"Your Majesty." The nomad bowed low before Grus.

And Grus found he recognized him. "Good day, Qizil son of Qilich. What does Prince Sanjar want with me?" he inquired.

The Menteshe bowed again, lower this time. "I am honored that you remember me, Your Majesty."

"Oh, yes. I remember you. And I know Sanjar's men have attacked mine this year. What have we got to say to each other?"

"When we last spoke, Your Majesty, you mentioned something in which you were interested." Qizil didn't name the Scepter of Mercy. Did that mean he was too close to Yozgat? Or was he too close to the Banished One's lair in the Argolid Mountains?

It didn't really matter. Whether Qizil named it or not, Grus knew perfectly well what he was talking about. "Well?" the king asked. "You're right. I am interested. Does Sanjar have it?" If the concubine's son had stolen the Scepter from his unloving half brother, Grus was ready to deal with him. Grus would have made almost any bargain for the Scepter of Mercy.

But, regretfully, the Menteshe emissary shook his head. "No, I must tell you that it still rests in Yozgat. But my principal will join his men to yours in the effort to take the city and the – prize."

Grus bowed. "My thanks. That is generous of Prince Sanjar, but it would be more generous if things were different. The way they are, the Banished One could make them turn against us without warning, the way they did when they fought us not long ago. Then it was Sanjar's men and Korkut's all together, and all against my army."

To his surprise, Qizil looked embarrassed. "That… was not what we expected to happen, Your Majesty. Our own shamans are looking into it."

"Are they?" Grus was surprised all over again. This was the first time he'd ever heard of Menteshe working against the Banished One's wizardry. He didn't know whether to believe it, either.

"They are. We are not puppets on strings. We are not thralls." Pride rang in Qizil's voice. "We serve the Fallen Star because we choose to serve him. If the choice is not ours – well, maybe we will choose differently."

"You tempt me," Grus said. "It's a pity you don't tempt me quite enough. If I could be sure you were your own men and would stay your own men – that might be different. But the way things are, my men can't trust Sanjar's men at their side or behind them. And so I think we'll just have to go on by ourselves."

'This could be the worst mistake you ever make," Qizil warned.

"Maybe," Grus said. "But it could also be one of the smarter things I've done lately, and so I'm going to do it. If you ever persuade me you're really broken free of the Banished One, we may have something to talk about. Until then, I'm afraid we don't."

Qizil winced at the name the Avornans gave the exiled god. That told Grus he might not be happy with his ultimate overlord, but he wasn't ready to break away from him, which meant Sanjar wasn't ready to break with the Banished One, either. It would have been nice if things were different.

"I will take your words back to my sovereign," Sanjar's ambassador said.

"Yes, do," Grus said. Unfortunately, to his way of thinking, Sanjar was only Qizil's superior; the Banished One remained his sovereign – and Sanjar's, too. They could see they were less free than they wanted to be, but they could not yet see how to get away.

After dismissing Sanjar's envoy, Grus summoned Pterocles. He told the wizard what Qizil had said. Pterocles stayed silent for some little while. "That is interesting," he said at last. His voice sounded far away; he was plainly still deep in thought. "I wonder what the Menteshe could do to block the Banished One's spells if they set their minds to it. They know his magic much better than we do."

'Than most of us except you do, anyhow," Grus said.

"Oh, I'm sure he gets into their minds sometimes, only to help them with their spells, not to knock them down," Pterocles said. "They ought to know him from the inside out, too, so to speak."

"What would a warding spell against him be like?" the king asked.

Pterocles started to laugh. "If I knew, Your Majesty, I'd use one," he said. "Since I don't know, since I'm just guessing, I'd say it would be something like the spell that frees thralls. Same principles, anyhow – probably a different way of using them."

"That sounds as though it ought to be true – which doesn't mean it is, of course." Grus plucked at his beard as he considered. "Would you do well to leave that spell written out someplace where the nomads might find it?"

"You do ask fascinating questions," Pterocles breathed. He paused again in thought. When he came out of his study, he said, "The way it looks to me, Your Majesty, that sword has two edges. Letting the Menteshe learn exactly how we free thralls might help them do something against the Banished One. The other edge is, it might help them – or him – figure out how to counter our spell. I'll do it if you order me to, but not unless you do."

Grus grunted. Now he had to do some studying of his own. In the end, he said, "No, I won't order you to do it. You're right – the risk that they might find a way to fight our spell is real, and we can't ignore it. For now, it's too important. But if we win this campaign, it gives us something to think about doing next, so we won't forget about it, either."

"I hadn't even begun to think about what happens next," Pterocles said.

"Neither had I, but we need to," Grus said. "Once we free the serfs, we ought to help the Menteshe build barriers against the Banished One." Maybe the Scepter of Mercy will help, he thought. But even if it doesn't, we should try. Aloud, he went on, "We'll still have trouble with them, no doubt, but it'll be trouble like we have with the Thervings – ordinary human trouble. It won't be the kind of trouble we have now."

"That would be good," Pterocles said seriously.

"It would, wouldn't it?" Grus' smile was wistful. "If I only had to worry about ordinary, human troubles… Yes, that would be wonderful. Well, here's hoping."

"Make way for His Majesty!" Lanius' guardsmen bawled as they rode into the city of Avornis. "Make way! Make way!"

People scrambled to clear the streets. Lanius wished the troopers wouldn't make such a fuss. He'd told them as much, but they refused to listen to him. Anyone who thought a king gave orders that were always instantly obeyed had never been a king.

"Look! It's the king!" People shouted and pointed, as though seeing him could somehow make a difference in their own lives. And then someone yelled, "Hurrah for King Grus! Beat those Chernagors!" In a heartbeat, everyone was cheering and applauding.

Lanius, by contrast, was fuming and steaming. Not only didn't the people know who Avornis' current foe was, they didn't even know who he was. And then, to his own surprise, he started to laugh. Like any king, he'd had wistful thoughts of living a normal life, of going through the streets of his own capital unrecognized. Well, here he was, going through the streets of his own capital, and he certainly seemed unrecognized. This was as close to anonymity as he was ever likely to come.

The palace battlements and, not far away, the heaven-leaping spire of the great cathedral dominated the city skyline. The closer Lanius came, the taller they seemed. He smiled as he got ready to fall back into the routine of palace life. The country holiday had been pleasant, but this was home.

Servants bowed and curtsied when he went up the broad stairway and into the palace. "Your Majesty!" they exclaimed. "Welcome back, Your Majesty!"

"It's good to be back," Lanius answered, over and over again. He beamed at the servants. They knew he wasn't King Grus. He'd never thought that was any special reason for which to admire them, but he did now.

"You'll want a bath, won't you, Your Majesty?" one of the servants said.