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 --   DargonZine Volume 2, Issue 4        09/29/89          Cir 816    --
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 --                            Contents                                --
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   Dragon Hunt 3              Max Khaytsus           Naia 25-Yule 7, '13
   The Knight of Stone        Jon "Grimjack" Evans   Yuli 11-22, 1013
   Trial before Tribunal      Wendy Hennequin        Sy 15-22, 1013
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1                          Dragon Hunt
                             Part 3
                         by Max Khaytsus
             (b.c.k.a khaytsus%tramp@boulder.colorado.edu)


          When I was  young and foolish, I  sought adventure, not
     realizing  what dangers  it could  bring. Once,  when in  my
     early  twenties, I  signed  on  a ship  going  on a  foreign
     safari.
          The  passengers  were  a   mystic,  a  priest  and  two
     warriors, on their  way to Gereon, to hunt  a dragon rumored
     to  live there.  To make  a story  that may  take a  book in
     itself short, one of the two warriors drank the blood of the
     dragon  and bathed  his  body  in it,  in  hope of  becoming
     invincible. He died  a few weeks later, on  the return trip,
     when a  mast broke in  a storm and  crashed down on  him. In
     view of this, I must dispute the myths cast upon dragons.
          To start  with, let me assure  you that a dragon  is no
     more than a large lizard. It has not the rump of a lion, nor
     the forelegs of  an eagle, nor the wings of  a bat. A dragon
     is a survivor of times past, when giant lizards still walked
     the surface of Makdiar. As such a survivor, the dragon is in
     no way a supernatural or  mythical combination of beasts and
     is completely  characteristic of other lizards.  Dragons are
     cold blooded, with scaly skin, a forked tongue and so on, as
     long as this  describes a lizard as well,  although there is
     one notable discrepancy to this  rule. Dragons have what can
     be termed as wings, but  from my research and single meeting
     with a dragon, I feel safe in stating that these are no more
     than strong membranes binding the  extension of the spine to
     the body,  much as the  skin on  a duck's webbed  feet. This
     trait enables the dragons to fly or more accurately, glide.
          This  leaves  one more  myth  to  be disclaimed  -  the
     dragon's ability to breath fire. If such an ability, which I
     will not  dispute, exists,  I have not  witnessed it  and so
     must dismiss it as a mythical ability of this species. Fires
     and  treasures  and  great  intelligence  have  always  been
     attributed to  dragons by legend  alone. Perhaps it  is some
     lizard's fetish for shiny objects, just as the crow's, which
     made its way into folklore and  in order to obtain and store
     the  treasure, these  lizards  were  made intelligent.  Fire
     breathing can  be just another  part of this same  myth. The
     dragon's  primeval element  is water  and all  recorded have
     lived in damp dark caves on  shores of large bodies of water
     or deep inside non-volcanic mountains.
          No magic, no mystery. A dragon is simply an animal that
     happened to  become famous  in folklore  and myths.  Being a
     nearly extinct species has  contributed to the dragon's fame
     and fewer sightings and almost  no survivors of dragon hunts
     are what we consider to be a romantic legend.
         -Bistra, head chronicler, City of Shakin, "The Realities
             of Myths", pages 81-85


      Dead. Rien looked  at the body of the hermit.  Blade wound in the
 neck...
      "It was probably Cril or one of his men," Kera said.
      Rien fought  to retain his sanity.  "How long will we  be leaving
 this bloody trail?" he looked at her.
1     "We didn't  do this," Kera said.  "We only killed those  who were
 after us..." Her voice trailed off, as she realized she had killed two
 men.
      "We led them here," Rien glared  at her. "We did this." He turned
 to leave. "Coming?"
      Kera looked  at the dead hermit  one last time and  followed Rien
 out. "Aren't we going to bury him?" she asked.
      Rien paused  and looked back.  "No," he answered. "We  don't have
 the time." He took two more steps  and stopped again. "He did his best
 to help us. We have to put him to rest."
      "We need  to release the  dogs too," Kera added.  "They'll starve
 otherwise."

      A few  hours later Rien  and Kera  finished with their  tasks and
 returned to the  horses. "I was thinking of not  returning to Dargon,"
 Rien said. "It  would only put us  closer to Liriss. Let's  go down to
 Tench. Hopefully that will give us a lead."
      "I doubt there are any dragons in Tench," Kera said. "It would be
 easier to find a  sage or a scribe or a chronicler to  point us on our
 way in Dargon than in Tench."
      "Tench  is a  two  street town.  There are  no  sages or  scribes
 there," Rien stated.
      "Then why go there?"
      "For a two  street town, Tench sees more traffic  than Dargon can
 hope to. We need  the people in Tench. A lot of  them travel; they see
 things that  may help. Besides,  Dargon is not  a very safe  place for
 either of us right now."
      "Do you really consider Dargon to be such a danger?" Kera asked.
      "I killed Terell. Liriss is probably  on a war path by now. There
 are plenty of other  things that would be hard to deal  with at a time
 like this. We have to got to Tench."
      "But if it's so small..." Kera began. "Why bother going there?"
      "Hope," Rien answered simply.

      "Lame Duck Inn?" Kera wondered out loud, stopping in mid stride.
      Rien bumped into her and thoughtfully looked up at the sign above
 the door, then guided Kera inside.  Across the lobby a small man, with
 his back to the entrance, was flipping his way through a book.
      "Excuse me?"  Kera approached the  counter, seeing that  Rien was
 not going to take charge.
      "Uh..." the man froze, holding up a page, but then turned it over
 and continued reading the listings.
      Kera struck  her plated forearm  against the top of  the counter,
 making the innkeeper jump. "Yes,  yes!" he spun around, startled. "One
 room or two?"
     Kera looked at the short balding man with a hint of amusement on her
face before answering.  "One," she ordered.
      Rien started to protest, but decided against it.
      "Right  away, right  away,"  the man  mumbled,  placing the  book
 before her. "Sign  in right here," he pointed to  a blank line. "Boy!"
 he screamed into the doorway behind the counter. "Boy!"
      Moments later a  skinny boy, with half open eyes  appeared in the
 doorway.
      "Show these people to room four," the innkeeper ordered.
      "And take  care of  our horses,"  Kera instructed,  returning the
 book.
      The boy nodded,  circling the counter to the front  of the lobby.
 "This way, please," he said with a sleepy voice.
      "Coming?" Kera prodeled Rien and he followed her up the stairs.
      "This town is even smaller  than I remember," Rien commented when
1he and Kera were left alone. "It will  be a miracle if we will be able
 to get anything accomplished here."
      "So will we go on to Magnus?" Kera asked.
      "No," Rien answered. "Not yet. It was only a passing thought when
 I mentioned it.  Magnus has the resources  to help us and  I have some
 friends there  who would  be willing  to help, but  we don't  have the
 time.  Depending on  what we  learn  here, we  may have  to return  to
 Dargon...or to Maari.  I strongly doubt that there are  any dragons in
 Cherisk."
      "First time I heard you giving up," Kera commented.
      "First time  I had  my back  to a wall,"  Rien said.  "You didn't
 expect me to be all powerful, did you?"
      Kera shook her head. "No, but I've seen you take on odds I'd turn
 down."
      "Like  what? Terell  the  'great' alchemist?  Cril  and his  men?
 Liriss' guards in the alley?"
      Kera nodded.
      "That wasn't taking on greater odds.  That was fighting the way I
 learned it  -- dirty." Rien  paced the room, metal  sollerets clanking
 unevenly against the wood floor. "If  I would have stopped to think, I
 would have never drunk Terell's potion, chased you down an alley and I
 certainly would not have agreed to have  sex with you in the middle of
 a forest. I created my problems by  not thinking and had to get out of
 them by use of force."
      "Where do elves have sex?" Kera smiled.
      Rien looked at her sternly, then smiled back. "Ljosalfar do it in
 the woods. I don't know about Dopkalfar."
      "So what wrong with the forest?" Kera asked.
      "I suppose  nothing," Rien  answered. "Only  it's not  done while
 someone is trying to hunt them down."
      "And anything wrong with this room?"
      Rien glanced around at the old stained furniture he did not get a
 chance to look  at before. "There's a  lot of work to do  and you need
 rest."
      "Won't you be resting?" Kera asked suggestively.
      "My rest  does not depend on  sleep," Rien said and  Kera's smile
 widened. "But I do intend on finding out what this town has to offer,"
 he added hurriedly.
      The innkeeper was still up, still reading his book where Kera had
 left  it. Rien  looked  over his  shoulder, realizing  that  it was  a
 ledger, containing guest names, room numbers and lengths of stay.
      "Is there a tavern here?"
      "Down the street," the man yawned, not looking up from his work.
      "Thank you,"  Rien muttered and walked  out of the inn.  The town
 was dead quiet, with the exception  of a single noisy building not far
 away.
      Rien made his way there and found  the bar. A fat balding man was
 pouring  drinks, at  times  missing  the glasses  he  aimed for.  Rien
 ordered an ale and when it was  served, asked the bartender if he knew
 anything about dragons. The man wandered off laughing to himself.
      "Pay no attention to him," someone behind Rien said. "By the time
 it's this late, he's tasted most of what he served."
      "I wonder how he ever makes a profit," Rien said, turning to face
 a  farmer  standing behind  him.  "You  wouldn't know  anything  about
 dragons...would you?"
      "Sorry," the  farmer released an  abrupt laugh. "You need  a sage
 for that problem. I'm afraid this town is just too small."
      "I realize that," Rien said.
      "I'd even  venture to  say there's  no such  beast in  this whole
 kingdom,"  the  farmer  added.  "Why  are  you  asking  anyhow?"  Rien
1hesitated answering  and the  farmer went on.  "Want to  recapture the
 glory of the old dragon hunts?"
      Rien smiled silently.  "As easily as in a  legend..." He returned
 to the Lame  Duck Inn shortly before sunrise and  spent the first half
 of the morning rereading key paragraphs of "The Realities of Myths".
      By the  time Kera came downstairs,  the inn was full  with people
 eating breakfast.  She found Rien  sitting in a corner,  going through
 his book. "You've been at it all night?" she asked.
      "Since sunrise," he answered. "I spent the night asking questions
 in the tavern, although most drunks aren't very cooperative."
      "Did you learn anything?"
      "One man recommended I find an old witch named Maari in the woods
 west  of here,"  Rien smirked.  "Most people  couldn't even  recommend
 that."
      Kera  too smiled,  in spite  of the  graveness of  the situation.
 "What about the book?"
      "It's about as  helpful as Maari. Bistra wrote  it for reference,
 not practical applications."
      Kera shook her head in dispair.
      "But I have  come to a decision," Rien said.  "Having polled most
 of this town in a single  night, I've decided that tomorrow morning we
 will leave for Magnus."
      "It will take  too long!" Kera gasped. "You won't  be leaving any
 time for yourself!"
      "I am  half human," he reminded  her. "I may have  more time then
 they said. The disease may not even have as great an effect on me."
      "And if you don't have that time?"
      "Then I'll  make sure you  have a  better chance than  you've got
 now."
      Kera was  about to protest, but  kept quiet as two  men pushed by
 her and  sat down at a  neighboring table. She hesitated  talking with
 strangers so near  and was about to  ask Rien to move when  one of the
 two new comers started talking.
      "If the old man  wants to have a dragon, he can  go hunt one down
 himself."
      Kera and  Rien looked  at each other  in disbelief.  "Excuse me,"
 Rien leaned to face the new comers. "Did you say dragon?"
      One man continued  sipping his drink as the other  turned to look
 tolerantly at Rien. "Yeah. You dumb enough to go get one?"
      "Perhaps 'desperate'  would be  a better  choice of  words," said
 Rien.
      "Room twelve,  on the corner,"  the man answered and  returned to
 his companion.
      Rien and Kera did not waste any precious time persuing their good
 fortune and  hurried to the  specified room.  Behind them the  two men
 watched them leave, then one flipped a silver coin, catching it in mid
 air. "Easiest  silver I  made all month..."  The two  laughed merrily,
 calling for more drinks.

