Chapter 17

"I don't know why you're letting him watch this," Rose complained aloud for the fourth or fifth time, as Alexander stared intently into the depths of the magic mirror and the scene that was playing out there. It would have been fascinating enough to watch just about anything there, and know that he was seeing a reflection of something that was going on elsewhere, far away. But to be able to see his own father and brother—well, he simply could not tear himself away. It was a pity that he could not hear as well as see, but Randolf was giving a fairly good precis of what was going on.

Rose, however, was speaking, not to Alexander, who probably would not have answered, but to Lily.

"Because, oh impossibly obdurate one, I told her to bring him here" replied the mirror-spirit Randolf, in a bored tone. "And to repeat myself one more time, I told her to bring him here this morning, because I am something of a predictive Mirror-Slave, and it seemed imperative to me, and important to the lad's Redemption, that the Prince see and understand what was happening to his father and brother today. The Godmother has given me fairly broad scope for me to use my own judgment in such matters, and this is how I choose to use it." The spirit of the mirror paused. "You do want the boy redeemed, don't you?"

Out of the corner of his eye, Alexander saw Rose glare at the mirror, but she said nothing.

Instead of going out to work in the orchard today, directly after breakfast Lily had insisted on bringing him into the house, right up to this rather feminine chamber, where she had placed him on a hassock in front of a mirror that was not silvered, but black.

He thought he had gotten used to magic and the idea of it, but when a face appeared in the mirror that was clearly not a reflection of anyone in the room—and then, when it spoke to him!—he had nearly jumped up and gone looking for a weapon.

His self-control had the upper hand, however, and quite honestly it was impossible to listen to Randolf without being amused and forgetting that he was basically a disembodied head. And before too long, he was talking with Randolf almost as if the spirit was an ordinary person rather than something that only lived in a mirror.

Then Randolf began showing him what had taken the Godmother away from home—and that it had to do entirely with his brother Octavian.

Now, the Godmother had been keeping him fairly, if sketchily, up-to-date on the rest of his family, but it was one thing to hear about it, and quite another to see it. Octavian just astonished him; his brother had never been a weakling, but the amount of muscle that he had put on was matched only by the changed look of his face. There was thoughtfulness there, and intelligence; Octavian had once seemed a bit imitative, reflecting what others thought rather than thinking for himself.

Alexander scarcely left the mirror for anything; Lily brought him a ploughman's lunch and he ate it without even tasting it. It was not only that he was half-starved for the sight of familiar faces, and anxious to know the welfare of his father and brother. It was that, if Octavian had managed to win his freedom, how had it been done? And could he manage, as well?

At least, that was how he had begun his vigil. But as he watched his father and brother together, and heard from Ran-dolf what they were all saying, he had realized something quite profound.

They did not need him.

Oh, they wanted to know that he was all right, and when Elena had assured them, in rather vague terms, that he was, they clearly dismissed him and his current situation with some relief.

But it had been Octavian who had been brought up at their father's side; it had been Octavian who was the Crown Prince. The problem that had occurred with Julian had, in a lesser fashion, been going on between Alexander and his father. He'd been raised by nurses and tutors, educated by the Academy, and although he idolized his father, he realized that before his return on graduation, he had probably spent less than a month in his father's presence, all told.

Realistically he was the Spare. And with Octavian hale and hearty and as like to their father as if they'd been hatched from the same egg, there was no place at the Kohlstanian court for Alexander except as a perpetual Prince-in-Waiting. Even that promised position as Octavian's Commander-in-Chief would probably have been in name only. The Commanders of Kohlstania's army were practiced and competent, and he was unblooded. Exceptionally well-trained, but unblooded.

So, by the time that Randolf showed them Elena, in her little donkey-cart, on her way home again, the question had been significantly altered in Alexander's mind. It was no longer How can I get home, but Do I want to go home?

What would he do, when he got home again? Oh, he could take command of the Army, he supposed, but to what purpose? To watch them drill, and take them out on parades, and make some effort at keeping them sharp? The current commanders would be better at that than he was. He didn't know a great deal about anything other than military matters, and to put it bluntly, he doubted that seasoned Commanders would give more than lip service to his leadership. He had no practice, and no real experience, and they had no reason to trust his judgment. So what would he do when he got back? He had a taste of real work and real life now, and while he wouldn't miss the blisters and the sweat and the dead-stupid physical labor, the artificial surroundings of the Court did not seem particularly attractive anymore. Watching the intrigues going on, playing politics, sitting in on the Council sessions and pretending he was actually contributing to the discussions seemed an utter waste of time. And a day "filled" with games, hunting, flirting, wenching, and the like wasn't particularly attractive, either.

