"Werlic," Aspar agreed. "I never trusted those stories."

"You never trust anything except what you see with your own two eyes," Winna shot back.

"And why should I? All it ever took to convince me there was such a thing as a greffyn was to see one. All it will ever take to convince me a beast that weighs half a ton can turn into moss is to see it. I'm a simple man."

"No," Stephen said. "You're a skeptical man. That's kept you alive when others would have died."

"Are we agreeing about this?" Aspar asked, one eyebrow raised.

"More or less. It's clear that many things we once considered legend have a basis in fact. But no one has actually seen a greffyn or an utin since ancient times. Stories grow and change in the telling, so no, we can't trust them to be reliable. The only way to sort out truth from invention is with our own senses."

"Well, use your senses," Winna said. "Where did it go?"

It was Ehawk who answered, solemnly pointing up.

"Good lad," Aspar said. He motioned to where Ehawk had indicated. "The bark is scraped there, see? It's traveling in the trees."

Stephen paled and stared up at the distant canopy. "That's almost as bad as being able to turn into moss," he said. "How will we ever see it?"

"Is that a riddle?" Aspar asked. "With our eyes."

"But how to track it?"

"Yah, that's a problem. But it seems to be going along the forest edge where the briars are, which is where we're going, as well. The praifec didn't send us out here to hunt utins. I reckon we'll keep on with what we were hired for, and if we run across it again, all well and good."

"That's not at all well and good by my sight," Stephen said, "but I take your point."

They traveled in silence for a time. Aspar kept his eyes searching the treetops, and his back itched constantly. The smell of autumn leaves was almost overpowering. Long experience had taught him that the smell was a sign that murder was coming. The Sefry woman who had raised him had told him the strange sense came from Grim, the Raver, for Aspar had been born at a place of sacrifice to Grim. Aspar didn't necessarily believe that, nor did he care-he cared only that it was usually true.

Except in autumn, when the smell was already there . . .

But once again, his nose was right. Approaching a clearing, the scent intensified.

"I smell blood," Stephen said. "And something very foul."

"Do you hear anything with those saint-blessed ears of yours?"

"I'm not sure. Breathing, maybe, but I can't tell where."

They advanced a little farther, until they saw the crumbled, torn body in the clearing.

"Saints!" Winna gasped.

"Saints bless," Stephen said. "The poor lad."

Blood soaked the leaves and ground, but the face was clean, easily recognizable as Algaf, the boy from the homestead.

"I guess he didn't listen to his mother." Aspar sighed.

Stephen started forward, but Aspar stopped him with an outstretched arm.

"No. Don't you see? The boy is bait. It wants us to walk in there."

"He's still alive," Stephen said. "That's him I hear breathing."

"Asp-," Winna began, but he hushed her. He walked his gaze through the treetops, but there was nothing but bare branches and a sigh of wind.

He sighed. "Watch the trees," he said. "I'll get him."

"No," Stephen said. "I will. I can't use a bow the way you can. If it's really hiding in the trees, you've got the best chance of stopping it."

Aspar considered that, then nodded. "Go, then. But be ready."

As Stephen advanced cautiously into the field, Aspar nocked an arrow to his bow and waited.

A flight of sparrows whirred through the trees. Then the forest was eerily silent.

Stephen reached the boy and knelt by him. "It's bad," he called to them. "He's still bleeding. If we bandage him now, we might have a chance."

"I don't see anything," Ehawk said.

"I know," Aspar said. "I don't like it."

"Maybe you were wrong," Winna suggested. "We don't know that an utin-or whatever it is-is smart enough to set a trap."

"The greffyn had men and Sefry traveling with it," Aspar reminded her. He remembered the footprints. "This thing might, too. It doesn't have to be smart enough itself."

"Yah."

He was missing something-he knew it. It had to have come into the clearing on foot. He had found only the one set of tracks in. He'd assumed it had left on the other side, then taken to the trees.

"Utins could shrink to the size of a gnat or turn into moss," Winna had said. Winna had said.

"Stephen, come here, now now," Aspar shouted.

"But I-" His eyes widened, and his head nearly spun from his shoulders; then he lurched to his feet.

He hadn't gone a yard when the ground seemed to explode, and in a cloud of rising leaves, something much larger than a man leapt toward Stephen.

CHAPTER THREE.

MERY.

LEOFF'S FINGERS DANCED ACROSS the red-and-black keys of the hammarharp, but his mind drifted into daymarys of corpses with eyes of ash and a town gone forever still beneath the wings of night. Darkness crept through his fingers and into the keyboard, and the cheerful melody he had been playing suddenly brooded like a requiem. Frustrated, he reached for his crutches and used them to stand, wincing at the pain from his leg. the red-and-black keys of the hammarharp, but his mind drifted into daymarys of corpses with eyes of ash and a town gone forever still beneath the wings of night. Darkness crept through his fingers and into the keyboard, and the cheerful melody he had been playing suddenly brooded like a requiem. Frustrated, he reached for his crutches and used them to stand, wincing at the pain from his leg.

