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SIX

It turned out Freda really was exhausted. A few minutes after I covered her with that blanket, she began to snore. Perhaps magic took more out of her than I realized—though I still didn’t put much trust in her future-telling skills. When she’d read her Trumps, she hadn’t revealed more than crumbs of information . . . a few names, a few hints of dire things to come, which might or might not involve Dworkin and his various children.
Still, I had seen a picture of Juniper, so I didn’t count it as a waste of time. And I had learned I didn’t want to go to the Courts of Chaos. Something about the place made my skin crawl.
After a few more minutes of staring out the window and finding nothing but more questions, I gave up. Maybe Freda had the right idea, I decided, leaning back in the comfortable padded seat and stretching out my long legs.
It had been an exhausting night, and I’d only had an hour or two of sleep. Might as well try to catch up.
I closed my eyes. Exhaustion flooded over me, but for the longest time I found myself twisting and turning, trying to get comfortable. My thoughts kept racing through the events of the day, turning over all the questions I’d already asked myself, but finding no more answers.
Finally, sleep did come, but it was not the sleep of the dead. It was anything but refreshing. Dreams of Helda and the hell-creatures haunted me, of burning buildings and green fires and horses that spat sparks, and towering over it all, a fairy tale castle grown to nightmare proportions—the legendary Juniper.
Some time later the carriage began to slow. I sensed the change in our pace and came awake instantly, yawning and stretching the kinks from my muscles.
Opposite me, her chin on her chest, Freda snored softly. No sense in waking her yet, I decided. Better to wait till we actually reached our destination.
I pushed back the lace curtain and peered out.
Morning had given way to late afternoon, if the fading light of the sun proved a true indicator of time. The verdant green forests had been replaced by open fields—and a sprawling army camp that stretched as far as the eye could see. Long rows of tents, pens of horses, sheep, and cattle, hundreds of cooking fires, and countless thousands of soldiers—some with the extra joints in the arms, some fully human—filled my view. I couldn’t hear much through the carriage walls, but my imagination filled in the sounds of a camp life, the boasting talk of soldiers at work and leisure, the tramp of boots, the squeak of leather and the jingle of chain mail.
We passed a large open field where dozens of squads marched and drilled, and in the distance I saw more soldiers paired off to practice swordsmanship. It was a familiar enough scene, but on a larger scale than I had ever witnessed before.
King Elnar had raised an army of eight thousand against the hell-creatures, and I had thought he commanded a huge force. This one dwarfed it. There had to be tens of thousands of soldiers here, I thought with awe. Again we rolled past row after row after row of tents.
But whom did they serve? No small keep like Dworkin’s could possibly support this many soldiers. He must have allies—powerful ones. None of the Fifteen Kingdoms could have summoned up and sustained a force like this one.
Opening the window, I leaned far out and craned my neck. At once I spotted what had to be our destination: Juniper, just as Aber had painted it. But he hadn’t done it justice.
An immense moss-and-ivy draped stone castle set high on a hill, its ancient walls had to be eighty feet high. Even at this distance I could clearly see half a dozen men patrolling the battlements.
When the road turned and headed straight toward Juniper, our horsemen-escort peeled off. The castle’s huge stone walls had been built of massive blocks nearly as tall as me—an impressive feat of engineering, I thought. It would be hard to take this place by siege.
Without slowing, the carriage mounted a long ramp overlooked by battlements on our right and entered a massive gatehouse, emerging after a right turn in a courtyard paved in red flagstones. It stopped, then swayed a bit as Dworkin climbed down.
Leaning forward, I touched Freda’s arm.
“Mm?” she said.
“We’re here.”
Yawning, she sat up. “Juniper?”
“I believe so.”
Reaching to her left, she pulled a small lever by the door. Instantly it swung open and those delicate-looking glass steps folded out.
I went down first, staring at the crowd that had begun to assemble. It included army officers as well as servants in white-and-red livery bearing water and other refreshments. I also recognized two of Dworkin’s sons from Freda’s Trumps—Locke and Davin. It seemed everyone wanted or needed to talk to Dworkin urgently, for they surrounded him, a dozen voices speaking at once. Locke paid me no heed; Davin gave me a curious glance, but did not address me. Clearly I wasn’t important enough to warrant their attention.
When Freda appeared in the carriage’s doorway, I offered her my hand and helped her to the ground.
Dworkin seemed to have forgotten us. He was busy giving orders—where to move troops, what supply stocks to draw upon, training and patrol schedules—as though he were the general who commanded this army.
“Come,” Freda said, “he will be busy for hours.”
Linking her arm through mine, she steered me toward a set of large double doors opened wide to the warm afternoon air. A steady stream of servants moved through them.
“But if he wants me—” I began.
“If he wants you, he will find you when he is ready. He always does.”
I didn’t argue. I still didn’t know enough about the situation to make a decision. But I did know enough to realize that Freda was my sole key so far to learning more Dworkin’s surprising double life. I’d have to get her alone and work on charming information out of her, I decided, before my uncle came looking for me. I was more handsome than most men, after all, and I’d always had a winning way with women. Romance might well be the key . . . 
The double doors led to a large audience chamber. Tall, narrow stained-glass windows showing hunting and battle scenes filled the right wall. Similarly themed tapestries lined the other walls. Ahead, on a low dais, stood what could only be a throne, with half a dozen lesser chairs set slightly lower to either side. All sat empty now, but the room was far from deserted—at least a dozen servants scurried about on errands, carrying boxes, bundles of scrolls and parchments, trays of food, and additional items. Other servants had lowered the immense crystal chandelier from its mount on the central roof beam and were busily cleaning it and replacing candles.
“This way,” Freda said, starting for a door to the left of the dais. I hesitated a second, then followed.
Behind us, Dworkin and his entourage swept in, several voices still talking at once. I thought I heard Dworkin called “Prince” by at least one of the officers, which shocked me, but when I glanced back they were heading toward a different door.
As we entered a wide hallway, I noticed how Freda seemed changed here, inside the castle. She smiled constantly, nodding to servants and soldiers who passed us in the hallway. All called her “Lady” and bowed. They all gave me curious looks, but no salutations. And Freda offered them no hint as to my identity.
We turned, turned again, and went up a broad winding staircase to a second floor. I saw fewer servants here, but they seemed older and more polished. They too bowed, and they greeted Freda as “Lady Freda,” as though they were accustomed to dealing with her personally.
