"Probably another kind of faerie-folk," Bram concluded. "I'm surprised a speaker wasn't sent. I got the idea they always traveled in threes." He peered expectantly into the taller weeds at the edge of the garden. "Maybe these two just want a mug of milk or a bit of bread for some past debt," he muttered, though his tone indicated he doubted the thought himself.

Suddenly the air began to sparkle around them. Frolicking hues of gold and red and green danced just above the brown, withered remains of last year's garden. Everywhere the sparkling touched, the plants became slightly greener and stood a little straighten The effect was startling yet beautiful.

While the humans and tuatha watched, the twinkling, colorful lights slowly gathered into the recognizable form of a third tuatha. The two mute tuatha dropped to their knees and bowed their heads.

Bram recognized the newly arrived child-sized being, wearing a slate-blue mantle and wool cap. 'Thistledown!" he exclaimed, then cocked his head, his expression clouding with concern. "Your face looks pale and drawn. Are you unwell?"

"All will be explained to you," the blue-mantled tuatha said. "Bow before King Weador."

Guerrand and Bram exchanged surprised looks. Some force, like a great hand, pressed down on their shoulders, dropping them hard to their knees.

A rain of light fell on the garden then, illuminating everything with rainbow hues, running off Bram's and Guerrand's backs in multicolored waterfalls. The light puddled on flat surfaces, only to evaporate away in an instant. Then, in a most unmagical fashion, the weeds parted and between them strode a sight that was incongruously majestic in the tangled garden patch.

The tuatha, who from his obvious wealth and regal stature must be King Weador, approached them in slow, njeasured steps, as if ceremonial music played that only he could hear. Supporting himself with a walking stick, he stopped between two fragrant rosemary topiary plants. The noble tuatha's eyes sank shut as he inhaled languorously, then opened slowly so that he could consider the two humans who were considering him.

The tuatha king's hair was white as new snow and hung down his back to within a hand span of the ground. His face didn't look old or wrinkled exactly, though it was etched with straight, parallel, deep brown crevices. The effect reminded Guerrand of a lady's perfectly folded, oiled parchment fan.

Weador's clothing looked far richer than the serviceable wool garments of his servants. His mantle, draping him to the thighs, was made of carefully stitched mouse pelts, decorated with the subtle under- feathers of a pheasant, and was held closed with a shiny gold brooch. Fine-spun spider-silk garments dyed in the muted tones of the earth completed his stately appearance.

Every one of Weador's ten fingers, short, thick, and fringed with downy white hairs, carried a ring of a natural substance: several of carved, creamy scrimshaw, ivory, stone, and wood. In his right hand was the scepter he had used as a walking stick. Its tip was a bleached-white turtle skull. The eye sockets had been replaced with pure, shining gold.

Cbe CDe usa plague

Guerrand noticed all these things and was properly impressed. Yet the feature that caught his attention and held it was the king's frosty blue eyes. King Weador's eyes were the saddest Guerrand had ever seen.

"Rise." In that one word, the king's voice was like the sound of fog rolling over the Strait of Ergoth, like wind through willow leaves, like raindrops on a thatch roof, like all of the sounds defined by words. "I apologize for my methods, but the sleep spell seemed the gentlest way to keep you here when you seemed determined to leave.

"I must also apologize for my delay," King Weador continued, lowering himself upon a throne that grew before their eyes from a small toadstool. "I have not traveled with a destination in mind recently and did not properly gauge the time needed in human terms."

All manner of responses came to mind at once, but none came to Guerrand's lips.

"I will waste no more time," continued King Weador, "since there will be little left for us here unless we three reach some manner of understanding. I feel compelled to seek it before commanding an exodus."

"With all due respect," Guerrand began, "why should we listen to you after the way we've been treated? Honorable wizards who seek the cooperation of strangers don't usually get it by casting spells upon those strangers."

The king bowed his head with good grace. "Forgive me, but I could not risk your leaving before we spoke. The presence of my people-and yours-in Northern Ergoth depends upon it."

Guerrand was intrigued, as Weador had intended. "Go on," he said softly.

Weador's blue eyes blinked. "Though most of you are unaware of our existence," he began, "humans and tuatha have a symbiotic relationship. That is, when the humans thrive, we tuatha thrive, and vice versa. We secretly clean your houses, tend your gardens and fields, turn your mills, and perform myriad other daily tasks that make humans happy and fruitful. In turn, we flourish, both from the increased production and the positive energy stimulated by all aspects of a thriving economy.

"We have been in Ergoth since the beginning of time, since the construction of the magical pillars at Stone- cliff. We survived the Cataclysm here, when Ergoth was divided into two islands, and the subsequent droughts, floods, and famines. But never, in all that time, has the decay here been as severe as it is now. This plague has affected even the tuatha, as young Bram noticed in our Thistledown's face."

"But the plague is over," Bram exclaimed. "Guerrand made the moon two-dimensional so-"

"I am aware of what occurred," the king cut in gently. "But you are shortsighted if you think curing the cause of the plague will instantly erase all of its aftereffects."

"What do you mean?" Bram asked.

"Most of the animals have been slaughtered," the king explained. "Crops have yet to be planted, nor are they likely to be, since tuatha scouts report that many of the grain stores were destroyed by Thonvil's hay- ward in the hysteria over the source of the plague. With the seed stores gone, how will the already low food supply be replenished?"

"I have some seeds at Castle DiThon," said Bram. "If they aren't enough, I'll buy or beg what I can from villages that weren't affected by the plague."

The king's snow-white head shook imperceptibly. "I hope that will be enough, for we tuatha can only augment what exists. If little or nothing exists to embellish, then we are forced to move on to survive."

"And if you move on," prompted Guerrand, catching the king's direction at last, "then Thonvil, in its already fragile state, will very likely perish."

The king snapped his thick fingers. "Exactly."

"So what are you telling us to do?" asked Bram.

"Humans are not subject to my rulership," the king reminded him placidly. "I'm merely suggesting options. If you care about the survival of the village or the presence of the tuatha, then you must work immediately to restore the lands."

"You know, of course," began Bram, "that I've been trying to do just that for many years. The tuatha have been helping me."

"That might have been enough," conceded the tuatha king, "if not for this plague. However, time is critical now. The village will survive only if someone provides direction and leadership that has long been lacking here."

Bram fidgeted. "Thonvil already has a lord in my father."

"Yes, I know." The pause that followed spoke volumes about the king's opinion of Cormac DiThon. "A little more than two of your decades ago, I predicted this decline and took what steps I could to stave it off. We increased intervention in your fields and homes," the king continued. "I daresay our efforts made the difference, in the last decade, between eating and not for many of your villagers. I know it did for us tuatha."