Well, perhaps the wenching. But a man could only rise to the occasion so many times in a day. You couldn't actually fill a day with wenching.

As a grumbling Rose made certain that he was out of the house and heading back to the stables, he was no longer sure that he belonged in Kohlstania anymore.

He'd had more of those dreams, of purple sands and a lovely lady. He was not altogether certain of her identity, but by now, he had a shrewd guess.

Oh, yes indeed, he could guess. The strange light had given an odd color to her hair, but under proper sun, he reckoned it would be golden. And while he'd never seen Elena in quite so little clothing, well, that could just be chalked up to the fact that his imagination was very good at creating a picture from a small amount of information.

Not that he was under any illusions that the dreams meant anything, except that he had stopped thinking of Madame Elena as an enemy and someone to blame all of his troubles upon.

No, he was not about to make any overtures in that direction. He had no particular wish to go back to being a donkey most of the time. Not that she wasn't a tasty little thing, and not that she wasn't exactly to his particular taste, but—no. And not that she still couldn't make his groin ache if he thought about her in that way, but—definitely no. Even if she didn't turn him back into a donkey, it wasn't worth finding himself flat on his back with that sort of headache for a second time.

It was enough that as he had become less of an ass, in both senses, she had become friendlier. If she didn't yet treat him as an equal—well, maybe he didn't yet deserve to be treated like an equal. A Godmother was both above birth-rank and apart from it—

So, if you want respect from a Godmother, you have to earn it, I suppose.

He climbed the ladder to his loft-room slowly, and as he poked his head through the hole in the floor, he realized that tonight he was disinclined to read anything. He didn't even light his lamp; he merely blew out the one he had brought with him and stripped down in the darkness.

Instead of reading, he climbed into his bed, and lay there with his hands clasped behind his head, thinking.

No, I don't think I want to go home. Not unless something horrible happens to Octavian; Father would need me then. But as long as they know that I'm all right, I suppose it wouldn't matter to them where I am. So where should I go, and what could I do?

Julian might be able to use him; he'd always gotten along reasonably well with Julian. Truth to tell, though his brother was probably handling the civilians in his new land well enough, where the military was concerned, Julian wouldn't have a clue. According to Alexander's instructors, it was usually better all the way around for a ruler's Commander-in-Chief to be someone he trusted and knew, personally.

He could probably talk Julian into giving him the position. The real question was how Julian's new people would feel about it. And there were other things to consider; what the shape of Julian's army was, if he even had an army. If he didn't—well, in that case there was no doubt; there was a place for him at Julian's side. Building an army up from nothing, or back up from decay—yes, he knew how to do that, in theory at least.

But of course, if Julian happened to have a perfectly good army, and a Commander-in-Chief that suited him, then even if Alexander talked him into the job, there would be a colossal amount of resentment. No, he wouldn't walk into that particular tiger-pit...not without a lot of forethought and planning, anyway.

It might be worth it. Especially if he'd actually be able to accomplish something.

He tried to think of all of the possible ramifications and repercussions, and found himself drifting off to sleep. And as he relaxed and his concentration faded away, one final, very odd thought floated up through the formless, shapeless stuff of his dreams.

I wish— it's a pity the Godmothers don't need an army....

It was probably a good thing, after all, that it had taken Elena the better part of two hours to get home again. By the time she drove up to her door, she had managed to cry herself out, find a stream, wash her face, and get herself looking no worse than tired.

Hob was waiting for her, ready to take the donkey and cart, but surprisingly, Rose was right at the door. And she hadn't even gotten across the threshold before Rose made it very clear why she'd been waiting—or rather, lying in wait—in order to get a very particular complaint lodged before anyone else could say anything. She started at the front entry and continued her complaint all the way up the stairs and on into the suite.

"—in your rooms, if you please, the whole day. Not a jot of work done, and that Randolf acting like the lord of the manor—"

"I did not act like the lord of the manor," came Randolf's voice, muffled by the velvet drapes that had been drawn across the face of the mirror. "I merely told Lily that in my opinion, and based on my presentiment, the young man needed to be here to see what you were doing with his brother."

