"Did you have something to add, Father?" Bram prodded gently.

Cormac's glazed expression suggested he hadn't heard the words as much as their cadence. "We have not seen the likes of such upheaval since there was magic in this house. There is vile sorcery at work here, there can be no doubt."

Bram froze. Had Cormac heard a rumor about what the snakes hissed before death?

Rietta threw herself back in her chair. "It always comes back to magic with you, doesn't it, Cormac?"

"That was the start of it all," rumbled Cormac.

"Seven years, and you're still blaming him for your mistakes," she sighed, rolling her eyes. "Everyone knows there was no love lost between Guerrand and me, but-"

"Don't speak that traitor's name!" spat Cormac. "We were doing fine before he brought his sorcery into our lives."

"Fine?" Rietta shrieked. "You'd already spent us into poverty. Frankly, this whole situation is your fault, Cormac," she said. "Bram would be safely away in Solamnia if you hadn't squandered the money we needed to squire him to a true knight."

"Don't you understand, woman?" roared Cormac. "There would be no plague upon our heads if my brother hadn't brought magic into this village, this house. We would not be living in poverty if that bastard had done his familial duty as he'd promised. Instead he lost us the Berwick money and Stonecliff in one fell swoop." Cormac's hammy fist slammed the table. "Mark my words, when so many people die of mysterious causes, there's vile magic involved."

"Father is right." Bram's voice was barely above a whisper. "I've seen for myself that magic has caused this illness. And I fear Uncle Guerrand is somehow responsible." He recounted the last moments of

Nahamkin's life, concluding with the snakes hissing Guerrand's name.

"But why?" she asked. "Why would Guerrand do something so cruel to us after all this time?"

"I don't know," Bram confessed. "But I intend to find out."

"I'll tell you why," snarled Cormac. "Because Guerrand is a contemptible black-hearted wizard, like all his kindred. That's reason enough."

Rietta's head was shaking slowly in disbelief. "Surely Guerrand is dead after all these years," she breathed. But she had already seen in her son's eyes the interest her husband's words had stirred. Growing alarmed, she took up Bram's hand and squeezed it. "You know I am not the opponent of magic your father is, but you can't possibly be taking Cormac's ravings seriously now, Bram. He hasn't said anything worth listening to in years."

"Father only confirmed what I already knew," Bram said. "I've realized since Nahamkin's death that I would have to leave to find Guerrand. If I can't persuade him to use his magic to stop this sickness, we'll all die."

"You think he'll do it just because you ask him to?" Rietta scoffed. "You don't remember Guerrand as I do, Bram. He was not even willing to marry for the sake of the family! And if he's not to blame for spreading this sickness, I assure you he won't risk getting the plague to save any of us."

"Nevertheless," said Bram, standing, "I feel a lord's responsibility, even if you and father don't. It may have escaped your notice, but I have been working too hard for five years to restore Castle DiThon's productivity to sit by and do nothing while people suffer. I wouldn't care to look beyond DiThon's walls one day and find we're all alone."

"Sometimes I think that would not be such a bad thing," his mother mused distantly. She knew she had lost the argument. "When will you leave?"

"Soon. I need to talk to Kirah first. She might have some idea where Guerrand went."

"You know, of course, that once you leave, you'll not be welcome at Castle DiThon again," his mother said softly. "I cannot risk exposing everyone here to plague for some folly of yours."

Bram saw the manipulation for what it was. Rietta had done the same thing to Kirah when she refused to marry. It was not a typical mother's concern that drove her to these ultimatums. Rietta simply abhorred anyone disrupting the fabric of her life, however threadbare the weave, whatever the cost in others' lives. Like the briefest fluttering of wings, the last glowing coal of tolerant affection for her winked to black in his breast.

"Do what you must," Bram said coldly. He bowed his head formally and backed toward the door. He looked first to Cormac in the shadows. "Good-bye, Father." He locked his determined gaze on Rietta. "Good-bye, Mother. I wish you long life in this self-imposed prison." With that, he slipped from the refectory.

"Bram!" his mother cried, and her hand flew to her mouth. "1 didn't mean-" She sprang to her feet, but instead of following her son, Rietta descended upon her husband at the far end of the table, fists flying. "Damn you, Cormac, for putting the notion in his head! You knew he would feel obligated to do whatever he could to help those miserable peasants!"

Bram couldn't hear his mother's ranting turn to sobs, or see the small, triumphant smile that pulled at his father's lips.

Chapter Eight

Bram sat shipering within tbe circle of broken boulders known before their destruction as Stonecliff, drying his stockinged feet at the small fire he'd managed at length to start. Bram had never been so cold, nor so far from home before.

He had packed wisely enough for the trip to Wayreth, he thought, bringing flint, tinder, knife, a tightly rolled wool blanket, enough food for three days, and an extra pair of trousers and jerkin. But he hadn't anticipated the cold, driving rain that had dogged him all day as he walked on feet blistered by new boots. Nearly everything in the pack was soaked through, but especially the winter cloak, white jerkin, and brown trousers he wore. Fortunately, the healing herbs he'd brought in small glass vials remained dry.

The young nobleman pulled out a knife that was neither very sharp nor strong, meant more for cutting the tender flesh of vegetables than people. Still, it sliced easily enough through the wrinkled flesh of an autumn apple. He munched the sweet fruit in weary distraction, wondering what the next day would bring.

With any luck he would be aboard a ship headed for distant Wayreth. Kirah had told him Guerrand had gone there first in his quest to become a mage. Though many years had since passed, Bram reasoned that even if Guerrand were no longer at the place where mages regularly gathered, the wizards there would know where he was.

Bram's trip to Thonvil to speak again with Kirah had made him only more determined than ever to find his uncle. Two more people had succumbed to the mysterious disease, their snake limbs heard to magically sigh Guerrand's name. There could be no doubt the wizard was somehow involved with the pestilence. The life of every villager depended on Bram's finding Guerrand. He felt the full weight of a lord's responsibility for them. More selfishly, he'd worked long and hard to bring a spark of life back to Castle DiThon's lands. If the plague wasn't stopped soon, there would be no village left to revive.

At first light, he would thread his way down the cliff, cross the River Durris to Hill fort, and offer himself up as a shiphand in exchange for passage on the first ship headed south. The nobleman wouldn't take no for an answer.

Bram snapped some twigs and tossed them on the fire. He stared, unblinking, into the flames until his eyes teared so that his darkened surroundings wavered and blurred as if he were looking through the steam of a boiling pot. Through the corner of his eyes, he thought he saw movement behind a boulder at the limit of the firelight's range. Bram blinked, then dug his fists into

his eyes to clear them.

When he looked again, a cloud of light snowflakes whirled up and caught the firelight like a thousand tiny prisms. The flurry slowly settled, revealing three beings, as short as young children. Each had enormous blue eyes that glowed like the hottest flame. Three heads of feather-fine hair the color of waxed walnut furniture were covered with colorful, jaunty hats of wool. All manner of pouches hung from their shoulders, as well as waist belts with loopholes for tools and carving knives.