Moonhawk settled back on her wall, a most un-witch-like curse on her tongue. Befatched again,G.o.ddess take the man! Well, she would simply ask him the way of it. But it galled her to need to do so.

The crowd had demonstrated to its own satisfaction that rope and ring were inextricable. Lute had the mating back and untied the knot, with a well-worn patter praising the skill of the knot-tier and the efficacy of the knot. He slid the ring free, hung the rope over one shoulder, frowned at the ring and with a gesture vanished it. The audience roared, men stamping their feet and women clapping their palms together, and Lute announced the show was over.

"But if you will, friends, a bit of something for the work expended-a coin, an egg, a loaf, a sup of ale-for, as great as magic is, not even the greatest magician can conjure himself a meal ..."

It was a giving crowd. By the time its disparate portions had wended home, five eggs, a new loaf, and a quarter-sausage had come to rest on Lute's tattered yellow prop cloth.

"And if a great magician cannot conjure himself a meal, does it follow that he may not conjure a meal for another?" Moonhawk asked, stepping forward and bending to retrieve the three nesting wooden cups.

Lute looked up, mischief glinting in his dark eyes, gaunt face stern.

"The ways of the Craft Magic are not for the student to ridicule," he said austerely. "You will learn these mysteries in the proper order and with the proper respect. Until then, you will keep a civil tongue in your head, Madam."

He sounded so like old Laurel, the Witch who had the training of the child Moonhawk, that the adult-woman and Witch in her own right-laughed aloud. Lute grinned, and waved a graceful hand at the acc.u.mulated bounty.

"Besides, we've conjured enough for a fine dinner and a bit left aside to break our fast. And-" A flourish, a s.n.a.t.c.h and he held out a quarter-moon, brittle with age. "A coin to trade for ale at the inn. I'm told this village boasts an inn."

Moonhawk glanced about her, frowning as much against the ill-kept square as against the sun. "It does?"

"There you go again!" Lute cried, slipping the cups from her hand and placing them carefully in his bag. "I can't recall the last time I spoke to so disrespectful a woman."

"No doubt my early training is to blame," Moonhawk returned. "And the fact that one is used to city comfort!"

"No doubt," Lute agreed, with mortifying sincerity. He finished the various fastenings and straightened, gripping the bag's handle and giving it a sharp shake. The legs retracted with a snap-mechanical magic, this, not sleight-of-hand. He gestured, showing her the dusty square and rag-tag huts.

"Look about you well. For the world is more nearly like this than it is like Dyan City. The lot of common folk is hard work and short lives, relieved-and the G.o.ddess smiles-by love, and by children, and by an occasional diversion such as myself."

He dropped his hand, and in the fading light looked abruptly tired. "For the most part, the G.o.ddess blesses those more, who live nearest the Temples."

Moonhawk kept still. She knew the correct response-knew that every teaching she had ever received told her she put her immortal self at danger, traveling with such a one.

Yet, his voice reverberated with Truth, and Witch-sense showed her his sincerity. She sighed. The mansowed disquiet like gladiola seeds. And yet- "Master Magician!" The woman's voice was breathless with hurry; she herself somewhat better dressed than most of the crowd had been, though her hair was coming unbraided and dust lay thick upon her. She rushed up to Lute and caught his hand in both of hers; Moonhawk marked how well he controlled the instinct to s.n.a.t.c.h the precious member away.

"Lady," he said, respectfully, bowing his head, and taking the opportunity to slip his hand free. "How may I serve you?"

"My daughter," she began, and lay her hand against her breast. "Oh, thank the Mother you are here! My daughter said that you would not aid me, but I pray-Indeed, how could you not? It is the responsibility of power to aid the powerless!"

"So I have always been taught," Lute said carefully, while Moonhawk opened herself to the other woman's self and scanned each nuance of emotion.

Distress, she found, but no disorder such as madness might generate. She glanced at Lute and saw he had reached the same conclusion.

"Before aid can be bestowed, we must be aware of the nature of the problem," he told the woman gently.

"Yes, certainly!" she cried, and gave a breathless little laugh, though Moonhawk detected no joy in the sound.