      A middle aged, grey haired man opened the door for Rien and Kera.
 He  stood as  tall as  Rien, dressed  in a  silver and  red robe  with
 swirling patterns.  "What can I  do for you?"  he asked with  a slight
 accent, examining the visitors.
      "We  heard you  were  interested in  hunting  dragons and  became
 curious," Rien said.
      "Ah, it  is I who is  curious about your dragon  fetish," the man
 responded. "Why don't you come in and tell me about it?"
      Cautiously Rien and  Kera stepped into the man's  room. They were
 surprised at  the man's approach to  their visit and he  seemed mildly
 amused.
1     "Please, don't  be surprised  by my curiosity,"  the man  said to
 Rien. "I  heard you in  the tavern last night  and could not  help but
 wonder what you need a dragon for."
      "You know where there is one?" Rien asked.
      "First things first," the man said. "Sit down. My story is short,
 but our discussion may  take a while." He waited for  Rien and Kera to
 follow his  instructions before continuing.  "My name is  Gerim Marat,
 though it  should mean  nothing to you.  I am a  jeweler by  trade and
 wizard by  profession. I give  advice to those  who can afford  it and
 will go out of my way for a good adventure."
      "So are you here for adventure or we for advice?" Rien asked.
      "Be  courteous and  introduce yourself  first," Gerim  suggested.
 Without hesitation Rien did so. In  his view Gerim could be a powerful
 wizard and these would better be left satisfied with the way the world
 spins around them. Old lessons  taught by wizards are certainly things
 to remember and keep in mind when talking to men of the trade.
      "Good, good," Gerim  smiled. "Why don't you tell me  now what you
 need a dragon for."
      "Why do you want to know?" Kera asked in a how-dare-you tone.
      "If I like your reason well  enough," the wizard said, "I may opt
 to help you."
      "We don't really need a dragon," Rien admitted. "We need a dragon
 egg..."
      "This is the right time  of the year," Gerim approved. "Providing
 that the dragon is in the mating  mood, that is. What will you do with
 it if you get it?"
      "We were promised medicine for it."
      "What kind of medicine?"
      "Aren't  you getting  a little  personal?" Kera  lost her  temper
 again.
      "Perhaps I am," the wizard agreed, "but  then I did say it was to
 be a lengthy discussion."
      Rien weighed the situation. Neither thinking, nor fighting seemed
 appropriate here. He  clasped Kera's hand in hopes that  she will calm
 down. "The cure is for lycanthropy."
      Gerim nodded.
      "May I see your book?"
      Rien permitted him to take  it and the wizard smiled approvingly,
 flipping through the pages, stopping  at the bookmarks. A minute later
 he returned the volume. "Which of you has the disease?"
      Kera tried pulling her hand from Rien's grip.
      "Both of you. I see..."
      "If this is  all you wanted to know," Rien  began, getting up and
 pulling Kera up with him.
      "No, not yet,"  the wizard stopped them. "One  man yesterday told
 you to  see old Maari and  you told him that  she is the one  who sent
 you. Is that right? Is she the one who wants the egg?"
      "She said she needs it as an ingredient," Rien answered.
      "Good, good," the wizard smiled.  "If you return tomorrow at this
 time, I will have one waiting for you."
      "And how much will you want for your 'advice'?"
      "Let's just  say it's  my adventure,"  Gerim continued  to smile.
 "Now go. I have a lot of work to do."
      Rien and Kera left the room,  as amazed as they were entering it.
 "Do you  think he is  serious?" Kera asked when  they were out  of the
 man's hearing range.
      "He seemed anxious to help," Rien admitted. "I really don't know.
 We won't lose much if we don't leave tomorrow morning."
      "Do you think he's a real wizard?" Kera asked again.
      "We'll know tomorrow," Rien answered.
1     "How? Have you ever seen a dragon egg?"
      "No, but I  assume it's bigger than that of  a chicken. Maybe the
 size of a head."
      Kera sighed. "I hope you're right."
      Rien  smiled at  her.  "Go eat  breakfast and  I'll  see to  what
 supplies we may need."
      "I'm  not hungry.  I'll go  with you,"  Kera said  and leaned  on
 Rien's shoulder. "I wish this was all over. I wish I could relax."
      "Life was  boring when it  was simple,"  Rien put his  arm around
 her.

      Gerim went  into the make  shift laboratory, considering  what he
 had just done. If this couple was gullible enough, he could force them
 to do the job for him. If they weren't...they had to be. It would be a
 simple con, easy to execute and they would never be in danger...unless
 they knew or Maari suspected.
      Gerim approached the crystal ball. "Where are they?" and an image
 of Rien  and Kera exiting the  inn appeared. He listened  carefully to
 their conversation, then got up. "They need to be tested..."