At the end of the last hallway we came to a large salon, richly carpeted and filled with comfortable looking chairs and sofas. A stained glass window of yet another hunting scene filled most of the west wall, and the lowering sun gave everything inside a warm, comfortable glow.
“Freda!” cried a woman from one of the sofas.
I studied her. She looked older than Freda, but they might have been sisters. Both had Dworkin’s unmistakable features.
“Pella, you’re back!” Freda said with clear delight, “When did you get in?”
“Last night.”
“Any trouble?”
“Nothing to speak of.”
The two embraced warmly, then Freda pulled me forward.
“This is Oberon.”
Pella raised her delicate eyebrows. “The long-lost Oberon? I though Father—”
“No,” said Freda pointedly. “Oberon, this is my full sister, Pella.”
The long-lost Oberon?
I wasn’t sure quite what she meant by that. It seemed as though she’d heard stories about me. But how could that be—unless Dworkin had told them? But why would he bother?
Putting on my charm, I took Fella’s hand and kissed it. “Call me Obere,” I said with my most winning smile.
“He is cute,” Pella said to Freda. “I can see he’s destined to give Aber a run.”
“Aber?” I said. “Is he here, too?”
“Of course,” Pella said.
Freda added, “I do not think he has ventured outside Juniper’s walls in at least a year.”
“Not at all?” I asked, puzzled. The castle seemed nice enough, but I wouldn’t want to hole up in here. If not training in the field with the soldiers, I’d want to be off hunting, patrolling the forests, or simply exploring new territory.
“He has been busy chasing the kitchen maids.”
“Oh.” I blinked, somewhat surprised.
Freda said to Pella, “He is such an innocent. He was raised in Shadow, you know. He knows next to nothing of Father or our family.”
“Not so innocent!” I protested.
They both laughed, but it was done in such a kindly way that I couldn’t possibly take offense.
A throat cleared behind us, and I turned to find a new woman leaning almost seductively against the doorway. She wore a low-cut gown of shimmering white, showing off ample cleavage. She was younger, a tad shorter, and far more attractive than either Pella or Freda. She wore her dark brown hair up, and makeup accentuated her high cheekbones, pale complexion, and perfect white teeth. She was beautiful and knew it.
When she gave me an almost predatory boots-to-eyes appraisal, I took an instant dislike to her.
“Oberon, this is Blaise,” Freda said. I couldn’t help but notice the chill that had crept into her voice. Apparently she shared my feelings about this woman.
“Introductions?” came a man’s cheerful voice from behind Blaise. “Someone new here?”
The man goosed Blaise, gave a grin at her indignant glare, and ducked around her with a swirl of red.
“Aber?” I said, staring. He dressed as he had in his card: red from head to heel.
“That’s right!” He gave a laugh, stepped forward swiftly, and seized my arm in a firm grip, pumping it. “And you, I gather, must be the long-lost Oberon.”
“That’s right. Call me Obere.”
“Let me save you from these old hens, brother.”
He pulled me toward the back of the wall, where a cart filled with several dozen bottles of liquor sat. “Care for a drink?”
“Gladly!” I glanced back at Freda and Pella, and beyond them to Blaise. “Care to join us?” I asked politely.
A little sulkily, Blaise said, “Aber knows what I like.”
“Apple brandy,” he said with a grin and a wink at me. “Red wine for Freda and Pella. And you, brother Oberon?”
Brother again. Why did he call me that? I wanted to ask, but what I said was, “Whatever you’re having is fine.”
“Whiskey, neat?”
“Perfect. It’s been quite a day.”
He poured quickly and I got to pass out the drinks. The five of us formed a little semicircle around the liquor cart, Pella and Freda chatting about people I had never heard of, Blaise pretending an interest in them, Aber sizing me up behind his drink. I sipped my whiskey and returned his inquiring stare with one of my own.
“Good whiskey,” I said.
“It’s imported from a distant shadow at great risk and effort . . . my own. Best I’ve ever found.”
“Believe him,” Pella said to me. “He used to roam farther through Shadow than any of us. And he always seemed to turn up something delicious to bring back.”
“All for you, dear sister!” he said with a laugh. Then he raised his glass in a toast. “To king and family,” he said.
The others raised their glasses, too.
“To Dworkin,” I said, “for rescuing me.”
It was only then that I caught a glimpse of the five of us in a long mirror hanging on the far wall. I was the tallest by a head, then Aber and Pella. But what truly caught my eye was the similarity between Aber and me. Our eyes were different colors, the shape of our faces and noses not at all the same—but there was something about us that struck a familiar chord. Our cheekbones, I thought, high and broad—and the similarities had to be more than coincidence.
We looked like brothers.
I had been denying it all along, but suddenly I realized how the women and I also shared many traits. Just as we shared them with Dworkin.
Almost choking, I set my drink down. But my father is dead. He was a naval officer.
So I had been told all my life.
But now, faced with overwhelming evidence, a different truth suddenly made sense.
I was Dworkin’s son.
I had to be.
It all fell neatly into place. Dworkin’s interest in my mother and me. All the lessons he taught me during my childhood. His unexpected return last night to save me from the hell-creatures, just as he had saved Freda and his other children.
I was a part of his family. Just as these strangers were now a part of mine.
Both Freda and Aber already knew. They had both called me “brother.” I assumed Pella and Blaise knew as well. Apparently I was the only one who had been kept in the dark, too blind or stupid or naive to guess my true heritage.
Why hadn’t Dworkin or my mother ever told me? Why had I been forced to think of myself as an orphan all these years? It wasn’t fair! All through my childhood, I had longed for a father and brothers and sisters, longed for the sort of family everyone else had. Now it turned out I’d had brothers, sisters, and a living father all the time—only I’d never known it. I had been robbed of the family I could have had.
Why had my mother hidden the truth from me?
Why had I spent my childhood lonely and alone?
The next time I saw my new-found father, I intended to ask some hard questions. For now, though, I tried to hide my sudden realization. My siblings all acted as if I should have known the truth about my parentage. Well, let them continue to think so. I seemed to get more information when people assumed I knew more than I did, as with Freda in the carriage.
Suddenly I realized I’d missed an important thread of conversation. My attention snapped back to Aber.
My new-found brother was saying, “ . . . and that’s what Locke claimed. I’m not sure he’s right, though.”
