some beer? I got a jug right over there." Becka nodded to a little brown jug on the mantle.

His uninterested gaze never left her. She felt a sudden rush of the jitters as she fumbled to put her apron back on.

"Please sit, Madam." L'don pointed to a chair across the table from him. "I have a proposition for you."

"You do?" Becka quickly relaxed. She sat with a coy smile, her breasts rested on the table top as she spread her arms across the wooden surface. Her bust heaved as she pressed forward--threatening to escape their bondage.

"Yes, indeed." L'don glanced at the heaving mounds.

"For a silver yeh can have anything yeh want." Becka loosed the top lace of her kirtle.

"I have a task I wish you and your husband to perform. For one hundred silver coin . . ."

"What? How much?" Becka coughed. She sat up straight and shook her head, uncertain she heard right. "How much?"

"One hundred silver . . ."

"One hundred . . . Who I gotta kill for . . . No no, don't tell me." That much money could only mean one thing. She thrust a palm out to L'don. "I ain't killin' nobody and don't wanna know nothin' else about it."

"Madam, you misunder--"

She stood and clutched the collar of her blouse, struggling to close it as she stepped to the hearth. "I ain't even gonna . . ."

She whirled around and stabbed an angry finger in L'don's direction. "I know what yeh uppity ups think yeh can do to us little folk. I ain't killin' no one for no amount of money. Get out."

L'don didn't move.

She stomped her foot and pointed to the door. "Get out, I said."

"You haven't heard my proposition."

Becka grabbed a hot iron poker from the brazier. "Get out, or I'll boil yer guts."

L'don stood and drew out a short wooden rod from his sleeve. He pointed it at her.

"How's this for a proposition? Your big, red hot iron rod against my little wooden stick." A sickening smile, even by her standards, crossed his face.

Becka hesitated. She had heard the gossip of some fearsome magician being in the village. She never put much stock in superstitious blather like that. Most folk in the village played some silly game with strangers on occasion, but she couldn't be bothered. Since no money exchanged hands she didn't trouble herself with such nonsense.

She fixed her most ominous squint at L'don, moved cautiously to the table and leveled the poker at his chest. "Do yer best, little man."

The little man with the little stick touched the poker.

She dropped to the floor like a sack of turnips.

Bert rose from his stool when he heard something other than the hiss of his lantern and Grindall's snoring. Footsteps grew louder and the glow of another lantern filled an intersecting hallway. He gripped a makeshift bell rope and made ready to pull. His only defense, so he was told, against L'don Banks would be to sound an alarm. The narrow hallway he stood guard in offered little room for anyone. A small storeroom had been turned into a jail cell for Grindall. It had been emptied and all the goods lined up against the walls of the hall. The iron latch on the door was no more than an annoyance for anyone determined to enter.

Cheryl Parks, the Squire's cook and housekeeper, came around a corner and called down the hallway. "Bert, I'm letting Becka bring Grindall his evening meal."

Bert wailed in protest. "Why ain't you bringin' it?"

"Because I'm busy and she's got his food here now." Cheryl disappeared and left him with Becka.

Bert groaned and waved for her to approach. _Blast, blast, blast. I don't need this._ He gripped the bell rope with both hands, hoping he would have the sense to pull it if she caused any trouble.

"Hello Bertie." Becka's ardent walk, hips swaying as she approached, boiled his guts. She twittered her special little Bert chirp at him. "I got some jugs, er, I mean a jug for yeh, Bertie. Would you like a taste, Bertie--of beer, I mean."

Bert tried to take his eyes off her. He shouldn't be watching those--things. But, he had orders to watch everyone closely if they were allowed in. He couldn't disobey orders, could he?

She stopped right in front of him. He would have to move to let her deliver Grindall's meal. She placed a little brown jug and a pot of stew on a stack of wooden boxes.

"It's kinda warm down here, ain't it, Bertie." Her coquettish smile and sultry gaze fixated him as she began unlacing her bodice. She flapped the fabric, as if to stir the air. "Would yeh like some beer? There's enough for . . ." She bent forward, still stirring the air. " . . . two."

Bert's mind cramped. He could hold a jug of beer, or a jug of . . . "Beer." His voice broke into a falsetto. He cleared his throat. "Beer--I want yer jugs--jug of beer."

"Like they say, Bertie. 'Yer decree is my desire.' 'If you like it, I love it.'" She lifted the little brown jug, held it out to him and as he reached for it, withdrew it. The jug hovered over her cleavage.

He brought his hand back to the bell rope.

She teased him with the jug, pretending to pour its contents down her neck.

Bert reached for the jug, again. She removed the bung, sniffed it, licked it and dropped it. The cork settle deep into her bodice, cradled by those heaving mounds.

"Oh, dear. I dropped it." She thrust her chest out. "Please get it for me, Bertie."

A barely stifled whimper slipped from his mouth as he pulled his hand back and chewed on his knuckles. He reached down for the bung. The beer won out. His hand came up and chased the tilting, swaying jug as it drifted across her intoxicating breasts.

She poured the beer.

Bert yelped and dove in with both hands.

Pain crushed into his skull. The world went dark.

Becka pounded and kicked the door and rattled the uncooperative latch. It wouldn't open.

"The gods own curse upon this blasted-- _argh_ --latch." She cussed and beat at the latch with the same pot she clonked Bert with. "Grindall, knock it down from your side. I can't open it."

Grindall reached through the air vent in the door.

Becka stopped pounding on the lock long enough to take a swing at his arm. "Get back in there and knock it down."

"Ow." Grindall's arm disappeared into the darkness of the cell. "Blast it woman, the door opens inward. I can't knock it down from this side."

"What-- _clang_ --do you-- _clang_ --suggest-- _clunk_ --we do?" Becka stopped pounding and lifted her pot. "Now look what it done. My stewpot's ruin't." The defeated little stewpot exposed deep dents and a crack in the bowl. A hinge on the handle succumbed to fatigue and let go. The second hinge seemed to sigh as it lost its staying power and the valiant little pot fell to the stone floor. It skittered behind a crate, as if to escape any further abuse. She tossed the handle aside.

With her face wedged into the small hole of the door, she searched the darkness for her husband. "Now what?"

"Back off." Grindall's annoyed voice sounded hollow in the storeroom.

"What did yeh say? Who yeh tellin' to back off. I'm here to get yeh out. Don't yeh be tellin' me to back off, yeh worthless little runt. I'll leave yeh here to rot, I will."

"Shut up." Grindall pulled on her hair and kicked the door.

Becka jumped at the sudden shock. Her head popped through the hole.

"Ow, ow, ow." She complained, cussed and grunted as she tried to dislodge her head.

"Shut up, yeh blasted twit. Yer gonna bring the whole manor down on us." He grabbed her ears and pulled. "Where's Mrs. Parks? Did she go back upstairs?"

"Ow, ow, stop that." Her ears stretched further with each 'ow'. "Yeah, she's upstairs."

"Why you here?"

"To get yeh out."

"Nah, yeh never done me right before. Why now?" He yanked on her ears.

"Ow." She struggled against the door. Her head and neck were getting painfully raw. The roughhewn door, like stinging nettles, irritated her breasts, hands and knees.

"Why now?" Grindall tugged again.

"How we gettin' outta this?"

"It's yer plan. What did yeh think would happen 'bout now, eh?"

Becka groaned. "I don't know. It weren't my plan. There's a fella outside wants to get yeh out. Says he'll give us twenty silver coins if we take a message to someone."

"Pah, ain't no one in Kerner got twenty silver coin, 'cept maybe the Squire. Yer not sayin' the Squire's breakin' me outta his own jail, now, are yeh?"

"Nah, some fella goes by the name of L'don Banks. Dresses right smart, he does. He gave me ten silver to get us started, so I figure he's good for the rest."

"He gave yeh silver, eh? Yeh got one on yeh? Give me one and I'll open this here door in two shakes."

Becka began searching for her pockets. Her struggle with the door had twisted her skirt and kirtle. A moment later she pulled out a coin and pushed it through the hole. The coin scraped against a raw spot on her throat. She heard it strike the floor and roll away.

The shuffling sounds of Grindall searching the floor for the coin annoyed her.

"There's yer blasted coin. Now open the blasted door."

"I would if I could get it. It rolled out under the door. Yer prob'ly standin' on it. Kick it back in here."

"Yeah, right. I got my head stuck in a door, I can't see nothin', I'm near to standin' on my toes and yer wantin' me to kick a little coin back under a door I got my head stuck in. Yeh can kiss my achin' arse."

"I'll kick it before I kiss that garbage scow. Give me another coin, then."

"Garbage scow. L'don Banks don't think it's a garbage scow. He right liked the shape of it, he did."

"Like I said, garbage scow. Now, give another coin."

Becka huffed and found another coin. She grimaced as the coin's edge rasped over her neck and into the dark storeroom. This time Grindall took it from her rather than let it fall.

The door rattled while Grindall worked. He cussed and grunted. The scrape of metal against metal whined in her ears. A few minutes later there was silence.

"Yeh said two shakes. It's been near an hour. What's takin' so long?"

"Shut up. It ain't been no hour. Them hinges was rustier than I thought." Grindall took her by the ears again. "Now you listen. Yeh wanted me to knock this here door down, and that's what I'm gonna do--easy like. I'm gonna pull on it and yer gonna come with it, understand?"

"Yeah, I guess."

The door began to rattle. Becka closed her eyes. A pointless effort, since she couldn't see anything anyway. It soon began to move inward. She took a small step with it, wincing as her neck, breasts, hands and knees scraped against the wood.

Her feet skittered in tiny steps as Grindall moved the door off the hinges. Lantern light poured into the barren room. The door kept moving. She skittered until the planks came to rest against a wall. She didn't like the view, or her position.

"What are yeh doin' Grin? Stop that?" She tried to slap him away and caught nothing but air. She kicked backwards, hoping to catch some tender spot, only to have her feet tied together.

Grindall searched her pockets and pulled out their contents. Every hiding place she had was thoroughly searched. The fact he knew about those hiding places didn't embarrass her as much as it annoyed her.

"Get me outta this door." Becka yelled and slapped the door with both hands.

"What are you doing?" The expansive voice of L'don Banks was like music to her overstretched ears. Something like a sack of turnips dropped to the floor behind her.

"He's stealing what's rightfully mine." Becka's bellow brought a slap to her rump.

"Be quiet, Madam. I could hear you well beyond this hallway. Any further outcries will not be tolerated."

Becka knew 'shut up' when she heard it, and felt it--especially from him.

"Be still. I'll have you free in a moment."

A plank from the door soon lifted from the back of her neck. She eased her head free of the door, trying to keep her tender ears from scraping the edges of the wood. With her head free, she rolled it around to relieve the tension from her neck. L'don knelt and removed the cord from around her ankles.

She faced L'don as he stood.

"Took yeh long enough. What'd do, go in the kitchen and . . . ?" Becka clapped her jaw shut as a slender wooden rod danced near the end of her chin.

"Another word from you, Madam, and I'll remove your jaw." L'don smiled, but that, and his stare, chilled her to the quick. Gone was the smooth, seductive voice that had melted her resistance only an hour ago. His tone made it clear, he was in command.

She nodded her compliance.

"You've wasted too much time. A Hue and Cry will likely be issued soon. We must move quickly. Do as I say and you may live another day--maybe more--if your luck holds." L'don fixed his gaze on her, waiting for a reply.

Becka managed to refrain from asking questions about where they were going and what message they were to carry. She had a dire need to bellow about the abuse she had endured.

L'don must have recognized her desire. The wooden rod stroked her jawline.

Becka held her breath and nodded once again.

He moved away and knelt beside a pile of dirty rags. Bert lay unconscious next to them. He hadn't moved since she clonked him over the head. When the rags beside Bert began moving, she realized it was her husband. As Grindall stood, she nearly blurted out how much work she'd have to do to get his clothes clean again. She clapped her hands to her mouth.

The abrasions on her palms protested. She examined her hands then looked down to her breasts and knees.

"Sss . . ." She caught herself as she quickly fixed her gaze on L'don. He glared at her in warning. She decided it would be best to remove the woody shards. _Slivers, blasted, cussed slivers everywhere._

She began picking at them.

Grindall glared at his wife. If not for this strange man in front of him he'd be speaking his mind and strangling her at the same time. Of course, the slender blade at his throat may have affected his voice a little. The man's other hand pointed a stick at Becka, which seemed to have a silencing effect on her. Grindall wondered what kind of stick it might be. He wanted one.

_So, this must be that L'don fella she talked about._

"Listen to me very carefully, Mr. Sykes." L'don grabbed Becka's wrist and pulled her to him. She bleated in surprise until she met his gaze. When she acknowledged him, he released her and focused on Grindall. Becka resumed picking at the slivers.

L'don spoke with a low, measured tone.

"You are to travel, as quickly and quietly as you can to the Central Realm of Troele. No detours and no thieving along the way. You will inquire at the Royal Trade House for Sir L'dred Butcher." L'don placed the stick in a sleeve and removed a small leather case from his coat. "You will give this pouch to Sir L'dred. Only he can open it. If you or anyone else tries, they will likely die."

"Yeah, sure, I got it." Grindall scoffed at the orders, despite the dagger at his throat. "Central Realm, Troele, Royal Trade House, Sir L'dred Butcher, only he opens the pouch. That's gonna take a bucket full of right shiny coppers. You payin' for this, or am I doin' this outta the goodness of my heart. That leather have some kinda magic spell on it, or somethin'?"

"Will the magic of one hundred silver coins cover your expenses, Mr. Sykes?" L'don gave a slight nod to Becka.

Grindall squinted daggers at his wife. "She said yeh were payin' twenty. Twenty'd be about enough to get me there--on my own." He growled then looked at L'don. "Do I gotta take her?"