Elena went to the mirror and pulled back the drapes. Randolf was ensconced squarely in the center of the mirror, looking seriously miffed. "I do not often have premonitory feelings, Godmother," he said stiffly, "but when I do, I am not accustomed to having them questioned." He looked down his long nose at Rose, who sniffed scornfully. "Really, Godmother. Particularly from a creature with no experience at predictive magic, and no—"

"Thank you, Randolf," Elena said, interrupting him by holding up her hand. "I do understand your feelings, but it is Rose's duty to act in a manner that protects my interests." Rose looked smug for a moment, but Elena continued. "However, you are entirely correct; your previous owners did use you to foretell the future in a very limited way as we both know, and although you lost some of that ability when Bella gave you more freedom, when you do feel a prescient impulse, it is wise for us to act upon it. If this happens again in my absence, I would wish you to speak with the others first, and let them know your reasons before you act, just so that everyone knows what is happening and why."

Now both of them gave a derisive sniff, which—since it probably meant that neither of them felt the victor in the disagreement—was the best she was going to manage.

Silly geese. Randolf took the attitude that since he was entirely a magical entity, and had served only Queens and Kings among Dark Sorcerers, he was somehow higher up in the Faerie ranks than a mere House-Elf. He was, in his nonexistent bones, a snob. While Rose, who had served Godmothers for hundreds of years here, believed in her heart of hearts that any decision she made in a Godmother's absence should take precedence; in her own way, she was just as much of a snob as Randolf, which meant that they were doomed to clash. Robin and Hob either humored her or ignored her when she was in this mood, but Lily enjoyed slyly tweaking her skirts, and it was clear to Elena that this time Randolf and Lily had conspired together to take Rose down a peg.

Well, here was the one valuable piece of advice that Madame Klovis had ever given regarding the staff— When the servants begin quarreling, stay out of it. The rest of the advice, All you will do is inflate their already bloated opinions of themselves, was utter nonsense, but the first part was right enough.

"I would have told the Prince everything anyway," Elena continued, ignoring the sniffs, "but I don't think anything but good can come of his actually seeing it all unfold. It will probably give him extra motivation to prove that he has reformed and is ready to go back to his family himself."

That last cost her a pang; she ignored it. Rose looked a little more mollified, but Randolf frowned. "But, Godmother, that's—" he began, but once again Elena cut him off. "Rose, I am wearied to death. Could the rest of this wait until morning?"

Rose flushed, mortified at being caught at permitting her own grudge to interfere with the well-being of the Godmother in residence; as Elena well knew, it was the only thing that would shake her off her current crusade. "I beg your pardon, Madame Elena!" she said. "Of course it can wait. Your bed has been turned down and warmed, and there's a tidbit waiting on your bedside table."

"Thank you, Rose," Elena said, but she was already gone, whisking herself away as only an embarrassed House-Elf could.

Now she turned back to Randolf. "So what was it about your presentiment that was so important you were going to set Rose off again?" she asked with more than a touch of impatience.

"Madame," Randolf said, with immense dignity. "Godmother. It was important, because if I am correct, what is going to happen is unprecedented. My sense is absolute that Prince Alexander is perfectly ready to pass any trials of his nature that you or anyone else may set him—and also, that when he does so, he will never leave here. Make of that what you will; it utterly baffles me. I certainly cannot imagine a Prince of the Blood being content with laboring as a common farmhand."

Elena controlled her expression, somehow, and managed to thank Randolf gravely before dropping the curtains over his mirror. But inside, the emotions that she thought she had brought into check roiled up again.

If she had not been so tired, Randolf's words probably would have kept her up late into the night. But after a glance out the window to see that there was no light in Alexander's loft-room, she found herself so exhausted that she nearly fell asleep with the glass of honeyed milk in her hand. She caught herself just as it started to slip from her grip; she drank it down quickly and got into bed, and was literally asleep before she even turned on her side to her usual sleeping position.

The little, shallow waves of the amethyst ocean were as warm against the skin of her feet and calves as the milk she had just drunk. She noticed that the filmy little halfhearted excuse for a skirt she was wearing barely came to her knees; well, at least it wasn't going to get wet while she waded. The silky-soft sand was even softer under the water. Experimentally she reached down to touch the slowly undulating waves, then brought her fingers to her lips.

The water was sweet, not salty. Interesting; she wondered what that meant, since dreams had their own logic.

"Elena! Are you going to paddle out there all night?"

She looked up; Alexander was standing just above the waterline, watching her with a huge grin on his face. Unlike her, he was attired in real clothing, rather than the few bits of veils that she was wearing.

What on earth was her dream trying to tell her?

She waded obliquely towards him, enjoying the feel of the water on her feet. When she was near enough, he held out his hand to her, and she took it.

"You called me by my name," she said, curious to hear what the dream-Alexander would say to that. "You've never done that before."