“Time will tell,” Blaise said.
Pella laughed. “That’s what you always say, dear. It hasn’t been true yet.”
Blaise, bristling like a cornered wolf, opened her mouth to say something I knew she’d regret, so quickly I jumped in with, “It’s nice to finally meet you all. How many more of us are here in Juniper now? Freda said something about a family gathering.”
“Nicely done, brother,” Aber said with a grin. “To answer your question and ignore the bickering”—he looked pointedly at Blaise and Pella—“there are fourteen family members present, including all of us.”
“Fourteen!” I exclaimed, unable to help myself.
Freda said, “I know it seems like a lot, but I’m sure you’ll have no trouble remembering all the names.”
“When will I see them?”
“Tonight at dinner, I’d imagine,” Aber said. “Fresh blood brings them out of the woodwork.”
“Aber!” Freda gave him a sharp look.
“Out from under the rugs?” he amended.
With a sigh, Freda said, “There is Anari.” She raised her hand and beckoned, jeweled fingers glittering, and an elderly man in red-and-white livery hurried to her side.
“Lady?” he asked.
“Take Lord Oberon upstairs and find him appropriate rooms,” she said. She fixed me with her brilliant smile. “I am sure he wants to rest and freshen up before dinner.”
“Yes, please,” I said. Much as I hated leaving the liquor cart, a nap and a wash basin sounded more appealing right now. It sounded like I’d need to be ready for a long evening tonight, with fourteen new-found relatives waiting to inspect my every word and gesture.
And Freda had called me “Lord Oberon,” I noticed. It was a title I knew I could get used to.
“This way, Lord,” Anari said, heading toward the door.
“Until dinner, then.” Giving my four siblings a polite wave, I turned to follow Anari.
Behind me, I heard Blaise’s tittering laugh and an almost breathless exclamation of, “Isn’t he precious?” that made my cheeks burn. No one had ever called me “precious” before. I wasn’t sure I would have liked it coming from a woman I’d bedded, and I certainly didn’t like it coming from my sister—or half-sister, since we could not possibly have shared the same mother.
Still, precious or not, I had done my best here. I had been raised a soldier, after all, and I wasn’t used to niceties of polite society or court life, whether they were mine by blood-right or not. As always, I’d do the best I could and they could either accept me, rough edges and all, or not. Either way, we would still be a family.
“Please follow me, Lord,” said Anari, turning to the left and starting up a wide set of stairs at a slow, deliberate pace.
“What’s your job here?” I asked.
“I am chief of the domestics, Lord. I manage the house and servants.”
I nodded. “How long have you served my father?”
“All my life, Lord.”
“No, not my family . . . just my father, Dworkin.”
“It has been my privilege to serve Lord Dworkin all my seventy-six years, as my father and my father’s father served him before me.”
“That would make him . . . ” I frowned, trying to add up the years. “More than a hundred and fifty years old!”
“Yes, Lord.”
I shivered, suddenly and inexplicably unsettled. I must have misheard, I thought. No one lived a hundred and fifty years. But Anari had said it so matter-of-factly he clearly believed and accepted it as a matter of course.
Although Dworkin hadn’t looked more than fifty when he first came to Helda’s door, now that I thought about it, he had looked distinctly younger than that when we had fought the hell-creatures.
More magic, I thought. Would it never end?
Anari led me up two flights of steps to a wing of the building devoted to, as he said, my family’s private quarters. All around me I saw symbols of great wealth and power. Not just paintings and tapestries of the sort I’d seen below, but intricate mosaics set in the floor, beautifully carved statues of nymphs and nude women in alcoves, crystal chandeliers and wall sconces, and gilded woodwork everywhere. Over the decades—or centuries—of his life, Dworkin had accumulated treasures enough for a dozen kingdoms.
“These will be your rooms, Lord,” Anari said, stopping before a large double door. “I trust you will find them acceptable.”
He pushed them open—and I found myself standing before what seemed to me a private palace.
Rich red-and-gold carpets covered the floors in thick, luxurious layers. Beautiful paintings and hanging tapestries covered the walls, showing fairy tale scenes with mythical creatures. Overhead, gilded columns and crown moldings supported a ceiling painted in pastel blues, with high clouds and even a few swooping hawks in one corner. Three elegantly upholstered chairs clustered around a small table to the far right. To the left, on the other wall, sat a small writing table complete with pens, ink, paper, sealing wax and seals, and a blotter.
“Your bed chamber is through here,” Anari said, stepping into the room and opening another set of doors set in an arched doorway. Through it I could see a high canopied bed and a full-length looking glass, plus a wash stand with pitcher and basin. “There are two wardrobes and a changing room as well.”
“Thank you.”
“My pleasure, Lord. Do you have baggage?”
“Nothing but my sword and the clothes on my back.”
He stepped back and looked me over critically. “I believe I can find you suitable garments for tonight,” he said. “I will make an appointment for one of the castle tailors to measure you tomorrow morning. We cannot have a man of your stature improperly furnished, after all.”
“Indeed,” I said agreeably, as if I had this sort of conversation every day. “I’ll leave the appointment up to you. Schedule it as late in the morning as possible.”
“Thank you, Lord.” He bowed slightly. “I will endeavor to live up to your faith in my abilities. In the meantime, with your permission, I will order a bath drawn and heated.”
“Please.”
“Is there anything else you require at this time?”
I almost laughed. Anything else? I needed everything else, starting with explanations to dozens of questions about my newly discovered family. But I merely smiled and shook my head.
“The bath will do,” I said. “Now, where—?”
“A boy will summon you when the water is ready.”
“All right. That will be all.”
“Very good, Lord.” He shut the doors on his way out, and as he did, I noticed how the heavy old hinges gave a faint squeak. At least nobody would be able to sneak up on me, I thought, the soldier inside taking over for the moment.
Unbuckling my swordbelt, I draped it across the back of the nearest chair, then sat down and pulled off my boots. It felt good to be alone. I tossed my boots into the corner by the door, then wandered through the suite, admiring all the little decorations, the gilding on the moldings and woodwork, the paintings and tapestries on the walls. Finally I flopped onto the bed, spreading my arms and feeling the goosedown yield beneath me. Soft . . . softer than I had felt in a long time. Not even Helda’s bed had been this comfortable.