      "I thought  you said  there wasn't anything  to sight  see around
 here."
      "There wasn't  last time  I was here,"  Rien repeated,  almost to
 himself.
      "That's a pretty big army camp,  to be in the middle of nowhere,"
 Kera said. "When's the last time you were here?"
      "A while back," Rien sighed. It was really before the rule of the
 previous king.
      "What's a while in your terms?"
      "Long enough for this to be  built, it would seem..." He sat down
 in the  lush spring grass, pulling  Kera down next to  himself. "I was
 really hoping for this to be a bit more deserted..."
      For the first time Kera realized just how tired and worn out Rien
 looked. "Why  don't you go  back to the inn  and get some  sleep," she
 suggested. "I can take care of the supplies we need myself."
      "I'm fine," Rien shook his head. "I'll get some rest tonight."
      "I wasn't recommending it," Kera insisted.
      Rien's gaze followed  the people practicing in  the field. "Trust
 me, I'm fine."
      Kera leaned  on his  shoulder and  he shifted so  as not  to fall
 over.
      "I can tell,"  Kera sighed, as Rien pushed her  back, forcing her
 to the ground.
      "Don't argue  with me,"  he held  her down for  a moment.  "I was
 hoping to find a  quiet place to soak in the  atmosphere. It's not the
 army camp I should  be worried about distracting me --  you do the job
 well enough alone."
      Kera sat up, brushing the lose grass off her side, then lunged at
 Rien, pushing him down under herself. He grunted, rolled over and held
 her down, reducing her struggling to helpless wriggling.
      "Cut it out."
      Kera held still and Rien let her go. They lay next to each other,
 staring up at the blue sky.
      "Are  you going  to trust  the wizard?"  Kera asked  after a  few
 moments of silence.
      "Probably," Rien said.  "Even if he wants some  payment, it can't
 be worse than Maari's, but I want to hear what he has to say first."
      "What about Maari?"
      "I can deal with the dragon egg -- a task in itself," Rien began,
 "but the  business of her wanting  a subject to cast  spells through I
1can not  agree to. I  wish I could  come up with  a good way  to trick
 her."
      "But if you're  against what she is doing, why  not stop her from
 doing it?"
      "That wouldn't be right. If anyone could kill anyone else because
 they disagree  with their basic beliefs,  the only rule would  be that
 the strongest rule.  I don't believe in making myself  an exception to
 that. Plenty people already do as it is."
      "So what are you going to do?"
      Rien turned  over, digging his  elbows into the ground.  "I don't
 know. Burn that bridge when we get to it."
      They lay like  that for a while longer, enjoying  the morning sun
 without their  armor, observing  the army  camp at  the bottom  of the
 hill.
      "That  camp   is  strategically   misplaced,"  Rien  said   in  a
 matter-of-fact voice. "It would take them  weeks to get to the nearest
 border..."
      Kera turned over, adjusting herself to the moving sunlight. "This
 is wonderful," she muttered completely out of context and Rien sat up.
      "What?"
      Kera lay still.
      "What?" Rien asked again, touching her shoulder.
      "This is  wonderful without  armor," Kera mumbled,  shifting away
 from his touch.
      "Get up," Rien took her arm.  "You're not going to fall asleep on
 me. We still have a lot to do today."
      Lazily Kera  sat up and  Rien helped her  to her feet.  "Let's go
 find that store."
      They  returned to  town and  locating the  small wooden  building
 named Kristee  & Daughter, entered.  A mildly overweight woman  at the
 counter greeted the pair and asked what she could get them.
      "We'd like to  look around," Rien answered  politely and together
 with Kera retreated to the shelves of merchandise.
      "I'll get the  rations," Kera said, disappearing  deeper into the
 store after Rien's approving nod.
      Rien paused at a display of  equipment when suddenly he heard the
 woman at the counter exclaim loudly.
      "The money," a male voice sounded as Rien turned around. Two men,
 one with a sword,  a second with a crossbow stood  between him and the
 counter. The man with the crossbow motioned to Rien.
      "Yours too."
      The woman started frantically placing coins on the table.
      "You know you won't make it out of town," Rien pointed out.
      "And who's to stop us?" the man with the crossbow asked. "You?"
      Rien shrugged. "I doubt it. You seem too determined."
      "The money," the man repeated.
      At that time Kera  showed up at the front of  the store, her arms
 loaded with goods. "Are you just going to stand there?" she asked Rien
 before noticing anything wrong.  She shifted uncomfortably, looking at
 the two armed men. "I'll wait back there..."
      "Your money," the man with the crossbow repeated.
      Rien  noticed Kera  balancing what  she carried  on one  hand and
 immediately  stepped forward,  handing his  money to  the brigand  and
 blocking  Kera  from  his  view.  When he  stepped  back,  Kera  stood
 perfectly still.
      "You too," the  man indicated to Kera, who slowly  bent down, put
 what she  carried on the floor  and straitened with a  sudden flick of
 the wrist.
      The crossbow  went off  in panic, the  bolt harmlessly  hitting a
 wall and  the man who  fired it sank to  his knees, grasping  a dagger
1stuck in his stomach.
      Kera pulled out another dagger.
      The man  with the sword  hesitated -- try  throwing a sword  at a
 dagger.
      "Take your friend and go," Rien  instructed. "Or she may hack you
 too."
      The man hastily sheathed his sword and scooped some money off the
 counter.
      "Leave  the  money,"  Rien  added and  the  man,  supporting  his
 companion beat a hasty retreat.
      "Oh, mercy!" the  woman exclaimed, looking from Kera  to Rien and
 back again.  "How could  I ever  thank you? Oh...  Just take  what you
 wanted to buy and don't bother paying for it!"
      "That's  quite  all  right,  madam," Rien  smiled.  "It  was  our
 pleasure to help. No gratitude is needed."
      "I insist!"  the woman exclaimed  again. "You can't  even imagine
 how much help  you were! Now you  see, normally one of  the nice young
 men from  Lord Morion's school is  here to help  me if I need  it, but
 this time..." She was certainly long winded...

      The crystal ball  grew dark as its owner stood  up. His own quest
 would soon come to an end.
      "A test well  passed, but you two  will yet do my  job for me...I
 wish I could help your quest as well..."
 ------------------------------------------------------------------------
1                       The Knight of Stone
                      by Jon "Grimjack" Evans
                     (b.c.k.a. v047kfz7@ubvms)

      Setting rays silhouette the figure of a knight on a horse, poised
 on a hill.
      The rain fell heavily from the  dark grey sky, as the sun dropped
 behind the trees to the west. Jaryn, ankle deep in the muddy waters of
 the  graveyard, stared  at the  stone monument  honoring his  father's
 life. "Here lies  Sir Karl von Gruen," read  the headstone, "honorable
 knight of his Royal Majesty, the King."
      Jaryn gripped the sword at his side tightly, remembering the day,
 four years ago,  when his older brother left to  avenge their father's
 death. "If I'm  not back in a  year, my brothers," he  heard Mark say,
 "the  next son  must  follow."  That meant  young  Karl, our  father's
 namesake.
      Jaryn pulled  the grey hood of  his cloak over his  soaked blonde
 hair and turned toward the gates.  That day came and went, he thought,
 and Karl repeated those same words to  Dirk, the third son of the dead
 knight. Karl  left with the  hope of  rescuing Mark and  defeating our
 father's murderer at the same time.
      That year passed just as quickly as the first; and, on the second
 anniversary of  their father's  death, Dirk said  to Jaryn,  "Keep the
 family name alive. Marry before you leave in search of our honor." And
 then Jaryn was alone.
      Stepping into the stables, he called  the boy to fetch his horse.
 By the third anniversary of Sir Karl's passing, Jaryn had not married.
 He still  had dreams of falling  in love and raising  children, and he
 hated his father for  dying at the hands of a  foreigner, and he hated
 his  brothers for  not succeeding  in their  quest, leaving  him alone
 without hope of a life of peace. On  that day, he sank to his knees in
 the mud,  crying before the monument  of his father, hating  the world
 for the poor lot he was given.
      Jaryn mounted his beast, accepted his lance, and left the stables
 on  a  journey  marked  for  him four  years  before.  On  the  fourth
 anniversary of his  lord's demise, he left his wife  and son, the last
 bearers of his proud family name,  and entered the graveyard to mourn,
 one last time, his father's death. He did not expect to return.

      A flash of lightning captures the  figure of a charging knight in
 a split second of daylight.
      Jaryn knew what must be done, and  he knew where he had to do it.
 His  enemy lies  beyond the  hills to  the south,  in the  land called
 Caeredwyn. Jaryn  was no fool, however,  and knew his enemy  should be
 expecting him. Three times before, his enemy had defeated his father's
 sons; and three times before, he  knew they would be coming. Jaryn hid
 his approach not with stealth or cunning,  but with a field of grey on
 his shield.  He would not carry  the family crest as  did his brothers
 for he  had adopted this  new banner. The  grey of the  stone monument
 erected for his  father, and the greyness which filled  his life since
 his first brother's leaving.
      He spurred his mount lightly as  he approached the open fields of
 oats filling  the lands  outside his  father's home.  The huts  on the
 horizon belonged to his subjects, the farmers who worked day and night
 to  produce the  grain  which kept  them alive.  What  a simple  life,
 thought  Jaryn as  he rode  over  the lands.  To be  alive and  happy,
 married to  the woman of your  choice rather than one  chosen for you,
 having only to plant the seed and harvest it. I wish I could be one of
 you, not bound by honor to defend  a king you hardly know, or a father
 who never had time  for anything but his land. To be  able to grow old
1with  my wife,  to  raise my  children,  and not  to  worry about  the
 politics and  economics of the realm.  I am cursed, instead,  with the
 wealth of previous  oppressors, duty bound to tax you,  and pressed to
 defend my family's name. Such a simple life you have.
      Pulling himself from his dreams of  sunny days in the fields with
 a  beautiful wife  and three  strong sons,  he looked  out toward  the
 slowly approaching  hills on  the horizon. By  morning he  would reach
 them, nine days  he would travel through them, and  then he would meet
 his enemy.

      The stone knight's lance pointed at its target, ready to strike.
      Along the  road through  the hills, Jaryn  came across  a peasant
 with a  broken cart.  He looked at  the man, so  pitiful and  old, and
 thought that  surely there would be  another passerby to help  him. It
 was beneath Jaryn's  station to help him, and he  didn't want to touch
 the grimy fielder's cart, in any  event. First able person I encounter
 I will send  to help you, old  man. And he rode past,  hiding his face
 behind the grey steel visor of his helm.
      Farther  along, he  encountered  a group  of  young men,  healthy
 looking, and apparently more wealthy by  the swords at their sides. He
 told them of the man in the  road, and they laughed. It had been their
 work, and wasn't that a nice horse he was riding, and a fine lance and
 blade by his  side. They didn't have to explain  the situation to him,
 and he hastily grasped his lance, striking the first of the group.
      Red blood poured out of the man's throat as the lance struck into
 his neck. A  gasp, a cry, and the  man fell to the ground  with a dull
 thud. Jaryn looked at the corpse in surprise, and shock. He's dead, he
 thought  as he  watched the  blood mix  with the  muddy puddle  at his
 horse's feet. Several  times he was struck by the  weakly swung blades
 of his  opponents, but  he never  noticed. He  was untouchable  in his
 armor and his melancholy.
      He dropped  the lance and drew  forth the great blade  his father
 had made  for him  when he was  barely strong enough  to lift  it. Its
 weight was familiar to him, and gave  him the strength to look back at
 his attackers. He felt little or no remorse, now, as he lopped off one
 man's  head,  and  separated  another's arm  from  its  shoulder.  The
 remaining two fled  the unfeeling knight, hoping for  a more favorable
 encounter in another territory.
      Jaryn wiped his  blade and sheathed it. He would  leave the lance
 for any who  would take it. It  was his no longer, and  he thanked the
 thieves for  ridding him of  such an ignoble  tool. He would  face his
 enemy with  a sword,  not the  cowardly weapon his  enemy had  used to
 pierce his father's throat.