"Well, I finally figured out who you were," he replied. "And it doesn't matter what I say to you here, anyway," he continued, impudently. "You aren't a Godmother here; you can't punish me in a dream. I can say what I like and I won't end up as a donkey, or on my back with a splitting head. I can do this—" he took her in his arms "—and this—"

He wound both his hands in her hair, bent his head and kissed her; his lips were already open, and hers were parted, but in surprise rather than initial arousal, because she had just realized, not only what he had just said, but what it meant...

This wasn't her dream.

Or to be more accurate, it wasn't just her dream; it was their dream. They were sharing it.

His tongue teased hers, and his hand slipped inside the flimsy bodice of her gown to caress her naked nipple, which hardened immediately. She thrust all other thoughts aside for later. This was a dream, and she was going to enjoy it—

He slipped the straps of her gown off her shoulders, and her breasts slid free of the silky fabric. The warm breeze played over her shoulders. Each of his hands cupped a breast now, and his thumbs made little circles on the exquisitely sensitive skin. Little lances of pure pleasure and incredible sensation followed every movement of his fingers, and her groin tightened as she opened her mouth to his probing.

He took his mouth from hers and began to lick and nibble at her neck; she discovered that (ah, the wonders of the dream-state!) his shirt had vanished altogether, and she moved her hands over his chest, the muscles moving marvelously under her palms as he breathed, until her fingers found his nipples, and it was her turn to make him gasp.

But he took his revenge immediately; before she knew what he was about, his head had moved lower, and he fastened his mouth on her breast.

And his tongue and teeth were so much cleverer than his fingers had been that it was all she could do to stand upright.

Dream-logic again, for the very next moment they were lying in the soft sand, both of them utterly naked. He moved the attentions of his mouth to her left breast, and she moaned aloud, her hands in his hair, wanting to keep him there forever, but also wanting more. He chuckled; his free hand went to work on her right breast, and she felt her back arching without her even thinking about moving, and then his hand began to move lower—lower—her legs parted involuntarily as his fingers just stirred the first soft hairs of her sex and—

A rooster crowed. Right in her ear.

Swearing, she woke up.

The wretched bird crowed again. It wasn't right in her ear, but it was certainly just under her window.

She was breathing as hard as if she had been running; her secret parts were still tight and hot with need, and if at that moment she could have gotten her hands on an axe, there would have been poultry for dinner.

Instead she closed her eyes and forced herself to think rationally, difficult though that was under the circumstances. It wasn't the damned bird's fault. It must not have gotten into the coop with the rest before Lily closed them all in for the night. It was lucky it had escaped the ferrets, foxes, and owls. It was dawn. It was only behaving like a rooster.

There was some cold comfort in knowing that Alexander had been jolted just as rudely out of the same dream.

Think about this, she reminded herself. Rationally. You were sharing the same dream.

That doesn't happen to just anyone.

Unless she was greatly mistaken, that meant that Alexander had a touch of magic himself.

Probably not a lot, or he would have been able to put up some resistance to her spells even with no training at all. But even a little magic was certainly enough to qualify as a Hedge-Wizard.

That put something of a different complexion on things. Even a little magic would allow him into the brotherhood of magicians. Which meant—

Which meant he could stay. He wouldn't be a common—or uncommon—outsider anymore.

He could be allowed free access to everything here.

I have to find out if the Elves will give him the power to see magic. If they will—

If they did, then there was no question. If he chose to remain here as part of the household, the mere fact that the Elves gave him a magical ability of that nature would mean that not only could he stay if he wanted to, but that they intended for him to stay. Even Rose would have to give in to the will of the Great Ones of Faerie.

Only those born to be among the Sorcerers could see magic naturally, as Arachnia did, and there were plenty of Witches and Hedge-Wizards who, never having the chance to gain that power, went on and blithely worked with magic without being able to see it. You didn't need to see it to be effective, it simply made things much easier for the Godmothers and Wizards if they were able to see the magic following the will of The Tradition and could gauge how strong it was at a glance. That was why they were always given the gift after they were accepted by the Fae.

And when she remembered that, a plan fell into place in her mind, whole and entire. And despite the level of her frustration, she very nearly laughed aloud. If it worked—if it worked, well— there would be some changes. If it didn't, she'd be no worse off than she was now.

And with that, she was able to fall back to sleep. This time, without dreams.

"I take it you can hunt," Lily said to Alexander over breakfast. "Never heard of a noble who couldn't. But are you any good at it?"

He blinked at her in surprise, still feeling a bit muzzy-headed from the dream that had been so rudely interrupted by that wretched rooster. If he'd had ready access to an axe, there'd have been poultry for Robin's stew pot this morning....