I just needed a woman’s warmth beside me, I decided while stifling a yawn, and I could easily call this place home. But a trace of guilt crept into my pleasant thoughts.
King Elnar and Ilerium remained besieged, and I remembered Dworkin’s promise that he could help end the attacks. I would have to press him for an explanation the next time we met. Duty called.
An hour and a half later, after a long hot bath had soaked many of the day’s accumulated aches from my bones, I returned to my rooms for a quick nap.
The castle’s staff had been busy in my absence, I discovered. My boots had been cleaned and polished to a shine that would have made my orderly green with envy. Not even my sword had escaped their attention—the gold and silver inlay on the hilt had been polished to perfection. When I pulled half the blade’s length from its scabbard, I discovered it had been freshly oiled. I couldn’t have done a better job myself.
I could definitely get used to this sort of life, I thought, yawning widely.
The bath attendants had made off with the blood-and-sweat stained clothing I’d been wearing, replacing it with the long black robe I now wore. Anari had not yet produced the clothes he’d promised . . . not that I found fault—he hadn’t had much notice, after all.
With nothing to wear and nothing to do before dinner, I crawled into bed. Almost immediately I grew dead to the world.
Some time later, when the afternoon light had begun to fade, I came awake with a start.
I’d heard a noise. Something just wrong enough to sound an alarm and wake me.
A light knock sounded again from the other room, so softly I almost missed it. Then the hinges squeaked slightly as the door opened slowly . . . stealthily.
Someone trying to sneak up on me? No hell-creatures could possibly get in here, I thought.
I sat up, instinctively reaching for my sword. It was gone—I had left it on one of the chairs in the next room, I realized.
“Lord?” I heard an old man’s voice call. It wasn’t Anari. “Lord Oberon?”
“I’m here.” Rising, I found I still wore the robe I’d donned after my bath. I tightened the belt and wandered out into the main room of my suite, stretching the kinks from my muscles. “What is it?”
A man in his late years, dressed in castle livery, stood in the doorway to the hall. He held a large silver tray laden with towels in his age-spotted hands. He had to be at least seventy years old, I guessed. Undoubtedly, he had been serving my father as long as Anari. He had a warm, gentle smile.
“Your pardon, Lord Oberon,” he said. His voice quavered slightly. “I am Ivinius, the barber. Lady Freda said you required a shave and haircut before dinner.”
I ran my fingers over the thick stubble on my chin. “Thoughtful of her.”
“Her ladyship is most kind,” he murmured. “I’ve known her since she was a babe in her mother’s arms, bless her.”
He set his tray down on the table. In addition to the towels, I saw that it held two small blocks of shaving soap, plus several cutthroat razors of varying lengths and a selection of tiny glass bottles: probably lotions and perfumes. Without asking, he began to drag one of the armchairs toward the window.
“I’ll get that,” I said, starting forward to help. He looked too frail to be moving furniture.
“No need, Lord,” he said. He gave the chair one final tug and swung it into the last of the afternoon sunlight, exactly where he wanted it. “Please sit, Lord.”
As I did so, he went into my bedroom, picked up the small table with the wash basin and pitcher of water, and lugged them slowly over to my chair.
“Do you need help?” I asked, half rising.
“No, Lord.” He gave a low chuckle. “It is kind of you to ask, but I have been doing my job since before you were born. Please relax. I will be ready for you in a moment.”
He might look doddering, I thought, settling back in my seat, but he obviously had his pride. And he obviously knew his own strength. With a slight grunt, he set the table down beside the chair. He hadn’t spilled so much as a single drop of water from the pitcher.
I loosened my robe around my neck and took a deep contented breath, stretching out my feet and clenching and unclenching my toes. It would be nice to get a decent shave and haircut, I thought. I’d made do with battlefield barbering for most of the last year, and I’m afraid it showed.
With deft hands, Ivinius poured a small measure of water into the basin, took a block of shaving soap from his tray, and expertly lathered it with a brush. He spread towels across my chest and shoulders, then liberally foamed my chin, cheeks, and neck. While my beard softened, he selected the longest straight-edge razor from his tray—one almost as long as his forearm—and began stropping it across a long piece of leather tied to his belt.
To my surprise, I realized I could easily have gone back to sleep. I half closed my eyes, the clean scent of the shaving soap in my nostrils, the shup-shup-shup of the stropping blade a lullaby to my ears. The joys of civilization . . .  yes, I could easily get used to life in Juniper, I thought with a half smile.
Silently, I gave thanks to Freda’s thoughtfulness for sending Ivinius. The closest thing to a real barber I’d seen in the last year of campaigning against the hell-creatures had been my own orderly, who had more thumbs than fingers. He managed to trim my hair with a minimum of blood loss, but after his first stab—and that was the word—at shaving my face, I told him to get out and reclaimed my razor. My instincts for self-preservation demanded it.
In a near monotone, Ivinius kept up a steady murmur about his years in the service of Lord Dworkin. He mentioned his wife of sixty-two years, a cook in the kitchens; his five boys, who all served as valets in the castle; and his twenty-six grandchildren and great-grandchildren, one of whom would soon be of age to join the army. I made appropriate noises whenever he paused—“uh-huh,” “yes,” “go on”—but really I heard only every second or third sentence.
When I turned my head slightly, I could see us both in the looking glass. At that moment I knew why Freda had sent him: my hair was a wild tangle that not even a dunking in bathwater could tame. Dark circles lined my eyes, and I looked ten years older than my actual age. Everyone had been too polite to tell me I was a mess . . . certainly unsuitable to bring to dinner without being cleaned up.
Ivinius finished working on his razor and turned to me once more. Gently touching the bridge of my nose with two fingers, he tilted my head to the side. He didn’t realize I could see our reflection, and with sudden alarm I noticed how he shifted his grip on the razor’s handle. Now he held it like a butcher’s knife poised to joint a leg of lamb.
With my right hand I caught his wrist barely an inch from my throat.
“That’s not how you hold a razor,” I said, voice hard, turning to look at him.
“Lord,” he said in the calm tones one uses to gentle a spooked horse, “I am a barber. I know my job. Let me do it.”
“I’d rather shave myself, if you don’t mind.”
“I do mind,” he snarled.
I pushed back the hand holding the razor. Or tried to—for he suddenly bore down on me with all his weight and strength. Much, much more strength than an old man deserved.