He considered returning to his room to lie down, but the thought of that small dark chamber depressed him. The music room was sunny, at least, with two tall windows looking out across the city of Eslen and Newland beyond. It was well furnished with instruments, as well-besides the hammarharp, the were croths of all sizes, lutes and theorbos, hautboys, recorders, flageolettes and bagpipes. There was an ample supply of paper and ink, too.

Most of these things lay under a fine layer of dust, however, and none of the stringed instruments had been tuned in years. Leoff wondered exactly how long it had been since the court had employed a resident composer.

More pointedly, he wondered if the court employed one now now.

When would he hear from the queen?

Artwair had as been as good as his word, finding Leoff quarters in the castle and getting him permission to use the music room. He'd had a very brief audience with the king, who had hardly seemed to know he was there. The queen had been there, beautiful and regal, and at her prompting, the king had commended him for his actions at Broogh. Neither had said anything about his appointment. And though a few suits of clothes had been made for him and meals came regularly to his chambers, in twice ninedays he had been given no commission.

So he had dabbled. He'd written down the song of the malend, arranging it for a twelve-piece consort and then-dissatisfied with the result-for thirty instruments. No consort so large had ever played, to his knowledge, but in his mind that was what he heard.

He'd made another stab at the elusive melody from the hills, but something kept stopping him, and he had laid that aside, instead beginning a suite of courtly dance music, anticipating the hoped-for commission-for a wedding, perhaps.

Through it all, the dead of Broogh haunted him, crying out for a voice. He knew what he needed to do, but he hesitated. He was afraid that the composition of so powerful a work as was forming in his mind might somehow drain him of his own life.

So he fretted, and poked about the music room, exploring the manuscrifts in its cabinets, tuning the stringed instruments, then tuning them again.

He was staring out the window at distant barges on the Dew when he heard a muffled sneeze. He turned to see who was there, but there was no one in the room. The door was ajar, and he could see ten yards of the hall beyond.

The hair on his neck pricking up, he walked slowly around the room, wondering if he had imagined the sound.

But then it came again, louder, from one of the wooden cabinets.

He stared at the source of the noise, fear waxing. Had they found him, the murderers from Broogh? Had they come for revenge, sent an assassin, fearing he might reveal them?

Carefully, he picked up the nearest thing at hand, an hautboy. It was heavy-and pointed.

He glanced back out into the hall. No guard was to be seen. He considered going to find one, and almost did, but instead, he steeled himself, advanced on the cabinet, and brandishing the hautboy, quickly grabbed the handle and yanked it open.

Wide eyes blinked up at him, and a small mouth gave a little gasp. The child within stared at him a moment, as Leoff relaxed.

The cabinet held a little girl, probably no more than six or seven years of age. She wore a blue satin gown, and her long brown hair was rather disarrayed. Her blue eyes seemed guileless.

"Hello," he said after a moment. "You gave me rather a fright. What's your name?"

"It's Mery, please," she replied.

"Why don't you come on out, Mery, and tell me why you're hiding in here."

"Yes, please," she said, and scooted out of the cramped space. She stood and then backed away from him.

"I'll go now," she said.

"No, wait. What were you doing in there?"

"Nobody used to be in here," she said. "I would come in and play with the hammarharp. I like the way it sounds. Now you're here, and I can't play it, but I like to listen to you."

"Well, Mery, you might have asked. I wouldn't mind you listening sometimes."

She hung her head a little. "I just try to stay quiet and not be seen. It's best that way."

"Nonsense. You're a beautiful little girl. There's no reason to be shy."

She didn't answer, but stared at him as if he were speaking Vitellian.

He pulled another stool up to the hammarharp. "Sit here. I'll play you something."

Her eyes widened further, and then she frowned, as if doubting him. "Truly?"

"Truly."

She did as he said, settling on the stool.

"Now, what's your favorite song?"

She thought for a moment. "I like 'Round the Hill and Back Again.' "

"I know that one," he said. "It was a favorite of mine when I was your age. Let's see-does it go like this?" He picked out the melody line.

She smiled.

"I thought so. Now let me play it with two hands." He started a simple bass line and played through again, and on the third pass added a counterpoint.

"It's like a dance now," she observed.

"Yes," he said. "But listen, I can change it into a hymn." He dropped the moving bass line and went into four-part harmony. "Or I can make it sad." He shifted into a more plaintive mode.

She smiled again. "I like it like that. How can you make one song into so many songs?"

"That's what I do," he said.

"But how?"

"Well-imagine you want to say something. 'I want some water to drink.' How many ways could you say that?"

Mery considered. "Some water I want to drink?"

"Right. How else?"

"I'd like some water to drink, please."

"Just so. Politely."

"I want some water, now now."

"Commanding, yes. Angrily?"