Waln felt puzzled and uncomfortable. He had expected fury, refusal, counteroffers-anything but this hysterical howling.

"Yes, my lady. Your necklace and at least one of your children to be kept in secret and sacred trust until we return."

Lady Melina wiped the tears from her face, first with her sleeve and then with a dainty linen handkerchief.

"And what do I get for all of this?"

"A chance to gain knowledge," Waln said, "monies from Her Majesty's treasury, and favored trading status between your personal house-and your Great House, if you wish-and the Isles."

"And," Lady Melina said, hysteria vanishing to be replaced by studied menace, "one of the three artifacts for myself."

Waln had expected this; so had Queen Valora. He did not pause in his reply. Lady Melina would have had to be a complete idiot to think that they would not have been prepared for this demand. He was ready to believe her insane, but never would he mistake her emotional extremes for idiocy.

"One of the artifacts," he said, "but that one of Her Majesty's choosing. You cannot expect us to give to you something that might destroy us."

"And if these artifacts cannot be used except by one who can see these colors?"

"Then perhaps," Waln said, "you might find yourself offered a place at the queen's side."

"I might enjoy that," Melina said, "and might need such sanctuary if my holiday with you is misinterpreted by my homeland."

"That could be arranged, but we plan to take care that none but those who must know have any idea of where you are going. It will not hurt that winter will slow communications."

"Or," Melina added with a sly grin, "that I have been something of a recluse."

Some haggling remained as to the payment Lady Melina could expect-and how much in advance. They also settled on her youngest daughter, Citrine, as the least likely to be missed and most tractable.

Baron Endbrook departed Lady Melina's chamber weary to blood and bone but curiously exhilarated.

The wedding festivities must pa.s.s and certain other arrangements be made, but it was done.

It was done.

Chapter XI.

Derian had not been invited to attend either the banquet or the ball the day before the wedding, but he did not feel slighted. Those grand events were mostly for the guests who had traveled a fair distance to attend the wedding. He was at home. Home, however, was not proving as relaxed and comfortable a place as he might have wished. It wasn't that his parents didn't make a big fuss over his achievements. It was precisely that they did."Deri," his mother said to him one evening after dinner a few days following his return home, "your father and I need to speak with you-in private. Shall we use my office?"

Despite her framing the last as a question, Derian knew an order when he heard one. So did Brock. The little boy looked wickedly delighted.

"Oh! Derian's in trouble! Derian's in trouble! If he's smart he'll run on the double!"

Brock's impromptu rhyming-amusing only when it wasn't directed at you-was cut short by a barked command from Colby Carter.

"Enough, Brock! Obviously, you're overtired. To bed with you, my lad, and don't spare the soap when washing. Damita..." This last was directed toward the thirteen-year-old, who was looking on with an expression of pleased superiority. "... make certain Brock washes above his cuffs and around the back of his neck."

"Yes, Father." Damita looked delighted to have an excuse to boss her younger brother.

"But, Father!" Brock began with the faintest hint of a whine. "I'm not..."

"Tired or not," Colby cut in, "it's bed for you. Any more arguments and I'll ban you from the stables tomorrow."

Brock swallowed his protests immediately. The next day promised to be busy and exciting. Numerous n.o.ble visitors to the city-and even better, in Brock's opinion, their horses-were expected to arrive.

Other important people had rented carriages to take them to the castle for the introductory banquet or had ordered that the vehicles and teams they kept at Prancing Steed Stables be polished and prepared for use. Brock had been antic.i.p.ating a day of running hither and yon, making himself "useful." Being banned from the stables would mean remaining at home and doing his lessons under his mother's critical supervision.

Derian sympathized with the boy, his momentary annoyance at being teased vanishing. At that moment, he wouldn't have minded being sent to bed himself. He'd spent the last few days working over at the stables, and his muscles ached from the unaccustomed labor involved in mucking out stall after stall.

Today had been particularly busy because, in addition to all the other traffic, Steward Silver had sent all the castle's overflow to Prancing Steed Stables. Derian knew this was meant as a compliment to him-one of the small benefits of being a king's counselor-but after the huge train from Bright Bay arrived, late and muddy from bad weather on the road, he would have been just as happy to have seen the business go elsewhere and go home to the fresh bread and bean soup he knew Cook had planned for that night's dinner.

Whenever Derian closed his eyes, all he could see were hooves needing to be cleaned, and every flank and mane he'd groomed that day-not to mention other, less lovely stuff.

Derian's eyes had drifted closed while Colby scolded Brock, but he was thrust from the edges of drowsiness by the heat of a mug of cider pressed into his hands.