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SIX

It turned out Freda really was exhausted. A few minutes after I covered her with that blanket, she began to snore. Perhaps magic took more out of her than I realized—though I still didn’t put much trust in her future-telling skills. When she’d read her Trumps, she hadn’t revealed more than crumbs of information . . . a few names, a few hints of dire things to come, which might or might not involve Dworkin and his various children.
Still, I had seen a picture of Juniper, so I didn’t count it as a waste of time. And I had learned I didn’t want to go to the Courts of Chaos. Something about the place made my skin crawl.
After a few more minutes of staring out the window and finding nothing but more questions, I gave up. Maybe Freda had the right idea, I decided, leaning back in the comfortable padded seat and stretching out my long legs.
It had been an exhausting night, and I’d only had an hour or two of sleep. Might as well try to catch up.
I closed my eyes. Exhaustion flooded over me, but for the longest time I found myself twisting and turning, trying to get comfortable. My thoughts kept racing through the events of the day, turning over all the questions I’d already asked myself, but finding no more answers.
Finally, sleep did come, but it was not the sleep of the dead. It was anything but refreshing. Dreams of Helda and the hell-creatures haunted me, of burning buildings and green fires and horses that spat sparks, and towering over it all, a fairy tale castle grown to nightmare proportions—the legendary Juniper.
Some time later the carriage began to slow. I sensed the change in our pace and came awake instantly, yawning and stretching the kinks from my muscles.
Opposite me, her chin on her chest, Freda snored softly. No sense in waking her yet, I decided. Better to wait till we actually reached our destination.
I pushed back the lace curtain and peered out.
Morning had given way to late afternoon, if the fading light of the sun proved a true indicator of time. The verdant green forests had been replaced by open fields—and a sprawling army camp that stretched as far as the eye could see. Long rows of tents, pens of horses, sheep, and cattle, hundreds of cooking fires, and countless thousands of soldiers—some with the extra joints in the arms, some fully human—filled my view. I couldn’t hear much through the carriage walls, but my imagination filled in the sounds of a camp life, the boasting talk of soldiers at work and leisure, the tramp of boots, the squeak of leather and the jingle of chain mail.
We passed a large open field where dozens of squads marched and drilled, and in the distance I saw more soldiers paired off to practice swordsmanship. It was a familiar enough scene, but on a larger scale than I had ever witnessed before.
King Elnar had raised an army of eight thousand against the hell-creatures, and I had thought he commanded a huge force. This one dwarfed it. There had to be tens of thousands of soldiers here, I thought with awe. Again we rolled past row after row after row of tents.
But whom did they serve? No small keep like Dworkin’s could possibly support this many soldiers. He must have allies—powerful ones. None of the Fifteen Kingdoms could have summoned up and sustained a force like this one.
Opening the window, I leaned far out and craned my neck. At once I spotted what had to be our destination: Juniper, just as Aber had painted it. But he hadn’t done it justice.
An immense moss-and-ivy draped stone castle set high on a hill, its ancient walls had to be eighty feet high. Even at this distance I could clearly see half a dozen men patrolling the battlements.
When the road turned and headed straight toward Juniper, our horsemen-escort peeled off. The castle’s huge stone walls had been built of massive blocks nearly as tall as me—an impressive feat of engineering, I thought. It would be hard to take this place by siege.
Without slowing, the carriage mounted a long ramp overlooked by battlements on our right and entered a massive gatehouse, emerging after a right turn in a courtyard paved in red flagstones. It stopped, then swayed a bit as Dworkin climbed down.
Leaning forward, I touched Freda’s arm.
“Mm?” she said.
“We’re here.”
Yawning, she sat up. “Juniper?”
“I believe so.”
Reaching to her left, she pulled a small lever by the door. Instantly it swung open and those delicate-looking glass steps folded out.
I went down first, staring at the crowd that had begun to assemble. It included army officers as well as servants in white-and-red livery bearing water and other refreshments. I also recognized two of Dworkin’s sons from Freda’s Trumps—Locke and Davin. It seemed everyone wanted or needed to talk to Dworkin urgently, for they surrounded him, a dozen voices speaking at once. Locke paid me no heed; Davin gave me a curious glance, but did not address me. Clearly I wasn’t important enough to warrant their attention.
When Freda appeared in the carriage’s doorway, I offered her my hand and helped her to the ground.
Dworkin seemed to have forgotten us. He was busy giving orders—where to move troops, what supply stocks to draw upon, training and patrol schedules—as though he were the general who commanded this army.
“Come,” Freda said, “he will be busy for hours.”
Linking her arm through mine, she steered me toward a set of large double doors opened wide to the warm afternoon air. A steady stream of servants moved through them.
“But if he wants me—” I began.
“If he wants you, he will find you when he is ready. He always does.”
I didn’t argue. I still didn’t know enough about the situation to make a decision. But I did know enough to realize that Freda was my sole key so far to learning more Dworkin’s surprising double life. I’d have to get her alone and work on charming information out of her, I decided, before my uncle came looking for me. I was more handsome than most men, after all, and I’d always had a winning way with women. Romance might well be the key . . . 
The double doors led to a large audience chamber. Tall, narrow stained-glass windows showing hunting and battle scenes filled the right wall. Similarly themed tapestries lined the other walls. Ahead, on a low dais, stood what could only be a throne, with half a dozen lesser chairs set slightly lower to either side. All sat empty now, but the room was far from deserted—at least a dozen servants scurried about on errands, carrying boxes, bundles of scrolls and parchments, trays of food, and additional items. Other servants had lowered the immense crystal chandelier from its mount on the central roof beam and were busily cleaning it and replacing candles.
“This way,” Freda said, starting for a door to the left of the dais. I hesitated a second, then followed.
Behind us, Dworkin and his entourage swept in, several voices still talking at once. I thought I heard Dworkin called “Prince” by at least one of the officers, which shocked me, but when I glanced back they were heading toward a different door.
As we entered a wide hallway, I noticed how Freda seemed changed here, inside the castle. She smiled constantly, nodding to servants and soldiers who passed us in the hallway. All called her “Lady” and bowed. They all gave me curious looks, but no salutations. And Freda offered them no hint as to my identity.
We turned, turned again, and went up a broad winding staircase to a second floor. I saw fewer servants here, but they seemed older and more polished. They too bowed, and they greeted Freda as “Lady Freda,” as though they were accustomed to dealing with her personally.