      A shield of  stone hung on the knight's arm,  ready to defend its
 owner from the oncoming blows of the enemy.
      Jaryn  arrived in  Caeredwyn with  much ado.  The people  did not
 often see strangers  from other provinces, and rarely a  lord. With my
 shield of grey,  he will not realize  who I am until  I challenge him,
 thought Jaryn.  He rode up  to the gates of  the keep, and  called for
 permission to enter. Jaryn gained the courtyard and begged an audience
 with the lord of the manor. Upon seeing his enemy, he spoke.
      You are  Kalen-Ord, the lord of  this keep? My name  is Jaryn von
 Gruen. I  have come to avenge  my father's death at  your hands, these
 four years past, as well as the death of my brothers before me. I will
 meet you in  combat of arms in  the fields outside your  keep when the
 sun is low in the sky. And Jaryn left.
      There was now much talk going  on in the town and its surrounding
 villages. Once more, Jaryn looked out  over the peaceful people of the
 land. They looked  just like the peasants of his  own land. They spoke
1the same  language as his  people. They had  the same simple  life his
 people  did. Again,  he longed  for a  simple life;  more so  now than
 before, since he  knew his life would  soon end. He wished  to see his
 wife again, to  hold his son in  his arms once more, and  to taste the
 wines his people made for the  summer festival one last time before he
 died.
      He had had enough of this.  Honor and pride had given him nothing
 in life, and had taken his father and three brothers from him besides.
 He would not fight Kalen-Ord. He would not avenge his father. He would
 go home, love his wife, raise his son, and rule his land.
      And  there was  Kalen-Ord, with  hundreds of  villagers following
 him, out to see their lord defend his honor.

      The grey  stone visor hid the  stoney eyes beneath the  helm, the
 last defense for the knight of stone.
      Kalen-Ord drew  up to  Jaryn and  asked him  where his  lance had
 gone. I do not use a lance, Kalen-Ord, Jaryn replied. It is the weapon
 which slew my father, and probably my  brothers, and so I will not use
 it. I will not fight you, Kalen-Ord. I have changed my mind. Honor and
 pride have only lost me my family, and I do not wish to die.
      You have  changed your  mind? Kalen-Ord  was much  surprised, and
 slightly annoyed. I  wish I could accept that, young  von Gruen, but I
 cannot.  You  have  challenged  me  in  the  presence  of  my  people,
 dishonored me, and  called me a murderer. Your brothers  did so before
 you, and I can  only hope Sir Karl did not have  more children such as
 these. I tire of killing young souls  in the name of honor, but let it
 be known that I never challenged them to battle. I sought to ally your
 father to  me, those years  ago, when I  was fearful of  more powerful
 lords. It was  his challenge I faced, when his  honor was bruised, and
 it has been his sons' ever since. You cannot change your mind, boy, as
 I cannot change the past.
      And so, he swung his horse  around and galloped a distance. Jaryn
 would face the lance  of Kalen-Ord with but a sword.  He did not care.
 He hoped  his son  would not follow  in his footsteps,  as he  and his
 brothers had followed in their's.
      It was  decided in  the first pass  as Kalen-Ord's  lance knocked
 Jaryn to the ground. The blood flowed slowly from his chest, his wound
 barely worth the effort to heal  it. Stripping his helm from his face,
 he spat on his sword and flung it from him.
      Kalen-Ord  rode to  him and  dismounted. My  honor is  satisfied,
 young lord. I still have no wish to kill you. You may go in peace. And
 Kalen-Ord,  Lord of  Caeredwyn,  rode  back to  his  keep, his  people
 straggling behind.
      Jaryn rose to  his feet and looked at his  wound. It was nothing,
 but it would scar and remind him of this day for the rest of his life.
 He stripped  his armor from his  body and mounted his  horse. He would
 return to the  house of his father,  now his house, and  love his wife
 and hold his son and rule his lands.
      A grey statue of stone stood  in the graveyard of his father, the
 figure of a knight on a charging war horse, the monument to his life.
 ------------------------------------------------------------------------
1                             Trial by Fire
                                 Part II
                          Trial Before Tribunal
                          by M. Wendy Hennequin
                    (b.c.k.a. HENNEQUI_WEM@CTSTATEU)

      Luthias stormed  into the Duke of  Dargon's office as if  he were
 the  god of  war. "Coranabo  has  accused my  Castellan of  conspiracy
 against the crown!"
      Clifton blinked. "You're really having  a hard time of it lately,
 aren't you?" he joked, smiling, but  the smile only adjusted the lips;
 it didn't glow in the Duke's eyes.
      The teasing didn't  work. Luthias was furious.  "This is serious,
 Clifton. There are witnesses! I have to try my own Castellan!"
      "Coranabo is saying that Ittosai--"
      "Yes, for the third time!" Luthias shouted, pounding his cousin's
 desk. "The Tribunal wants the trial in two days."
      The Duke of Dargon leaned back  in his cushioned chair. "There is
 evidence, you said?"
      "Witnesses...a witness.  A townsman,  who overheard  something at
 the Sy tourney..."
      "Credible?"
      "I don't believe him," Luthias  revealed. "I know Michiya has too
 much honor to--to--"  Luthias didn't even want to say  it, didn't want
 to think it.
      "Yes, cousin," Clifton said carefully, "but there's a witness."
      "Am I to believe that scum  over my own Castellan?" Suddenly, the
 young Baron  of Connall stared  at the  Duke in horror.  "Clifton, you
 don't think that--"
      Clifton Dargon smiled. "My dear cousin,"  he said, a lilt of mild
 mocking in his tones,  "if you, practical as you are,  can see all the
 evidence and dismiss it as nonsense, so can I. Besides," he continued,
 before Luthias could  become much angrier, "I agree  with you. Ittosai
 Michiya is  much too honorable to  do such a thing.  Sit." Obligingly,
 Luthias sunk into a chair. "Where is Ittosai?"
      "In Connall. I insisted that he be released into my custody."
      "What does he have to say about all this?"
      "What do  you expect?  Michiya told me  he was  innocent, that--"
 What  had  Ittosai  said  exactly,  and what  had  the  witness  said?
 Carefully,  Luthias told  his cousin  the  Duke what  the witness  had
 reported, and what the Castellan of Connall had told him.
      Clifton frowned. "I am more inclined to believe Michiya."
      "As am  I." Luthias frowned.  "Yet I am the  one who must  try to
 prove him guilty!"
      "I hate to  have to fight you, cousin," Clifton  sighed, "but I'm
 going to defend him." Clifton grimaced. "War with Bichu...but both you
 and Sir Edward agree that war with Bichu..."
      "Ittosai is falsely accused," Luthias said with conviction.
      "I know, manling,"  Clifton returned with gravity,  "but you must
 try to prove the lies."

