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Chapter 17
Breaking the World
 

The world breaks us all. It shatters our bodies and brutalizes our souls

The question each of us—shattered body and brutalized soul as a given—is: what to do next.

—Gray

Cully was alone, as he walked through the castle gates, and into the gathering darkness.

The others' horses were hitched next to his, but none of them were there. Not even Penelope, who had been brought up the long winding path to the castle in her padded cart. For the life of him he couldn't have sworn when they went away, or how.

It was confusing being near the Wise. But, at least, it was usually private confusion.

Cully had expected that, of course. On his thankfully rare previous visits with the Wise, only once had he seen another human being, and that had been the last time, the time that Bear had been killed in front of his eyes.

He had expected it to all be the same as last time. And it almost was. The differences were annoying. Instead of the even, regular thumping of boots on the ramparts of his head, the footsteps were ragged, and irregular, as though they had been made by a dozen stumbling soldiers.

He looked for them, but it was already far too dark for him to have seen them even if they were there, and in all likelihood, it was just sounds, provided by the Wise, for his own amusement. It didn't amuse Cully.

He could have called out, but there was no point in that. He just followed the flagstone path around the donjon, past the barracks, and toward the hedge-rimmed plaza beyond.

That was where it had all happened. The way was lit by flickering torches, each one set not into a stone-lined hole that he would have expected, but into the grass. They sputtered and fumed and a few traces of their acrid smoke reached his nostrils, but there was no apparent heat; he held his hand, fingers spread widely, over one and paused for a moment.

No; no heat.

He walked on, and then he was in the plaza. The last time he had been here, bodies had been scattered across the stones, and the light of the noontime sun had beaten rightly down upon him.

But it had been empty of anything else. Yes, hedges had rimmed the plaza, and they were gone now, even though they had been evident but moments before.

It was the new thing that drew his attention. Rising off from almost the center of the plaza, a short tree rose barely head-high.

"It's an apple tree," a low voice murmured from behind him.

Cully turned slowly; there was no need to hurry.

The man facing him was about his own height and build, but not dressed as he would have expected. Instead of a mockery of the robes of the Order, he wore a gray woven sailor's tunic over calf–length breeches, the tunic belted with a length of rope, and carried a walking stick, on which he leaned heavily.

"Hello," the Wise said. His thinning hair was bound back in a sailor's queue, perhaps too tightly—the skin was tight over his temples. He seemed to have trouble breathing, although just a little.

It was the eyes that bothered Cully. They locked on his for a long moment, and seemed to see too much before they looked away.

"Hello," Cully said.

The Wise made no answer.

"Nicely done in distracting Gray the other day," Cully went on. "Did you think that would do more than buy a little time? Or were you waiting for me?" That sounded boastful, yes, but who cared how it sounded?

The Wise only shrugged.

And buying time? Time for what? Cully wasn't sure. If the Wise could be affected with force, that force wasn't going to come from an old man with a couple of swords.

Perhaps time for something else to happen, somewhere else?

The thought chilled him.

"Do you like the tree?" the Wise asked, ignoring him. "It's an apple. The seed came from Fallsworth." The Wise grinned. "No, I didn't go get it myself; but the wind brings many things to the Isle of Winds, after all. I thought it a fitting tribute to Bear. Don't you?"

Little enough; Bear had saved the Wise from a horrible death—or worse. What would a live sword with the soul of the Wise imprisoned in it have meant? And in whose hands?

He had a thought, for just a moment, but forced himself into the moment.

"Is it real? Or is it just some . . . illusion?" Cully waved his hand at the ramparts, from where the phantom stumbling sounds still issued. "Like all the rest. Like the hedge that was here but moments ago and now is gone."

"Oh, it's real. All of it is real." The Wise squatted, supporting himself with his walking stick. "Every bit of it. Just because you see things differently than others doesn't mean that you're being fooled, any more than they are."

"Or any less." Cully was skeptical.

"And that's true enough, as well." The Wise shook his head. "Shall we get right to the point? Or do you enjoy my company so well? Have you come as a supplicant? Or a creditor? Are you here to beg for help, or demand it?"

The others were gone; Penelope was alone in the cart, before the gate.

"Hello?" She hadn't seen them leave, but she had expected that. Cully had talked about his visits to the Wise's keep on the Montagne Grande on Pantelleria, as had Sir Joshua, and described what they had seen.

Interesting descriptions of the Wise. He apparently looked different to all who saw him, and while Cully and Gray had described him thoroughly, she wondered if they had ever noticed that they were largely describing themselves.

Well, what would she see? The girl that she had been, or the scarred wreck that she was?