"I suggest you do. I've given her fifty silvers to get you there. You will receive the balance upon delivery of the pouch. She knows what your task is and helped get you out of this little problem you have." L'don lowered the dagger and patted the leather case against Grindall's chest. "Decide, Mr. Sykes. We're running out of time."

"Done and done." Grindall didn't bother with haggling. _For one hundred silver coins I'd . . . I'd . . ._ He glanced again at Becka.

_Yeah, that's what I'll do._

#

# Chapter Twenty-Six

ConspiRacies and Lies

Willim arose early. A relentless array of scenarios for the coming day played across his mind. Cassandra's description of Thad's abilities worried him. He had never come across a disciplined wilder of this caliber. Even L'don and A'wyn paled to Thad's ability, if she and Scribner told the truth.

_A disciplined wilder. A contradiction in terms if there ever was one._ He pressed heavily against a gate leading into a pasture. The last of the morning stars yielded to a blazing red sunrise. _The great veils of day and night, life and death, caring and uncaring._

He regarded the cobbled together home of Pete Turner. A home built from stone, wood, wattle and sod. Pete was a man willing to sacrifice himself and the last of his children with the scant hope they would be free of the imbuements. _The same offering to the gods I'm going to make._ His heart sank.

_Get a grip, Willim K'Las Campanill. You're made of sterner stuff than this. Yes, it's difficult. Yes, someone may get hurt. You've prepared for the worst, now hope for the best._

He lowered his head and began to pace along the fence line. He needed some advantage over Thad. A long discussion of their newly realized potential as weavers had played heavily in how to persuade Thad to remove their imbuements and trust B'Tris with her tuning fork.

The four villagers, Scribner, Beth, Cassandra and Pete, had all argued that Thad would not believe the results of last night's test, unless he had performed it himself. They said Thad would not give up the fork and would likely demand complete obedience to him, even if he verified the test.

Long hours of talk led to an agreement. They would get the fork from Thad. The villagers would corral L'don--without understanding how dangerous the man was. Willim didn't like it. Not one bit. It was a risky tactic. But, they seemed confident about handling a wilder. He would just have to trust them.

As well developed as his own abilities were he wasn't as confident of their own success. Surprise had been his greatest asset, so far. The Inquisitors hadn't counted on his and B'Tris' skill level. Would it work against Thad? No one seemed to consider K'Las as a capable weaver. He would need K'Las to warn them if Thad began to weave. Placing his son in such a dangerous position gnawed at him, but he had little choice if they were to recover the tuning fork. With B'Tris by his side their combined defenses may frustrate a surprise attack and allow them to withdraw, if necessary.

If L'don and A'wyn were typical, wilders had an arsenal of weaves and cords at their disposal. The priories would have you believe all wilders were volatile, erratic and dead. Did they know about Scribner and Thad . . . and Stefan Windhammer? _That's a lot of wilders in one place. What of the Squire, himself? Was he a wilder, too?_ The list grew alarmingly long. Were there more? To his knowledge none were insane. _Eccentric and irascible perhaps, but no nutters as yet._

Thad, though, was very much alive, focused and unpredictable. Not your typical wilder, if there is such a thing.

Willim continued to pace back and forth. He didn't see any advantage over Thad, who would be on his home ground. Cassandra pointedly warned him not to confront Thad by any of the henge stones. Drawing him away from the henge would be difficult, especially with an Enforcer lurking somewhere in the surrounding area, waiting for a chance of his own. Bernie Scribner, Beth and Cassandra seemed confident they could deal with L'don Banks. He wasn't so sure.

That left Thad's front porch. The one place Cassandra thought they might have a chance. Willim had heard the quaver in her voice as she described the old man's home. She didn't seem all that confident of their success. Was she afraid of the consequences if they failed?

He finished another length of pacing. A hand interrupted his contemplation as it came to a gentle rest on his chest.

B'Tris gripped his tunic and pulled herself to him. "I'm scared, Will."

"We can handle this, if the villagers can overcome L'don." Willim held her close to his chest.

"That's a big if. You know L'don better than I do. Do you think he'll go down quietly?"

Willim kissed her forehead and said nothing. She stepped back and took his hands in hers. "Do you?"

"We can't count on it, Bee. Someone's going to get hurt." He rested against the fence. She joined him, leaning into his side. He wrapped his arm around her. "I think the sooner we deal with Thad the better we'll be able to deal with L'don and A'wyn, if they're still around."

"That's assuming A'wyn is here and with L'don. Cassandra thinks she may be dead, or at least wandering around with some kind of distraction thread scrambling her mind."

"I want to believe A'wyn is out of the picture, but I can't afford to take that chance. They've tried this sort of trap before. If Thad is involved in this ruse . . . well, there are just too many variables to consider. I've been going over this all night and I can't be sure of anything."

"But, what about . . ." B'Tris stopped as Willim took her shoulders and faced her.

"Bee, we've chosen a course of action. We don't have time to deliberate any longer. It's now or . . ."

"Never?" B'Tris' voice held a note of disbelief. "Do you really think this is our only chance?" She shook her head and raised her hands in surrender. "I'm sorry. You're right. We have little chance if we do nothing." She took his hands. "What about Maynard? You said he shook weaves off Grindall. He might be able to help us."

"Maynard is either keeping L'don distracted, or guarding Grindall." Willim scrubbed his face, trying to ease the uncertainty of the coming hours. "Besides, he couldn't see or feel those weaves. He's tone deaf and mute in the weaving arts. In such a fight, he'd be the first to die. As it is, I'm not happy with the idea of taking K'Las with us. I'd leave him here to take his chances if we didn't need him. No one even considers the possibility he can weave."

B'Tris stopped pacing and nodded to the first ray of sunshine touching the distant peaks of the Wastachi mountain range. "It's nearly time, Will."

Willim looked to the east. A green halo trimmed in red and gold clouds crowned the nearby forest. "Gods, I wish we could leave K'Las behind. Did you know he hummed during your test with those forks?"

Pete Turner walked up with his sons and K'las. He handed a small cloth sack of cheese curd to B'Tris. "Yeh remember how to get there, now don't yeh?"

"Thank you, Pete." B'Tris broke her startled gaze from Willim and turned to Pete. "Yes, we talked about the route several times last night."

"Yer headin' into a hornets nest, if I'm figurin' right." Pete drew his two sons next to him. "Folks here 'bouts got their own notions of the imbuements, most don't like 'em, but do it cuz that's what's expected of 'em. They got nothin' to fight back with. If you get yer fork back, me and a lot of other folks'll be right happy if yeh stayed and helped us fight them blaggers. Maybe we won't lose so many youngsters to them Temple priests."

B'Tris didn't know what to say. She met Willim's eyes again. He shrugged. Pete had already placed himself in harm's way by helping them. His son, Frank, continued to grin under a blank stare. Pete, Jr. seemed hopeful as he glanced from K'Las to Willim and back.

K'Las broke the silence. "Could we Papa? If things go well, could we stay?"

Willim placed a hand on K'Las' shoulder. "If things go well, we'll stay."

"That's all I'm askin'. Just think on it. Yeh already got lots of folks friendly to yeh. That ain't a bad start."

"Even with all the uproar about Grindall and the fork, not to mention Inquisitors? The village all but threw us out last night."

Pete pointed an arthritic finger at her. "Yeh know, we may be simple country folk, and it may be we see the world a bit differnt, but we ain't stupid. It ain't what yeh think. If things go right for yeh, come back here. I'll tell yeh what's really goin' on."

"There's more?" Willim raised his hand. "No, don't tell me. I'm not going to pretend I know what you're talking about. The gods willing, we will come back. Then, we'll have that talk."

"Fair enough and farewell." Pete tipped a nonexistent hat as he gestured to his sons. "Come on, boys. We're late for the mornin' milkin'."

B'Tris watched the dairyman lead his sons to the barn where he had hidden their horses. The nearby forest hid the wagons. Willim tugged on her sleeve to leave. She caught his hand and hugged it to her bosom.

She knelt in front of K'Las. "You know what to do. We talked about this last night. Pay attention and be quiet unless you see someone weaving, understand?"

"Yes, Momma."

"If a fight starts, you run, understand?"

"Yes, Momma."

"You must not weave. If they see you weave, you will be in danger. Do not weave, understand?"

K'Las nodded.

"Say it K'Las." She pressed a fingertip against his chest. "Tell me you will not weave today."

"I won't weave today, Momma."

"Good." She embraced K'Las and held him for a long moment. As she released him she brushed down his tunic and straightened his collar. "Good."

She stood and smoothed out her skirt and kirtle. Willim handed her her staff.

K'Las shifted the shoulder strap of his kit and joined his parents as they left the dairyman's farm.

Jon Warden woke up. Beth sat in a chair beside his bed darning socks.

"Are they gone?" Jon sat up in bed.

"Yes."

"Which way did they go?"

"The last I saw them, they were at Pete Turner's farm." Beth bit off the thread, knotted the ends, and then threw the sock in a basket. She started darning another sock from her lap.

"At Pete's farm? That's not the same as gone, Beth. Where are they?"

"Sun's up. I 'spose they're well on their way, by now." She kept her eyes on her darning.

"Yer not tellin' me what I want to know, are yeh?"

"What yeh want to know or what yeh need to know?"

"Alright. What do I need to know?" Jon folded his arms across his chest. He didn't wince. "Wait a minute."

He shifted again. The ache lingered, but the sharp pains were gone. He tossed the covers aside and raised his knees. It hurt, but not like the hot poker pain he had before. He threw his legs over the edge of the bed, putting pressure on his feet.

"What're yeh doin'. Get back in bed." Beth stood, sending socks, darning egg and needle to the floor.

"Come here, girl. Help me over to the wash basin." He took a step and fell back onto the bed. Shards of glass seemed to slice through muscle in his upper thigh.

"B'Tris can fix bones, but she can't fix muscle and sinew. Now lie down and listen to what yeh need to know." She helped place his legs back in bed and pulled the blanket across them.

"The tinker best be gone, Beth. I meant what I said."

"Yer gonna have to listen, Captain, because yeh got some thinkin' to do, and yeh best be quick about it.

"I'm listenin'. Say yer piece." His eyebrows knitted into a scowl.

"When I left yeh here last night I went to see the Squire." She gathered up her darning and sat down. "Turns out he sent for information about Will and Bee last summer when they was here. Them tinkers are just who they say they are. The Trade House sent a letter to the Squire sayin' so. It seems the Trade House also wants to know what they were doin' here. Bernie wrote 'em back sayin' they just sold some goods and moved on after a couple of weeks. He thought it was peculiar they stayed that long, but he got no complaints about 'em so he left 'em alone."

"That don't mean war ain't comin'." Jon's scowl deepened.

"Yeh know as well as I do how we handle unwelcome Enforcers. Difference is this one ain't from our Priory. We can do as we please with him since no one knows he's here. No one but us bumpkins."

"What about the other one, the woman?"

"I talked to Cassandra. She thinks Thad done her in, or the henge got her. Either she's dead or lost in the forest somewhere along with her mind. Yeh know how the henge does things to folks, sometimes."

"What are yeh plannin' to do with the one here? If we kill him, might be his priory sends more. Maybe a lot more if they think that fork is still here."

"I'm thinkin' the Endless Realm Priory don't know about it, yet. Even if they sent word, it could be a year before they get it. It'll be another year before they can get back here."

"What difference does it make, it's still comin'. Yer not gonna like it when it gets here, Beth."

"And, it might not come, too." Beth set her bundle of socks and needle aside, moved to the side of the bed and forced her hand into his reluctant grip. "We have a bumper crop of kids who'll be up for their imbuements this year. Our little Alara among them. The Baker twins, Ginger and Cinnamon, are up, too, and Bakers already lost two of their seven over the years. Poor Pete Turner has but two left of his six kids, and one of them is addled. He's ready to fight. These tinkers may be our last chance before folks just give up."

"War ain't nothin' to toy with." Jon pulled his hand from hers, returning it to his folded arms. "I'm still sendin' Bert and Maynard after them to make sure they leave."

"The Squire don't agree, Jon." Beth stood, facing him squarely. She recounted the events of last night. She told him how Bert and the villagers kept L'don occupied until nightfall and how B'Tris was tested as a Cherished Weaver. But, she didn't tell him of Grindall's escape. "The Squires tired of waitin', too, and he's seen as much war as you have. I told him about how B'tris fixed yeh up. Maynard told us what he saw at that sinkhole and since. These ain't yer run of the mill weavers. They're as good as any Enforcer, maybe better since they mend folks more than hurt 'em. Even Maynard said they never hurt him, just made him listen more is all."

"What about Thad? How yeh gonna get him to help, especially if he has the fork? Stefan is Thad's star pupil and only friend. Is he gonna help with this?"

"I 'spose it all comes down to the tinkers and which Priory Thad hates more, ours or the Endless Realm. If they get the fork back from that old tyrant he just might help since it has some kind of special . . ." Beth waved her hands as if searching for a word other than 'magic'. ". . . power."

"I still don't trust 'em." Jon turned his face away, hoping she would stop. She made some sense. He didn't like the idea of losing Alara, either; or of seeing more kids lost to Priory Enforcers and temple priests. He hated it. He hated war more and he would be in the thick of it again.

"Just remember what yeh said last night." Beth leaned over the bed and caught the corner of his eye. "You told Will he was a liar. What are we, Jon? For years we've been lying to outsiders about who we are and where we came from. Yeh lied to those tinkers. Last night I told them some of the truth."

Jon growled and fixed his eyes on a knothole in the wall as she came closer. "Yer talkin' fairy tales. Folks here 'bout still tryin' to birth a myth."

"You still lied, Jon."