"It is my daughter," she said again. "Three days together she has been gone. Her sister would have it that she is only about some madcap scheme and will return when it occurs to her, but she is not like that!

Wild she may be, and heedless of manner, but her heart is good. To worry me so-and she must know that I would worry! No, I cannot believe her so cruel. She must have fallen aside of danger-she may even now be lying in some rock-catch, broken-legged and hoa.r.s.e from calling... " Her voice faltered and Lute stepped expertly into the small silence.

"Lady, I am distressed to hear of your trouble. But surely this is a matter for those of the village, who are familiar with the country roundabout and who will know where best to search."

"They have searched," she said, suddenly listless. "They say-they say she must only have gone off with a lover and will return, in a day or six. They say, no one could stay hidden so long, from all the wilder-wise." She bent her head. "They say, unless she is dead."

"G.o.ddess forefend," murmured Lute devoutly. Moonhawk slanted him a slicing look, which he disarmed merely by refusing to meet her eyes. He kept a grave face turned toward the woman. "But this other-that she is gone with a lover to celebrate the G.o.ddess' best joy-is that not possible?"

"With her own betrothed sitting at my hearth, wringing his hands and wondering what is come of her? I say again. Master Magician, she is not a cruel girl."

"Ah." Lute did glance at Moonhawk then, eyes explicitly neutral, then looked back at the grieving mother. "What is it you think I may do for you, Lady?"

"Find her!" she cried, and made as if to clutch his hand again, a move he adroitly avoided. "You have magic... power... the sight... In the name of the G.o.ddess, Master Magician! In the name of she who bore you! My child must be found. My child-" She gasped, bent her head and struck her breast three times, slowly, with a shaking fist.Lute cleared his throat. "Alas," he said, face and voice betraying nothing but the utmost sincerity, and perhaps a shade of sorrow. "There is magic and there is magic. I have no ability to find what is lost-"

"But I have," Moonhawk said abruptly, and lay her hand briefly upon the woman's head, feeling the warmth of the unraveling hair beneath her palm. "Peace on you, Sister," she said "in traditional benediction. She took her hand away and met the woman's incredulous stare with firm coolness.

"You are-Sing thanks to the G.o.ddess! You are of the Circle?" The woman's eyes shone with tears, with transcendent hope. "A priestess?"

"I am Moonhawk," she said austerely. "Witch, Healer and Seer. I may find that which is lost, by the grace of our Lady." She glanced aside, saw Lute watching her intently; returned her gaze to the woman.

"There are certain items I require, in order to search most efficiently."

"Certainly!" The woman cried. "Certainly-and you shall have them! You shall come-both of you shall come!-to my house, sup with us, sleep, you may have all I have. Only find her, Lady Moonhawk! Find my child."

"I shall try," said Moonhawk and felt a sudden chill.

THE WOMAN'S NAME was Aster and her house was a large one, set just above the village, with two goats In the front yard and a hen house in back. Taelberry twined up an arbor by the door, the heavy purple blossoms silking the air with fragrance.

"Here we are," said Aster, leading them to the flower-hung porch and working the latch, "Lady Moonhawk, Master Lute-please be welcome in my home."

"Peace on this house," Moonhawk returned in proper ritual.

"Joy to all who live here," Lute said sweetly, bowing his head in respect before stepping over the threshold.

Moonhawk followed, then the host, into a kitchen smelling of new bread and warm spices. By the hearth stood a slim and well-made young man, dejectedly stirring the stew pot. From another portion of the room hurried a girl: brown hair neatly done into a knot at her neck, st.u.r.dy hands drying themselves briskly on a clean white ap.r.o.n.

"What's this?" she cried, her eye full of two tall, ragged strangers; then she spied Aster. "Mother? You said nothing of guests-"

"I said I was gone to fetch the magician from the village, if he was still there and looked kindly on my case," said Aster sharply. "As it happens, he did, but could do nothing for me. However, his traveling companion has skill in finding what is lost and she has consented to help."

"Traveling-?" Again, those quick brown eyes counted Lute and Moonhawk, flashed back to the older woman's face. "You bring us a pair of gypsies to guest?"

