Alea's heart skipped a beat, but she knew he'd spoken more truly the first time. "Back to that nest of bigots and sexists? No thank you, Gar! I don't have a home there any more—I haven't since my parents died! I'll stay here and find some way to make it my home, thank you very much!"

Gar turned back to her, frowning with concern again. "Are you sure you wouldn't rather tramp the spaceways for the rest of your life? Always a new planet, new sights, new customs…"

Alea shuddered. "I think not. Oh, it's been good in its way, but I'd rather stay put. At least there are people here who know you—and are being friendly toward me."

Magnus gave her another long stare, then nodded and sat down again. "Here we stay, then. After all, if I get really sick of it, we can do as Gregory's done—go out into the mountains and build our own house away from them all!"

Alea stared, thunderstruck by his assumption that they would spend their lives together—but she pushed the issue aside, and smiled with relief; she knew one challenge from a real enemy would be all it would take to kindle his enthusiasm again. "There's always that. Of course, we could tramp the roadways here for a while, as we have on three other planets. You'd be building a network, planting ideas, making everything ready in case it's needed."

"A very attractive idea," Magnus said with feeling. He turned to smile at her and squeezed her hand. "Yes, I always have that, don't I?"

"Of course." Alea returned the smile. "That's always been your way, while I've known you—pulling the strings unseen, strings that most people don't even know exist, manipulating where even other telepaths wouldn't realize it. If you need to take command at all, it won't be for very long."

"Yes, I have had some experience with that." Magnus nodded, gaze straying to the window again. "I've done it on so many other planets—why not on my own?"

"Why not indeed? If you have to, you'll be able to weld your siblings into a unit." Alea stood, holding out a hand to him. "But all this emotion-charged talk must have built up a ton of stress in you. Time for some martial arts practice, Ga… Magnus."

"I said call me what you will." He scowled up at her.

"I will call you Magnus." Alea returned glare for scowl. "If it's your real name, it should come naturally to me. Now are you coming to practice, or do I have to carry you?"

"Practice would be just the thing." Gar smiled, and from his mind, Alea caught a picture of himself draped over her shoulder. "I'll change and meet you in the courtyard."

Alea chose to dress for kendo, white top and long black trousers, so fully-cut that they wouldn't scandalize the medieval people who might see. She was down on the clay floor ten minutes later, but Gar was there before her in similar clothing, punching at the air in quick combinations, dropping to a fencer's lunge and bouncing to stretch the long muscles of his legs, up to punch again, then leaping high to kick at an imaginary enemy while the sentries watched in awe.

So did Alea; seeing Magnus come alive with action made her catch her breath. He was so strong, so vital! But within the man of war, she knew, was the soul of a poet— and a man who cared far too much for the welfare of others. Watching him make a ballet of fighting, Alea wondered if he would break from the stress his family had heaped upon him. She would never let him know how concerned she was, of course.

No, not concerned. Watching him whirl and leap, Alea finally admitted to herself that she was really, fully in love with the man, and knew a moment's despair, for surely he could never fall in love with so plain and gawky a woman as she. Oh, he cared for her, she knew—as a friend.

Perhaps it was just as well that he couldn't see she was in love with him.

Sighing, she went to become his sparring partner again.

OVER BREAKFAST THE next morning, Sir Orgon told the tale of his travels, of the list of noblemen whose hospitality he had accepted—and who chafed under the rule of a queen who would not let them lord it over their peasants as they had been accustomed to.

Anselm listened quietly, but his eyes grew steadily hotter. When Sir Orgon had finished the list, Anselm protested, "Surely these lords will not rise against their liege."

"Not unless you are of their number." Sir Orgon locked gazes with Sir Anselm and sat back, waiting.

Sir Anselm said stiffly, "I am not. I have no reason to resent Their Majesties."

"You have every reason," Sir Orgon contradicted. "She attainted you, barred you from inheriting your father's castle and lands and title! She cast you into this exile in a house not fit for a baron!" He carefully did not mention the queen's husband, Sir Anselm's brother.

"She did rightfully and mercifully," Sir Anselm said. "I was a traitor who had risen against the Crown; I deserved death on the block, not mere attainder."

"But your son does not," Sir Orgon said.

Fifteen

SIR ORGON KEPT HIS GAZE FIXED ON ANSELM'S and waited a few seconds for the thought to sink in—no one had ever claimed that Anselm Loguire was quickwitted—then went on. "Your son should have inherited the duchy of Loguire in his turn. What shall he have now? Only this poor castle, or the manor in which he dwells!"

Anselm's eyes burned with barely-suppressed anger. "Geordie and his good wife, Elaine, seem quite contented in their manor. His fields flourish; his peasants prosper."

"Indeed." Sir Orgon nodded. "Word has it that they are constantly out among their tenants, tending and healing and seeing that all goes well—as a steward should. I have even heard that at harvest, they are themselves in the field."

"So they would be even if Geordie were to appoint a seneschal," Anselm said roughly. "He loves the land and the people."

"That is well." Sir Orgon nodded sagely. "It is well they can be content with so little."

Anselm sat and glared at him, for even he realized what had been left unsaid: that Geordie would never have anything more. Anselm's hatred for the queen and resentment of his brother was there in his face; perhaps it was well that only Sir Orgon could see it. But Anselm said, "I would remind you, Sir Orgon, that the queen is my sister-in-law, and that I would not willingly hurt my brother."

"Would you not?" Sir Orgon asked in feigned surprise. "But he was quick enough to attack you, thirty years ago!"

"Tuan did no such thing," Anselm snapped. "He defended the queen against my own uprising, nothing more—and he was right to do so, for I had broken the law."

"Had you?" Sir Orgon said quickly. "Or did you only seek to defend your age-old rights and privileges that she sought to usurp? Appointing priests on the lords' estates, sending her own judges to try your cases—woeful breaches of ancient custom indeed! No wonder you led the lords to rise in protest."

"And here is the result of that treachery," Sir Anselm snapped, "this manor, and this quiet life, rather than the headsman's axe and a narrow grave. I shall never fight against the Crown again, Sir Orgon." But envy and hatred were clearly eating him alive.

ROD CAME OUT of the woods onto the crest of a hill and pulled up, gazing down into the valley. Far below lay a tidy village, embraced by the hills whose sides were terraced into fields for farming. Those fields were green; maize already grew tall there, and at mid-morning Rod would have expected to see at least a few people out hoeing—but there was no one there, and no one moving in the village streets, either.

"Something's wrong here, Fess."

"Are there people inside the huts, Rod?"

Fess might be able to transmit on human thought-wave frequency, but he couldn't read minds unless thoughts were directed at him. Rod probed the village and found nothing. "Not a soul—and come to think of it, I don't see any smoke from the chimneys, either."