#

# Chapter Twenty-Seven

Something Snapped

L'don Banks left his room and descended a flight of creaking stairs to the Feisty Wench Pub. He prided himself as a patient man, but the apparent collusion amongst the villagers to delay or distract annoyed him.

Jenny Brewer greeted him as he entered the pub, offering to bring him a plate of rye bread, cheese and pint of ale.

He found Bert Forest, the only other patron in the pub, sitting at a table near the tavern's entrance with a bowl of pottage and a pint.

"Fair greetings, Mr. Forest." L'don gave a friendly wave and walked to Bert's table.

"And a good morning to yeh, Mr. Banks." Bert lifted his bowl and spooned out the last of his pottage.

"Do you frequent the Feisty Wench regularly?"

"If I'm in Kerner, I'm in the Feisty Wench, if the Squire ain't got me chasin' off somewhere."

"Are you chasing after Grindall? There was a lot of commotion last night about his escape."

"Nope, I'm goin' after them tinkers in a bit. Squire says to make sure they leave the county."

"May I join you?" L'don sat next to the forester. "To find the tinkers, that is. I've been trying to find those tinkers for some time, now."

"I don't see no harm in it. Are yeh gonna follow 'em all the way back to the Eastern Realms?"

"If that's what it takes." L'don turned to Jenny. "It seems I'll be leaving soon, Mrs. Brewer. I will settle my obligation to you at your convenience."

L'don selected a piece of cheese, laid it on his bread and ate. He chased it with some ale. "Would you mind if I went ahead to find the tinkers?"

"The Squire don't want no more trouble." Bert stood to leave.

L'don rose and placed a hand on Bert's shoulder.

"Let go of me, yeh. . ." Bert slumped to his chair, rolled to one side and fell to the floor.

Jenny, standing beside L'don, began to run. He caught her apron strings. She tried to cry out. His weaves silenced her as she folded to the floor, unconscious.

"I don't have time for these silly delays, Mr. Forest. As for you, Mrs. Brewer, this should cover my room and board." L'don dropped two silver coins on the table, went to the front door, bolted it, returned to his room, gathered his belongings and left the Feisty Wench.

At midmorning, L'don stood by Turnout Pond cursing the time lost chasing a deception. He now had no doubt the villagers had deliberately misled him. The tinkers had to be in Kerner somewhere. If he found where they had hidden their horses and wagons he would likely find them.

They would obviously head to the henge at some point, but by what route and with whom? He needed to know who was helping them and their strength. Since A'wyn was lost to some unknown circumstance he had little choice but to reconnoiter and hope for the best.

His options limited, he set a quick pace back to Kerner.

Within an hour he crossed Kerner Creek. He turned into the first farm he found, walked up to a gate and found a young boy leading an ox cart his way. An older boy with a vacant expression, followed close behind.

L'don opened the gate and stood in their path. "I'm looking for young K'Las, the tinker boy? Have you seen him?"

The boy with the hollow eyes smiled and pointed to the barn. Dogs began barking in the distance.

"Sorry, mister. My brother's kinda simple. He don't talk." The smaller boy turned and lowered his brother's arm. "He means for yeh to go talk to our pa."

"Have you seen K'Las and his folks?"

"Sorry, mister. My pa don't want us talkin' to folks we don't know. He's in the barn. If yeh'll excuse us, we gotta get this milk to the bakery."

"What about those dogs?" L'don barred their way.

"Oh." The boy looked back to the barn. "I reckon I best go with yeh."

The boy tied the ox to a fence post. "Frank, you stay here. I'll be right back."

L'don followed the boy to the barn. The barking became more insistent the closer they got. A man emerged from the barn, carrying a pitchfork.

The boy gestured to L'don with a thumb over his shoulder. "Pa, this man wants to know where the tinkers are."

"He does, eh?" The man kept his wooden pitchfork at the ready, as if prepared for trouble. "Well, they ain't here. Yeh can just keep on lookin' elsewhere."

L'don raised his voice a bit to overcome the incessant barking coming from the barn. "My name is L'don Banks, sir." He extended a hand in greeting. "I would simply like to know the whereabouts of the tinkers."

L'don lowered his hand when he got no response. However, through the open barn door he saw two horses. "I'm not looking for trouble, sir, but would you tell me where you got those horses?"

"Junior, get inside the barn." The man lowered the woody tines of the pitchfork in his direction. "Get ready to loose them dogs on this fella."

"Wait." L'don raised his palms in resignation as Junior ran inside. "Perhaps you could tell me about my wife. No one in the village seems to know where she is. She arrived a day or so ago. Her name is A'wyn. Have you seen or heard about her?"

"Yeah, she's dead."

"How do you know this?" L'don didn't want to believe it. No one killed her but him. He barely contained the anger rising in his gut.

"Heard it last night from . . ." The man lowered the tip of the pitchfork in his direction. "Oh, no yeh don't. I ain't tellin' yeh nothin' else." He stepped back, preparing to thrust. "There ain't no more tellin' anything to Inquisitors. Yeh best get outta here now, or them dogs'll be on yer arse right soon."

L'don stepped back, closed his eyes and clenched his teeth. _Keep calm. Why did they kill her? If this fool knows about A'wyn and that I'm an Inquisitor, others must know. Why haven't they moved to get rid of me too?_

He had slipped through their little net of deception when he dealt with Bert Forest and Jenny Brewer. If the Squire was coordinating this sham there was more depth to it than he realized. _I could be overwhelmed by bodies. I shouldn't have taken that Sykes woman at her word. This isn't some idle village prank._

L'don regarded the trampled ground in front of the barn, searching for a clear path to lay a weave in the man's direction. Finding none, he stepped toward the pitchfork.

The man tensed and stepped back, apparently surprised by the sudden challenge. "Yer good as dead, mister. We got ourselves a Cherished Weaver. She'll show yeh what weavin's all about. And, she's got the voice to work that tuning fork, too."

L'don's once simmering anger rose to boil. He curled his fingers into fists. _She's imbued, you ignorant hayseed. She can't . . .unless . . ._ He stepped toward the old man. "How do you know she's a Cherished?"

"She showed us, that's how. Now you get outta here, I ain't tellin' yeh no more."

_If the tinker woman is a Cherished and Awyn's dead then . . ._ L'don's temper churned to a full boil. His hands rose with weaves at the ready and fury at his fingertips. "She murdered my partner, didn't she? No one passes judgment on her but me."

"Junior, loose them dogs." The man lunged forward and thrust the hayfork.

With the fluid grace of a panther L'don sidestepped the attack and grabbed a tine as the pitchfork drove by. A thready weave wrapped the length of the tool. He shredded the feeble defense with ease and sent a cord down the handle before the farmer pulled away.

Two dogs raced through the barn door directly toward him.

His cord snaked up the man's arm and coiled around his neck.

The farmer clutched his throat and began to fall.

L'don cinched the cord and crushed the man's neck to a slurry of blood and bone. He released the dying farmer and sliced the pitchfork in half with a simple thread. The old man hit the ground.

L'don met the oncoming dogs. He lowered each half of the pitchfork to the dogs as they lunged. They fell. Their heads severed.

It was over in a flash. He whirled and caught sight of the oxcart and ox, but not the smiling boy. Furious, he threw the remnants of the pitchfork against the barn. "Blast you and this accursed village to the seven hells. You killed my partner. What did you expect from me? You're accomplices with that witch."

L'don's mind raged at the injustice. A'wyn was his, not theirs to punish.

He strode to the barn and went inside. The younger boy was gone. The two boys were likely on their way to Kerner to sound the hue and cry. The village would be on him soon, ready to kill not just to evict him.

The horses were in cow stalls, nickering in agitation from the commotion. L'don searched the barn and scanned the pastures outside. The wagons had to be nearby.

He recognized the horses in the barn to be those of the tinkers. Under better circumstances he would simply wait for his partner's assassin return.

Waiting was not an option.

He destroyed the horses with a fury. With his spleen spent and no easy options he headed toward the forest and found a path. He followed it westward toward the great henge. _The tinkers must have decided to retrieve the fork. I must . . . I will find them._

The narrow path wound in and out of the forest. An hour later he came across two large twin stones in the forest and stood between them. Above his head on one stele he noticed a patch of blood. The partial print of a palm and two long slender fingers suggested a woman. _A'wyn?_

He positioned his hand next to the print. He looked in the direction she faced. Through the trees he glimpsed the distant henge. _Was she running away from it?_ A long string of questions ran through his mind. The answers weren't hopeful. He strode toward the henge at an angry pace.

L'don was no tracker, but he knew A'wyn. She would not willingly give up her bow and arrows. He knew to look for broken branches and snags of cloth, but when he found an arrow lodged in a tree and tangle of red hair clinging to a bush he knew she had been there. As he pushed his way through the shrubbery he found a bloodied white cloth. Maybe it wasn't A'wyn. _She doesn't wear white._ He stretched the cloth smooth. _This is from her small clothes. Why would she be in her underwear?_ Thoughts of violation and torture raced through his mind. A growl rose in his throat and through grinding teeth. _No one touches her but me._ He set a fevered stare toward the great henge his scalp nearly electric with rage. "You may have the voice, you might retrieve the fork, but you'll pay for this. By the gods, you'll pay--your husband, then your son."

K'Las followed his father up the knoll and stood beside him, the southern outcropping of the great henge appeared in the distance.

"I'm going to move closer. Bee, you and K'Las wait out of sight by the stream." Willim handed his kit to B'Tris, but kept his water skin. "I'll be back as soon as I know where Thad is."

"Be careful, Will." B'Tris took hold of his hand.

"I won't do anything without you. Don't worry." Willim released B'Tris' hand and smiled at them. "I'll see you soon."

K'Las watched his father begin his walk toward the henge. He and his mother walked back down the knoll to the small stream Pete Turner told them to follow. At the water's edge, his mother knelt and washed her hands.

"Wash your hands, K'Las. I have some weaving lessons for you while we wait."

"But, you didn't want me to do any weaving today."

"Yes, I did say that, didn't I?" She rose, shook her hands and patted them dry on her kirtle. "Since we're alone and no one will see us, and your father will be gone for a while I thought you'd like another lesson."

The prospect of learning more about wizardry thrilled him. He scrubbed his hands in the sandy bottom, rinsed and shook his hands dry.

They found a grassy spot near the stream to sit and wait.

"Sit here, in front of me." She crossed her ankles and sat, smoothing out her skirt and kirtle as she settled. K'Las sat and crossed his legs, as well. "Hold your hands out like this."

K'Las copied his mother. He rested his elbows on his knees and extended his hands, palms up. She examined the tips of his fingers.

"Very good." She released his hands. "Just as I remembered. Your ridges are intact and you have two of those wonderful little whorls called 'peacock eyes'. One on each hand. It's a small advantage, but any advantage is good."

"Which ones are they?" He inspected his fingertips. "What do they do?"

"They help refine the strands in your threads and weaves." She pointed to his ring fingers. "I'll show you what they do, but first, clear your mind, and then listen to your song."

K'Las wasted no time. He sat up straight, cleared his mind and drew on the music residing within him. Everything else about weaving had an element of work, but not this. Since learning about the tuning fork he had awakened the past three mornings with some variation of the song in his head. It rose to a crescendo and propelled him out of bed. Each night had been much the same, the excitement diminishing to the languid, soothing rhythm of sleep.

The song gave him control of his dreams. He had not had a bad dream since and wondered if it would last. His days had not been so easy to control, but he thought, with practice, someday he would.

While they waited for his father to return his mother played games with him. She taught him to play the weavers version of Cat's Cradle, without the usual string most kids used. The game taught him how to interact with other weavers threads and weaves by interlacing, cutting and knotting.

They played a version of Pat-a-Cake and Pease Pottage Hot, but with each slap or clap he had to use the skills from the Cat's Cradle game. As they increased the tempo of their claps his strands had to defend his own and try to defeat his mother's.

During the early contests he defeated her most of the time. The difference had been his mother's imbuements. She had but one tone, one color to use. He had the entire spectrum. He had simply overwhelmed her.

Because his skill was still undisciplined she soon overcame him with her single tone. When she had him use the same tone as hers, she taught him how to defend himself more effectively. Their duels were much like the tales of swashbuckling sword fights he heard during the clan meetings at the Tinker's Converse.

The games ended as his mother tousled his hair and complimented him.

"Well done, K'Las. Well done." She laid a hand on his cheek. Her touch, and the smile in her eyes filled him with pride.

"Thank you, Momma." Rising to his knees, he reached over her lap and hugged her. "That was fun, but can we rest for a few minutes. I'm tired."

"Not yet." She stood and arched her back, as if to relieve some ache. "This weaving business takes a lot of energy, doesn't it? One more lesson, then you can rest." She held her hand out to him. "Come on. Get up and stretch. You'll feel better."

As he stood and stretched his arms and legs, his mother went to the stream and lifted a palm size stone from the bed. She washed off the sand and mud and motioned for him to join her at the bank of the stream.

As he walked up to her she handed him the stone. "Take this and sit over there." She pointed to a sandy area by the stream. "Bring your song into harmony with that of the stone."

He took the stone and sat down, his legs crossed. With the stone nestled in both hands he cleared his mind and sensed the vibrations, allowing his song to sing with it.

"Run your threads over it. Find the cracks and flaws in the stone. Follow them inside. See where they go, find the strength and weaknesses. Listen to it. Feel its song."

His threads found the fissures with ease. The strong and weak spots took a little longer. He wasn't sure what to look for, so he coiled his thread and pushed on different spots. In some places the tone changed. He heard and felt the pops and whistles--the song inside.

"Hand it to me, K'Las." She tapped his hands gently. He opened his eyes and handed her the stone.

She placed the stone on the sand, an arm's length away. "Place both hands on the ground. Listen for the stone."

