Finding the barracks was easy enough. Dusty parade grounds and sprawling tent towns bordered the cluster of long, low buildings. He floated down to perch on a rooftop, surveying the men below. Hundreds marched around in the dust, others trained in groups with slashing swords and parrying shields. Many more lived in the tents and rested in the barracks. How was he to find one man amongst so many? The task seemed impossible, for none of his Powers would aid him in this endeavour.
Pondering the problem, he watched the men. He could not search for red hair; the men wore helmets and looked alike. He would have to ask Talsy to help as part of her clan bond. All she had to do was enquire as to the whereabouts of young Arrin. Once he had the answer, he could do the rest himself. Perhaps he would have to grant a Wish in return, but Talsy would not ask for much.
As he was about to spread his wings once more, a nearby conversation caught his ear, and he turned his head to listen. Two officers paused in their strolling below, brought to a halt by the serious nature of their topic.
'How many physicians have seen the Prince?'
'Too many, if you ask me.'
From Chanter’s vantage, only the top of the soldiers' helmets were visible.
The first man nodded. 'It seems certain that he will die, then?'
The second officer replied, 'The King is in despair, and it will augur badly for the future, since the Queen can have no more children.'
'Indeed. The kingdom shall have no heir.'
The first officer strolled onwards again. 'Unless the King casts off Merrilin, but he is sadly reluctant to do so.'
Chanter pondered the information. A stroke of luck, it seemed, had fallen across his path. Spreading his wings, he flew towards the distant palace in the heart of the city. King Garsh's citadel rose above humbler buildings, fluted marble pillars supporting its high domed roof. Manicured gardens surrounded it, and mighty pillared buildings flanked them. A sprawl of servants' quarters and stables bordered these.
Unimpressed by the magnificence of Lowmen's achievements, Chanter drifted down to alight upon one of the trees in the garden. Many gulls waited there, making his presence invisible amongst them. To find the King in the huge palace would be a daunting task, though not as impossible as finding the boy in the barracks. At least he would be able recognise the King.
Chanter found out what the gulls waited for when a young girl in a frilly yellow dress came out and threw bread to them. The gulls swooped and caught it in mid-air, making her giggle with delight. When she left, so did the gulls, and Chanter had to wait alone as the sun traversed the sky. Waiting never bothered Mujar, since there was so much to see and hear, from the warbling of garden birds to the sap rising in the trees. People wandered past below, garishly dressed courtiers and their ladies, army officers with their advisors and scribes. Servants hurried by on errands, gardeners pushed barrows of leaves and manure. A giggling gaggle of maids came to cut roses for the palace, and a pair of young lovers met under a spreading tree nearby.
The sun sank when a lone man walked with bowed head through the garden, his hands clasped behind his back. A simple dark blue velvet coat trimmed with gold embroidery and a crisp white shirt with lacy sleeves clad his burly form, his fawn leggings tucked into black leather boots. The thin gold band that encircled his brow caught Chanter's eyes. Flaxen hair hung in a plait down the King's back, and a darker, curly beard hid his chin. Frowns had lined his brutal visage, and cold green eyes glittered under shaggy brows. Though not a young man, King Garsh retained a well-muscled figure.
Chanter glided down to land on the path before the King, who stopped to frown at him. Chanter transformed with a rush of Ashmar, and the King stepped back, his eyes widening, then his brows drew together in an even deeper frown.
'Mujar!'
Chanter held out a hand, palm up. 'No harm.'
'What do you want, beggar?'
'I ask a favour.'
King Garsh sneered, 'Why should I grant you a favour?'
'Is the King of Rashkar versed in the ways of Mujar?'
The King snorted. 'I care nothing for your kind.'
'You have an advisor who is?'
'I have many advisors, but I don't need one to tell me how to deal with a damned Mujar!'
Chanter shook his head. 'You do.'
Garsh eyed Chanter, his florid face mottled with anger. He fiddled with his lacy sleeves, clearly torn, until curiosity got the better of him and he turned to bellow a name at the palace. A tense minute passed before a tall, slender man in a severe black suit emerged, with two guards. The soldiers started to draw their swords, and Chanter prepared to invoke Ashmar. The advisor grabbed the soldiers' sleeves.
'No! Don't threaten him! He's no danger to the King, he's Mujar!'
Chanter relaxed as the guards released their weapons. The advisor, a clean-shaven young man with dark hair and brown eyes, passably handsome but for a prominent nose, persuaded them to stay where they were and came forward alone. The King turned to him as he arrived beside his monarch, and the advisor faced Chanter, holding out a hand, palm up.
'No harm.'
Chanter nodded.
King Garsh glared at his advisor. 'Yusan, this upstart Mujar scum has the effrontery to come into my garden and beg me for a favour.'
'Grant it, Your Majesty,' Yusan advised.
'What?' The King looked incensed. 'Why should I do anything for him?'
Yusan turned to him. 'Majesty, you pay me to advise you, and I beg you to listen to me. All will be clear as soon as you grant his favour.'
'But why the hell should I?'
'Please, Majesty, just do it.'
King Garsh shook his head like an angry dire bear. 'Yusan -'
'Majesty, please,' Yusan interrupted. 'You will thank me for this if you do it. If you're displeased with the outcome, strike off my head, but grant the Mujar's wish before he grows tired of waiting and leaves.'
King Garsh studied his advisor's desperate face, his brows rising. 'Very well, but if this displeases me, I shall indeed have your head.'
Yusan nodded, bowing.
The King turned to glare at Chanter. 'What do you want?'
Chanter stepped back and bent one knee, raised his arms and stretched them out. Spreading his hands in a graceful gesture, he bowed his head. 'I ask for the life of one boy from the King's army, named Arrin Torquil.'
Garsh’s scowl deepened. It seemed to be the only expression he was capable of, for it hardly ever left his face. 'His life? You want him killed?'
Yusan plucked at his sleeve. 'No, Sire, I think he wants to take the boy away. Say yes, I beg you.'
Garsh threw Yusan an angry look, then turned back to Chanter, who remained in his poised position. 'Very well.'
Yusan said, 'Granted, Mujar.'
Chanter straightened and smiled. 'Gratitude.'
'Wish.'
'Wish,' Chanter allowed.
'The Prince is mortally ill. Save him.'
The Mujar nodded. 'Granted.'
Yusan slumped and looked at the King, who shook his head. 'I'll not let him near my son!'
'Sire, he can save Prince Mystar. It's his only hope!'
'I'm not letting a damned Mujar lay his dirty hands on my son!'
'My King, the boy will not live past sunset. The doctors have said so. They can do nothing more for him. He's dying! Your kingdom will be without an heir. You will be forced to cast off Merrilin and take another wife, lest your