"Even not, gracious lady!" cried Lute. "For gypsies have the foresight to bring their houses with them, where I am so dimwitted as to have no house at all!"

"And so we ask travel-grace," added Moonhawk, in her deep, level voice, "from charitable homes along the way."The boy at the cauldron laughed once, a sharp-edged sound carrying more scorn than merriment.

"Bested, Senna," he called out. "Make welcome before they eat you alive."

"Wrong also, young sir," Lute said dulcetly. "For what person of dignity will stay in a house where welcome is not a gift?"

"As it is here," cried Aster, bustling forward, "most sincerely! Senna! Cedar! Your manners want brushing! Bow to Lady Moonhawk, Witch of Dyan Temple, and to Master Lute the magician! Lady, Master-my eldest daughter, Senna; and-and Cedar, who is betrothed to my youngest-to Tael..."

She caught her breath hard, then straightened and clapped her hands together.

"Quickly now, children! Senna, show the Lady and Master to the guesting room. Cedar, take hot water to fill the basins. Give them houserobes, Senna; and put their things to wash. I will be along in a moment with wine and a bit of cheese, to help you through till dinner..."

So directed, the two young things obeyed with startling will, and it was not too long before Lute was reclining shamelessly among a mountain of pillows, winegla.s.s in hand, dressed in a houserobe of rich vermilion wool.

"Much better than eggs," he announced with satisfaction, and took a deep draught of wine.

Moonhawk looked over from the table at which she was combing her hair and paused, comb arrested.

Lute glanced up, eyebrow quirking. "Yes?"

She recovered herself, finished the stroke and began another. "It is only that you look very nearly respectable, dressed so."

His eyes gleamed and he brought his gla.s.s up to drink.

"Who is he, Zinna?" demanded a girlish falsetto from across the room. "What do you mean who? That handsome fellow in the red gown, of course! Do you suppose he's a wealthy merchant? Perhaps a n.o.blewoman's son..."

Moonhawk laughed, conquering the urge to turn and stare at the girl she knew was not there, put the comb down, picked up her gla.s.s and moved over to the pillows. "I didn't say handsome," she protested.

"I said respectable."

"My hopes dashed," he sighed, face reflecting unsurpa.s.sed sorrow. He a.s.sayed the gla.s.s, slanted his eyes at her face. "Perhaps I'll have a try for the eldest daughter. This will be hers someday, after all, and with a few manners I'm certain she'd be quite tolerable."

"A mannerly woman is very important, " Moonhawk agreed with false gravity and he inclined his head.

"Present company excluded, certainly."

She froze on the edge of hurling the contents of her gla.s.s into his gaunt brown face; sighed and shook her head.

"Always one step before me, Master Lute," she said, with equally false softness.

He tasted his wine. "Hardly that. At the most, half-a-step ahead and half-a-step to a side." He leaned forward suddenly; surprisingly extended a hand. "Come, cry friends! I swear I hadn't meant it to sting so sharply!"Carefully, she put her hand in his, felt his fingers exert brief, warm pressure and then withdraw, leaving something light and cool in her palm. She cupped her hand and turned it over, revealing a tael-blossom.

"Named for the berry that gives the good wine," murmured Lute. "Heedless, but not cruel. And the elder sister's a shrew."

Moonhawk glanced up. "You think she left with forethought-and intent?"

He shrugged. "Perhaps they argued-the shrew and the heedless one-or perhaps love's veil was somehow shredded and she saw that dull young fellow for the boor he is."

"Quick judgments, Master Lute," she chided him. "You were with them for less than a quarter-gla.s.s."

"It's my business to make quick judgments," he said, unperturbed. "Magic must be good for something, after all." He waved a hand at the hourgla.s.s, now three-quarters done. "We shall soon have the opportunity to make less hurried appraisals. And then you will do your magic."

"Then I will ask the a.s.sistance of the G.o.ddess in the pursuit of truth," Moonhawk corrected austerely, and he sighed.

"I WILL REQUIRE a new candle," Moonhawk told Aster; "a length of string or thin rope and something that belongs to Tael-preferably something she often had about her."

