Once upon a dreadful time

of the whole, I merely need you to put them ashore at the nearest place where they can join me.”

Boom! Boom! There came a great pounding on the trapdoor, as if the men below were using a ram.

“My lord!” shrilled Hradian, desperation in her eyes.

Orbane sighed in exasperation and gestured at the entry, and a dead silence fell. Then he turned to Burque. “Well?”

“This army of yours we are to transport from Port Cient, are they assembled? If so, it will take me a good six moons to gather most of the fleet together.”

“Nonsense,” snapped Orbane. “Simply take me to where there are seagulls, and I will send messages to all.”

“You can do that, my lord?”

Again ire at being questioned crossed Orbane’s face, but he held himself in check. “The gulls, Captain, the gulls, and I will have your fleet at Port Cient in less than a fortnight.”

“And this army we are to transport, how many in all? For that will determine the number of ships.”

“Mayhap two thousand or so,” said Orbane.

“Your pardon, my lord, but a mere two thousand does not seem to be much of an army to me.”

Orbane smiled. “If they were just men, then I would agree.

But this is an army of Changelings.”

“Changelings!” blurted Burque. “I am not certain my men will put up with Changelings on their ships.”

“Are you not the Captain of Captains?” seethed Orbane.

“I am, but-”

“Let me put it this way, my Captain of Captains, if you do not transport them, then they will find a way to come unto Brados, and when they arrive they will destroy all that is here.

They are Changelings, and you have no defenses that will stop them from the air and sea and land and under the land. So, you can either move my army for me and win your riches, or not do so and see your fiefdom utterly destroyed and your fleet at the bottom of the sea.”

. .

Three days later, with the agreement struck and the message-bearing gulls long gone, Hradian and Orbane left Brados. The Captain of Captains was glad to be well quit of them, for Orbane had ruined many a woman in the town, and Hradian many a man.

. .

Another day went by, and in the harbor at Port Mizon, a seagull landed upon a dhow, one of the ships captured of recent by a ship of King Avelar’s fleet. The gull, a capsule attached to a leg, did not seem afraid of men, and in fact sought one out. Within a candlemark the missive was in the hands of Vicomte Chevell.

“It is in the old corsair cipher,” said Chevell, peering at the runes. “One I well know.” He reached for a quill and parchment.

Within but moments he had the message decoded. He paled and said, “Oh, my,” and then turned to an aide. “Fetch me a horse.”

As the lad ran away, “A horse, Captain?” asked Armond, former second in command on Chevell’s Sea Eagle but now a captain of his own vessel-the Hawk.

“Oui. I must see the king. It seems Orbane is loose.”

“Orbane loose?”

Chevell nodded. “And that’s not all. The corsairs are sailing to Port Cient to board an army of Changelings and deliver them here.”

Distant Drums

Messenger falcons flew back and forth among the Forests of the Seasons as well as to and fro the king’s demesne, and, given the seers’ visions and Michelle’s and Luc’s conjectures, all decided the most likely place for Valeray and Saissa and the princes and princesses was that they were somewhere in the Great Darkness beyond the Black Wall of the World. And from the legends concerning that void, the only safe place to be therein was the Castle of Shadows, else one could be lost forever, mayhap even falling endlessly through the impenetrable dark. And so they concluded there was nought to be done but to find Hradian and retrieve the key, and then to seek someone who knew the way to that inescapable gaol and hope against hope that is where the prisoners would be found. They also decided the best chance of running down Hradian lay with Raseri and Rondalo, about whom they had heard nought whatsoever since the Ice Sprite had found them.

Some five days after the seers had given their visions, Prince Roel and Armsmaster Anton strode among the men at wooden swordplay on the training grounds at Springwood Manor, and they corrected feints, and showed the way of parries and ripostes, and demonstrated shield bashes, and other such one-on-one combat tactics, giving praise where praise was due, and correction where it was warranted. Elsewhere in the Spring wood, in scattered villages, where men from the towns and nearby steads had gathered, experienced warriors of the manor warband also conducted lessons in the art of killing foe while preventing them from doing the same. Likewise, in the Summerwood, Autumnwood, and Winterwood, and in Valeray’s realm, men were training at arms as well, for Luc and Laurent and Blaise and Emile and the war bands under their command were hard at work preparing, should war become necessary.

In the Springwood, Roel finally called a halt to the duels, and he stood on a small platform and looked out over the men-

some three hundred altogether-as they gathered ’round.

And he raised his voice so that all could hear: “ ’Tis not likely any of us will have the luxury of fighting a single foe, for in war all is chaos and madness, with enemy before and aflank and behind, and melee is the rule. And so-” A distant horn cry interrupted Roel’s words.

He frowned and looked toward the far woods.

Again sounded the horn, and bursting out from among the trees came a rider, a remount in tow. Across the sward galloped the stranger, and he wore the tabard of a king, but just which king it was-

“ ’Tis Avelar’s man,” said Anton.

“Oui, I see it is,” replied Roel.

Once more sounded the horn, and, with the men parting before him, up to the stand galloped the youth. He leapt from his steed and called, “A message from Vicomte Chevell.” He unlooped the canister strap over his head and from ’round his shoulder and handed the container to Roel.

Roel popped the cylinder open and took the parchment from within and unrolled it. “ ’Tis in Avelaine’s hand.” A moment later-“Merde! Orbane is free.”

A murmur of consternation whispered through the men.

Anton glared at them, and the mutter quelled.

Roel looked at the armsmaster and said, “It seems Raseri and Rondalo did not intercept the witch ere she let the wizard loose. We can only hope they succeed in running Orbane and Hradian down and killing them.”

Roel then read the remainder of the message and sighed. “It seems the corsairs are to ferry an army of Changelings to Port Mizon. Chevell intends for the king’s fleet to intercept them at sea and thwart Orbane’s scheme.”

As Roel fell silent, “My lord,” said the courier, “I am to say that this same message has been sent to your brothers and Prince Luc, but that you are to send the message on by falcon to your sire, for those swift fliers can reach him ere we could by riding.”

Roel nodded and called an aide to him. “Take this to the scribe and have him set down a copy in his finest hand to go by falcon to Sieur Emile.” Roel glanced at the sun. “And haste! For there is yet enough of the day for the falcon to reach the Castle of the Seasons.”

“Oui, my lord,” said the lad, and off he sped.

. .

In the Winterwood, Michelle ran through the snow, the Wolfpack ranging among the trees, her guardians on