"I sat with Nahamkin through the plague just before 1 left to find you," Bram explained. "I was more than a little surprised this morning to find that the villagers hadn't burned down his cottage."

At first glance, Guerrand thought it wouldn't have hurt the look of the village if the shack were gone. The thatch was old and black all over. The walls were of rocky mud, crumbling in places. And yet, as he got nearer, Guerrand couldn't help but see the comfortable, lived-in and well-loved look about the place. The garden appeared to be struggling against neglect and the season to renew itself.

The cottage reminded him of a run-down version of the one he'd shared with Esme in Harrowdown. There came that familiar tight feeling in his chest, as of the apprehended return of pain that always came with

thoughts of Esme, especially now. He resolved to try to contact her before he returned to Bastion, when his magical strength returned.

"Nahamkin," Guerrand repeated. "Wasn't there a farmer who lived in the surrounds by that name?"

"One and the same," Bram said. "Nahamkin's family more or less abandoned him once the plague struck. I was his only friend, and he mine." He said the words matter-of-factly.

Bram stopped and stooped before the oddly tilting wooden door, as if recalling some pleasant memory, then stepped inside and waved Guerrand in.

Pots and tins and wooden buckets were on every available surface, but no drips fell from the rotted roof today. Hanging from the rafters was a year's supply of butter-colored candles in a variety of shapes and sizes. The place smelled of moss and worms and long-dead ashes.

Bram returned from the well with a pail full of water that he set by the hearth. The young man dropped to his knees with a sigh. "Damnation," he cursed softly. "I didn't even think to grab flint and stone to start a fire." He stood and looked around with a frown on his face, hands on his hips. "There must be something around here I…"

Guerrand knelt next to Bram, nonchalantly lit the logs with a simple cantrip, then dropped into a caned ladder-back chair by the hearth.

Bram regarded his uncle with obvious admiration before moving to Nahamkin's dry sink. Underneath he shifted around crocks until he found the one he sought. Standing again, he shook his head. "I'm embarrassed to admit that I've always thought my herbal skills were pretty useful," he said, sifting two pinches of dried rose hips into Nahamkin's best pewter mugs. "Now they seem pretty inconsequential compared to your magic."

Не gave a self-deprecating snort while he added hot water to the mugs.

Guerrand shifted uncomfortably under Bram's admiring glance. "You'd be surprised to hear, then, that there are mages whose range and knowledge are greater than mine. You met two of them at the Tower of High Sorcery."

Bram sighed wistfully. "What I wouldn't give to cast even oneof your spells."

The room was still dark. As the young nobleman reached for a candle atop an empty, narrow-necked bottle and held it to the new flame in the hearth, he appeared struck with a sudden thought. "Perhaps you could teach me a few spells! That fire one would certainly come in handy."

"Magic is not something to be learned piecemeal," Guerrand said, "like knot tying or scrimshaw carving."

Bram reddened and drew back in surprise. "I'm sorry, it was just a thought. I didn't mean to imply-"

"Unless you're talking simple cantrips," Guerrand said, "true magic demands that you renounce everything you've ever cared about. Are you prepared to do that and devote all your energies to the study of the Art?"

"I don't know." Bram was obviously flustered, but strangely unafraid. "I've always suspected I had a feel for magic. But I had neither books nor a mentor nor hope of either until now."

Holding his mug, Bram strode over to a small window that overlooked a weedy garden patch and stared out. "I don't spend much time pondering impossibilities. That's partly why I've thrown myself into restoring Castle DiThon. I can feel the progress with my hands, see it with my eyes. It's real to me. Still," he muttered again, more to himself than Guerrand. "I just can't shake the feeling that my life, though obviously

not charmed, is somehow… magical."

Guerrand held very still, recalling when he'd had the exact same thought about Bram in the hallway of Castle DiThon on the day he'd left to become a mage himself. He found himself remembering as well Wilor's dying words about Bram's possible heritage.

"You have more than enough ability to achieve whatever is your goal, Bram, be it magic or otherwise," he managed after he had sorted through the briar patch of his thoughts. "But know, too, that every desire comes at a price. Only you can decide if the gain is worth the cost."

"Has it been worth it for you?" Bram asked.

"I thought so." The mage's answer was abrupt, involuntary, and it shocked him. He set his mug down more forcefully than he'd meant on the rotted wood floor.

"Thank you for this afternoon, Bram," Guerrand said briskly. "It's meant more to me than you can know. But now it's time for me to pay my respects to your aunt and return to Bastion."

Expecting Bram to protest, Guerrand avoided his nephew's gaze and jumped up from the chair by the fire. Strangely, he found his feet would not settle beneath him. His head reeled. He looked questioningly at Bram; his nephew's head was slumped upon his chest. Guerrand could only fall back into the unyielding chair as darkness descended in a wave.

Guerrand knew before he opened his eyes that something was wrong. A chill breeze, damp and green, blew across his face, very likely the cause of his awakening. But he couldn't recall where he'd been so that he could determine what was so different now. Wherever he was, he was certain he'd not been lying down before. He heard no conversation or other movement to indicate anyone's presence, and yet the air fairly tingled with expectation, with waiting.

Guerrand cracked his eyes enough to see, but not enough to alert anyone nearby of his wakefulness. Something small and warm began prying his eyelids open painfully. "Hey!" he cried, slapping reflexively at whatever it was. His eyes burned madly, and he blinked away a rush of tears.

"He's awake, all right?" Guerrand heard Bram say. "For pity's sake, just leave him alone before you blind him."

Guerrand sat up and dug his fists into his eyes until the watering stopped and he could nearly see again. Two short beings with big blue eyes in pale little faces stood staring back. Their rich brown hair was feather- fine and supported jaunty hats of wool, one grass- green, the other flawless white. Pouches and tools dangled from their shoulders and waist belts.

"Who are you?" Guerrand asked. The two creatures merely blinked their eyes at him like silent, watchful owls. "Well?" he fairly howled.

"These are the tuatha I told you about meeting before," explained Bram, dropping to his knees by his uncle. "Not these two in particular. They're very like the faeries of wives' tales, secretly performing household functions for food, but don't make the mistake of calling them brownies."

"I've heard of them," Guerrand interrupted, propping himself up on his elbows. 'They must have put a sleep spell on us."

Bram nodded. "I guess they wanted to get us into Nahamkin's garden," he suggested. "Though what they want with us here is a puzzle. Still, they're benevolent little creatures. They're probably the only reason

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I'm speaking to you now. I never would have made it to Wayreth in time to find you without their help."

"I've heard the tales about the tuatha dundarael, of course," said Guerrand as he walked around both tuatha, peering closely at the small, soft-featured beings. "But I've never met any before." The creatures looked back at him impassively. "They vaguely resemble a sylph I once met."