Rose was assiduously ignoring him, but everyone else seemed interested in his answer, so he took the time to think about it before he said anything. "Well, I'd have to ask what you wanted me to hunt for, and with," he said, wondering what had prompted the question. "I'm good with any kind of bow. Pheasant, quail, waterfowl—I'm quite good at hunting those. Rabbit and hare are best taken with snares; you're more likely to lose or break arrows going after them with a bow, and I have to be honest with you, I never learned how to set a snare." He was not going to say that the snare was considered to be fit only for peasants to use. "If it's deer you're wanting, I would feel more comfortable with a crossbow; without a hound to help me track a wounded one, I want to be able to take the beast down at once, not let it run off to die slowly." At that, he saw Hob smile approvingly, and went on, feeling encouraged. "I won't hunt boar alone; that's for fools and braggarts—although, if there's a boar giving one of your villages trouble, you can count on me for the hunt. And I won't hunt anything I can't eat, and I count swan, stork, crane, and heron in that category. Does that answer your question?"

"Perfectly," said Lily, with great satisfaction. "We have beef and chicken, and goose, too, but Robin wants deer in storage, and some wild fowl—"

"The house has a larder that preserves anything put into it and keeps it at the state it was when it went in," Robin said gravely, turning away from his cooking for a moment. "You've heard us speaking about the house growing? And you recall from yesterday that Madame Elena is now the Godmother for Kohlstania as well as her other Kingdoms? As a Godmother's responsibilities grow, so do her obligations, and we believe that we may be required shortly to be able to play host to visitors. I wish to have something more on hand than the ingredients for simple country-fare."

"And we don't hunt," Lily concluded. "If you do, and you're good at it, then Godmother thinks you're ready to have the bounds taken down so you can go hunting."

A few months ago, that pronouncement would have set his plans for running into motion.

What more could he have possibly asked? He was being made free of the forest and fields, with a weapon in his hands! No matter how far away Kohlstania was, he was certain he would be able to find his way there.

Of course, that was before he learned—thanks to what had happened to Octavian—that the Godmother was perfectly capable of putting a curse on someone that would make him wander in circles until she cared to collect him.

He might still have considered making the attempt to escape, but—no. When he left this place, he wanted it to be because he was deemed ready to go. Like Octavian.

"I'd prefer fowl, to begin with," Robin was saying, interrupting his thoughts. "Since I don't believe we'll be seeing more than one or two important visitors at a time, at least at first. Frankly wild boar is no tastier than domestic swine, and we have plenty of farmers prepared to sell or trade us for pork."

"I'd like to be deeper into fall before I hunt deer," he replied, "and since we're hunting for the pot, I would prefer to draw them to a bait-spot where I've set up a blind, anyway. It might not be as sporting, but it will give me a better chance to select a target, and the best chance for a clean, quick kill. I'll leave the does and the King-stag, given my choice, and cull out some of the younger bucks."

"That sounds like a fine plan." Robin nodded agreeably. "Hob?"

"Finished your plate?" Hob asked, and at Alexander's nod, said, "Come with me, then. We'll get something that suits you, and I'll point you in a good direction for some fowling."

It was to another of the outbuildings that Hob led him, one that was no bigger than a gardening shed on the outside, and in fact, the last time Alexander had looked at it, it had been a gardening shed, empty but for a few pots. But when Hob opened the door—

"Ah, I thought that might've happened," Hob said with satisfaction.

Alexander knew he should not have been surprised, and yet he foolishly was. Outside was a shed he could have circled in ten paces. Inside was a royal hunting-lodge, with polished wooden floors covered with bright carpets, polished wooden walls adorned with hunting-trophies from all manner of animals (including a span of antlers that must of once belonged to a creature the size of a small elephant), and furnished with massively constructed chairs and benches. And there must have been a second, perhaps even a third floor, since there was a staircase beside the door.

There were no windows on the outside. Ten enormous glass windows on the inside let in the light from a landscape of stunning beauty, a wide meadow studded with flowers on one side, and a forest with tall, graceful trees of no species he recognized on the other. It was mountainous, too, the purple, snow-capped mountains rising above the trees at the far edge of the meadow, and of course, there were no mountains within sight of the Godmother's cottage....

"Good place for putting visitors," said Hob matter-of-factly. "'Course, the Great Fae can come a-visiting by coming through here, an' they choose." And as Alexander stumbled across the threshold, Hob strode the length of the lodge to the racks of hunting-bows on the wall at the far end—which also had a door in it. "Come along, lad!" he called over his shoulder, reaching for a longbow. "You'll want to check the pull on these for yourself."