He closed his eyes, set his song as before, and touched the ground. The harmonics of Rendor seemed chaotic, at first. Waves of grinding, jolting sounds mixed with the rush of water and bursting bubbles. The sudden shudder and clap of thunder under his hands broke his concentration. His palms itched. The ground barked, peeped, hummed and mewed like a barnyard of giant beasts. His mind pushed them aside and searched for the stone in front of him. He sifted through the clamor and ignored the relentless whisper of trickling water. Ants and beetles, worms and roots were hushed until he felt the familiar texture and song of the resting stone.

"I hear it." He opened his eyes. For a moment he was confused. "No, it's the wrong rock. There must be another one. Over there." He pointed to a vacant spot near his mother.

"Very likely." She patted the ground he indicated. "About here? There will be many others if you search deep and far enough." She moved her hand to the stone in front of him. "Focus your attention here, to the one on the surface of the sand."

He fixed his gaze on the stone and listened for the stone. "I found it."

"Excellent." Her smile encouraged him. "Now, try to push a thread to it. As you did when you followed the fissures in the stone, find ways over the sand to the stone. Be sure to use a thread I can see."

He loosed a host of threads, but he sensed no routes to follow. "I don't see any way over it, momma."

"That's because the sand is too loose and disorganized. Whatever fractures there are will be too short. You need a path." She drew a line with a finger from the stone to each of his hands. "Now, try pushing threads along this groove."

His threads went out, pushing over the grains of sand in fits and starts. The slopes of the finger width furrow kept him from wandering off his target. Nevertheless, the going was slow. A few moments later he reached the stone. His fingertips tingled.

"Now, reach into a fracture and try to push the walls apart. Break the stone." The excitement in her voice urged him on.

He ignored his numbing fingertips, reached into the stone and found a fissure. He pushed his song to a crescendo.

With a groan and a pop, the stone split as if he had pried open a walnut.

His mother cheered and clapped her hands. "K'Las, that was wonderful." She came to him and lifted him to his feet. "That was simply marvelous. Tell me, did you use just one thread so I could see it, or more?"

"Momma, I think my hands are dead. I can't feel my fingers." He wrestled his hands from her and held them up.

She pulled him back and embraced him. "Oh, son. They're just asleep." She released him and took his hands, rubbing them back to life. "It takes energy to create a thread, not to mention push them over sand."

"I used all my tones and colors, momma. Was that alright?"

"Oh, yes. Quite alright." She dropped his hands. "You go rest. Later, we'll have something to eat. You'll need your strength when we see Thad."

"When will papa be back?"

"Probably not for a few more hours." She led him to a grassy spot by a bush. "Let's take a nap here, out of the sun."

They settled in the shade under the bush.

B'Tris lay on her back, hands under her head, gazing through branches at the sky. Beside her, K'Las lay on his side, facing her. The sun passed through its midday peak and winked between the boughs and clouds above her.

In truth, B'Tris was more than proud of her son. He was a good kid, even if she said so herself. Average, by most folks accounts, polite, good natured, and sometimes a bit mischievous and absent-minded.

His abilities, however, were stunning. In the past few days, he had gone from knowing nothing about weaving to matching her in childhood games of pat-a-cake and cat's cradle to pushing threads over sand.

She had felt somewhat guilty for putting him through that last, very advanced, test. The fact only his hands fell asleep was better than she expected. If all wilders were as capable as K'Las appeared to be, their coming encounter with Thad may prove to be a nightmare.

The Priory's objection to such a status for her son chilled her. She pushed that unavoidable thought aside, again. Someday, it would have to be faced.

She watched K'Las. He seemed asleep, though his free hand lay flat on the ground, fingers spread wide over the sandy soil. His expression changed from smiles to frowns, his fingers moved, as if in search of some hidden comfort.

"I've got it." K'Las leapt up, excited. "Momma. Watch this."

His mother stood as he waded to a large boulder on the far side of the stream. He placed his hands on the stone for a moment to confirm its tone and ran back to his mother.

"What are you doing?"

"I know the tone of that boulder over there and now I'm going to break it from here."

"K'Las, no. That's too big, too far and across water. You can't run a thread across water, especially moving water."

"I'm not going across it, I'm going under it."

She grabbed him by the shoulders. "You're what? This is no game, son. Going underground can't be done, especially if the ground is wet. Any cracks or crevasses will have water in them. Besides, it takes time to find the fissures in a stone that size, and a good deal of energy to break it. You barely touched it."

"I don't need to find crevasses. Tones are enough. Watch." He fell to his knees and planted his hands.

He used every ounce of energy he could gather and curled his fingers into the ground, gripping the soil. He already knew the waves of Rendor's harmonic tones and picked one. Threads coursed from his fingertips and caught the height of a tone. A small mound swelled in front of each hand and moved with the swiftness of an arrow to its target. The soil sank behind the heaving soil, creating a furrow.

His mother jumped and inhaled sharply.

As the furrow sliced forward, his thread raced out. His mind began to rattle like a spool on a too small spindle.

The closer his thread drew to the stream the more confused the tone of the boulder became. Echoes and the rush of water scattered the tones into a disordered mess.

He lost his sense of the boulder, the tone too distant and indistinct. He waited and listened. The spool in his mind came to a welcome rest.

He pulled his thread back until the boulder made its presence known. He picked up another harmonic wave and dove deep, under the stream, sand, mud and stones.

Again, the spool rattled in protest.

On the far side of the stream, beyond the boulder, he turned his thread upwards. The surface heaved and began moving back toward the stone, creating a new furrow.

His mother exhaled loudly.

Heaving sand and gravel knifed up to the boulder and stopped.

His arms began to quake. The feeling in his hands grew faint. His vision dimmed. The world went silent.

The boulder lay at the end of his thread. A push into a fissure would do no good without strength.

He divided his thread, wove a net around the target, raised his song to a crescendo and held it as long as he could.

His thread juddered.

The spool came to a vicious halt and the rattling stopped.

Something snapped. 

#

# Chapter Twenty-Eight

Spools

Willim lay hidden in a cluster of bushes atop a boulder strewn hillock. A fair distance away stood the southern outcropping of the Great Western Henge. According to Cassandra, Thad should be coming this way about now.

She said he usually took an hour to attend to each outcropping of the megaliths and, if he ate his midday meal, a little longer. That would give him time to collect B'Tris and K'Las, return here and follow Thad home. Willim wanted to keep any wilder surprises to a minimum.

Willim rolled to one side and pulled some jerky from his pocket.

"Got some cheese here, if yeh want some."

Willim nearly jumped off his bones. He scrambled further under the bushes and prepared a defensive weave across his head and chest.

"Where yeh goin'?"

"Maynard." Willim collapsed in relief. "What are you doing here?"

"Came to find you and yer kin." Maynard held out a small wheel of cheese. "Want some cheese?"

"No, thanks. I have some." Willim came out from under the bushes, sat up and checked the henge for Thad. "I'm watching for Thad. Get down here, out of sight. I don't want him to see us here."

Maynard knelt down and sat on his heels. "He's yonder, just beyond that knoll. It'll take him a little bit to get up to them big rocks."

"How do you know?"

"I, uh . . . ain't figured that out, but I know he won't be long." Maynard took a bite from his cheese wheel.

Willim tilted his head to one side and knitted his eyebrows. "Just one more curious thing to learn about you, I suppose. Why are you looking for us?"

"The squire thought yeh oughta know about that little fella's been huntin' for yeh."

"L'don?"

"Yeah, him." Maynard put a hand on Willim's shoulder. "Pete, Jr. came runnin' into Kerner, pullin' his brother along with him, hollerin' murder. By time folks got out to his place old Pete lay by his barn door with his neck broke and completely dead. Killed his dogs, and yer horses, too."

Willim sagged, placing a hand to his forehead. "May the black veil comfort his soul and his song live on in his kin."

"Jon set out a Hue and Cry for the man, so everyone's lookin' for him. They tracked him back into Kerner, but lost the trail near the blacksmith."

"Where's Bert?"

"Well, seems Becka got to him. She thumped him on the head while he was guardin' Grin'. Now, Grin's gone and took off. That L'don fella snuck through a back gate and in Mrs. Parks kitchen. She's mighty put out about bein' left tied up and soup boilin' over on her hot stove."

"Why would L'don want to free Grindall?" Willim ran his fingers through his hair while he tried to fathom L'don's motives.

"There's Thad." Maynard lowered himself to a prone position. Willim quickly followed suit.

The two men watched Thad for several minutes. When the old man sat down and began eating, Willim began to crawl backwards.

"Let's go. I have to go get Bee and K'Las."

"Wait. Look what he's doin'. Is that yer fork?"

Willim scrambled back to see Thad on his hands and knees pressing a tuning fork to the ground.

"That could be our fork. Too far away to tell."

Maynard moaned and rolled over on his back, his face pale. "Blasted mutton. I gotta quit eatin' the stuff."

"Are you all right?"

"Yeah, it passed." Maynard lay still until his color returned. "Got awful queasy there for a bit. Just like out at that sinkhole. Got me the bad queasies then, too. Only worse."

A moment later, Thad got to his feet, holding the fork out in their general direction.

"Do you think he knows we're here?" Willim tensed.

"Could be he does. Folks say that henge of his does queer things." Maynard rolled over on his stomach.

"Could be the henge. Could be the fork." Willim gritted his teeth. _Could be he knows where Bee and K'Las are._ "Let's get back to Bee. She'll have something to settle your stomach."

Thad ambled up the slope to the southern outcropping of the Great Western Henge, his henge. He knuckled his fists into his back and stretched as he scanned across the rolling hills and tree line beyond. Nothing of particular interest caught his eye.

He sat in the shade, by one of the immense stones, opened his day kit and removed his midday meal. Before he took a bite of his sandwich he thought to remove the tinker's tuning fork.

He raised it shoulder high in hopes of sensing the voice it belonged to. He extended his arm and moved the fork across the horizon. Nothing happened, which did not surprise him. _That would have been too much like luck._

Just as he was about to finish scanning, the fork responded . . . down, to the ground. He quickly set the heel to the turf and, for a moment, he sensed a rip in the ground, as if a seam had torn open. The sensation didn't last. He stood, stretched out his arm again, hoping for more.

"What did you do, my dear? That was you, wasn't it? Where are you? How far away?" He lowered his arm. "When will you come visit my humble sett? Come, let's gather the world to my doorstep with a song."

He sat down beside the stele and pondered the coming engagement with the tinker woman. "I don't suppose you would come alone, would you?"

_Patience, my boy, patience._ He smiled and began to eat his meal.

B'Tris kept a hand on K'Las' temple as she held his limp body in her lap, rocking as she hummed a favorite lullaby. She had already cried herself out when Willim returned, knelt beside her and felt his son's chest.

"Bee, what happened?" Willim spread his palm over K'Las' pale brow. "He's cold. Is he sick?"

"He spooled out, Will." She expelled a dry sob. "He spooled out showing me how good he had gotten; to show me he could push a thread . . . like I asked him to. It's my fault."

Willim caressed her shoulders. "Are you respooling him now?"

"Yes, but I can't feed a thread into him fast enough. He's pulling so hard, sometimes my thread snaps. And I can only fill one of his spools. It'll take weeks for him to recover all the tones he's lost."

"Bee." Willim gently took her face in his hands. "What happened? You can't spool out pushing a thread. What did he do?"

She nodded to the furrow in the ground. "He did that. I just stood and watched while he ran that trough from here, across the stream and then to a rock on the far side."

He stood and walked toward the stream. "What rock?"

"He shattered it, Will." She rocked and pulled K'Las to her breast in a hug. "It's nothing but rubble now."

Willim paced the length of the furrow, across the stream and to the crater of gravel at the water's edge.

"That's ten paces, Bee. No one pushes a thread ten paces, especially across moving water."

"He said he went underground. Under the water."

"Over, under, it doesn't matter. Pushing through fissures in the ground is still pushing."

Willim began muttering to himself, but the words were too indistinct for her to understand. He toed the edge of the crater. "I don't understand this. He must have done something unusual. You say he went underground?"

His gaze fixed on the shattered stone and his muttering grew angry. Finally, he stopped. "I see only one explanation for this."

He came back and sat in front of her. "This may be the end, anyway. We have few options and no apparent recourse, but to turn and run. At least until K'Las recovers."

"What?" She came erect, startled. "What do you mean? We can take K'Las back to Pete's, then come back out to the henge and get the fork."

"No, Bee. We can't." He wrapped an arm around her. "Maynard has some news you need to hear."

"Maynard?" She turned and looked behind her.

Maynard, several paces behind, approached and knelt on one knee beside her. "I hope he ain't hurt bad."

"He'll be fine with time and rest." She stroked K'Las' brow.

Maynard told her about Pete, their horses and Grindall's escape.

"We saw Thad using the fork at the henge, or what may be our fork." Willim sat back on his heels. "He may already have ways of using it. I think he knows we're here."

"Well, at least we still have brute strength." A forlorn smile spread across her face. "Will, Maynard has some unexplained ways of dealing with weaves. Perhaps we--"

"I'm sorry, Bee. Thad pointed and used the fork in this direction. He may be the cause of these ruts and the shattered stone."

She shook her head as she adjusted her hand at K'Las' temple. "The notion that Thad could miraculously time an event like that is simply incomprehensible. You didn't see your son thrust his hands into the dirt, plow those furrows and break that stone. He did it, not some wizardry by Thad." She took a deep breath and tried to think of an alternative.

"We could take K'Las to Greens-by-the-Hill. I'm sure Bessie Conger would look after him until we return with the fork."

"You place our son at extreme risk." Willim returned her frustration in full measure. "L'don would happily take him and hold him for an unacceptable ransom . . . you and the fork."