"At once," said Aster, face glowing with the half-sick hope that had filled her all through the meal, so that she pushed her food around the bowl and shredded the good, warm bread into untasted crumbs. She turned to her eldest, who was hovering with Cedar by the fire. "Senna. Bring Lady Moonhawk what she requires."

"Yes, mother," the girl said quickly enough, though her mouth was turned down with ill temper. She bustled out and returned with a new candle in a wooden holder, a cord of fine white wool, a bright blue cloak and a string of pierced beads. She placed them, one by careful one, on the table, saw Moonhawk's eye on the cloak and faltered, a blush warming her cheeks.

"I know some feel it is sacrilege, Lady Moonhawk, for one of the world to wear Circle blue. But Tael loved the color. She spun the thread, wove the cloth, dyed it in taelberry juice, fashioned the cloak-all with her own hands. Being so, I thought it might aid you. This..." her fingers caressed the beaded necklace.

"Is my troth gift to her," Cedar finished harshly, and laughed, "which she hardly wore."

"Still," said Aster, "it must have meant a great deal! Perhaps fear of losing it-"

"Yes, of course!" he said bitterly. "But the truth is that she would rather wear that length of leather and that stupid bit of wood-" He caught himself, folded his lips and made an awkward bow. "Your pardon, housemother; my concern and grief make me short of temper."

"I see that it does," Aster replied, "but in just a few moments, Lady Moonhawk will find her and-"

"I also require, " Moonhawk interrupted, "quiet. You may repair to the parlor. I will call as soon as I have found what there is to find." She looked hard at Aster. "Remember, this lies with the G.o.ddess, not with mere mortal hope."The older woman bowed her head, hand rising to touch her breast. "We abide by the will of the G.o.ddess," she said devoutly. She beckoned the others with a sweep of her hand. "Come."

Moonhawk bent to arrange the items upon the table: Candle to the north, string coiled before her, one end tied securely about the trothing gift. The cloak she considered for a long moment before laying it about her own shoulders and twisting the brooch closed.

"You may leave also," she said, without turning her head to look at Lute, leaning silent against the mantle.

"Ungracious, Lady Moonhawk!" he returned. "You watch my magic, after all. Fair trade is fair trade."

She did look at him then, for the fine voice carried an undercurrent of what-had it not been Lute-she would have identified as worry. "I have done this before" she said, wishing it didn't sound quite so tart.

"It's a very simple spell."

"Nothing can go wrong," he agreed pleasantly, then brought a fingertip to his lips. "But here I am babbling when you require silence! Forgive me, Lady." He sank soundlessly to the bench and folded his hands in his lap. "Silent as the dead, you find me. My master insisted upon the same condition when he was working, so neither of us is novice at our task."

Far more distracting to argue with him than to acquiesce; which she did with a tip of the head. She then ignored him, closing her eyes and offering the prayers that would ready her for the work.

Lute bent forward on his bench, foreboding like a chill handful of stone in his belly.

Moonhawk's breathing deepened; the lines smoothed out of her face, leaving it at once childlike and distantly cruel. She raised her left hand, eyes still closed, pointed a finger and lit the candle. She lowered the hand, laid it on the coil of twine and pulled in the necklace, holding it in her right hand.

She opened her eyes.

"By the grace, with the aid and in the Name of the Mother, I reach out to the one called Tael." with a smooth flip of the wrist, she hurled the necklace far across the kitchen, paying out the twine until the beads. .h.i.t the stone flooring with a rustling clink.

"With the will of She who Is, I call Tael to me." Moonhawk intoned, and began, slowly, to pull in the cord.

It came easily at first, sliding over the stones with a half-audible murmur. But midway to the table the cord faltered in its smooth pa.s.sage through Moonhawk's fingers, picked up-and faltered again.

Lute craned forward, gravel-dread gone to ice in his gut, saw the necklace move jerkily into the circle of light cast by the candle-and stop altogether.

The Witch continued to work the cord, taking up the slack, then tightening the drag, until it stretched taut against the necklace, which moved no more, but lay as if welded to the floor.

He looked back, saw Moonhawk's eyes closed and sweat on her face, the cord taut as a lute-string between her hand and the troth-gift, quivering and giving off a faint, smoky luminescence.