Alexander hurried across the room, which did not show a single sign of wear, dust, or occupancy, and took the bow that Hob had selected; it was a thing of beauty, the work of a master craftsman, who had not wasted time, skill or the strength of the wood on foolish carving or inlay-work. It was a thing of perfectly polished simplicity, the close grain of the wood speaking for itself, the surface like satin. Only the ends were sweetly capped with silver-chased fittings. Alexander nocked the string and tried the pull.

"Too light," he said with disappointment, for it was an otherwise exquisite piece, and had roused an unexpected avarice in him.

"Aye, well, you've muscled up a bit since you came here," Hob replied, with a smug smile.

"Doubt you could still fit in that candy-soldier tunic you showed up wearing." And before Alexander could react to that statement, Hob handed him another.

This one, just as fine as the first, differing only in the chasing on the silver tip-caps, was still a bit light. But the third choice felt perfect, and Hob took down a quiver full of fowling arrows and a second of target-arrows, and led him back outside again.

"Have you—seen that place before?" Alexander asked, as they set up a target at the bottom of the garden.

"Oh, aye, back when the Godmother here—that'd be Madame Beaubaton—was the first mortal after the Fae Godmother, the Emerald Fairy," replied Hob, eying the distance between Alexander and the target. "Back up a bit, lad. I think you'll find with that pull you have more distance to work with. Aye, by rights, she should've been a Sorceress, should Madame, but she was more minded to the herding of things, so to speak. Happens that way, sometimes. Them as should be Sorcerers decides they want to be more active. Said she didn't care to sit on a mountain and wait for a Great Quest to set things aright when she could nip trouble in the bud."

He sighed, reminiscently. "That there was the hunting-lodge of the Emerald Fairy, and that's Fae lands you see outside the windows, and since Madame was so powerful and all, the lodge stayed put until we didn't need it again. Last of the outbuildings to shut up, and first to open. Fae can come and go from there, and now, probably will. Oh, aye, we had visitors in them days.

Great Sorcerers, mortal Kings, and Fae—needed the room then. Me and the rest, we was under servants then, serving under Ald Kelm, he's Sir Kelm now, if you please, him as runs the Elven Queen's household as her Seneschal now. Never dull, but a mort'o work, I tell you. We scarce need magic now, but then—crikey! Couldn't get through a day without casting till you was dizzy with it, and that was just to keep the stables clean! So many invisible servants the air fair buzzed with 'em!"

"Do you miss it?" Alexander asked, taking careful aim.

"Truth to tell—no. Ah, good! See, I told you that you've got more range with this one." As Alexander took aim again—his first shot having hit the target, but high—Hob continued. "No, I'm a simple fellow, and I like a simpler life. We all do, or we wouldn't be here. But—now, well done there!—that's not to say I wouldn't like things a little livelier. A visitor, now and again, that's a good thing. Seeing some of the Great Fae. Madame Elena's like Madame Bella before her; she's got some good notions, not minded to just react to what The Tradition does, more inclined to do a bit more pushing and a bit less following, if you take my meaning. I'd like to see some of the Great Ones putting some consideration into her notions. But a Court here again?

Like Madame Beaubaton and the Emerald Fairy before her? No, no. Now there you go!

You've got the range of her now!"

Alexander's last arrow hit dead in the center, and he felt comfortable with the bow now.

"Well," he replied. "I agree with you. Now, where do you suggest I go?"

Much to Rose's exasperation, Elena was taking Alexander's place out in the old orchard—though little did Rose guess that Elena was doing so in order to talk with Lily privately.

All that Rose knew was that Elena and Hob had decided to see what Alexander would do with the freedom to hunt alone and unescorted. She didn't know that this was part of a much larger plan, nor that Lily had gone to see if she could have an audience with the Elven King before the sun rose this morning.

"So, Madame, like you thought, when I mentioned the lad, they took me right to His Majesty.

And like you said, I made no suggestions." Lily upended her basket of apples into the back of the cart, and Elena followed it with hers a moment after. "I just said that you were looking for a real trial for the Prince, knowing that he'd recognize all the usual sorts of things, and that you were sending him out hunting today. And His Majesty did give me a look, then told me to tell you that he'd see to it personally." She gave Elena a look of her own; pleased, but wary. Well, she was right to be wary.

Elena shivered a little. "It is chancy, leaving this sort of thing to them," she said soberly. "The Great Fae don't always think like us...." She included the House-Elf in that; Brownies were as close to mortal in their ways of thinking as any Fae could get.