She fumed as her eyes narrowed. "How would he know where to find him? And, as for the horses, we get more."

"There are no horses . . . or mules for sale this time of year." Willim gestured angrily to distant, unseen farmlands. "They are all in the fields, working. Why are you being so obstinate about that fork? We have to think of our family's well-being before the fork."

"I am thinking of my family. Our only hope for safety is the fork."

The argument went on. B'Tris managed to keep threading into K'Las, slowly refilling one spool. Willim paced. The shouting continued.

Maynard said nothing for quite a while, not wanting to get between two wizards. He made himself comfortable on the ground while he waited and watched. The fight intrigued him.

_I heard of married folk fightin' like this. Ain't no one thrown a punch, yet, though. By now my Ma woulda gotten her thumps in before gettin' tossed to the pigsty, bleedin'._

_Could be they just yellin' cause they don't know what to do._

He waited until they simply stopped talking.

"I kinda think yer both kinda right and kinda wrong at the same time."

They both turned and looked at him. They looked at each other.

"Come over here so we can see you." Willim gestured for him to sit in front of them.

Maynard settled to the ground, cross-legged within easy reach of K'Las and studied the tinkers. They seemed to be resigned to an uneasy peace, paralyzed by indecision.

"What say we start with the easy parts first, then figure out the hard parts later?"

The tinkers, in some wordless consultation, nodded to each other and to Maynard.

"Yer scared 'cause that other wizard fella might steal off with the boy and make yeh chose who yeh love the most. Word'll get around where the boy is. There's no helpin' it.

"What yeh can do is let me take him to my place. No one, but me and Bert and Jon know where it is. Grin ain't never found it, neither. I know, 'cause nothin's missin'."

The tinkers didn't seem to have anything to say, so Maynard scratched his shaggy head and continued.

"Now, as fer that fork. Bernie says yeh still got somethin' ol' Thad wants, so I'm thinkin' he'll get 'round to yer way of thinkin' . . . at the end of it." Maynard gestured to the furrow. "Maybe the boy did do this rut, here. He seems like a right smart kid, so maybe . . ."

Maynard shrugged and let the comment hang, letting the tinkers fill it in.

Willim buried his head in both hands and began scrubbing his scalp, rapidly. B'Tris simply stared at him.

"Maynard . . ." The tinkers spoke in unison.

"Go ahead, Will. You first."

"Maynard, I'm not quite sure what to say. You are . . . remarkable. I . . . we apologize for our little tiff. We shouldn't have put you through that. We're sorry."

B'Tris nodded in agreement.

"Your ideas have merit. I think we can agree with your solutions." Willim turned to his wife as she nodded again. "The only problem we have is K'Las. He needs to be attended to by a Weaver. Someone you'd call a wizard, like us. Who do you know that might be one? Someone who won't be going into Kerner for quite a while and you can trust."

Maynard brightened by the trust the tinkers were showing in him. "Well, most folks herebouts will be on the Hue and Cry for that wizard fella of yours. Word will be getting' round quick like."

"Perhaps someone a ways away." B'Tris resumed rocking.

"Yeh know, I been wonderin' these past couple days just who I might know, 'specially since I been findin' out there be wizards hidin' all around here." He threw his big arms out, gesturing to the hillocks around them and beyond. "Turns out Thad and Stefan and Bernie, and maybe the Squire himself, are all wizards. I figure there might be more about here, too. Trouble is, they all be doin' something with the Hue and Cry.

"They'd have to be off somewhere they ain't gonna hear 'bout this for a while." Maynard crossed his legs and set his elbows on his knees. He began scratching and pulling his beard.

"Yeh know, there's a strange old woman in the loggin' camps that got the rumors about her." He tapped his head, trying to think of her name.

"Never mind, Maynard." B'Tris shifted her weight. "If you keep K'Las warm and fed . . ."

"That's it. Nevers, her name's Della Nevers. She slings hash for them loggin' camps. Word is she knows how to handle a spat . . . spat . . . , yeh know, one of them pancake turners."

"She may be a possibility, but like I was saying, keep him warm and fed with meat and broth until we finish here and he should be fine." B'Tris nudged Willim.

Willim stood and took K'Las from his wife.

As B'Tris stood, she raised her hand to his shoulder. "Will you do that, keep him safe until we can meet you somewhere?"

"Sure." Maynard got to his feet. "All yeh gotta do is let Bert know and he'll come get us."

Maynard stood in front of Willim and extended his arms, ready to receive the boy. Willim paused as he caressed his son's brow.

"Maynard, if we . . . if events don't turn out like . . ." Willim met Maynard's gaze.

"Don't yeh worry none. I swear on my life I won't let no harm come to the boy. He'll get his meat and broth hot, too."

"We couldn't ask for more." Willim handed K'Las to him.

Maynard cradled K'Las' head in the crook of an elbow, holding him like an infant. He placed a hand over the boy's brow.

"I'm impressed." B'Tris rested a hand on Maynard's arm. "It seems you've had some practice holding children."

"Yeah, I held Bert's kids a bunch . . ." He groaned. His head swirled as the world spun around him. He held K'Las tight, checked the ground and did his best to insure he wouldn't fall on the boy. Letting his knees buckle he fell backwards.

Rendor and the heavens unraveled around him. The sensation of whirling like a child's toy roiled his stomach. He sensed the rattling spools and spindles of spinning wheels . . . of many spools and spindles . . . and he was the thread for each of them.

One by one, each filament began to hum, as if tuning a harp.

His roiling stomach subsided as a distant voice began to sing. The song had words and sounds he had never heard. It electrified him. Lightning seemed to course through him onto the spools. He did not run from lightning, he welcomed it.

The hum and the song soothed him until they began to slow. The spools were full. They each stopped, one after the other, with a glint of color and the pluck of a final note.

Then . . . silence. Warm, comfortable, exhausted silence.

#

# Chapter Twenty-Nine

The WizaRd's Mesh

L'don emerged from the forest with a firm grip on an arrow. A'wyn's arrow. He wrapped himself in savage, bloodthirsty darkness intent on revenge.

The henge in the distance reached for the brewing gray clouds. Daggers of sunlight pierced through to the ground. The doomed tinkers were somewhere between him and the henge, he was sure of it. He broke into a run.

Maynard opened his eyes. A hawk drifted high above, silhouetted against low billowing clouds. He yawned and stretched, quite satisfied with life. His arm hit something.

"He's awake." K'Las held Maynard's arm and brought his smiling face within inches of Maynard's nose.

Maynard huffed in surprise and sat up. "Yeh near scared the whiskers right off me, boy."

K'Las leapt on him, hugging his neck.

"I thought you was sick, boy." Maynard returned the hug. "What happened, yer Ma fill yeh with magic potions?"

"Not me, Mr. Woods." B'Tris knelt in front of him. "You."

Maynard had never seen a woman . . . or man, smile at him like that. He didn't know what to make of it. K'Las released his hug and stood with an arm across his big shoulders. He found Willim standing by the stream, leaning on his staff and a broad smile.

"Like I said, Maynard, there's more to you than you know. Or, we know, for that matter." Willim came over and joined his family.

"I don't know nothin' about potions. Got a few plasters that work well enough on cuts 'n' bruises, but no potions."

"No potion or plaster could have restored K'Las as quickly as you did." B'Tris gently stroked his temple. "Do you have any idea how you did it?"

"Nope."

"What do you remember?" She rested her hand on his shoulder.

"Got dizzy and passed out. I heard a heap of rattlin' and squealin' like I was sittin' with a bunch of spinnin' wheels and spools rattlin' on spindles, like I heard at Bessie Conger's place. When her and her daughters . . ."

"We understand." B'Tris tugged on his sleeve. "Do you think you can stand, Mr. Woods." B'Tris held out a hand to help him rise.

"Yeah, I feel pretty good right now." Maynard took her hand, but did not use it to get up. Instead, he gave it his gentlest squeeze, as if to say 'thank you'.

As he rose, her smile began to quiver. Tears welled in her eyes. Willim patted his shoulder and K'Las hugged his leg.

His discomfort rose. He shrugged them off. "Folks, I ain't . . . uh . . ."

"Of course, Mr. Woods." B'Tris smoothed out her kirtle as she stepped back. "We didn't mean to make you uncomfortable. We just want you to know in what high regard and affection we hold you."

"High regard?" Maynard shook his head and scowled, not quite sure he understood. "Yeh mean like them in the Craft Trade House or the Royal Court? That's what they say to each other."

"Higher than that, Maynard." Willim laughed. "A friend and an honest man."

Respect had not often come Maynard's way. His face flushed. "Oh. I never thought . . . er, I don't know what I done for yeh, but if I did then I'm right glad of it."

Willim leaned into his staff. "From what we saw while you were both, shall we say, connected, there is no doubt of the source of K'Las' new threads and tones."

"What happened?"

"We'll leave that story for another time, Mr. Woods." B'Tris began to gather up her kit. "The day is nearly gone and we have to get moving."

Maynard scanned the sky and figured he must have slept at least an hour, maybe more. It was midafternoon.

"Does the boy still need meat and . . ."

"Oh, no, Mr. Woods, you're coming with us. So is K'Las." The smile on B'Tris turned sinister. "We're sticking to the original plan, with one minor change. You can be what you already are."

L'don watched as the tinkers and a giant trod up the slope to the henge. _That must be the hengekeeper with them. No wonder people are afraid of him. Either they've struck a deal or he has them captive. Blast it. The gods will have to wait for their revenge. Nothing I can do now but watch for my chance._

Their departure was quick. B'Tris and Willim explained their plan to Maynard as they walked. The old henge keeper undoubtedly knew they were in the vicinity. They made no effort to conceal themselves near the henge and strode up the path to his home as if they were expected.

Willim saw the old man sitting in the shade of his front porch, seemingly unaware of their approach.

Thadeus Stonebreaker gently swayed in his double swing, head down. He wore an old leather apron with a small pile of marbled pebbles on his lap. He was polishing a veined orb the size of his thumb. A bag of the glistening stones sat on the slate floor between his feet. On a small table beside him sat an elegant wooden case like the one Scribner had used to carry his tuning forks.

"Hey, Thad." Maynard blurted out before Willim stepped under the pergola. "Yeh got company."

Thad raised his head and examined them. "You can call me Thaddeus, boy." He didn't sound ornery or upset, as Willim had expected. He simply returned to his polishing, as if he cared nothing about them.

"I'll call yeh what yeh are, or I'll call yeh Thad." Maynard stood over the old man. "Yer choice."

"What do you want?" Thad tossed the stone into the bag at his feet. "Who's that with you?"

"These folks are here to collect that tunin' fork yeh got from Grindall." Maynard stepped aside and introduced the tinkers. "And, I'm here to enforce the law and see they get it."

"Is that so?" Thad glanced at them, but soon turned back to his idle work. "Do you have three dozen eggs with you?"

"Yer not jackin' the price up, Thad." Maynard knuckled his fists into his hips. "In fact, we ain't got no eggs with us. Yer just gonna hand it over, 'cause it was stolen. The Squire don't look kindly on folks keeping stolen goods, whether they took 'em or not. But, just to show I ain't gonna cheat yeh outta yer eggs, I'll see yeh get a dozen back. Just like what yeh give ol' Grin."

"May we be seated and talk with you Mr. Stonebreaker?" Willim didn't like the heated direction the conversation was going.

"Yeah, sure. Sit down." Thad nodded to the chairs.

B'Tris took a seat by the door, one arm curled around her staff. Willim stood his staff against a post and took a seat. K'Las jumped up on the swing and sat by Thad. He looked all around, at the house, pergola, chairs and swing and especially at Thad. He stared at the old man. When K'Las found he couldn't touch the floor, he immediately began swinging his feet, jostling the swing.

Thad stopped polishing and squinted angrily at the K'Las.

K'Las squinted back and smiled.

Thad harrumphed loudly.

Willim cleared his throat. "Can we get back to the return of our tuning fork?"

"Certainly." Thad tossed the stone in the bag and chose another from the unfinished cluster on his lap.

K'Las kicked his feet out, swinging them as high as they would go.

"Stop that, yeh brat kid." Thad grabbed the boy's knees. K'Las grimaced and clutched Thad's hand.

Maynard reached in and gripped Thad's wrist so quickly Willim barely noticed the giant move.

"Yeh don't hurt the kid." Maynard left no doubt in anyone's mind how seriously he meant those words. The roll of thunder in his voice underscored the steel glare in the giant's expression.

"Please, let's try to keep this friendly, shall we?" Willim took K'Las' shoulder and pulled him back to sit up straight. "Please sit still, K'Las."

Willim hoped his son heard the tone in his voice to keep bothering Thad.

K'Las stilled his feet and Thad restarted his slow sway in the double swing.

"Now, tell me about this tuning fork of yours." Thad resumed polishing a stone. "What does it look like?"

"I believe you know full well what it looks like, sir. You apparently have a case full of them." Willim nodded to the case on the table.

"Ah, yes. So I do." Thad tossed the finished stone in the bag. "But, there are all manner of designs for tuning forks. Frankly, I don't recall which is yours."

"So, yeh got some, eh?" Maynard stood erect with his head in the leafy rafters of the pergola. He folded his arms and scowled. "I 'spose yer gonna show me yer permits for ever one of 'em, too, ain't yeh?"

"I don't need permits." Thad returned scowl for scowl to the giant. "This is a Great Henge. Henge keepers have inherent rights to any fork they possess."

Maynard's scowl crumbled to one of uncertainty.

Willim doubted Thad's claim was true. Hengekeepers had no reason to use tuning forks on dead henges. "Perhaps we can let Sir Charles decide such a claim. At the very least the Western Knoll Priory would be interested." Willim sat back in his chair and drummed his fingers on his knee. "The fact remains, you have our fork, which is all we're interested in. We have a permit which grants us the use and possession of it."

