Kirah pondered that for a while. At length she said, "Let's say I believe you. What would you have me do about it? Cormac's at least a day away, even if he would listen to me, which he wouldn't."

"You could never explain where you'd learned it," agreed Lyim. "From what Guerrand has said, your elder brother isn't as tolerant of magic as you are."

Kirah chuckled without humor. "Tolerant isn't a word I would use to describe Cormac under any circumstance."

"We'll have to tread carefully, then," said Lyim. "I have an idea that just might work, but you'll have to give me some information on the Berwick family," he said mysteriously, piquing Kirah's interest.

Lyim looked about the cove with disdain. "We've got to work fast. I need to prepare some spells. Can you sneak me into the keep where I can work in relative comfort-" he brushed at the moist clay on his tunic "-or at least under drier conditions?"

Kirah smiled broadly. Here, at last, was something she understood. Lyim was very charming. If she was making a mistake in trusting him, at least life would be interesting for the first time since Guerrand left.

"If it's a sneak you need, then you've come to the right person."

One hundred mercenaries and men-at-arms stretched across the heath behind Sir Morris Whetfeld. For three days, the Knight of the Rose had ridden before them from Hillfort, leading them to the castle of his father-in-law's nemesis. To the family his new wife had twice nearly joined. The Berwicks had been thrice betrayed by the DiThons. Morris's mailed fists curled in anger. These barbarians from Northern Ergoth had no sense of honor. No wonder they were merely cavaliers, instead of true Knights of Solamnia.

The Knight of the Rose shuddered at the thought of the misfits behind him who'd answered the notices the Berwicks had placed in every port of call. They were a scruffy lot, the dregs of society no doubt. Sir Morris would be happy when this siege was over and he could pay them and send them back to whatever holes they'd crawled from. He had no illusions about the honor of these swords-for-hire, but at least their loyalty could be purchased temporarily.

From the looks of things at Castle DiThon, Sir Morris would not need to purchase it for long. Aside from some sheep grazing on a nearby hillside, the place looked nearly deserted. Advance word of the attack had obviously not leaked to Cormac DiThon. It was doubtful, even, that anyone inside had yet noticed that an army stood at the ready beyond the eastern walls. Morris had expected at least some sort of nominal, everyday castle defenses to be in place. The closed northern and eastern gates, from the knight's vantage point, appeared to be the extent of its security.

Could it be a trap? Was DiThon more clever than Morris anticipated, or as foolish as he appeared? The knight could hear the men behind him getting restless, their horses prancing. Sir Morris was about to force an answer to his question by preparing his men for the initial charge when a lone figure appeared on the eastern battlements.

Wearing a tabard bearing what Morris knew to be the DiThon coat-of-arms and a helmet that was much too big, the smallish man called out nervously, "Yes? What is it? May I help you?"

Sir Morris Whetfeld was thunderstruck! "Good heavens, man," he roared, "have you truly no idea we've come to siege your castle? Tell your master to come forth. I would speak with the blackguard before I lay waste to his moldering keep." Even at such a distance, Sir Morris could see the man's fear and indecision.

"I-I'm sorry, sir," the quivering man said. "I'm just the chamberlain. The lord, hmm, isn't in residence today," he blundered.

Sir Morris could scarcely believe his luck. "All the better, then. Direct whatever men-at-arms you have to open the eastern gates, and we'll have a minimum of bloodshed and damage."

The chamberlain wrung his hands. "That would mean surrendering, wouldn't it? I don't believe I can do that, sir. I'm just the chamberlain."

"You're about to be a dead chamberlain!" shouted Sir Morris, growing frustrated with the man's timidity. He rubbed his face beneath the uplifted visor of his

helm. "Go and fetch the lady of the keep, if you must," he ordered briskly. "And be quick about it, man, or we'll open the gates for you from the outside."

"One moment, please," the chamberlain called, as if speaking to an unexpected guest at the door.

Not knowing what else to do, Sir Morris crossed his arms and waited, amazed at the odd turn of events. Many minutes passed, and still no one returned. Hearing his commanders behind him whispering among themselves, Morris began to feel foolish, which made him angry. Even the mercenaries began to joke loudly.

Sir Morris's cheeks grew hot in his helm, until he could no longer stand it. "Time's up!" he bellowed. Morris signaled to the men behind him. A group moved forward, carrying a massive tree trunk between them. Positioning themselves in front of the main gate, they began battering their way through.

Three times the huge ram crashed like thunder into the stout gate, and each time the timbers cracked and splintered a bit more. But the portal was built to withstand such punishment and undoubtedly would for some time.

Sir Morris shifted in his saddle. Surely these fools would just let them in. Even the pretense of resistance was foolhardy under these conditions. Another crash resounded. After a few more strokes, Morris would order a fresh crew to the ram; swinging the enormous log was a tiring job.

As his eyes ran along the parapets, Morris caught a movement several dozen paces to the right of where the chamberlain had been. Perhaps a sniper with a bow, waiting to pick off a juicy target like a knight on horseback. He waved several of the mercenary archers to his side and was in the process of pointing out the potential danger spot to them when the flutter turned into a figure of a young man Morris estimated to be approximately a score of years in age. He appeared unarmed, and had more the look of a pirate than a soldier about him.

Cupping a hand to his mouth, the young man hollered down to the assembled warriors, "Halloo! I wish to speak with Master Berwick."

Morris frowned. What was this distraction all about? "Who are you?" the knight demanded. "I sent the chamberlain for the mistress of the castle."

"Lady DiThon is, ahem, indisposed," said the man. "I represent the family's concerns."

Morris spurred his mount slightly, just enough to make it prance in place. "Any missive you have for Master Berwick you may deliver to me. I am Sir Morris Whetfeld, an honorable Knight of the Rose and Berwick's son-in-law, as well as commander of this host. Speak your message, quickly."

The figure on the wall studied Morris for a moment, then replied. "I have something here of yours." Crash! "Tell your monkeys to stop their hammering, and I will show you something I'm certain you'll find of particular interest."

"There'll be much to pay if this is just some delaying tactic," warned Sir Morris. At length he extended his left arm, palm side down, and lowered it, whereupon the battering ram crew dropped the tree trunk. This fellow on the wall seemed entirely too cocky for someone in his position, Morris thought, and he did not like cocky young men. He had seen his fill of those among the knights back in Solamnia. He would hear out the chap's message, but at the first hint of stalling, the attack would resume. Morris could not let this arrogant young man forget who held the upper hand.

The speaker reached behind the adjacent merlon and drew out a young woman with dark hair and downcast eyes. Even at this distance, she was remarkably familiar to Morris. He blinked in disbelief.