"True enough," Lily agreed. "Whatever trial they give him is going to be dangerous. But letting him wander about in the forest like a donkey would have been dangerous. Sending him off on any redemption trial would have been dangerous. Questing is dangerous—and with all that reading he's been doing, he will recognize just about any trial that you could put him to. That the Great Fae don't think like mortals will just mean that he's not likely to recognize a trial for what it is until after he's passed it."

Or it's too late, Elena thought, but kept that thought to herself.

So they worked on, side by side, with a tacit agreement to say no more about it. If Alexander passed his trial, and if he was the something that the King had been looking for, and if he was so unusual that Randolf was right, and he was suited to remain here, only the King and Queen could make that judgment and mark him in a way that even Rose would respect. Elena knew now, as she had not known when she first came as an Apprentice, that the first Godmother, the Emerald Fairy, was the sister of Huon, the King of the Sylvan Elves of this part of the Fae Lands. He had a particular association with the Godmothers of this place; though his Queen made most of the decisions concerning the mortals who lived here, he had the right of direct intervention whenever he cared to exercise it. But she still worried. Had she been within her rights to call on the Elven King and Queen for this? Had she been within her rights to subject Alexander to that sort of danger? The Fae operated by laws and rules that few mortals really understood. But how else was she to test him? And if Randolf was right about him—how else was she to get the authority to allow him to stay?

Well, it was out of her hands now. And whatever happened, she would have to live with the result—or the blame.

Now this is the way to hunt, Alexander thought, with great satisfaction, as he stood on the edge of a sun-drenched meadow, waist-deep in waving grass, a light breeze stirring his hair.

Hob had outfitted him with moleskin breeches, stout boots, a doeskin jerkin, and a most remarkable game bag. "Made it myself, back in the day," he'd said with great pride—and besides being of fine workmanship, there was another reason for the pride. It was magical; it would hold virtually as much as you cared to put into it, without ever getting an ounce heavier.

Alexander had already stuffed two pheasants and a half dozen quail into it. It was much better than trying to carry around a conventional game bag, or tying the game to your belt. It was better even than having to trail around with a crew of servants to carry what you shot, since a pack of servants always managed to scare off so much game that it hardly seemed worth having them along.

He missed having beaters or a dog, though; having to go it alone, flushing his own game, was chancy. When confronted with a single man, quail and pheasants were as likely to run away under the cover of the grass as they were to flush into the air.

On the other hand, given those circumstances, he wasn't doing badly, and it was wonderful being out here, without anyone looking over his shoulder. It was a perfect day, too; sun bright in a blue sky, air crisp, not enough breeze to give him any serious windage problems.

In fact, he could almost believe that he was a free man, free to do whatever he—

A shriek cut across the peace of the meadow, startling a covey of quail into the air practically at his feet.

They whirred away, tiny wings a blur, presenting him with five clear shots. But he had no time for game now, not when a second scream rent the air, and he knew it for the cry of a woman in terror.

The quail were barely in the air, and he was already half across the meadow, running in the direction from which the scream had come.

A third scream put more speed into his heels, and he burst through a coppice of birch trees to find himself at what was clearly a woodcutter's cottage, with an axe still in the stump and a pile of wood chopped that was as tall as the cottage, and a second and third beside it. A chestnut palfrey in fancy tack was tied to a sapling nearby. He took little more note than that of his surroundings, though—not with the bleeding body of what must have been the woodcutter himself lying facedown on the ground, and a young woman struggling in the grasp of a richly dressed man not thirty feet away.

Without even thinking about it, he had an arrow nocked and flying, and a second one drawn.

The first flew right past the man's ear, close enough to brush him with the fletching, and thunked into the tree behind him—just as Alexander had intended.

The man froze, the struggling girl still in his grasp.

She could not have been much older than fourteen or fifteen, and only just woman-ripe. And once, maybe Alexander would have laughed to see this, and gone on his way, for the girl and the man on the ground were only peasants, after all. And had he not come down the path that Madame Elena had laid for his feet, some future, harder Alexander might even have demanded his share of the girl—

But that past Alexander was gone, and the future one erased. And this bastard, be he never so noble, was not of a like kind with the Alexander who stood there with his second arrow aimed for the eye.

The stranger slowly met Alexander's gaze. He was clad in blue velvet and silk, and around his neck was a thick chain of golden links. Otherwise he was nondescript, with short hair cut to fit beneath a helm, and an ordinary enough, moustached face. "Well met, fellow," the man said, coolly. "Come to take a share of the spoils? I saw her first, but you're welcome to her when—"

"Let her go," said Alexander, feeling an icy fury rising up in him at the sight of the poor child's terror.

"I don't think you quite understand the situation here," the man replied, without turning a hair.