      Separating the Barony of Connall  from the Barony of Coranabo was
 the wide river Coldwell which flowed from the mountains to Dargon, and
 thence to  the sea.  Its shore  in Connall was  bordered by  trees, in
 which Roisart, Luthias, Clifton, and Myrande had established a retreat
 when they were younger. An archery range  and a pell had been long set
 up for  private practicing. By a  bend in the river  where the Connall
 twins and their cousin and Myrande often swam was a clearing they used
 for picnics and privacy.
      Here Luthias came to escape his  own thoughts and his own barony.
1Here, by the river range, there were three things in the entire world:
 the pell, his arm, and his sword. And the heat: stripped to the waist,
 he imagined an enemy and fought.
      One blow,  then another. A triple  blow. A blow to  the waist, to
 the head, to the right, to the  left. A twisting shot that wrapped his
 sword to the helmet area.
      There was a horse coming slowly behind  him. He saw it out of the
 corner of his eye, but did not stop. The horse was black and the rider
 small: Sable. Luthias smiled slightly, and continued to fight.
      The contact of wooden sword and wooden pell rang in the woods and
 beat out the rhythm of the fight. One blow, a second, two quick shots.
 Keep the rhythm. Strength flowed from Luthias' arm, but the power came
 from the movement of his body.  Without moving his arm, he could twist
 and hit the pell and sound a ringing blow.
      On the helm  from the right, from the left,  a twisting blow that
 would  hit from  behind. Right  arm. Left  arm. Right  leg. Left  leg.
 Thrust. Thrust to  the face. Helm right, helm left,  helm thrust, helm
 wrap. Right leg, left leg...
      Finally,  a soft  pair of  arms gently  encircled his  waist. The
 Baron of  Connall smiled and  allowed his  tired arm to  drop. Panting
 only slightly, he  said, "I wondered how long you  were going to stand
 there and watch me."
      Her hair  brushed against  his sweaty  back. "You  look beautiful
 when you fight, Luthias," she replied softly.
      The Baron  of Connall laughed  heartily. "You look  beautiful all
 the time." He put his free, left hand over her arms.
      "Don't mock  me," she  warned, slightly  testy, starting  to draw
 away.
      "Never, Sable," he promised  sincerely, patting her wrists. "So,"
 he continued in a light, jesting tone,  "did you come out here only to
 admire my body, or are you going to practice with me?"
      Luthias  could  almost  feel  his  seneschal's  smile.  "Neither,
 actually," she bantered playfully. "I came here to seduce you."
      "Mmmm," Luthias  chuckled deep in  his throat with  amusement and
 anticipation. Slowly, he reached his left  arm in back of him and drew
 Myrande forward as he savored the idea.
      My father will return from the dead and kill me!
      Still, it  reminded him of something  he had been trying  to tell
 Myrande  before   the  tournament.   He  looked   down  at   her,  not
 relinquishing the embrace. "We must talk, Sable."
      "Can it wait?" she pleaded.
      "For what?"
      "For the real reason I came  here. The Knight Commander's come to
 see you."
      The young Baron of Connall wasn't certain whether to feel despair
 or amusement. "And here I am, sweating and dirty!"
      Myrande patted his  stomach lightly. "How do you think  he got to
 be Knight Commander? By practicing on  the pell and getting sweaty and
 dirty! In  any case,  I knew you  were practicing so  I brought  you a
 change of clothes. Why  don't you leap into the river  to wash some of
 the dust off?"
      Luthias nodded, squeezed her waist  once, then ran off toward the
 river. He  stripped off his breeches  and dived into the  Coldwell. It
 usually was a chill river, especially as far north as Connall was, but
 with the  recent heat  wave, it was  actually warm.  Luthias submerged
 himself,  then rose  to see  Myrande laying  out his  clothing on  the
 grass. Luthias began to swim toward shore.
      "Give me a minute," Myrande requested.
      "For what?"
      "To give you some privacy."
1     Luthias snorted. "You've seen me like this before."
      "Only by accident."
      It was true; still, the Baron Connall's laugh echoed like a merry
 shout, "You come  here and admire my  body, and now you  don't want to
 see it!" Myrande  shook her head and made her  escape. Luthias laughed
 again, left the water, and dressed himself.
      He met Myrande  near the pell. Eyes closed, she  was lying on the
 grass,  resting near  her steed.  Luthias reached  down to  touch her.
 "Come on, sleepy."
      She opened her  eyes and smiled. "Yes, sir."  Luthias offered his
 hand, and,  taking it, Myrande  pulled herself to a  sitting position.
 Gingerly, she felt  at the chopsticks which she  had placed, crossing,
 in  the  back  of  her  head,   above  the  dark  braid.  "That  isn't
 comfortable," she chuckled.
      "Why wear them, then?" Luthias asked, hauling her to her feet.
      "Michiya  advised it,  with all  the fuss  about Shipbrook,"  she
 revealed, smiling. "I think he's afraid for me."
      "What good are those things going to do you?"
      Myrande reached back and pulled forth one of the ivory sticks for
 Luthias' inspection. The  Baron of Connall took it and  glanced at its
 steel-tipped point. Carefully, he pricked  his finger with the tip. It
 was  sharp as  a dagger.  "They're used  in Bichu  as weapons  of last
 resort,"  Myrande explained.  "Michiya  wants to  make  certain I  can
 defend myself at all times."
      "Good," Luthias  approved, returning  the ornament.  "Michiya's a
 good  man, and  he's right:  you should  be ready  and able  to defend
 yourself at all times."
      "Do you suspect more trouble with Baron Shipbrook?"
      "Not really," Luthias told her,  "but I still want you prepared."
 He smiled  tiredly. "And  I was going  to grow up  to be  your Knight,
 Sable, to protect you from this sort of thing."
      Smiling, Myrande  slipped her  small arm  around his  waist. "You
 do," she assured him, standing on her toes to kiss his cheek. "And you
 will be a Knight someday."
      The Baron grinned at her quietly.  "Let's hope so, Sable. Are you
 ready to go?"
      "Of  course.  Where's  Dragonfire?"  she  inquired,  looking  for
 Luthias' horse.
      "I walked. We'll have to ride together." He swung onto the mare's
 back and, without asking, lifted Myrande  to sit in front of him. With
 one hand,  he took the  reins; with his  left, he held  his seneschal.
 Slowly, he started the horse. As much as he wanted to hurry, he didn't
 want to ride the animal too hard: it was infernally hot. He would have
 to make his  excuses to the Knight Commander when  they arrived. For a
 while, they rode silently.
      "Did Sir  Edward say  what he  wanted to see  me for?"  the Baron
 asked his seneschal finally.
      She shook her head. "No. I was wondering, but I didn't ask."
      Luthias thought about it. "He probably  wants to talk to me about
 Magnus."
      "Magnus?"
      "He wants me to go to Magnus to train under him. He says I'd be a
 Knight by the next Melrin."
      Suddenly, Myrande  looked up  at Luthias with  elated admiration.
 "When are you leaving?"
      Luthias was  silent a moment.  He guided  the horse around  a few
 stones. "I may not go."
      Sable's expression snapped into concern and confusion. "What? But
 all your life, you've wanted--"
      "Do  you   think  I'd  leave  you?"   Luthias  challenged,  anger
1smoldering beneath his words.
      "I don't understand," Myrande answered  slowly. "I'm a woman now,
 Luthias. You don't need to stay here and protect me--"
      "With Oleran--"
      "Michiya's been  making certain that  no man would ever  touch me
 unless I  allow it," Myrande  retorted, her words crisp.  "Besides, do
 you think I would ever allow you to give up your dream because of me?"
      After a moment of silence, Luthias  said, "Sable, I don't want to
 leave you."
      "What?" Myrande  asked, as if  she couldn't believe what  she had
 heard.
      "I don't want  to leave you," Luthias repeated, and  it was true.
 Luthias wasn't certain why, but it was true.
      Myrande bowed her  head. "Then I'll go with you.  I won't let you
 give up any chance for Knighthood because of me."
      Luthias smiled. "What would you do in Magnus?"
      "What do I do here?" she  returned, smiling at him. "If you don't
 want to leave me, I'll go with  you." She bowed her head again. "Truth
 be told, I  don't want you to leave me.  Now," she concluded, resuming
 her jocularity, "no more arguments--or excuses."
      Of course,  if she by  some miracle  approved his other  idea, it
 would be normal  that she go with him to  Magnus..."We'll talk later,"
 he promised both her and himself. "We'll see."
      They soon  arrived at  the keep.  Luthias tossed  the reins  to a
 stable lad. "Where's the Knight Commander?" he asked Myrande.
      "In the study."
      "When  you get  a break,  join me  there," Luthias  commanded. He
 nodded to her once then hurried through the halls to his study.
      When he arrived,  the Knight Commander was  standing opposite the
 cold hearth, staring  at the portrait that hung  there. Sothos turned.
 "Baron," he greeted Luthias, stepping forward and offering his hand.
      Luthias shook the hand heartily.  "Sorry to keep you waiting, Sir
 Edward," the young Baron apologized. "I was out practicing."
      "So  Lady Myrande  said." The  Knight Commander  smiled. "As  I'm
 expecting  war, Luthias,  I can  wait  for a  warrior who  practices."
 Luthias returned  the smile  thinly. Edward gazed  up at  the picture,
 which portrayed a tall beauty with auburn hair, smiling blue eyes, and
 skin the color of apple blossoms. "A relative of yours?"
      Luthias glanced at  the portrait quickly, then  averted his eyes.
 "My mother."
      "I don't remember meeting her when  I visited Sir Lucan all those
 years ago," Edward mused.
      "I  should  think not,"  Luthias  returned,  his smile  strained.
 "She's  been  dead  twenty-one  years. My  father  never  removed  the
 portrait, however."  Out of respect  for his father, Luthias  vowed he
 never would, either, but he didn't  want to talk about his mother. "To
 what do I owe this visit, Sir Edward?"
      "You have Castellan Ittosai here in your keep, correct?"
      Luthias nodded. "The Tribunal allowed,  at my insistence, that he
 be in my custody."
      Sir Edward sat. "Be so good as to summon him."
      Luthias opened the door and  bellowed for one of the men-at-arms.
 "Bring the Castellan to the study, and treat him respectfully."
      "Of course, Baron," the soldier agreed, confused. Luthias smiled;
 despite the  rumors of  war and the  accusations against  Ittosai, the
 men-at-arms of Connall still respected him.
      "It  seems  your  men  have  no  suspicion  of  Ittosai,"  Edward
 observed.
      "Some  do,"  Luthias  confessed.   "I'm  having  Macdougalls,  my
 assistant castellan,  keep an rein  on them.  Some have been  ready to
1tear  him  apart ever  since  Yuli,  when  the  rumors about  the  war
 started."
      The Knight Commander made a face. "I would suspect."
      There was  a discreet  knock on  the door.  Luthias opened  it. A
 guard  stood with  Ittosai Michiya,  who stared  directly through  the
 young Baron. "Leave us," Connall told the guard curtly. The man looked
 confused, but  bowed spartanly and  obeyed. Luthias shut the  door and
 turned  to  Sir Edward.  "The  Knight  Commander  wanted to  see  you,
 Michiya."
      Aloof, Ittosai bowed toward Sothos.  "I am wondering," Sir Edward
 began, his  face stern, "what  you think of these  accusations against
 you, Lord Ittosai."
      The Bichanese  Castellan's face  was immobile. "They  are absurd,
 lord Commander."
      "You are not guilty, then?"
      Again, Michiya's face did not move;  he was too proud to show his
 emotions. Luthias, however, could tell that his Castellan was seething
 at the fact that anyone would question his honor. "I would not do such
 a  dishonorable  act, nor  would  I  dishonor  Luthias-sama so.  I  am
 innocent."
      Suddenly, Sir Edward's face relaxed. "I believe you," he revealed
 matter-of-factly. "And you, Luthias, what do you think?"
      "I know  Michiya well enough to  know he would do  no such thing,
 and that he would not lie to me," Connall affirmed, his voice guarded.
 He didn't know what this was leading to, but he didn't like it. "He is
 innocent."
      Ittosai Michiya's  mouth twitched  a little  towards a  smile. "I
 think I am  being used as...what is it?...a  scapegoat, because people
 fear the war and fear my country will invade yours."
      "It's  more than  that, I  think," Edward  sighed. "Luthias,  why
 would anyone bring charges against Castellan Ittosai?"
      "It's as  he said,"  Luthias began.  "The people  are mad  to see
 war--"
      "No!" Sothos  interrupted quickly, "You're thinking  as a lawyer,
 Luthias. It doesn't become you. Think as a general."
      Luthias' mind  raced. If he were  a general, why would  he accuse
 Ittosai? "The  war. They're  trying to  start a  war with  Bichu!" The
 Baron of  Connall swore violently.  "It's the same reason  they killed
 Roisart and my father. The same  God-damned merchants who hired men to
 kill my brother  are accusing Ittosai and are trying  again to start a
 war!"
      "I  too  came  to   that  conclusion,"  Edward  finished  softly.
 "However, I  didn't know that  merchants were behind the  plot against
 Lord Dargon  and your  father." The  Knight Commander  appeared deeply
 concerned. "You must prove this false, Luthias. A war with Bichu would
 be a major mistake."
      "The King  must declare war,"  Luthias pointed out. "It  would be
 easy to advise him otherwise--"
      "If the mob is like this, there will be no help for it."
      "He speaks truth," Ittosai  interjected. "The King cannot control
 hysterical men."
      "And there are war-mongers in  Magnus," Edward added. "You've got
 to find a way to expose this accusation."
      "You should be having this  talk with Clifton," Luthias protested
 grimly. "I  am the  one who  is trying to  prove these  jack-asses are
 right."
      "The Duke of  Dargon is an intelligent and  educated man," Edward
 said, "but he might not see the connection you did."
      "Don't underestimate him," Luthias laughed shortly, but the laugh
 was  not  merry. The  anger  that  he had  beaten  into  the pell  was
1returning, fast  and furious as  floodwaters. "He reads books  of war,
 too."
      "You must do something," Edward  repeated. "The Duke will put his
 Duchy before principle."
      "He's  not defending  principle  here,"  Luthias returned.  "He's
 defending Michiya!"
      "Luthias-sama," Michiya began, "you truly understand, as the Duke
 does not--"
      "Don't you  see?" Luthias snapped.  "I am the Duke's  Advocate. I
 can't defend you. I know they're  wrong. I know this whole business is
 wrong. War with  Bichu is wrong. But  I can't do anything!  I can't do
 anything!"
      Another knock sounded. "What?" Luthias demanded angrily. Myrande,
 in a  streaked dress, poked her  head just inside the  study. "What do
 you want?"
      Concern  laced with  anger adorned  her face.  She paused,  as if
 unsure  which  emotion  should  take  precedence.  Tact  and  courtesy
 overruled  them both.  "I  came  to ask  if  the  Knight Commander  is
 remaining for supper."
      "Please do," Luthias invited, his politeness somehow not strained
 by anger. But he was angry--furious!--at  the Tribunal, at the mob, at
 the  merchants, and  at himself,  for he  had taken  his anger  out on
 Myrande.
      "With  pleasure," Sothos  accepted, smiling.  The grin  did funny
 things to his scar, Luthias thought dispassionately.
      The  seneschal nodded  and began  to shut  the door,  but Luthias
 halted it  with his  hand. "I'm sorry,  Sable," he  apologized softly.
 "Look, we  need to talk."  She smiled, accepting his  apology, nodded,
 and shut the door.
      And  then he  remembered: the  trial was  tomorrow. With  company
 tonight, he would  not have a chance  to speak to Sable  for two days.
 Damn!