"May I see it?" Thad raised his eyebrows, as if surprised.

Willim leaned toward him. "Show us the fork and we'll provide the documents."

Thad blinked with a lazy indifference. "Are you in a hurry?"

"The hour grows late and we want to return to Kerner before dark." Willim sat back and crossed his legs.

"Ah, I see." Thad resumed his polishing.

_He's stalling. Just one more way to put pressure on us. Well, we'll travel in the dark, if we have to._ Willim waited a moment for him to continue, but the old man just focused on his stone. "Is there any reason to delay this any longer, Mr. Stonebreaker?"

K'Las began to swing his feet again, disrupting Thad's slow sway.

Thad threw his polishing cloth and stone into the bag and stood. He glared at K'Las then met Maynard's threatening stare. Thad moved to the table.

He opened the case and drew out twelve tuning forks. He stood them up in a row across the tabletop. Though they all had the same shape as their tuning fork, none had the silver gleam. Each fork had its own set of mottled colors. Dapples of brass, bronze, copper, silver and gold splotched each fork with nature's tones interlacing each color. One had varying shades of blacks, whites and grays.

Willim stood, barely containing his anger. K'Las' attention turned to the forks. B'Tris rose from her chair and moved closer to see the collection. She gave Willim a questioned gaze.

"Are you saying one of these forks is ours?" Willim held a palm out to the collection.

"Yes, before you stands your fork. You may keep whichever one you choose. The rest are mine." Thad stepped back, with empty case in hand, giving them room to examine the forks.

"Have you changed the appearance of our fork, Mr. Stonebreaker?" Willim bent over the dappled tines, studying them.

"I have indeed." Thad barked a laugh. "What you had was so covered in disguising weaves I had to strip some away to find out what it was. It was quite a bit of work, I'll have you know."

Willim and B'Tris each picked up a fork and examined the bottom of the handle. Willim smiled. The sigil for the Great Western Henge was plainly visible. He began to hand it to B'Tris. She met him with the same smile as she held out the one she had.

They read each other's expression instantly and exchanged forks. After turning over the rest of the collection they found the same sigil on each handle.

Thad chortled. "You didn't think your precious fork was anything special, did you?"

The old man continued to snicker as he sat back down in the swing and resumed swaying. He picked up the cloth and stone and began polishing. "I have hundreds of tuning forks, of all shapes and colors, not to mention materials. Most have the seal of the Great Western Henge. A pity, really."

Thad's idle tone seemed to match his newly found disinterest in the matter.

"How's that, sir?" Willim had to let the game play out.

"Well, I suppose you could sing for your prize." Thad returned to the swing.

Singing for the fork was not an option they wanted to choose. If the fork truly stood on the table here in the middle of the great henge, adding B'Tris' voice might be extremely hazardous--especially for them. Thad seemed more than willing to test whatever he knew, or thought he knew, about the fork.

Willim racked his memory for any differences between their fork and these in front of them. Perhaps the sigil held a difference. He picked up a fork.

B'Tris was already re-examining the set, ringing each fork.

K'Las folded his arms on the table, rested his chin on them and peered across the surface.

Willim watched as K'Las used his chin as a pivot and rolled his head slowly from side to side. His gaze wasn't on the forks, but somewhere beyond them.

Willim knelt on one knee behind K'Las. He tapped the fork on the tile as he peered over his son's shoulder, wondering what he saw.

K'Las hummed. One note, one beat, very quietly. Then he lifted his chin from his arms and whispered to Willim. "Did you hear it?"

"No."

"Its right there, Papa."

Willim drew closer, his jaw near K'Las' shoulder. "Point."

K'Las fidgeted with his fingers, as if trying to figure out how to point without being obvious. Finally, he simply spread his fingers on the table and tapped with his pointer.

"Can you reach it?" Willim slowly turned the fork in his hand, as if examining the sigil.

"Yes."

"Take it and hand it to me, as quick as you can."

K'Las grabbed it.

In an instant, intertwining weaves, like frost spreading on a pane of glass, enclosed the porch. Vinelike hooks knitted themselves in the mesh.

"Weaves, Papa." K'Las stared in amazement at the assemblage of colors and tones imprisoning them. It was like a spring meadow spread across the horizon. He listened as the reds sizzled, yellows caroled, blues crooned in a chorus of colors he'd never seen or heard before. Yet, another voice disturbed him.

". . . the fork? Where's the fork?" Willim took him by the shoulders and turned him around. "The fork, son."

Thad was on his feet, coming at him. "How did you find it, yeh blasted twerp? Give that to me."

Maynard grabbed Thad's arm and spun him around.

B'Tris tried to weave a sheath around Thad as he struggled with the giant.

Thad met her weave with a single hand and completely unraveled the casing. Within moments she was lying on the floor struggling against Thad's encasement.

K'Las, overwhelmed, stared dumbly at his father. He felt a firm grip on his chin and heard his father speak. "Get your head about you, son. We have things to do."

K'Las gathered his wits and held the fork out. His father couldn't see it. A refracting weave tied off by a simple knot sheathed the fork. A quick slice through the knot dissolved the weave. He gave the fork to his father.

K'Las looked beyond his father and found Maynard and Thad embraced in a silent rigid struggle. Maynard held Thad by his shoulders and shook violently, as if in a spasm. Sweat poured from his face. His gaze held a fixed and fierce intent on the old man.

Thad's hands gripped Maynard at the elbows, his expression equal in its intensity. Curls of smoke rose near his fingertips. Maynard's sleeves hung in scorched ruins, his flesh seemed to boil under the wilder's grip as flaring weaves rose, shredded and fell. The ragged remains of the weaves seeped into his arms like water on a sponge.

Their bloodshot eyes locked on each other. Their clenched jaws hissed. An eerie bass voice and a strange whistle soon resonated from their rounded lips.

K'Las couldn't get to his mother. The giant and wilder blocked the way. He tried to wriggle by them, but his father pulled him back.

"Where are the weaves?" His father took hold of his shoulders and turned him away from the fight.

"All around us." K'Las pointed to the entrance and the handrails. "We can't get out. Even the rafters have netting."

"How tight are they?"

"Really tight, Papa. Can you see the hooks?"

"I see a few threads, but no hooks. Do you think we can cut through it or find where it's tied off?"

"I don't know. It looks pretty complicated."

"Alright, let's test it."

Willim took a handful of polished stones from the bag. "Throw some stones at the weave, but don't tie any threads to them, alright?"

K'Las nodded and inspected the pebbles he pulled from his pocket. He glanced at the still struggling men before heaving the stones at the weaves. He and his father tossed at the same time.

Starbursts of dust erupted as each rock hit the woven lattice. A ripple spread out from each impact along with tones, like glass chimes.

Willim took the polishing cloth, held a corner and tossed the rag. It spread out, flat as a skillet and snared on the hooks. A moment later it curled into smoke as ash drifted to the floor.

K'Las caught sight of the two men as they collapsed to the floor. They rolled away from each other. His father rushed to ensnare an unconscious Thad.

K'Las stood motionless for a moment, unsure who to help first. Maynard lay on the floor, thrashing uncontrollably in a growing pool of sweat. His mother bound, but apparently unhurt, lay near the entrance. He had few healing skills. Maynard needed more than he could give.

The cocoon sheath on his mother, though beautifully woven, unraveled quickly when he found where it had been tied off.

As the sheath fell away and dissolved, his mother sat up and kissed his brow. "Good work, son."

She picked up her kit and went to the semi-conscious Maynard. His thrashing had subsided to twitches as his mother applied one remedy after another. Weaves sloughed away from the giant. Her few potions and salves had little effect.

"K'Las, can we get into the house?"

"No, Momma. Everything is covered."

"Will, help me. If we combine our weaves they may help him."

"I can't, Bee. Thad's awake. He's fighting back, countering my threads somehow. If I stop he'll get free. K'Las, help your mother. I can keep up with Thad for the time being."

K'Las stepped to his mother.

Maynard woke with a start. He lashed out with his arms as if throwing off chains. A glancing blow struck B'Tris' leg. She fell back, grimacing and clutching her knee as she went to the floor.

The giant jumped to his feet and ran headlong toward the entrance of the pergola.

K'Las grabbed the tattered remains of the giant's tunic and screamed for him to stop.

Together they hurled into the wizard's mesh.

#

# Chapter Thirty

The Song of Stones

"WILL." B'Tris' scream ripped Willim from his task. He watched in horror as K'Las tore at Maynard's clothing, yelling, trying to keep the giant from lunging into the wilder's weave.

K'Las lost his feet, but maintained his grip as Maynard dragged him into certain death.

Willim lunged for his son.

His face bore the brunt of the impact as his head bounced off the slate tile. He rolled into a heavy stanchion framing the porch entrance. His son disappeared into the barbed mesh.

A flare of light filled the porch. Smoke followed. The reek of burnt blood, hair, sweat and cloth raked their nostrils.

B'Tris favored one leg as she struggled to stand. Willim came to his hands and knees and peered around the stanchion. He heard B'Tris cough and gag. His eyes teared from the stinging smoke as his lungs hacked in rebellion. Blood smeared his right hand as he wiped the moisture from his eyes. He could not see from his right eye.

Hope was all they had left. Willim got to his feet as the smoke cleared. He waved his arms in a futile effort to hurry it away.

B'Tris rushed toward the entrance. Willim caught her before she stepped through. She struggled against his embrace. His vision cleared enough to see through the remaining smoke. He laughed with soaring relief at the sight of his son.

K'Las grunted and pulled himself free from under Maynard's arm. Tendrils of steam rose from the giant's torso. Not a shred of cloth or hair remained above the man's waist. His trousers were shredded, but his boots were intact.

Broken, bleeding blisters covered Maynard's elbows where Thad had gripped them.

K'Las seemed unscathed. He gestured for them to come through. "It's all gone now. All of it." He knelt by the big man and tried to roll him over. "Will you come help Maynard? I think he's hurt bad."

Willim released B'Tris. She limped a few steps, knelt with little regard for her wounded knee and embraced K'Las. Willim knelt beside them and waited his turn, a hand on each of their shoulders, stroking.

K'Las began to struggle against his mother's embrace.

"Momma, we have to help Maynard. He's hurt."

"Of course, dear. Of course we will." She held him a moment longer before holding him at arm's length, examining him. She patted his arms and wiped the tears from her eyes as she smiled. "We succeeded and we survived."

She sat erect. "And, you're quite right. We need to attend to Maynard and get on the road."

As B'Tris began to assess Maynard's injuries, Willim drew K'Las to him.

"What happened to your eye, Papa?"

"I bumped it. It'll be alright in a few days."

"They were amazing, weren't they? Did you see?"

"Who? Who was amazing?"

"Maynard and Mr. Stonebreaker." K'Las pointed to the house. "Look, Papa, he's moving."

Willim turned sharply. "Oh, gods." He got up and ran to Thad.

The weaves were unraveling fast. Thad had nearly freed himself.

"K'Las, come here, quick." Willim furiously began rebuilding the cocoon.

"I'm right here, Papa. Can I help?"

"Yes. Copy my weave and use every tone and color you have. Lay it over mine. We have to hold him until Maynard is ready to travel."

Willim quickly repaired the sheath, showing K'Las the basic technique. Together they began to ply several more layers.

"How did you and Maynard get through the mesh? We thought we'd lost you both, for sure and certain."

"I thought we were done for, too. I saw Maynard go head first into the mesh, but as soon as he touched it, his hair burned and the mesh kind of, well, got sucked into his head and shoulders. Then, like the weave had stretched too tight, it snapped and the whole thing kind of melted, like wax in a fire."

"That makes sense. I wish I could have seen that mesh, like you could. I'd love to study that man. He certainly has a unique talent."

"I like him, Papa."

"So do I." Willim sat back on his heels. "Your mother seems to have developed a particular fondness for the big guy, too. Now tell me how you knew the fork was on the table?"

"Because I made my fish hooks disappear. I learned how when we were at Turnout Pond." K'Las started a new layered weave on the hengekeeper.

"What? You what?" Willim shook his head in disbelief. "You made fish hooks disappear? How did you do that?"

"Will, bring some water." B'Tris had rolled Maynard over and held his head in her lap.

"Alright." Willim dragged Thad off the porch and away from the path on to the field grass. "We don't want to be caught under that pergola, again. Keep an eye on him, K'Las. When he breaks through that first ply, build a new one. Let's keep at least four on him, for now."

"Yes, Papa."

Willim laid Thad down then called back to K'Las. "You're going to have to show me how you did those fish hooks, and how you managed to see the fork."

K'Las grinned with pride as Willim nodded at him with a smile. He would have winked, but the eye didn't work so well.

Willim picked up a waterskin and took it to B'Tris. She opened it and slowly poured water over Maynard's brow. Within seconds the giant opened his eyes, groaning.

"How are you feeling, Mr. Woods?" B'Tris pressed a damp cloth to his forehead.

"Wobbly."

"Are you in pain?"

"Nah. Skin feels . . . bubbly. My head's cold." He slowly raised a hand to his head. "Now how'd that happen?"

"Good, stand up, we have to leave."

K'Las tried to hurry Maynard as they lagged behind his mother and father. His mother and father had taken the lead, though her injured knee slowed her. They turned off Thad's lane onto the Kerner-Bartles Nook road.

Low black clouds had moved in, covering the western horizon. Darkness came early. Shadows disappeared as they approached the looming eastern henge. The megaliths stood like wraiths.

"Somethin' ain't right." Maynard stopped and scanned the southern and eastern line of the henge. "Someone's coming."

"Who?" K'Las paused as a vague sense of dread crawled into his mind.