At the end of the last hallway we came to a large salon, richly carpeted and filled with comfortable looking chairs and sofas. A stained glass window of yet another hunting scene filled most of the west wall, and the lowering sun gave everything inside a warm, comfortable glow.
“Freda!” cried a woman from one of the sofas.
I studied her. She looked older than Freda, but they might have been sisters. Both had Dworkin’s unmistakable features.
“Pella, you’re back!” Freda said with clear delight, “When did you get in?”
“Last night.”
“Any trouble?”
“Nothing to speak of.”
The two embraced warmly, then Freda pulled me forward.
“This is Oberon.”
Pella raised her delicate eyebrows. “The long-lost Oberon? I though Father—”
“No,” said Freda pointedly. “Oberon, this is my full sister, Pella.”
The long-lost Oberon?
I wasn’t sure quite what she meant by that. It seemed as though she’d heard stories about me. But how could that be—unless Dworkin had told them? But why would he bother?
Putting on my charm, I took Fella’s hand and kissed it. “Call me Obere,” I said with my most winning smile.
“He is cute,” Pella said to Freda. “I can see he’s destined to give Aber a run.”
“Aber?” I said. “Is he here, too?”
“Of course,” Pella said.
Freda added, “I do not think he has ventured outside Juniper’s walls in at least a year.”
“Not at all?” I asked, puzzled. The castle seemed nice enough, but I wouldn’t want to hole up in here. If not training in the field with the soldiers, I’d want to be off hunting, patrolling the forests, or simply exploring new territory.
“He has been busy chasing the kitchen maids.”
“Oh.” I blinked, somewhat surprised.
Freda said to Pella, “He is such an innocent. He was raised in Shadow, you know. He knows next to nothing of Father or our family.”
“Not so innocent!” I protested.
They both laughed, but it was done in such a kindly way that I couldn’t possibly take offense.
A throat cleared behind us, and I turned to find a new woman leaning almost seductively against the doorway. She wore a low-cut gown of shimmering white, showing off ample cleavage. She was younger, a tad shorter, and far more attractive than either Pella or Freda. She wore her dark brown hair up, and makeup accentuated her high cheekbones, pale complexion, and perfect white teeth. She was beautiful and knew it.
When she gave me an almost predatory boots-to-eyes appraisal, I took an instant dislike to her.
“Oberon, this is Blaise,” Freda said. I couldn’t help but notice the chill that had crept into her voice. Apparently she shared my feelings about this woman.
“Introductions?” came a man’s cheerful voice from behind Blaise. “Someone new here?”
The man goosed Blaise, gave a grin at her indignant glare, and ducked around her with a swirl of red.
“Aber?” I said, staring. He dressed as he had in his card: red from head to heel.
“That’s right!” He gave a laugh, stepped forward swiftly, and seized my arm in a firm grip, pumping it. “And you, I gather, must be the long-lost Oberon.”
“That’s right. Call me Obere.”
“Let me save you from these old hens, brother.”
He pulled me toward the back of the wall, where a cart filled with several dozen bottles of liquor sat. “Care for a drink?”
“Gladly!” I glanced back at Freda and Pella, and beyond them to Blaise. “Care to join us?” I asked politely.
A little sulkily, Blaise said, “Aber knows what I like.”
“Apple brandy,” he said with a grin and a wink at me. “Red wine for Freda and Pella. And you, brother Oberon?”
Brother again. Why did he call me that? I wanted to ask, but what I said was, “Whatever you’re having is fine.”
“Whiskey, neat?”
“Perfect. It’s been quite a day.”
He poured quickly and I got to pass out the drinks. The five of us formed a little semicircle around the liquor cart, Pella and Freda chatting about people I had never heard of, Blaise pretending an interest in them, Aber sizing me up behind his drink. I sipped my whiskey and returned his inquiring stare with one of my own.
“Good whiskey,” I said.
“It’s imported from a distant shadow at great risk and effort . . . my own. Best I’ve ever found.”
“Believe him,” Pella said to me. “He used to roam farther through Shadow than any of us. And he always seemed to turn up something delicious to bring back.”
“All for you, dear sister!” he said with a laugh. Then he raised his glass in a toast. “To king and family,” he said.
The others raised their glasses, too.
“To Dworkin,” I said, “for rescuing me.”
It was only then that I caught a glimpse of the five of us in a long mirror hanging on the far wall. I was the tallest by a head, then Aber and Pella. But what truly caught my eye was the similarity between Aber and me. Our eyes were different colors, the shape of our faces and noses not at all the same—but there was something about us that struck a familiar chord. Our cheekbones, I thought, high and broad—and the similarities had to be more than coincidence.
We looked like brothers.
I had been denying it all along, but suddenly I realized how the women and I also shared many traits. Just as we shared them with Dworkin.
Almost choking, I set my drink down. But my father is dead. He was a naval officer.
So I had been told all my life.
But now, faced with overwhelming evidence, a different truth suddenly made sense.
I was Dworkin’s son.
I had to be.
It all fell neatly into place. Dworkin’s interest in my mother and me. All the lessons he taught me during my childhood. His unexpected return last night to save me from the hell-creatures, just as he had saved Freda and his other children.
I was a part of his family. Just as these strangers were now a part of mine.
Both Freda and Aber already knew. They had both called me “brother.” I assumed Pella and Blaise knew as well. Apparently I was the only one who had been kept in the dark, too blind or stupid or naive to guess my true heritage.
Why hadn’t Dworkin or my mother ever told me? Why had I been forced to think of myself as an orphan all these years? It wasn’t fair! All through my childhood, I had longed for a father and brothers and sisters, longed for the sort of family everyone else had. Now it turned out I’d had brothers, sisters, and a living father all the time—only I’d never known it. I had been robbed of the family I could have had.
Why had my mother hidden the truth from me?
Why had I spent my childhood lonely and alone?
The next time I saw my new-found father, I intended to ask some hard questions. For now, though, I tried to hide my sudden realization. My siblings all acted as if I should have known the truth about my parentage. Well, let them continue to think so. I seemed to get more information when people assumed I knew more than I did, as with Freda in the carriage.
Suddenly I realized I’d missed an important thread of conversation. My attention snapped back to Aber.
My new-found brother was saying, “ . . . and that’s what Locke claimed. I’m not sure he’s right, though.”