      The heat  still prevailed,  and on the  day of  Ittosai Michiya's
 trial before the Tribunal, the sun  rose an ominous scarlet. The Baron
 of Connall,  swathed in the  hue of  that bloody sunrise,  entered the
 Hall of  the Tribunal within Dargon  Keep in the same  manner he would
 have approached  a battlefield. He  looked so fierce at  the injustice
 and his own impotence that no one, not even Sir Edward who had come to
 observe, dared to say a word  against the sword he had improperly worn
 into a court of law.
      Seeing his  placid cousin  and stoic  Castellan calmed  Luthias a
 little,  but  did nothing  to  cool  his rage.  There  was  a year  of
 injustice  behind it:  his father's  meaningless death,  his brother's
 sudden  murder, his  new,  horrible  responsibilities, Sable's  broken
 heart, and now  this...this! his friend accused of  conspiracy. And he
 had to  prove it.  And he knew  better; he knew  better! He  knew, Sir
 Edward knew, and there was nothing either of them could do.
      Luthias  bowed to  the  Tribunal, who  sat up  on  a dais:  Baron
 Coranabo to his right; Baron Vladon  in the center; and Baron Winthrop
 on  the left.  In front  of the  dais was  a table,  behind which  sat
 Chronicler Rish Vogel, whom Luthias  knew slightly. Apparently, he was
 acting as Scrivener in the case.  Behind Luthias were two benches, one
 for him and the other for the accused.
      Baron Vladon, as  elected head of the Tribunal,  spoke softly and
 solemnly. "We are familiar with  this case," he addressed both Clifton
 and Luthias. "We  know that Castellan Ittosai--" How  they mangled his
 very name! "--is accused of conspiring  against the King of Baranur to
 begin a  war with Bichu.  You have witnesses, Baron  Connall?" Luthias
 nodded. "And you, your grace?" Clifton nodded once. "Advocate, begin."
1     Luthias  stood. "As  you have  said, sir,"  he began,  "Castellan
 Ittosai Michiya is accused of conspiracy against the Crown. The charge
 was made  by one  merchant called  Danal. I  call forth  this merchant
 Danal to testify."
      A mousy man with greedy eyes  slunk forward like an animal afraid
 of a beating. He  bowed to the Barons on the  Tribunal, then faced the
 Duke's Advocate, who  glared at him with merciless eyes.  "You heard a
 conversation," Luthias prompted, "between two men."
      "Yes, so please your lordship,"  answered the merchant. His voice
 was  high-pitched  and  nervous.  It grated  upon  Luthias'  ears  and
 increased  his  rage. "Between  that  man--"  He pointed  wickedly  at
 Ittosai Michiya,  who sat erect  and unmoving beside the  Duke, "--and
 another man of his country."
      "Who was this other?"
      "A merchant, who  sold near my stall.  I do not know  his name. I
 saw the Castellan walk away with  two swords and some chop sticks from
 this other merchant."
      Oh, Michiya, Luthias thought desperately, my katana and the sharp
 hair pieces for Sable. Presents,  mere presents! Why couldn't you have
 waited? "And where is he now?"
      "I don't know, lordship. I haven't seen him since that day."
      Luthias switched his gaze to the  Tribunal. "I have sent the city
 guards in  search of this  merchant. It seems  that he left  for Bichu
 that afternoon,  before the  ball." Baron  Vladon nodded,  and Luthias
 continued. "What did this merchant and the Castellan say?"
      "They spoke of Bichu," Danal whined, "and a coming invasion."
      "What did they say?" Luthias repeated.
      "I told you," the man wheezed. "They spoke of the coming invasion
 that Bichu plans to send."
      Clifton stood. Luthias looked at  him, unsure. Didn't he have the
 floor? "I invoke the right of the Defender to interject questions when
 I so deem,"  Clifton announced, by way of  explanation. Luthias nodded
 his  permission.  "Did  they  speak of  the  *rumors*  concerning  the
 invasion?"
      "They  spoke  of battle  plans,"  Danal  corrected, wringing  his
 greedy, sweaty hands. Luthias found himself wishing to strike the man.
 "Of a time table. And of some men here helping them."
      "Did they say how they were involved?" Luthias asked.
      "That man--" Again, the ugly,  knobby man pointed his dagger-like
 finger and knife-like  gaze at Luthias' Castellan. "--was  to open the
 river Coldwell to  the Bichanese ships. They were then  to take Dargon
 City and Dargon Keep."
      Out of the corner of his  eye, Luthias saw the Knight Commander's
 scar twitch with displeasure. Take the Coldwell River, then Dargon and
 Dargon  Keep?  Luthias almost  snorted.  The  Coldwell would  hold  no
 strategic value; Dargon was too well  fortified to take, and the Ducal
 navy, headed by Clifton himself who  was a good seaman by inclination,
 would  take out  any Bichanese  ships as  if they  were toys.  Luthias
 angrily hoped that  this was a bold  lie. He would hate  to think that
 the Bichanese were that stupid.
      "How  did  you  understand   them?"  Clifton  inquired,  relaxing
 slightly. "Did they not speak Bichanese?"
      "I understand Bichanese," the merchant told the Duke proudly.
      Rish  Vogel shifted  uncomfortably. Suddenly,  Luthias remembered
 that  Vogel  spoke  Bichanese.  It  would   be  a  good  test  of  the
 witness...but surely, Clifton  would bring that up later.  It was just
 the sort of angle Clifton would try.
      "They spoke of men here who were to help them," Danal finished.
      "Men in  Baranur aligned  with them?"  Baron Winthrop  burst out.
 "Who? I demand it!"
1     "They mentioned no names," Danal  revealed, slowly, as if he were
 calculating  something.  Behind  him,  the Baron  of  Coranabo  leaned
 forward in his seat. "But they did mention a Duke."
      "A Duke?" Coranabo shouted, leaping to his feet. The Baron glared
 at the Duke of Dargon. "No wonder you sprang to the spy's defense!"
      For a moment, the Duke of Dargon could do nothing but stare. "You
 accuse me  of treason?" Clifton  finally asked, his voice  hoarse with
 astonishment.
      "I do," Coranabo stated firmly.
      Very, very slowly, Luthias turned  toward Coranabo. "My lord," he
 began,  his  voice steady,  but  very  controlled,  "this is  a  heavy
 accusation you make. You need proof--"
      "Did not the merchant say the Duke--"
      "The merchant," Luthias interrupted,  his fists curled so tightly
 that they glowed white, "said *a* Duke. Not the Duke of Dargon."
      Sir Edward Sothos, behind Luthias, rose. Baron Vladon spoke. "You
 know that  when the highest noble  of the Duchy is  accused, Coranabo,
 the matter is brought before the King. The Duke's Advocate is correct.
 The word  of a mere  merchant is hardly enough  to accuse the  Duke of
 Dargon for  treason before the  Crown of Baranur. The  Duke's Advocate
 will need proof of a more substantial sort to try the case, if one can
 be made, before King Haralan."
      "Very well," Coranabo replied easily.  "The matter can be settled
 simply enough.  If the Duke  is involved, there  will be some  sort of
 indication in his home, will there not?"
      "I  cannot   believe  this,"   Clifton  interjected,   anger  and
 incredulity spilling over. "I am no traitor!"
      "Then allow us to search your keep," Coranabo argued. "If you are
 innocent, as you say, then the search can do no harm."
      Helplessly, Luthias turned to his cousin. "He's right, you know,"
 he whispered. "And unless you allow the search, he'll bring you before
 the King himself."
      Scowling,  Clifton waved  his permission  and turned  away. Baron
 Vladon  stood. "Bring  the accused,"  he instructed  calmly. Two  city
 guards came forward, but  did not lay a hand on  either Ittosai or the
 Duke. Ominously, Luthias  left the room, and the rest  followed him to
 Dargon Keep.
      "It's all  right, Lauren," Clifton  said softly to his  wife when
 they entered, but  his eyes betrayed everything. One  look at Luthias'
 smoldering eyes flooded her face with panic.
      "What is it?" she whispered.
      "Stupidity, nothing," Clifton returned as Luthias angrily ordered
 the search.
      "The trial?"
      Clifton closed  his eyes. "Nothing--worse--where is  your father?
 Send for him."
      As the Duchess did so, a  soldier walked up to Luthias. "The desk
 in the office is locked."
      Luthias' mouth became taut. "Your grace," he addressed his cousin
 formally, "I will need the key."
      Clifton's  eyes raged  at  his younger  cousin,  and angrily,  he
 reached in his  pocket. "I'll do it," the Duke  decided, marching into
 the study.
      The Baron  of Connall followed,  hurt that his  cousin apparently
 blamed  this on  him.  What could  he  do about  it?  The Duke  halted
 abruptly before his desk, thrust the key into its hole, and yanked the
 drawer open.  He stepped  back and  threw a  contemptuous look  at the
 soldiers and the Tribunal. "There. Look if you must."
      Luthias frowned and turned to  leave. He couldn't remain in here.
 His  cousin's  arm stopped  him.  "Hey,  manling," Clifton  whispered,
1looking  where  the  soldiers   searched,  supervised  by  Vladon  and
 Coranabo, "I'm sorry. This isn't your fault."
      "This is ridiculous," Luthias replied. "I--"
      "So  you  are  innocent?" Coranabo  yelled  triumphantly,  almost
 dancing to the Duke. "Kindly explain this!"
      He held out a large piece of parchment, heavily embossed with the
 Duke's  seal. Concerned,  Clifton  took  it, read  it  over. "I  don't
 understand this," he muttered. "It's my hand...my signature...but I've
 never seen this document before in my life."
      Luthias frantically snatched it, read it, recognized his cousin's
 seal and signature as easily as the Duke himself had.
      And then he stared at his cousin, pain and horror in his eyes.

