"That." Rod nodded. "And more."

"Then you think he can still fall in love?"

"Oh, yes," Rod said. "He was reared in a very warm and loving home, you see, even if he did have a father who might fly into a rage without warning. That was certainly enough to let love happen."

"In spite of what he's been through?"

"His ordeal will certainly make it harder for him to love again," Rod admitted, "especially since those experiences, as well as being the son of two exceptional people, has left him with low self-esteem. That doesn't mean he can't fall in love, though—it just means that it's going to take time— plenty of time with a woman he can trust who never turns on him no matter what kinds of opportunities she has."

Alea sat very still.

"Lost your temper with him a few times, did you?" Rod said softly.

Alea tensed but managed a curt nod.

"That wouldn't matter," Rod said, "so long as it was open and honest, not a matter of throwing every insult you could think of to try to hurt him, or accusing him of things he didn't do and making him try to guess what they were."

"No," Alea said slowly. "I've been open, at least—confronted him squarely—though what I was quarrelling about wasn't always the real cause."

Rod waited.

"I wasn't really angry at him," she said in a voice so low he could hardly hear it, "but I didn't realize that then."

"I expect he did," Rod said. "I wouldn't worry about fights like that—especially if they've passed."

"Oh, yes," Alea said. "There were a few years when I was jumping on him every time I felt angry or scared—but there's less of that, now. Much less."

"Because you know you don't have anything to fear from him?"

She nodded—then said, irritated, "Except his ignoring me!"

"I thought he talked with you all the time."

"Well, yes—but only as a friend!"

Rod waited.

"You can't make somebody fall in love with you if the love's not there, though, can you?" Alea asked.

"You mean if you're wrong for each other? If your chemistry doesn't react, if the magic doesn't happen?" Rod shook his head. "No—but I don't think that's the case with you two. I've seen how he leans on you now and then, seen the admiration in his eyes when he looks at you."

"Admiration isn't enough!"

"No," Rod said, "but it's a good clue that there's something more."

This time it was Alea who waited, and when Rod didn't go on, she asked, "What else does it take to heal him?"

"Devotion," Rod said. "Complete loyalty. His learning he can depend on you no matter what."

"He's had that!"

"Then wait."

"How long?"

Rod shrugged. "Shouldn't be much more than a year. He's home now; he has a lot to get used to—and meeting Allouette has probably made him freeze inside again."

Alea turned to him with a frown. "You mean being home will thaw him?"

"After he gets used to it," Rod said. "After he realizes, deep down, that Allouette isn't Finister, that everything Finister did was based on her illusion-spinning."

"He has to learn what reality is again?"

"Yes—and learn that he can turn to you to help figure it out."

"So Magnus is only attracted to my reliability and ability to fight?"

"That," Rod said, "and your concern for others. Magnus has told me of your nursing and teaching." He shook his head sadly, gazing into her eyes. "But lass, you're daft if you can't see that Magnus, at least, thinks you're beautiful. So do I, for that matter, and most other men you meet—but that doesn't matter, does it?"

"Not a bit," Alea snapped, "because I don't believe it for a minute!"

"Then believe how delighted Magnus was to meet a woman who didn't make him feel like a great lumbering oddity," Rod said. "Once you've thought about that, look down and see that your figure could set a young man dreaming."

"I'm a beanpole!"

"A beanpole with excellent curves," Rod corrected. "Not spectacular, maybe, but after what he's been through, Magnus would be repelled by the spectacular."

"Perhaps," Alea said reluctantly, "but my face is dreadful! I look like a horse!"

"Actually, your features are classical," Rod said, "with fine, strong bone structure."

Alea glowed within, so she glowered without. "I'm not convinced!"

"Magnus is," Rod countered. "You only need to see the truth of that."

"And not pay attention to the truth about my appearance?" Alea asked bitterly.

"You can't see that truth," Rod said simply. "Most of us are our own worst critics, after all. Besides, does it really matter what I think about your looks, or what Geoffrey thinks, or any handsome young man?"

Alea stared at him a moment, then admitted, "No. I only care what Magnus thinks."

"He'll let you know," Rod said, "sooner or later."

Alea was quiet again, then said, "Quarreling won't work, will it?"

"If he could understand it as a form of love-play, yes," Rod said. "If he could see it as a sort of game, the way Geoffrey does—but he can't."

"Why not?"

"He lost his sense of fun, somewhere along the way," Rod said sadly, "his sense of play. I understand it's something you have to learn as you grow up, and he did—but he lost it during his teens. I failed the boy there."

Alea felt his pain, wanted to reach out to him—but all she could do was say, "It wasn't your doing."

"No," Rod said, "but I failed to protect him from it."

"You had to let him stand on his own some time," Alea said softly.

Rod flashed her a smile. "Do as much for him as you're doing for me now, and the rest will take care of itself."

Alea stared at him, then laughed—but she sobered quickly. "You mean love will take care of itself, if the magic's there within us, waiting to come out."

Rod nodded. "And you can never know that until it happens."

"IF it happens," she said darkly.

"If," Rod admitted. He took her hand again, smiling. But you can clear the obstacles that hold it back."

Alea stared into his eyes. Then, slowly, she smiled.

"THIS TIME, YES, the Crown showed mercy," Sir Orgon said, "but only because the High Warlock happened by and lent his influence!"

"Sir Orgon." Anselm fought for patience. "I have been listening to your cries of doom all the way home from Castle Loguire and all this long evening, and I grow very weary of them."

They sat by the fire in the main room of Anselm's manor house, the walls in shadow, their barely-seen tapestries rippling. A bottle and two cups sat on a small table between them, untasted.

"That arrogant prig Diarmid would have hanged your son in an instant!"

"Remember that you speak of my nephew!"

"Nephew or not, he would have hanged his cousin without a second thought and never have let it trouble his slumber in the slightest! My lord, you must call up all the lords who owe you fealty and march on the Crown while there is still time!"

"I am no longer duke; none owe me fealty. Those whom I failed will certainly not rally to me now!"

"But their sons will! Their sons are exasperated with this Queen and her high-handed government. They have nothing but contempt for her lapdog King …"

"Sir Orgon," Anselm said between his teeth, "you talk of my brother."

"Did he think of brotherhood when he sent his son to hang yours? My lord, you must rise now! The moment is now! Delay even a day longer to begin your march, and it will be too late!"

'Too late for what?" Anselm turned to him with a frown.