“Time will tell,” Blaise said.
Pella laughed. “That’s what you always say, dear. It hasn’t been true yet.”
Blaise, bristling like a cornered wolf, opened her mouth to say something I knew she’d regret, so quickly I jumped in with, “It’s nice to finally meet you all. How many more of us are here in Juniper now? Freda said something about a family gathering.”
“Nicely done, brother,” Aber said with a grin. “To answer your question and ignore the bickering”—he looked pointedly at Blaise and Pella—“there are fourteen family members present, including all of us.”
“Fourteen!” I exclaimed, unable to help myself.
Freda said, “I know it seems like a lot, but I’m sure you’ll have no trouble remembering all the names.”
“When will I see them?”
“Tonight at dinner, I’d imagine,” Aber said. “Fresh blood brings them out of the woodwork.”
“Aber!” Freda gave him a sharp look.
“Out from under the rugs?” he amended.
With a sigh, Freda said, “There is Anari.” She raised her hand and beckoned, jeweled fingers glittering, and an elderly man in red-and-white livery hurried to her side.
“Lady?” he asked.
“Take Lord Oberon upstairs and find him appropriate rooms,” she said. She fixed me with her brilliant smile. “I am sure he wants to rest and freshen up before dinner.”
“Yes, please,” I said. Much as I hated leaving the liquor cart, a nap and a wash basin sounded more appealing right now. It sounded like I’d need to be ready for a long evening tonight, with fourteen new-found relatives waiting to inspect my every word and gesture.
And Freda had called me “Lord Oberon,” I noticed. It was a title I knew I could get used to.
“This way, Lord,” Anari said, heading toward the door.
“Until dinner, then.” Giving my four siblings a polite wave, I turned to follow Anari.
Behind me, I heard Blaise’s tittering laugh and an almost breathless exclamation of, “Isn’t he precious?” that made my cheeks burn. No one had ever called me “precious” before. I wasn’t sure I would have liked it coming from a woman I’d bedded, and I certainly didn’t like it coming from my sister—or half-sister, since we could not possibly have shared the same mother.
Still, precious or not, I had done my best here. I had been raised a soldier, after all, and I wasn’t used to niceties of polite society or court life, whether they were mine by blood-right or not. As always, I’d do the best I could and they could either accept me, rough edges and all, or not. Either way, we would still be a family.
“Please follow me, Lord,” said Anari, turning to the left and starting up a wide set of stairs at a slow, deliberate pace.
“What’s your job here?” I asked.
“I am chief of the domestics, Lord. I manage the house and servants.”
I nodded. “How long have you served my father?”
“All my life, Lord.”
“No, not my family . . . just my father, Dworkin.”
“It has been my privilege to serve Lord Dworkin all my seventy-six years, as my father and my father’s father served him before me.”
“That would make him . . . ” I frowned, trying to add up the years. “More than a hundred and fifty years old!”
“Yes, Lord.”
I shivered, suddenly and inexplicably unsettled. I must have misheard, I thought. No one lived a hundred and fifty years. But Anari had said it so matter-of-factly he clearly believed and accepted it as a matter of course.
Although Dworkin hadn’t looked more than fifty when he first came to Helda’s door, now that I thought about it, he had looked distinctly younger than that when we had fought the hell-creatures.
More magic, I thought. Would it never end?
Anari led me up two flights of steps to a wing of the building devoted to, as he said, my family’s private quarters. All around me I saw symbols of great wealth and power. Not just paintings and tapestries of the sort I’d seen below, but intricate mosaics set in the floor, beautifully carved statues of nymphs and nude women in alcoves, crystal chandeliers and wall sconces, and gilded woodwork everywhere. Over the decades—or centuries—of his life, Dworkin had accumulated treasures enough for a dozen kingdoms.
“These will be your rooms, Lord,” Anari said, stopping before a large double door. “I trust you will find them acceptable.”
He pushed them open—and I found myself standing before what seemed to me a private palace.
Rich red-and-gold carpets covered the floors in thick, luxurious layers. Beautiful paintings and hanging tapestries covered the walls, showing fairy tale scenes with mythical creatures. Overhead, gilded columns and crown moldings supported a ceiling painted in pastel blues, with high clouds and even a few swooping hawks in one corner. Three elegantly upholstered chairs clustered around a small table to the far right. To the left, on the other wall, sat a small writing table complete with pens, ink, paper, sealing wax and seals, and a blotter.
“Your bed chamber is through here,” Anari said, stepping into the room and opening another set of doors set in an arched doorway. Through it I could see a high canopied bed and a full-length looking glass, plus a wash stand with pitcher and basin. “There are two wardrobes and a changing room as well.”
“Thank you.”
“My pleasure, Lord. Do you have baggage?”
“Nothing but my sword and the clothes on my back.”
He stepped back and looked me over critically. “I believe I can find you suitable garments for tonight,” he said. “I will make an appointment for one of the castle tailors to measure you tomorrow morning. We cannot have a man of your stature improperly furnished, after all.”
“Indeed,” I said agreeably, as if I had this sort of conversation every day. “I’ll leave the appointment up to you. Schedule it as late in the morning as possible.”
“Thank you, Lord.” He bowed slightly. “I will endeavor to live up to your faith in my abilities. In the meantime, with your permission, I will order a bath drawn and heated.”
“Please.”
“Is there anything else you require at this time?”
I almost laughed. Anything else? I needed everything else, starting with explanations to dozens of questions about my newly discovered family. But I merely smiled and shook my head.
“The bath will do,” I said. “Now, where—?”
“A boy will summon you when the water is ready.”
“All right. That will be all.”
“Very good, Lord.” He shut the doors on his way out, and as he did, I noticed how the heavy old hinges gave a faint squeak. At least nobody would be able to sneak up on me, I thought, the soldier inside taking over for the moment.
Unbuckling my swordbelt, I draped it across the back of the nearest chair, then sat down and pulled off my boots. It felt good to be alone. I tossed my boots into the corner by the door, then wandered through the suite, admiring all the little decorations, the gilding on the moldings and woodwork, the paintings and tapestries on the walls. Finally I flopped onto the bed, spreading my arms and feeling the goosedown yield beneath me. Soft . . . softer than I had felt in a long time. Not even Helda’s bed had been this comfortable.