Vernita stood over him, the amus.e.m.e.nt in her expression tinged with severity.

"Shall we go to my office?" she said.

Vernita Carter had been considered one of the great beauties of her day, and even after bearing threechildren she retained a certain elegance. With his increased knowledge-gained largely from conversations with Ninette-of the arts gentle-born women used to maintain and enhance their own appearances, Derian thought that his mother could still put any woman her age to shame if she cared.

But Vernita Carter didn't care-at least not on a day-to-day basis. She had pa.s.sed over several quite interesting proposals of marriage to accept one from Colby Carter. Together they had built the small carting business he had taken over from his parents into a concern with stables in most of the major towns and villages of Hawk Haven.

Colby's parents now lived in semiretirement in Port Haven, managing the stables there with Colby's younger sister. Vernita's mother-her father had died some years ago-managed the stables in Broadview. Numerous other relatives benefitted from various aspects of the business-either as independent affiliates or as direct employees. And Derian stood to inherit the entire operation someday.

I'm glad, Derian thought as he settled into a chair in his mother's office and looked at the neat stacks of contracts and other doc.u.ments on the tables and desks, that I won't be expected to take over for a long while yet. I don't know half of what is involved in something this complicated. I know a good horse and how to avoid the obvious swindles, but I'm glad that I won't be in charge for a long, long time.

It never occurred to him until his parents brought up the subject that he might not take over at all.

"It's not," Colby hastened to say, "that we'd be disinheriting you, son, not at all. Simply put, you have prospects that your younger brother and sister do not."

Derian frowned. "Prospects?"

Vernita looked impatient.

"Derian, you're smarter than this. Think! Your nineteenth birthday is next week. Already you have been made a king's counselor."

"The king is old!" Derian protested. "Sapphire doesn't think much of me-doesn't think anything of me as far as I know."

"Nonsense," Vernita snapped. "Son, think about what you just did. You said 'Sapphire,' speaking of the crown princess by her first name not with irreverence, but with the casualness of close contact."

"I'd never" Derian said, "speak so to her face."

"Of course not. You're not a fool, but you might to someone else-say Lady Archer-and, more importantly, Lady Archer would not think you were taking liberties."

"Lady Elise," Derian said, "has her head on straight. She doesn't go for false pomp."

"But don't you see, Derian," Vernita persisted. "You know her well enough to know that. Many of the n.o.bles of your generation are not strangers to you. The n.o.bles belonging to your father and my generation know that King Tedric selected you as a counselor. Whether or not the crown princess also selects you doesn't matter right now. You can use that favor to find yourself other patrons. Then, even if the crown princess does not offer you the counselor's ring, you will benefit."

"And," Colby added weightily, "your brother and sister will be secure.

"I don't know," Colby continued, stretching his legs out toward the hearth, and speaking with thedeliberation of a man who preferred not to make speeches, "if you realize how much business your connections brought to us these last few days. We don't have a spare stall. I sent business to Tolken Farrier and his sister-and they're paying me for the privilege. We'll make the price of the new buildings in just this next week."

Vernita ruffled through a stack of papers until she came up with one on which she'd drawn columns.

"This is my estimate of how much business we would have taken in without your connections," she said.

"I based my figures on how we've done during major festivals these last five years."

"And the important thing is," Colby added as Derian scanned the columns, "that if we do a good job for these people-as we will-many of them will return to our stables again and again. They'll seek out our affiliates in other towns."

"All because of me?" Derian asked hesitantly.

"Not quite," Vernita replied kindly, "but because of you, we were given the chance to show our services to these people. You gave us exposure that otherwise would have taken us years to gain through word of mouth."

Derian stared at the figures on the sheet of paper. His mother had drummed enough mathematics into him that he could see the sense in them.

"Then what do you want me to do?" he asked, setting the paper down and wrapping his fingers around his mug of cider.

"Take one of the positions you have been offered," Vernita said. "Earl Kestrel's continued patronage would be useful. He'll be Duke Kestrel before too long. The d.u.c.h.ess's health is good, but her years are against her. His son, Lord Kestrel, is about your age and if you make a good impression with him, you will be secure for life."

Vernita rose and stirred the fire. "That's one course, a good, safe one. However, you could take a position with someone else for a time. Didn't you say that Earle Peregrine spoke with you?"

"Her steward did," Derian admitted, "though the nature of the post was unclear."

"And you said that one of Bright Bay's n.o.bles had spoken with you," Colby prompted.