"These are my lands. I own these peasants. They are mine to—"

"Let her go!" Alexander interrupted with a roar. "Lands you may well own, but people, never! Now unless you want my arrow in your eye—"

The man barked a laugh. "And what if my men have you in their sight? What then?"

"I can drop you before they can reach me," Alexander countered, instantly. He knew it for truth; he also knew that it was unlikely the man would have positioned his men in hiding, if he'd even come with men at all. "If they had bows, I'd be dead already. Assuming they even exist.

Now let her go. You have until the count of three, or you die like the base-born cur you are.

One."

Slowly the man's grip loosened on the terrified girl.

"Two."

The girl wrenched herself free and threw herself down beside the man on the ground.

Alexander did not lower his bow.

"Girl," he barked. "Girl!"

Weeping, she looked up from the victim.

"Does that man live?" he asked harshly.

She nodded, tears streaming down her face.

"Good. Then he'll last long enough for us to find him help— and deal with this dog here. Give him what tending you can, then get you rope from the house."

The face of the nobleman went blank. "Just what, precisely, do you intend, fellow?" he asked, carefully, and the girl ran back to the house.

"Justice," Alexander replied succinctly. "I see by the belt you wear that you are a knight—or you pretend to that rank. By the laws of chivalry, I could kill you where you stand for the insult you gave that maiden."

The man's face went black with rage, and he shook as he made his reply. "You dare!" he howled. "You dare take me to task for what I do with my cattle on my—"

"Shut your mouth!" Alexander roared again. "Yes, I take you to task, for people are not cattle, to do with as you will, and the vows you swore as a knight bind you to honor all women, be they never so base! And speaking of bind— bind him, girl. Bind his hands behind him, and bind his arms to his body. Then take up that poor man and put him on that horse I see over there." He jerked his head in the direction of the richly caparisoned palfrey that clearly belonged to the knight. "You will lead the horse, and I will prod this dog before us, and we will go to a lady who will see justice done for you, and to this—"

And the man—and the maid—abruptly burst into peals of delighted laughter, like the wild pealing of joyful bells ringing out for a great victory, and the triumphant trumpeting of bugles on the battlefield.

And before Alexander could even begin to react to that, the body on the ground—vanished.

And the cottage vanished. And the peasant maid and the richly clad knight also vanished.

But in their places stood two beings the like of which Alexander had never before seen.

That they were Fae, Elves, he had no doubt—but they were to the Brownies and that odd little creature he might or might not have met down at the pond what a brilliantly faceted diamond was to a quartz crystal. Or perhaps, what lightning and thunder were to the little spark that came from rubbing silk against amber. There were no words to describe them adequately, and now he knew why, when the books in Elena's Library had tried to tell what the Great Fae were like, they simply said, "Their like is not in the world."

There were things that marked them—the delicately pointed ears, the long and narrow faces, the slender, graceful bodies, the ground-sweeping manes of silken hair that graced both sexes, the strange, intricately wrought garb that they wore that was both jewelry and clothing in all the colors of green that ever there were. But none of that was what they were. If enchantment had a form, it was theirs.

"Well done, Prince Alexander," said the she—who was a Queen among her people, surely.

"And well and truly said and meant, for meaning is as important as action. You have passed our test."

"More than passed, pearl of my heart," the male—also, most surely, royal. "We looked only to see he intended a rescue. Instead he dared to think of justice, and against one he might well have sought common cause with, once." As Alexander slowly lowered his bow, the string going slack in his fingers, they both approached him, with deliberate grace and gliding steps. "Yes," the King continued, fixing Alexander with a penetrating gaze. "Yes. I believe he is what I hoped for."

"Then a gift I grant to you, Prince among mortals," said the Queen, "for it is, I think, a gift that you will use wisely and well." And she reached out with one long, slender finger and touched him lightly in the middle of his forehead, and a second time on his lips; he licked them involuntarily, and tasted something like honey.

It was as if some dam inside him burst, and suddenly he was flooded with sensation. Mostly vision, as swirls and clouds of glowing light sprang up around him and all about him, but mostly circling the two Elves. But there were other things, sensations he couldn't quite put a name to, but which left him dazzled, nonetheless.

Then the King did the same—

But this time nothing happened, or at least, nothing obvious.

"Now go you back to dwelling of the mortal Godmother called Elena," said the King, with a pleased chuckle.

"And tell her—?" Alexander managed.

"Oh, she will know what to make of you," the Queen said, amid more peals of that silvery laughter, that he joined in with, without quite knowing why he did so. "Trust me, she will know!"