"I don't know. Whoever it is has a light step. Might be a woman." Maynard knelt, splayed his hands and pressed an ear to the ground. "Yep, up ahead. She's waitin'."

"Come on, they're in danger. We've fallen too far behind." K'Las' neck bristled with fear. He didn't know why, but he was certain danger was close at hand. "Let's go. It's getting too dark."

"Don't worry, boy." Maynard got to his feet and pointed to the east. "Just beyond the next dell is the Waxman place. They got honey. Beekeepers, they are. They'll take us in for the night."

"Come on, let's go, let's go." K'Las pulled on Maynard's hand. Immediately his senses seared with an uncanny dread. He gasped, turned and cried out, "Papa, stop. Wait."

"They're in spittin' distance, boy. No need to shout." Maynard began to walk, pointing with the staff. "They stopped. See, they heard yeh. Might be that lady is there, too. Why don't yeh go on ahead? I'll keep Thad from catchin' up with yeh."

K'Las released Maynard's hand and ran. He saw his parents waiting. Something about what they were doing bothered him; bothered him to a near panic. He threw off his kit as he ran.

The road stretched into forever. Ruts rose up, grabbing at his ankles.

A nightmare chased him. A nightmare awaited him. His father staggered.

As he approached the massive silhouetted stones, he saw his father drop to his knees. A smaller figure emerged from behind a giant stone and thrust a staff at his father. His father parried the driving shaft. He rolled away and got to his feet.

Lightning flashed above. Their staffs met in a cloud of arcing weaves.

"Will." His mother called as she limped in haste to help him. "Oh, dear gods, Will."

Thunder clapped.

His mother raised her staff as she screamed to K'Las. "Run, K'Las. Go to Maynard."

K'Las slowed.

Light flashed across the henge.

Willim's weave frayed, awash with the hue of death. His staff exploded, overwhelmed by the colored weaves of a wilder. The figure drove something into Willim's chest.

Thunder sliced through K'las. He stumbled, regained his feet and ran to help. As he drew near, he heard the figure talking to his mother. A figure and vile voice he now recognized.

K'Las froze.

"Revenge is for the gods. I am their instrument." L'don Banks, the man his parents feared most held out his hand. "Come with me and your son lives. Resist and he dies."

His mother kept her distance from him, favoring her injured leg as she moved off the road.

A distant flash of lightning.

L'don stood over Willim's limp body and pulled the barbed arrow from his chest; dying weaves and flesh hung from the tip.

Darkness reclaimed the scene. Thunder rolled.

K'Las' mind tried to comprehend the unfathomable. The image of the barbed weave, the horrific chest wound, and . . . an empty stare.

He stood in stunned silence. Someone whispered.

"No."

Then came a blood clotting scream.

"No."

His father was dead. He stared in disbelief. Time slowed. The rain dribbled. Lightning poured like winter honey from the clouds.

His mother's hair and kirtle hung in midair as she spun. Her mouth moved in a garbled scream. "Run, K'Las, run."

She must have been talking to someone else, though she looked right at him. Before she turned back to L'don, the man had pointed the rod at her and lunged.

Time regained its tempo.

As the rod touched his mother, a kaleidoscope of threads ensnared her. She tumbled to the ground.

"No."

Somewhere inside him, a shrouded door opened. Hate, anger, fear, pain burst through, contending for supremacy. They rushed forward challenging, demanding his allegiance to settle an old score.

His song joined with another, allied in purpose and resolve.

K'Las lunged at the ground, his fingers drove deep into the soil.

He searched for a wave.

He heard his mother.

He heard L'don.

He heard Maynard and Thad.

He heard the silent, brooding stones of the henge.

His father, nothing more than a failing wisp of smoke curling up in a fading breeze.

He heard his world breaking.

Hate, anger, pain and death howled riding upon a wave.

Thunder rolled across the Great Western Henge. Another flash of lightning lit the great stones Thad loved so well.

The storm came closer. Thad chased after the tinkers. When he reached the eastern henge another roll of thunder and a flash lit a scene he did not think possible and did not want to believe.

He witnessed the boy drive his hands into the ground. A growling noise rose from Rendor. The ground heaved upward in two billowing curtains of flaming soil and molten rock. Another flash. A sharp clap joined with deep rolling thunder.

Beyond the boy rose a twisting column of grinding rocks. Trapped at the center of the shrieking maelstrom crouched a man. His mouth open in a scream, but his cries were lost in the tumult. The stones ground his flesh and bone. Blood sprayed from the column and rose into the black sky.

Forked lightning slashed across the shrouded firmament. Writhing fingers of searing light arced up the column, igniting rock and dust. A spiraling pillar of flame rose high as it impaled and chased the clouds aside. It shuddered and groaned as it reached its peak high above him.

The column fell and drove itself into the ground.

The twin curtains fell.

The ground heaved. Ripples of undulating soil raced outward.

A stone rang.

Then another.

Cascading tones filled the air as each ripple struck the dark megalithic stones. Thunder and the crack of lightning accentuated the deep repeating tones that resounded across the knolls, dells and farmlands.

The Great Western Henge rang as if the gods had strummed a great harp.

The ripples faded. The great henge went silent, once again. Rain pittered on Thad's hat.

Beside him Maynard groaned and staggered to his feet. Thad had not even known he was there until now.

Thad walked over to the boy who lay curled up on his side, unconscious. The boy's mother, released from the man's weaves, came and sat beside her son, crying. Or, perhaps it was just the rain streaming down her face. She picked him up and cradled him, rocking and humming.

The old henge keeper stood near them, muttering as he regarded the boy. "He can't do that. It's not possible. It's just not possible."

A tone rippled through A'wyn's mind and woke her. Her eyes opened as Rendor thundered above her. A cascading chorus of harps aroused and held her in divine bliss.

When the chorus faded to silence, reality seeped in.

Blackness so deep and complete she wondered if the Black Veil had taken her. Pain coursed through her body. _Is this how I pay for my sins? Will this be my eternity?_

The air on her skin was cool. She felt weightless--naked.

She tried to lift an arm--it didn't move. Pain struck her shoulder. She tried the other arm--nothing but searing pain. Her legs, her back, everything hurt and nothing moved.

She tried to scream. Pain clamped her chest. She retreated to shallow, puffing breaths. _When do the gods reveal my fate? How long will this last?_

Echoes of panting breaths replied, _hush, hush, hush_.

#

# Chapter Thirty-one

We Need to Talk

Squire Sir Charles Windhammer sat on the western veranda of his manor and watched the storm clouds roll in from the west. He always enjoyed storms, especially the meaner ones. This one looked rather tame, despite the lightning and thunder.

He sat, as was his wont, in a low armchair with a warm blanket over his lap. Stiff joints and age had not diminished his love of all things weather. The red sunrise had warned him of tonight's entertainment. His very bones told of rain blessing the farmlands and keeping his reservoirs filled.

The evening's opening act did not disappoint him. Lightning crawled across the horizon. He measured the time between the flash and the expected thunder.

"It should be at the henge before long, Bernie."

"I agree, Sir Charl. I calculate about four miles off."

Scribner placed a loaf of bread, a pair of soup mugs and a tureen on a table. He ladled hot leek and tater soup for each of them. He handed a full mug to the Squire before sitting in a matching chair with his own hot soup.

They dunked chunks of crusted sour dough bread into their soup as they observed events. As usual they challenged each other to predict wind patterns and severity of the coming rainfall.

A column of flame rose into the clouds.

The mariner's ancient hands gripped the arms of his chair and pushed his arthritic body to its feet. Scribner stood and steadied the Squire. They both gaped at the burning sight.

"What is that Bernie?"

"I . . . don't know."

The column fell. A grinding din of boulders, bonfires and thunder passed over them.

"What's happening out . . ."

Flourishing tones followed the din. Tones so penetrating, moving and jubilant, Sir Charles Windhammer felt . . . exuberant, jubilant, invigorated . . . youthful.

He turned to Scribner, who couldn't seem to decide if he wanted to laugh, dance or sing.

"The henge, Bernie. Someone rang it." Sir Charles struggled to suppress an urge to laugh. He failed. The entire time the tones resonated, he laughed. Scribner laughed and danced a jig.

In the distance, he heard laughter and singing coming from the village.

Bernie began to sing a bawdy seafaring tune as he danced. However, when the tones faded, the celebration receded. Bernie finished his song and jig.

The two men maintained their smiles until villagers began to arrive.

"Maybe that tinker woman _is_ a Cherished Weaver, Bernie. I wasn't quite ready to believe it myself, but maybe she is, and she did that." Sir Charles threw a hand in the direction of the henge.

"I saw the forks ring, myself, Sir Charl. If she isn't, the forks Thad gave us are dangerous deceptions."

"We need to find out who, or what did that. Has everyone returned from the Hue and Cry for the night?"

"Yes, except Maynard Woods, Bert Forest and Axel Black. I believe everyone else is back. Maynard went to warn the tinkers about the Inquisitor, and Bert and Axel are tracking Grindall Sykes and his wife."

Sir Charles' leaned over the rail of the veranda. His brow furrowed as the decisions he had to make raced through his mind. "I see Bernard Brewer and Tim Baker down there. Send them out to the henge tonight. See what they can find out. I want Thad to stew in his own juices before I summon him. There'll be all seven hells to pay when the Priory hears about this."

He pushed himself away from the handrail. "Pass word to all the hamlets and farmsteads that no one is to go near Thad or the henge until we get this resolved."

Scribner disappeared into the manor as Sir Charles sat in his chair. He sipped at his soup. The storm drew closer. Lightning flashed.

"Perhaps the day of promises has finally arrived." He dipped bread in the soup and examined the soppy end. "Old folks and their promises."

Two hours later Scribner escorted Timothy Baker into Sir Charles' private chambers. The Squire sat behind a large desk reading an old document.

"Mr. Timothy Baker has returned, m'lord." Scribner turned to leave.

"Please stay, Bernie." Sir Charles folded the document and placed it in a stack of other papers. "What have you learned, Mr. Baker."

"M'lord, we found Tim and Carl Waxman already at the henge along with Thad and them tinkers. Maynard took the tinkers to the Waxman place. The boy was unconscious and the lady was pretty banged up. Her husband is dead. Got him a big hole in his chest from that fella who killed ol' Pete Turner. Maynard and Thad saw the whole thing. They say the boy done killed that Enforcer fella and done all that stuff we seen and heard."

"What?" Sir Charles held a hand up. "The boy killed the Inquisitor?"

"Yes, m'lord, 'cordin' to Maynard."

Sir Charles locked eyes with Scribner. "Then the woman isn't the Cherished we thought she was?"

"Didn't say that, sir." Timothy shifted on his feet. "Said the boy done it."

"Then we may have two Cherished on our hands?"

"Didn't say that, neither, sir."

"Yes, yes." Sir Charles waved a dismissive hand. "Did they tell you what happened?"

"Maynard did." Timothy grinned. "Ol' Maynard, he was real upset and told Thad what for and sent him packin'."

"And Thad just left?"

"Yeppers. Scooted off without sayin' nothin'."

"Alright, tell me what they said happened out there." Sir Charles leaned back in his wingback chair, ready to listen to a long story.

The sun finally rose. The clear sky and cool air did nothing for Thad's humor. He dreaded what would soon be on his doorstep. None of his plans panned out the way he wanted. None of them. Blown and ground away, like the man in the twisting cloud of stone and flame.

The last time the henge rang, some ten thousand soldiers died and brought the Great War to an end. Now that it had rung again, he'll probably have ten thousand snooping people on his doorstep.

He paced the length of his porch, waiting for them to arrive. _What's taking them so long? They should have been here by now._

People were going to ask questions. He had no answers. Most likely that column of flaming rock and dust had been ignited by the lightning. Pure coincidence is all it was. There was a lot of organic matter in it as well, not to mention the man caught up in it; all quite flammable.

_That blasted kid. He's too young. Pestering me like that, throwing me off my stride . . . Then he found the fork . . . because he accidently learned how to mask fish hooks?_ Thad sneered and pounded the porch handrail with his fist. _Those tinkers_ must _have been training that hell brat for years. He's what, nine, ten years old? Too young, too young. But, how did they do it? They're monotonic twits, monochromatic bobbins, one note ninnies._

Thad stopped in front of the table of tuning forks as revelation struck him. He idly picked one up, staring at it, but not seeing. _Of course, there's still a Cherished out there somewhere. That's who he . . ._

"Thad."

"What?" Anger and frustration burst out of him as he turned and hurled the tuning fork at the voice. "What do you want?"

Bernie Scribner and Stefan Windhammer stood, dour faced, at the entrance to the porch as the fork sailed by.

"Is this it? Just the two of you? Didn't anyone hear the henge last night . . . and see that column of fire?" Thad jammed his gnarled fists on his hips.

Scribner wore a stern, officious expression. Stefan appeared grave and subdued.

"It's time to honor your debt." Scribner handed Thad a folded parchment. "You are commanded to be at Kerner Manor by sundown. Be prepared to honor your pledge and the promise of the ancients."

"What debt? What pledge?" Thad unfolded the parchment.

The words practically leapt off and gut-punched him. He turned, walked to a chair by his front door and sloughed into it, cradling his brow in one hand.

"How many?" Thad shook his head in disbelief as he realized what must have happened.

"All of them, Thad." Stefan stood beside him and rested a hand on Thad's shoulder.

"How do you know?" Thad leaned back, hoping to see some hint of error in Stefan's face.

"All of Kerner, Bartle's Nook and Green-by-the-hill and the surrounding farms have reported to the Squire." Stefan showed no sign of there being a mistake. "We're hoping that's the extent of it. We've sent out runners to the logging camps as well as the known hunter's cabins. Hopefully we'll know more by tonight."