"Not directly," Derian said, "but one of Duke Oyster's people did mention that they will be needing someone to act as liaison between the kingdoms, smoothing the way for reunification."

He regretted the cheerful boasting he'd done immediately after his return home. His parents had taken that information in a direction he hadn't considered.

"Oyster," Vernita said, "that's Queen Pearl's birth house, correct?"

"Yes, ma'am," Derian said.

"And the firmest supporter of King Allister," she added.

"Yes, ma'am."

"I saw," Colby added relentlessly, "how many of the Bright Bay people knew you by sight and greeted you warmly. You have obviously made the type of impression we had hoped our son would make."Derian groaned. Setting down the now empty mug, he thrust his face into his hands.

"I need to think," he said, hearing to his dismay a wail not unlike Brock's in his voice. "I'd never considered any of this. I knew you wanted me to make connections, but I always thought I'd simply make a decent marriage and come home again. This..."

He trailed off and was both comforted and embarra.s.sed to feel his mother patting his arm.

"There, there, Deri," his mother crooned. "I know it is a great deal to take in."

"And never," Colby said, "think we're throwing you out, but we have hopes for you beyond mucking stalls."

Derian nodded weakly. "I know."

That night his dreams were not restful and late the next afternoon when the worst of the rush was over-for the guests were all gone to the banquet-he asked his father to be excused.

Colby agreed so readily that Derian knew he felt a bit guilty about the pressure they'd put on him.

Derian pulled a knitted wool cap over his hair and hunched himself into a barn coat. Then he went out to walk the streets of the city that had always been his home-and that he had always believed would continue to be so.

The sky was clear, as if the rain that had so carefully muddied the roads for King Allister's entourage now regretted its work and was striving to make amends by shining with almost summertime brightness.

Is it lucky or unlucky for the bride if it rains on her wedding day? Derian mused. I never can remember. Looks as if tomorrow will be bright enough.

Pa.s.sing through the gates into the walled section of town, he walked along some of the trade streets, glancing at the wares laid out on display. Along Weaver's Row doors stood open so that the workers at their looms could enjoy the pleasant daylight. Derian exchanged casual greetings here and there, enjoying the friendliness.

Turning along Blacksmith's Way, Derian noted that the last of the active smithies was gone, moved outside the walls because of the neighbors' complaints about the noise and smoke. There were shops here instead, some selling ironwork but others selling a mixture of goods. Many of the shops had been converted completely to residences-though many of the shopkeepers had always lived above their shops.

I recall Tannery Row has gone much the same way, Derian thought, despite the guild's complaints.

Still, the air is kept fresher with the smellier trades outsides.

He was heading for the Market Square when he heard a dull, almost monotone, but somehow musical sound: the plunk-plunking of someone alternately plucking and strumming on a fat-bodied guitar.

Derian's head snapped up like Roanne smelling hot oat mash. This was a sound he hadn't heard in far too long, the sound of a street musician absorbed in his woes. That the same instrument could be played far more dexterously-made to ripple and sing like a laughing brook or trip through all the dances ever danced-didn't matter to Derian.

This was a music engendered in the dark reaches of the heart and soul. It took its rhythms from the slow beating of the pulse and the dragging of reluctant breath. It had never set the pace for sailors at sea or forfarmers bringing in the harvest. It was city music, introspective and forlorn.

In short, it fit Derian's mood perfectly.

He found the musician seated cross-legged on a low bench outside a tavern that had closed for the slow hours of the afternoon. A depressed-looking dog, lean and black with drooping ears and large brown eyes, lay with its head on the man's well-traveled boots. It raised its head as Derian came close, then lowered it with an audible sigh.

The musician didn't look up as Derian approached. He was a scraggly fellow with hair of an indifferent brown pulled back into a loose queue. He was neither bearded or clean-shaven but rather looked as if he'd forgotten which style he preferred and had settled for something halfway between. The clothes he wore were grubby with street grime and mud, but not greasy.

His guitar, however, was spotless, rubbed to such a shine that Derian fancied he could catch the scent of the polishing oil. An empty tin cup rested by the musician's feet with a worn token set in the bottom as a hint to potential patrons.

Derian leaned against a wall, thrust his hands into his pockets, and listened. After several minutes, as if at last realizing he had an audience, the man started to sing. His voice was rough and slightly cracked but like his plunking on the guitar oddly melodious.

Unlike most of those who sang for their supper, this man didn't launch into a tale of heroism or popular legend. Instead he began:

She left me in summer, when the sun was bright But without her lov'n, I was cold as winter night.

I forgot how to smile, forgot how to frown.

My heart she had frozen, like snow on the ground.