Fairy Godmother

still no sign of the crossroads!

Which left only one answer. And it wasn't that he was lost.

'Magic,' he said aloud, savagely. Someone was plaguing him with some sort of magical impediment.

He did not like magic. It was not logical, it was not ordered, and any sort of riff- raff could use it. It might have been a very useful weapon in war, but the trouble was, the only time that the so- called 'good' magicians would consent to do such a thing was when you were fighting against an 'evil' magician. You could employ an 'evil' magician, of course, but you could never trust him not to turn on you, and anyway, the moment you made use of such a tool, every 'good' magician for hundreds of leagues around would come fight for your enemies because you were using an 'evil' magician.

And then there were the other things that were associated with magic — beasts and birds and things that were neither, people who did not answer to any laws that he recognized and could not be depended upon to act logically. He didn't like any of them. When you fought a man, you should be able to use straightforward tactics on him, and not have to wonder if he was going to set fire to you. When you met a woman, you should be able to tell at a glance what her station in life was, and know what to expect from her, and not have to wonder if she would seduce you or let you think you were seducing her, and then wake up turned into a pig.

No, he did not like magic at all, and if this was King Stancia's idea of a good first test —

It might well be, too. He'd heard a rumor that Stancia had got the aid of a Sorcerer in setting up this Quest. Sorcerers had a habit of showing complete disregard for such niceties as borders. The Sorcerer might think it amusing to set the first 'test' in Phaelin's Wood, on the Kohlstania side of the border.

The more he thought about it, the angrier he became. He packed up his camp, seething, and mounted his destrier in a foul mood. Magic! It might as well be cheating!

Wretched magicians. Stupid, senile old men who depended on them. Well, he would show them! From now on, he would depend on his compass and not the map, if he had to cut his own road to do so.

He took his compass out of the saddlebag and opened the case with a smirk that swiftly turned to a teeth- clenched frown.

For the compass needle was spinning merrily, with no sign that it intended to stop.

Magic!

Elena waited, sitting on a rock in the concealment of a dense clump of birch-saplings, just before the crossroads. She had the advantage that the crossroads itself was on the far side of a relatively cleared space in the forest; she was able to get a good long look at the Questers as they emerged from the denser growth. The first Prince, Octavian, approached on a great bay warhorse looking rather the worse for two nights spent in the forest. He was wearing light armor, but he didn't seem to have a great deal of kit about him, and it showed in his appearance. From the look of him — moving stiffly, dark circles under his eyes, twigs in his hair — he'd spent both nights on the ground, under the stars, with his saddle for a pillow. All three boys had reminded her of animals, actually — Julian an amiable hound and Alexander an arrogant and rather sleek fox. This one was the gruff wolf, and the resemblance was only heightened by his state.

She waited on her rock, quietly, to see if he'd notice her. She saw his eyes flicker towards her, then saw, just as clearly, that he dismissed her as unimportant.

Oh, yes, do that. She waited until he was just passing her before speaking up.

'Have ye a crust of bread, milord?' she whined. 'They've turned me out as too old to work, and I'm perishing of hunger.'

He ignored her. She raised her voice. 'Please? Milord? Please, good sir?'

Nothing.

Now, at this point, he could have stopped, offered her something, and asked for directions. She would have given them to him. She would not have told him the keys to the puzzles that the Sorcerer was going to set him, but at least he would have gotten to the Glass Mountain.

He did neither; he rode on as if she was of no more importance than a beetle.

Fine, she thought, and touched her staff to the path again as he rode out of sight under the trees.

'Twist me and turn me, and bring me to grief.

Muddle my pathway and give no relief.

Send me to wander a month and a day,

Give me no guidance and keep me astray.

Then when a month and a day will have sped,

If I am kinder and my pride's been shed,

Then send me on homeward. But if I'm too high

Then keep me astray till a year has gone by.'