I just needed a woman’s warmth beside me, I decided while stifling a yawn, and I could easily call this place home. But a trace of guilt crept into my pleasant thoughts.
King Elnar and Ilerium remained besieged, and I remembered Dworkin’s promise that he could help end the attacks. I would have to press him for an explanation the next time we met. Duty called.
An hour and a half later, after a long hot bath had soaked many of the day’s accumulated aches from my bones, I returned to my rooms for a quick nap.
The castle’s staff had been busy in my absence, I discovered. My boots had been cleaned and polished to a shine that would have made my orderly green with envy. Not even my sword had escaped their attention—the gold and silver inlay on the hilt had been polished to perfection. When I pulled half the blade’s length from its scabbard, I discovered it had been freshly oiled. I couldn’t have done a better job myself.
I could definitely get used to this sort of life, I thought, yawning widely.
The bath attendants had made off with the blood-and-sweat stained clothing I’d been wearing, replacing it with the long black robe I now wore. Anari had not yet produced the clothes he’d promised . . . not that I found fault—he hadn’t had much notice, after all.
With nothing to wear and nothing to do before dinner, I crawled into bed. Almost immediately I grew dead to the world.
Some time later, when the afternoon light had begun to fade, I came awake with a start.
I’d heard a noise. Something just wrong enough to sound an alarm and wake me.
A light knock sounded again from the other room, so softly I almost missed it. Then the hinges squeaked slightly as the door opened slowly . . . stealthily.
Someone trying to sneak up on me? No hell-creatures could possibly get in here, I thought.
I sat up, instinctively reaching for my sword. It was gone—I had left it on one of the chairs in the next room, I realized.
“Lord?” I heard an old man’s voice call. It wasn’t Anari. “Lord Oberon?”
“I’m here.” Rising, I found I still wore the robe I’d donned after my bath. I tightened the belt and wandered out into the main room of my suite, stretching the kinks from my muscles. “What is it?”
A man in his late years, dressed in castle livery, stood in the doorway to the hall. He held a large silver tray laden with towels in his age-spotted hands. He had to be at least seventy years old, I guessed. Undoubtedly, he had been serving my father as long as Anari. He had a warm, gentle smile.
“Your pardon, Lord Oberon,” he said. His voice quavered slightly. “I am Ivinius, the barber. Lady Freda said you required a shave and haircut before dinner.”
I ran my fingers over the thick stubble on my chin. “Thoughtful of her.”
“Her ladyship is most kind,” he murmured. “I’ve known her since she was a babe in her mother’s arms, bless her.”
He set his tray down on the table. In addition to the towels, I saw that it held two small blocks of shaving soap, plus several cutthroat razors of varying lengths and a selection of tiny glass bottles: probably lotions and perfumes. Without asking, he began to drag one of the armchairs toward the window.
“I’ll get that,” I said, starting forward to help. He looked too frail to be moving furniture.
“No need, Lord,” he said. He gave the chair one final tug and swung it into the last of the afternoon sunlight, exactly where he wanted it. “Please sit, Lord.”
As I did so, he went into my bedroom, picked up the small table with the wash basin and pitcher of water, and lugged them slowly over to my chair.
“Do you need help?” I asked, half rising.
“No, Lord.” He gave a low chuckle. “It is kind of you to ask, but I have been doing my job since before you were born. Please relax. I will be ready for you in a moment.”
He might look doddering, I thought, settling back in my seat, but he obviously had his pride. And he obviously knew his own strength. With a slight grunt, he set the table down beside the chair. He hadn’t spilled so much as a single drop of water from the pitcher.
I loosened my robe around my neck and took a deep contented breath, stretching out my feet and clenching and unclenching my toes. It would be nice to get a decent shave and haircut, I thought. I’d made do with battlefield barbering for most of the last year, and I’m afraid it showed.
With deft hands, Ivinius poured a small measure of water into the basin, took a block of shaving soap from his tray, and expertly lathered it with a brush. He spread towels across my chest and shoulders, then liberally foamed my chin, cheeks, and neck. While my beard softened, he selected the longest straight-edge razor from his tray—one almost as long as his forearm—and began stropping it across a long piece of leather tied to his belt.
To my surprise, I realized I could easily have gone back to sleep. I half closed my eyes, the clean scent of the shaving soap in my nostrils, the shup-shup-shup of the stropping blade a lullaby to my ears. The joys of civilization . . .  yes, I could easily get used to life in Juniper, I thought with a half smile.
Silently, I gave thanks to Freda’s thoughtfulness for sending Ivinius. The closest thing to a real barber I’d seen in the last year of campaigning against the hell-creatures had been my own orderly, who had more thumbs than fingers. He managed to trim my hair with a minimum of blood loss, but after his first stab—and that was the word—at shaving my face, I told him to get out and reclaimed my razor. My instincts for self-preservation demanded it.
In a near monotone, Ivinius kept up a steady murmur about his years in the service of Lord Dworkin. He mentioned his wife of sixty-two years, a cook in the kitchens; his five boys, who all served as valets in the castle; and his twenty-six grandchildren and great-grandchildren, one of whom would soon be of age to join the army. I made appropriate noises whenever he paused—“uh-huh,” “yes,” “go on”—but really I heard only every second or third sentence.
When I turned my head slightly, I could see us both in the looking glass. At that moment I knew why Freda had sent him: my hair was a wild tangle that not even a dunking in bathwater could tame. Dark circles lined my eyes, and I looked ten years older than my actual age. Everyone had been too polite to tell me I was a mess . . . certainly unsuitable to bring to dinner without being cleaned up.
Ivinius finished working on his razor and turned to me once more. Gently touching the bridge of my nose with two fingers, he tilted my head to the side. He didn’t realize I could see our reflection, and with sudden alarm I noticed how he shifted his grip on the razor’s handle. Now he held it like a butcher’s knife poised to joint a leg of lamb.
With my right hand I caught his wrist barely an inch from my throat.
“That’s not how you hold a razor,” I said, voice hard, turning to look at him.
“Lord,” he said in the calm tones one uses to gentle a spooked horse, “I am a barber. I know my job. Let me do it.”
“I’d rather shave myself, if you don’t mind.”
“I do mind,” he snarled.
I pushed back the hand holding the razor. Or tried to—for he suddenly bore down on me with all his weight and strength. Much, much more strength than an old man deserved.

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