"That, Mr. Stonebreaker, is the only reason you have until nightfall." Scribner stood in front of Thad, an angry glint in his eye.

"And, if I'm not there what do you think you can do? No one knows this henge like I do. I could hold you off for years." Thad felt his ire rising. No one threatened him. No one.

"That would, indeed be unfortunate." Scribner maintained his stern, officious stance. "However, in the end you would lose. I believe you would lose sooner than you think. There are other forces at work which you are not fully aware of, it seems."

"What do you know about forces?" Thad stood and stared daggers at Scribner. "When this henge ignites you'll know . . ."

"We've heard this before." Scribner raised a hand as he met and parried Thad's glaring daggers. "You still need help igniting it, as you say. Be at the manor tonight, or, as you pledged, forfeit your stewardship of the henge."

Scribner turned and walked off. Stefan hesitated.

"This may not be how you wanted it to happen, but we need to work together now. We'll have a better chance if you are fully involved." Stefan stepped out from under the pergola and turned back to Thad. "You may finally have your Cherished Weaver. There may never be a better chance."

"The boy and his mother think I had a hand in Willim's death. That's the last thing I wanted." Thad rose from his chair and went to the porch entrance. "I've never killed anyone, Stefan. That other fella did it. Who was he?"

"Well, I'm glad you at least know the name of the boy's father. The other man's name was L'don Banks. A'wyn Bowyer was his partner." Stefan eyed Thad, as if asking a question.

"I didn't kill her, if that's what you're wondering." Thad glowered at Stefan's still questioning gaze. "I'm telling you it wasn't my fault. I didn't kill her, or anyone else."

"Alright. If you say so. You only have to convince the tinkers and all of Kerner County." Stefan took a step to leave then stopped . "You will be at the Manor tonight, won't you?"

"Yes, I suppose so. Seems I have little choice."

Thad scrubbed his chin, considering something Stefan had said. "You say that fella, L'don Banks and A'wyn were partners, eh?"

"Yes, sent to find the tinkers and their tuning fork. Why? Didn't you see him out here?"

"Never saw him before in my life. Truth tell, I didn't see much of him last night." Thad smiled crookedly. "You can tell the Squire I'll be there, early. We need to talk. In fact, tell him I'll be there by midday."

Stefan and Bernie joined the Squire on the front portico of the manor, overlooking the gathered villagers.

Stefan stepped forward and silenced the crowd. Expectant eyes soon settled on him. "As you know, my father's voice isn't strong enough to carry out to all of you, so I'm speaking on his behalf.

"Yesterday's Hue and Cry is formally cancelled. The murderer of Pete Turner is dead.

"Though we don't know the details of how the murderer died, we do know who killed him."

Stefan turned to his father, unsure how to continue. The pause provoked calls from some of the more impatient villagers. Stefan faced the villagers.

"As you know, our children here in Kerner and the surrounding farms and hamlets who have yet to be imbued have been awakened. They are seeing threads and weaves all around them. They see threads dangling from their fingertips. I've tested many of them. Their abilities are true and awake."

Stefan pointed west. "The Great Western Henge has rung. It awakened our children. It will lift our imbuements. We will be complete, our own skills awakened and enhanced. What we are, and what we create with our own hands will be better. Our children will be better. Our lives, better.

"We have a Cherished Weaver among us. That Cherished Weaver rang the henge and killed the Inquisitor and murderer, L'don Banks."

Some villagers cheered, some fell to the ground in tears, and others were confused.

"The Promise is upon us. For those of you who don't know or recall what that means, go home, talk with your elders and among yourselves. Decide what you will do. The world is changing. An ancient burden will soon be lifted."

#

# Chapter Thirty-Two

The PRomise

Thad leaned hard onto Sir Charles' desk, pressing his hands on a parchment as he studied it.

"How many are not on this list?"

"Unless there's been another birth in the past six hours, none." Beth Warden grinned like a cat that ate the family canary.

"There's two here without a name, why?" Thad stubbed a finger into the parchment near one of the missing names.

"The babies ain't been named, yet. It seems yer henge induced two births last night." Beth smirked and fiddled with the hem of her sleeve. "There won't be no surprise if we get us a few more very gifted children in the not too far future. Are you ready for that, Thaddeus Stonebreaker?"

"How do you know they've all had their tones awakened? Have you tested them?" Thad began to pace across the Squires private office chamber. "How do you know these brats . . . children are gifted?"

"I think it is safe to assume they are." Sir Charles sat in his wingback chair, puffing on a pipe. "We are testing them as quickly as we can. Stefan has set about that task. So far, all of them are showing potential weaving skills. We'll leave the final determination to you."

"There's thirty-seven of the little . . . angels." Thad waved his arms and nearly screamed at the absurdity he faced. He could tolerate teaching one brat at a time, but thirty-seven of the bawling, nerve wracking horrors went beyond reason. He had enough trouble with adults.

His promise trapped him. He had imbedded and imbued the contract with his signature weave of chromatic tones. If he failed to fulfill the contract, whoever held that ancient vellum document had the power to destroy him.

"I'm going to need help with this. How many Weavers do we have?" Thad stopped pacing, folded his arms and waited for a reply. They returned his gaze with blank stares.

"Well, who can help me teach these . . ." He grabbed the list from the desk and shook it at them. ". . . the people on this list?"

Sir Charles leaned forward and pointed his pipe at Thad. "You are the only one authorized to teach the Weaving Arts."

"That only applies until I am called upon to help establish the new realm." Thad leaned on the desktop again. "You did that when you called me to this meeting. By the contract, when the henge is rung by a Cherished Weaver a Call of the Realm is established. Specifically, the Squire, the Constable and the Keeper of the Henge, me, form the Call of the Realm. Or, am I mistaken, Sir Charles?"

"That is correct." Sir Charles leaned back in his chair and resumed puffing on his pipe. "Jon, what have you to say? As Warden, you have the authority to finalize and fulfill the Call."

Jon Warden, Warden and Constable of Kerner County, glowered as he sat in a corner of the chamber. He shifted uneasily in his chair.

"Why ain't I never heard of this contract? I ain't agreed to none of that." Jon waved an angry hand at the Squire's desk.

"Yer quibblin' over stuff I know nothin' about. How am I supposed to know what to do? We got war brewin' with the Endless Realm Priory and untold numbers of them Inquisitors. Our own Priory ain't gonna wait for us to lie to 'em again by sendin' back confused Temple Priests and Enforcers. They'll likely send out a dozen or more Enforcers to deal with our new found wilders, every one of 'em less than ten year old. It'll be a bloodbath. And, our kids'll be the ones fillin' that bath.

"Where will yer precious Cherished Weaver be, eh? Sucklin' on his momma's teat?"

"Jon." Beth castigated her husband. "Mind yer mouth. Deal with the problem, not yer blasted notions of what might happen."

"I don't know what it's gonna take to sway yeh into realizin' what war is. Yeh got nothin' to stop the Priory . . ." Jon threw his good arm out, gesturing to everyone in the room as he shouted. "They'll throw their Warlock Weavers on us once they know we got a bunch of wilders. Yeh ever seen what they can do? Do yeh think kids'll be able to stop 'em? Do yeh think they'll care how old they are?"

Thad came near Jon. "You have a very good point, Jon. We always assumed, with good reason, any Cherished Weaver who could ring the henge on their own would be fully developed. The boy seems to have had a lot of training, but he can't sustain an attack. He passes out. His mother is old enough, I suppose, but she's imbued. Nevertheless, she'll need training, time and experience if she's to become a Cherished."

Thad laid a reassuring hand on Jon's shoulder, an uncharacteristic gesture on his part. "The kids will be safe. With enough warning, the entire village will be quite safe. We have a good many resources with which to draw from. What we don't have, as you have rightly pointed out, is well developed talent to overcome the Warlock Weavers. We'll need a good deal of time to achieve that resource."

"What resources yeh talkin' about?" Jon's expression turned to guarded curiosity.

"We have the Sett." Thad raised a hand, quelling the questions he saw in many of the faces in the room. "The Sett is my . . . I should say, _our_ new home."

"Yeah, I reckon there's things I don't know about." Jon shifted in his chair and considered the old henge keeper. "My own father told us kids there'd come a day when that old promise would rear its head. I guess I never figured I'd ever see it, though. Always thought of it as another fairytale.

"Can I see that contract?" Jon held out his hand. Thad handed it to him.

"Back to my question of how many Weavers we have to teach these kids." Thad felt almost excited, even pleasant minded.

"Well, besides you?" Cassandra peered at Thad as if he should know. "The only one's still here are Bernie and Stefan, and Stefan has King Gerald's work to do. Bernie takes care of my father and the manor. So, I guess that leaves us with you."

"What?" Thad thought about her answer for a moment. He waved a dismissive hand. "Yes well, we can call in some favors."

"We can? How many wilders have you trained?" Cassandra squinted an eye at him.

"Enough for this task. They pledged to the same promise." Thad nearly hooted in delight. "Yes, indeed, I think I might just enjoy this."

"Thad. Just how old are you?" Jon was on his feet, Beth steadying him, as Thad turned.

"What?"

"Just how old are you?" Jon held the parchment out with one hand, stabbing a finger into it with the other.

Thad wiped a hand across his mouth and mumbled.

"Sit down, Jon." Sir Charles waved for everyone to be seated. "You, too, Thad. Sit down. I'll tell him. Before you jump to unfounded conclusions, you best hear the whole story. This stays in this room. Others may guess, but you are to tell no one. No hints, no gestures, nothing. Understood?"

After everyone agreed, the Squire continued. "As you know, the Great Western Henge is where the last major battle of the Great War occurred. There were nearly a hundred surviving Weavers taking sanctuary there. One was a Cherished. The last Cherished Weaver known to survive to that point of the war.

"As thousands of soldiers who were allied against the last of the Rendor Empire descended to exterminate those survivors, the Cherished and sixty-two other weavers rang the henge. You know the rest. They must have rung the henge quite differently than it was rung last night. Everyone on the surface died a horrible death in the battle. Nothing but shreds of flesh, both human and horse, and shards of shields, swords, spears, battering rams, catapults and other weapons were found.

"A year of rot and stench kept anyone from approaching the henge. In secret, below the surface, there were twenty-five weavers. During that year they began modifying the henge to protect itself. But, like any machine, it needs maintenance. The surviving Weavers had pledged to do just that. They lived and hid in the Sett under the henge.

However, over the years, as people began to move back to Kerner, most of the Weavers married. They had families and lived in Kerner or started farming. They left the henge behind. Before long they realized they needed to make sure the henge survived. That is when they drew up the contract you hold in your hand, Jon."

"But, Sir Charles, that were some 600 years ago." Jon's voice held a heavy note of skepticism. "Thaddeus Stonebreaker is the only signature under the Hengekeeper title."

"Indeed. You see, Jon, we are the descendants of those survivors. Thad is the sole survivor . . . of the survivors."

"Yer tellin' me . . . I thought . . . I thought only the Cherished Weavers and the Emperor lived that long." Jon shook his head in disbelief. "I thought it was a fairytale."

"The oldest lived well over a thousand years." Sir Charles nodded to Thad. "Ol' Thad here, was a snot nosed twenty-five year old when the last battle raged."

"How come the others aren't still with us?"

"They left the henge and the facilities it provided for long life. They wanted to blend in and be part of the life that existed then. Most wanted families, which meant they had to disguise who and what they were. However, they did live long lives. Longer than what we do now. Of course, there are always rumors of some ancient weaver somewhere. I doubt any are true. But then . . ." Sir Charles shrugged.

The afternoon sun slipped along the edge of a high cloud. The shadows of the henge softened as the light dimmed. B'Tris lay next to her son, listening to the breeze passing over the wild grasses of the eastern henge.

"The Book of Veils says, 'We hear the songs of loved ones in the hearts they leave behind.' Do you remember hearing that?"

K'Las sat up, crossed his legs, began pulling blades of grass and tossing them into the wind. "I do. But, it hurts too much to listen right now. I want my father back."

B'Tris sat up and gently pressed a shoulder into him. "I hear him. I think I've always heard him." She pressed the palm of her hand to her heart. "Here."

The blades drifted back at K'Las. She knew he was weaving. His fingers idly flicked at the airborne debris. Ghostly shapes of each blade of grass dissolved and wandered away. He fixed his over-wept eyes somewhere beyond the cloud of green dust.

"I feel old, mother." He lowered his eyes to his hands. "Old and angry."

"Oh, K'Las." B'Tris hugged him. "I'm so sorry this had to happen. We always knew . . ."

"But, mother, it _didn't_ have to happen. Someone sent him. Sent him to get you and father and that blasted fork. I hate it. I hate whoever sent that man. I'm going to . . ."

"K'Las, stop."

"Why? Why should I. He killed my father. The only way to keep you safe is to kill him first."

"I can't lose you, son. I just can't. He will have too many others guarding him."

"I'll kill them, too, if I have to."

"I can't do this." B'Tris buried her head in her hands and cried. The burden crushed her. Her spirit bowed to a whisper. "Please K'Las . . ."

"I'm going to get Thad to teach me. I'm going to learn about the henge and that fork. Then I'm going to kill the Grand Peer."

B'Tris sobbed, her song wounded and silent.

K'Las stood, squared his narrow shoulders and held out his small hand to his mother.

"We mustn't delay, Mother. Let's go see Thad."

She raised her eyes to his. The heavy veil of antiquity had fallen over his innocence. He looked old.

A chilling presence slipped into her mind. The tenuous specter of a memory spoke to her.

_Beware my anger. Beware . . . beware . . ._

She refused to let fear rise. She swallowed hard, shuddered and smiled.

_Haegatess, what did you do?_

She pushed her grief and worries aside and took her son's hand.

THE END
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The story continues in book two:

CALL OF THE EMPIRE

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