      With a heavy,  worried look on her face,  Myrande Shipbrook raced
 through  her duties.  Something  was wrong,  very  wrong, and  Luthias
 wasn't talking. Nothing new: he and Roisart had almost never spoken to
 her about their troubles.
      Yet, whatever was  so wrong couldn't be left  in silence. Myrande
 shuddered when she  recalled how Luthias appeared when  he returned to
 Connall Keep  alone. His face was  pale, full of shock,  horror, pain,
 and yes, fear. The look had  frightened her. She had only seen Luthias
 look that  way once  before. It  was the night  Roisart had  died, and
 Luthias  became  Baron;  he  had been  stunned,  appalled,  hurt,  and
 terrified then, too.
      "My  lady," Mika,  her assistant  called, "all  is ready  for the
 storm."
      Myrande nodded. She had been watching the storm come since before
 sunset. Lightning had started soon after,  and the winds were high and
 hard. Myrande could hear them, even in the little keep that served the
 Connall family as  a town house. She  went to the wall  and opened the
 window. Now, nearing midnight, the warm, rushing wind smelled of rain.
 Lightning flashed  across the sky, cutting  it cleanly. It would  be a
 ravaging  storm, no  worse  than  the one  that  was  laying waste  to
 Luthias.
      Damn it all! What could it  be? Myrande had no clue. The servants
 that had accompanied Luthias knew  nothing. Luthias had dismounted his
 horse slowly, looked  at her once, and went straight  to his study and
 closed the  door tightly. Myrande had  called him, had knocked  on the
 study door, but had not received an answer.
      Enough. Myrande  gave a few  final instructions to  the servants.
 Let  them finish  the duties  by themselves  for once!  Luthias needed
 her--now!
      With a swift, determined stride, she  made her way to the Baron's
 study  and tried  the door.  Locked.  Myrande's lips  tightened for  a
 moment, then  she grasped the keys  which hung on her  belt. Normally,
 she wouldn't have even thought of  unlocking the door and intruding on
 Luthias' privacy, but this was important, and by God, what was the use
 of being seneschal if you couldn't use your keys? She quickly unlocked
 the door and shoved it open.
      "Go away,  Sable!" Luthias called  angrily from behind  the desk.
 Myrande swayed backward  a moment, his rage greeting her  like a blow.
 The study was  dark, except for a  fire in the hearth,  and the abrupt
 flares of  lightning from outside. The  window of the study  was open,
 and the wind  whipped the curtains and Luthias'  hair mercilessly. The
 Baron himself  was standing,  tall, ominous, and  half-dressed, behind
 his desk. In his left hand,  he held a half-empty brandy decanter. The
 other hand held his  glass. His shirt and the red  tunic of his office
 lay flung  on the floor. The  look of fright, hurt,  shock, and horror
 remained,  but  it was  now  flavored  with  fury.  He stared  at  his
 seneschal coldly and gulped some of the amber brandy as if in defiance
1of her.
      Myrande almost shuddered; for the first time in her life, Luthias
 actually was frightening her instead of projecting safety. Determined,
 however, she stood her ground and shut the door behind her.
      "Luthias," she insisted,  her words distorted by  the wind, "tell
 me what happened."
      "You've got enough  to worry about," he  snapped, pouring himself
 some  more liquor.  He  spoke clearly  and  held himself  confidently.
 Luthias  had always  done  well holding  his  liquor; still,  drinking
 enhanced whatever  emotions had made him  want to imbibe in  the first
 place. Myrande was afraid.
      "It's the same  as always, isn't it?" she  accused softly, slowly
 crossing the room. "You and Roisart, always the same. Whenever you had
 joy, you shared it with me  willingly, but if something was wrong, you
 two would withdraw into yourselves and--"
      "We didn't want  to trouble you then,"  Luthias snarled, slamming
 the brandy onto the desk. He drained his glass without flinching. "You
 have enough problems now. I don't need you. Leave me alone!"
      "No," she denied  flatly. She held herself  regally, although his
 tone whipped her and she wanted  to run and hide. "What happened? Have
 they condemned Michiya?"
      Luthias  laughed in  a  bitter, furious  way. "Practically.  They
 won't even listen, the bastards, and now Clifton!"
      Myrande's fear heightened. "What about Clifton?"
      "He's a traitor, that's what!"  the Baron of Connall screamed. He
 lifted  the brandy  decanter  to  his lips  and  drained  some of  the
 honey-colored liquid. "They found the evidence in his own desk--in his
 own hand!"
      "Clifton,  a  traitor?"  Myrande   gasped  finally.  Outside,  an
 explosion of lightning seared the sky. Thunder tried to mask Myrande's
 words. "You can't really believe that Clifton's a traitor!"
      "I tell  you, I saw  it!" Luthias raged.  "I SAW it!  My cousin's
 condemned to die, traitor  or no, and Michiya with him,  and I have to
 do it!"
      "What  are you  talking about?"  She was  beginning to  fear that
 Luthias was hysterical or delirious.  Lightning flared again. The rain
 was beginning, falling violently against the keep.
      "I  have to  try my  cousin for  treason in  front of  the King!"
 Luthias shouted  shrilly. "I  have to  prove my  cousin a  traitor! In
 front of King  Haralan! It isn't true!" the Baron  screamed, "It can't
 be  true! I  have to  prove it  true! Oh,  God!" he  shouted, laughing
 bitterly at the ceiling. Lightning again, and thunder. "My only living
 kinsman--and I have to make him a traitor!"
      "Make someone else  try him," Myrande suggested  readily, like an
 arrow ready  to spring  at any  target. The  wind projected  hard rain
 through the window.
      "Kingdom law, Sable!" he yelled at her, swinging the bottle, then
 drinking from it. "I'm the Duke's Advocate, and when the highest noble
 in the Duchy  commits a crime, I  have to try him before  the King. My
 God, Clifton!" He drank again.
      Suddenly, Myrande could take it  no more. She leapt forward. "You
 can't believe Clifton a traitor!" Thunder roared outside, and the rain
 whistled on the wind.
      "How can  I believe anything  else?" Luthias screamed at  her. "I
 saw it, I SAW  IT! I have to try him, see him  die, become the Duke of
 Dargon! I have to see my last kinsman die a traitor!"
      He moved  to drink again,  but Myrande wrested the  decanter from
 his hands. "Do  you think this will help you?"  Myrande yelled at him,
 and enraged,  she flung the  brandy onto  the stone hearth.  The glass
 exploded into a crystal shower; the flame flared brilliantly blue from
1the brandy. There was explosive thunder.  "I can help you, Luthias, if
 you'd talk to me!"
      "You help me?  You won't even let me help  you," Luthias shouted,
 taking her by the shoulders. "What the hell am I going to do? What the
 hell do you think you can do?" He shook her violently. "Tell me!"
      "Ask the King!"  Myrande managed to shout somehow.  Her brain was
 rattling in her  skull. Lightning split her eyes and  blinded her. "Or
 reason it out. Ask the King."
      "What?" Luthias  laughed haughtily.  "The King?  The King  help a
 traitor?  Help  me?  You're  joking! And  reasoning  it  out--I'm  not
 Roisart!  I'm a  fighter, not  a  lawyer!" He  released her  abruptly.
 "There's nothing  you could do!"  he told her bitterly.  Suddenly, the
 rage left his face,  and he sank into a chair, his  head in his hands.
 "There's nothing to be done," he whispered, choking.
      Myrande knelt  before him and put  her arms around him.  The rain
 spattered  through the  window,  dampening them  both.  "When are  you
 leaving?" she whispered.
      "Tomorrow,"  came  the  muffled  answer.  "We  sail  from  Dargon
 tomorrow, then down to the Laraka."
      "You should get  some sleep," she said gently,  stroking his hair
 in an effort to soothe him. She  shuddered as the wind chilled her wet
 skin. "You'll be dead tomorrow if you don't."
      "What does it matter?" the Baron asked bitterly.
      "Come, Luthias,"  she cajoled. "It  matters to me." She  took his
 head between  her small hands and  forced him to look  at her. Despair
 and lightning glowed in his dark eyes. "It matters to me." Wordlessly,
 she  coaxed him  to his  feet  and led  him  to his  room. Again,  his
 expression  worried  her;  he  oozed   despair.  "Go  to  sleep,"  she
 counseled, seating him on his bed.
      Suddenly,  Luthias was  clinging to  her, his  grip like  frantic
 iron. "Sable, Sable, what am I going to do?"
      "I don't know," she whispered. "I don't know."
      "Sable,  Sable," he  cried, rocking  as if  to comfort  himself a
 little. "There's going to be no one left. I'll have no one."
      "No," she  said, pulling back  to see  his face. She  touched his
 cheek  tenderly. "I'm  here, Luthias.  I'll always  be here."  Myrande
 gently brushed  some hair out  of his  dark eyes. "You'll  always have
 me."
      "Oh,  Sable," the  Baron said  suddenly, pulling  her close,  and
 within  moments,  Myrande  found herself  being  kissed  passionately.
 Luthias was  equally surprised,  though slightly  distant, due  to the
 alcohol. Still, it felt  good to hold her, to kiss  her, and he didn't
 let go, wouldn't let go, no, not ever.
      Luthias  didn't know  how long  the kisses  lasted, but  then his
 hands were  moving carefully,  subtly--he had  had much  practice. Her
 black hair  unwound beneath  his hands,  and it  felt like  velvet and
 smelled of  roses. His hands  continued to move slowly,  carefully; he
 did not want to frighten her. One thing at a time, slowly.
      He felt Myrande  uncertainly returning the caresses.  He held her
 more tightly then,  shifted his weight, started to lower  her onto the
 bed--
      Abruptly,  she  pushed  him  away. "You're  drunk,"  she  accused
 roughly, then fled the room.
      Luthias buried his head in his hands and tried to scream, but was
 silent.  He had  just ruined  everything--with the  one person  he had
 left.

