"Gregory, the man has immense power, I can feel it! More than he did ten years ago, much more! And he has learned subtlety and manipulation on his travels. I shall not dare to go to court while he is there."

"Then we shall stay here in our ivory tower." Gregory pressed her closer. "You are certainly world enough for me. What need have I for anything else, so long as you are by me?"

Trembling, Allouette lifted her head. "Oh, you and this tower are certainly all I need, too. I have had enough of the world, and I shall let it have no more of me!"

They gazed into each other's eyes a moment, then kissed. Allouette closed her eyes and let Gregory's embrace be her universe, concentrated on nothing but the feel of his lips, his arms, his hands …

Hours later, when she was soundly asleep, Gregory rose from their bed and dressed quietly. He left a note assuring her he would be back the next day, only had to attend to a brief errand. Then he went down the spiral stair to the base of the tower and, with several floors between them to absorb the noise, disappeared with a bang of imploding air.

EVANESCENT BECAME AWARE of the sounds around her but lay still a while longer, probing her surroundings with her mind. Satisfied that there was no danger near, she opened her eyes and lifted her head. Stipples of moonlight floored the glade where she had chosen to sleep for the day. She admired the beauty of the scene until her stomach reminded her it was time to hunt. She rose, stretched, then padded out into the glade and stood, mind questing for something edible. Though her visible teeth were those of a carnivore, the molars behind them were adapted for plants. The small people were so very protective of their forest that she decided it might be the course of prudence to seek out some nuts and berries.

Not that she was afraid of those diminutive beings, of course—well, not much. Her own extrasensory powers were so strong that no single one of them, not even the one who called himself the Puck, would stand much chance against her—no, not even if he drew on the powers of five or six of his fellows.

The trouble was that he was apt to come with twenty or more.

No, the course of prudence dictated a vegetable diet for a while—at least, until Evanescent was more certain of the Wee Folks' intentions. She padded in among the trees, night-vision alert for anything that looked edible. Leaves, shrubs, fungi…

The alien stopped, frowning, to stare at a mound of something that looked like moss. She lowered her head to sniff; it didn't smell like moss. In fact, its scent was that of fungus.

Witch-moss! She remembered it from Magnus's thoughts. Wondering if it really was sensitive to telepathy, she aimed a thought at it, a memory of a large and luscious fruit from her home planet—and stared in wonder as the mound pulled in on itself, rounding on one end and pointing on the other, its color deepening to mauve, until her homeworld fruit lay before her.

Hunger rumbled again; she lowered her head to sniff and found its aroma exactly as it should be. She wondered if it would be good to eat but decided on the course of prudence.

She sat back on her haunches, head tilted to one side, considering the fruit. Was it frozen in that form now, or could she make it into something else? She stared at it, thinking of a stick she had seen the day before, one that had caught her attention because of its curious knobbed shape.

The fruit shrank in on itself, its color darkening, as it stretched, roughened, and turned into the stick.

Evanescent stared. Then she grinned and batted at the stick with a paw; it rolled over just as a real stick would do. In fact, it felt like a real stick. She tilted her head to the side again, thinking of Alea's dagger, then of a ball she had seen children play with on one of the planets they had visited, then a woman's mortar and pestle—and watched as the lump of witch-moss changed from one form to another.

Evanescent lay down, staring at the mortar and pestle intently. What of something that could move? She thought of an elf, and the lump began to change—but Evanescent realized the small people might be angry if she imitated them, or anything that had a mind. She changed her thought at the last moment; the lump sprouted legs and a chest, but nothing more. She decided to make it look like a stick again, then told it to move, and a little stick man marched up and down before her.

There was a rustling in the underbrush.

Evanescent was on her feet in the blink of an eye, whirling to face the sound—and saw half a dozen more stick men come marching out from the fallen leaves. She stared, then grinned, realizing what had happened—she hadn't limited her thoughts; other lumps of witch-moss had taken on the same shape as the one she'd been playing with and had come marching to the one who had thought them up.

More rustling; she whirled, and saw more stick figures marching out of a thicket. Rustling again; she spun about and saw another dozen striding out from some brambles. She lay down and grinned, thinking directions at them, and the stick figures came together, formed ranks, and marched out into the glade.

Hunger forgotten, Evanescent lay in the moon-shadow of an oak, watching her new-made toys march and countermarch in ever-more-intricate formations.

GREGORY APPEARED IN the solar of Castle Gallowglass with the sound of a firecracker as his sudden presence compressed the air about him. He looked about him to discover no one there in the early morning, then strode down the hall to his brother's suite. No one answered his knock. Frowning, he opened his mind to the world around and found no other mind within the suite, but felt Magnus's presence above. He would have been ashamed to teleport so short a distance, so he ran up the stairs.

"HO THE CASTLE!"

The sentry stepped up to the battlement wall and waved to the man he had been watching ride up, then saw the shield slung at the horse's rump and the coat of arms emblazoned on it. He didn't recognize those arms, but it didn't matter—the man was a knight at least, possibly a lord. "Aye, good sir. I prithee attend while I take tidings of you to my lord."

"Well, be about it quickly," the stranger knight called back, clearly not pleased with the answer. "I've ridden long and would rest and drink."

The sensible thing would be to raise the portcullis and let the man in on the spot, but it wasn't the sentry's decision to make. He called his mate and ran off to tell the Captain of the Guard.

The Captain knew the forms, and the precautions with them; he bade the porter lower the drawbridge and raise the portcullis, then conducted the stranger into the guest chamber of the manor house. He was sitting at his ease with a glass of wine in his hand when his host of necessity came in. "Welcome, Sir Knight!"

"Lord Anselm Loguire!" The knight rose and bowed. "I am Sir Orgon of Needsham, knight errant."

He was clearly a rather unsuccessful knight, to be errant at his age—forty if he was a day. His doublet and hose were of good cloth but worn, and his boots, though well-polished under the dust of travel, were equally worn.

"You are welcome, Sir Knight." Anselm Loguire might have had the stranger thrust upon him, but he was by no means a reluctant host. News was rare and treasured, as was a new face—and if the man turned out to be unpleasant, why, he was only staying the night. "Have you travelled far, Sir Orgon?"

The knight sighed. "Over hill and dale, milord duke …"

"Sir Loguire, if it please you," Anselm said firmly, but bitterness tightened his face. "I am only a knight, like yourself, and was never rightly duke of Loguire."

"Well, no, but by rights you should have been, should you not?" The stranger knight gave him a keen glance, then dropped his gaze. "But I presume. Let me tell you the news of the capital, as I had it from the knight with whom I broke a lance outside the keep of Rodenge."