      Only an hour  past dawn, the sunlight was so  bright that Ittosai
 Michiya had to bow his head in order to guide his horse on the road to
 Dargon. The heat made his stomach  queasy; that was why, the Bichurian
1mused, that neither he, nor the silent, still Luthias, nor the hurried
 seneschal, could eat much in the dark hours before dawn.
      The hot air oppressed Michiya; it was never so warm in Bichu. The
 sun seared his eyes. He was glad that they would soon be in Dargon and
 leaving for  Magnus; if he  were to be doomed,  let it come,  and come
 quickly. He had had quite enough of this horrid waiting.
      If that  weren't enough,  the silence  was driving  the Castellan
 mad. Luthias had  barely spoken to Ittosai that morning,  and what the
 Baron had said was brief and  gruff. Myrande, who rode beside Michiya,
 had been  hurried before they left  the little keep Luthias  kept just
 outside Dargon and had no time to talk; now, Luthias silence seemed to
 weigh on her as well.
      But enough. "If  you do not like something,"  Michiya's uncle had
 once told him, "you  must do something, and not wait  for others to do
 it for you."
      The Castellan began softly, "Why did you come with us, Myrande?"
      Her  head jerked  toward him  as  if she  were startled.  Ittosai
 smiled  at her  in an  effort to  reassure her;  Myrande returned  the
 gesture, but the smile was  exhausted. "Someone should be with Duchess
 Lauren today."
      Crisply, Ittosai nodded. "It is well. I have no desire for you to
 be  alone. This  business  with the  Baron of  Shipbrook  has made  me
 uneasy."
      Myrande made an effort to laugh, but like her smile, her laughter
 was full of fatigue. "Don't worry; I can take care of myself."
      "Still,   practice  much   with  the   naginata,  and   wear  the
 chopsticks."  Myrande reached  back  and plucked  one  from her  hair.
 Michiya smiled. "Will you stay with the Duchess?"
      "For a few days, perhaps."
      "They're waiting  for us," Luthias muttered  suddenly, looking at
 Ittosai, then swiftly turning when he found Myrande's eyes upon him.
      An astonished  Ittosai stared  at his Baron,  then turned  to the
 seneschal. "Did you and Luthias-sama have a fight?" he whispered.
      Her eyes,  concerned, stared  past the  Castellan at  his master.
 "What? No," she revealed, sighing. "This trial..."
      "Is he ill? He did not eat his breakfast. His color is not good."
      Myrande compressed her lips and  looked past the Castellan at the
 young Baron  of Connall. His  eyes were red,  as if from  weeping; his
 complexion was a  ghastly gray. Luthias was clenching  his jaw. "Yes,"
 she answered softly,  "he is sick." Eyes dark with  sorrow, she turned
 to Michiya. "Take care of him, will you?"
      "I could never do that,"  Ittosai replied ruefully, but smiling a
 little. "He  would never allow  anyone but you  to take care  of him."
 Myrande  bowed  her head.  "It  is  you who  must  take  care of  him,
 Myrande-san," the  Castellan gently corrected  as he looked  ahead. "I
 have no hope  for this trial, and--" Confused, his  voice raised. "Why
 is the High Mage waiting for us?"
      "We'll find out," Luthias returned gruffly. Like Ittosai, he kept
 his eyes on  the waiting group: the Tribunal,  Winthrop, Coranabo, and
 Baron Vladon;  Sir Edward  Sothos, the Knight  Commander; the  Duke of
 Dargon and  his Duchess; and,  sitting calmly on his  mount, Marcellon
 Equiville, the  High Mage. Ittosai made  to spur his horse  ahead, but
 Luthias abruptly held out his arm to  stop him. "Don't go ahead of me;
 they'll suspect  you of  trying to escape,"  the Baron  winced against
 some unknown pain. Ittosai paused.
      "I do  want you to know  that I know you're  not guilty," Myrande
 started softly, "and I--"
      "No  more, Myrande,"  Michiya cut  her  off swiftly.  "It is  all
 right."
      "Are  you  ready then,  Baron  Connall?"  Baron Vladon  asked  as
1Luthias  and his  party approached.  Worried, Michiya  watched as  the
 Baron nodded painfully. "Good day,  Lady Myrande. Gentlemen, pray join
 us."
      "Why  are you  here?" Luthias  bluntly asked  the High  Mage. The
 physician turned to him, a doctor's concern evident in his expression.
 "Don't you think you should stay with Lauren?"
      Gently, the  High Mage returned, "It  is my right, as  a noble of
 Baranur,  to  defend  Clifton  and  Michiya.  Besides,"  he  continued
 wistfully, "I have been neglecting my  duties as High Mage of late. It
 is time I return to the King."
      "Enough," Coranabo interrupted angrily. "We are wasting time. Let
 us leave. The ship  is waiting." He turned to the  Duke of Dargon, who
 was tenderly kissing his wife good-bye. "Bind the traitors."
      "No!"  Luthias' denial  rang  like a  clap  of thunder.  Coranabo
 turned to him  sharply. The furious Baron of Connall  stared him down.
 "They  are not  traitors until  the King  decrees," Luthias  explained
 curtly, his color paling. "I will not allow them to be bound."
      "That is your decision,  Advocate," Baron Vladon agreed smoothly.
 "If you are ready, Duke Dargon."
      "My horse..." Clifton began, motioning for one of his servants.
      "Here,  take  mine," Myrande  offered,  sliding  from her  mount.
 Clifton smiled at  her briefly and threw himself into  the saddle. The
 seneschal smiled her good-bye to Ittosai; she then turned to the young
 Baron. "Luthias..."
      He didn't  turn his head.  "Good-bye, Sable," he took  his leave,
 and abruptly he spurred his  horse away, leaving the sorrowful Duchess
 and the seneschal behind him.
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    (C) Copyright September,  1989, DargonZine. All rights  revert to the
 authors. These  stories may not  be reproduced or redistributed  save in
 the case of reproducing the whole 'zine for further distribution without
 the express permission of the author involved.