There was no point in delay.

She forced herself to the edge of the cart, and lowered herself to the ground, standing as steadily as she could.

The pain was manageable, although the itching had intensified, yet again. Gentle Sir Stavros had spent hours gently massaging oils into her scarred flesh, and that helped, but she would, she was sure, always hurt, always itch.

Well, what could not be cured must be endured, and the open gates to the keep beckoned to her. She looked for a moment at her bag, wondering if there was any point in bringing it. Matching her paltry apprentice skills against even an ordinary of the College would have been futile, and she had every reason to believe that the Wise could deal with her pitiful little magicks with more ease than the Baba Yaga had done.

Very well, then: it would not be a threat, but a badge of her—low—office, and she would represent her College and her family and her companions as well as she could.

She slung the bag to her shoulder and walked slowly through the front gates.

It was strange. She obviously had been somewhat groggy on the trip of the side of the mountain, because she had the definite impression that the Wise was surrounded by stone walls.

But it wasn't. The wall around the house, gilded against the weather and heavily over laden with vines, was entirely reminiscent of her childhood at Everwood, complete to the decorative spikes topping the uprights. Oh, there were differences; the walls were much higher here, and the swung-open gate had no family crest upon it. But in some ways it felt the same.

She walked through, and wasn't sure whether to smile or to frown. Down the road, seeming preposterously lonely and small in the grassy vastness of the enclosure, Everwood stood.

The captain was not a poor man, but a town home was, by its very nature, much smaller than a rolling country estate, and the house sat all small in lonely in the middle of a vast lawn, with no outbuildings at all, not even the small stable that the captain maintained for both his horses and his carriages. It was as though her old home had been transplanted here, willy-nilly, without any sense of how silly it looked.

But it was, still, the image of Everwood, and that brought a smile to her lips.

"As I knew that it would," sounded from behind her. "Easy, Miss Penelope; don't turn quickly, for you might hurt yourself."

It wasn't the captain, although it looked entirely like him. The same tall, elegant form, with the same gentle expression above the carefully waxed goatee and mustache. And the same voice.

The false captain nodded. "No, I'm not him, nor pretending to be him. But I thought that a familiar appearance might be pleasant for you, Priyanka."

The use of that name was a false note, and if she had had any doubt that it was the captain, it would have dispelled that entirely. He would have called her "Miss Penelope."

"As was my intent. I would like to reassure you—and perhaps I have other motivations, as well; neither human nor other often does things for only one reason—but I wouldn't try to fool you in such a clumsy way. I just wished to treat you gently, for you have been badly used." He looked at her face without any sign of the distaste at her scarring that she was trying to become used to. "I can fix that, you know."

She nodded, as an acknowledgment, not as an agreement. "I am Penelope Priyanka Miller," she said. "At your service."

"I know," he said, rather than introducing himself. "Apprentice of His Majesty's College, companion to Sir Cully of Cully's Woode, beloved daughter of Martin Miller and Hemashri Miller, and other things. I'd say I'm pleased to meet you, but I'm not always one for the proper forms—as I prefer my privacy, these days, and you and your companions have impinged on it, to be blunt."

"Where are the others?"

"Oh, they're here, even if you don't quite notice them. I certainly do. The knights are all one of a kind, even though each one of them thinks himself so very different. All three of them are having much the same discussion with me. Kechiroski and I are having our own talk at this very moment, which I suspect you won't find is all that much like yours."

He reached for her hand, slowly, tentatively, just as the captain had on the rare occasion that he had done so.

She let him take it.

"Would you care to accompany me into the house?" he asked. "You'll find it entirely familiar, save for the staff. I don't think you'll actually see anybody, although the odors of turmeric and cooked apples may be somewhat familiar to you. As might the sounds, if the kitchen door just happens to be open. I certainly can promise you a dish of something quite familiar and pleasant—if you care to partake."

She knew better. "I've been told that if I let so much as a morsel of food pass my lips, I'll have to remain here."

"Ihat is entirely possible." He nodded. "And would that be so very bad? I rarely give my word on anything—it has a tendency to bind my actions more tightly than it does for humans—but I can give you my word that you would find remaining here entirely pleasant, and quite interesting, all in all." He shrugged. "And you might find, should you leave someday—and then make no promises on that account—that your bag would be filled with things more useful than it is now, just as your mind would be filled with skills far more puissant than you're likely to have, even after years of study, and then even at the height of your cycle."

Distraction. That's what it was; he was trying to distract her, but from what? Was he doing the same thing with the others? And to what end? With what goal? It didn't make any—

Wait.

"Hello?"

There was no answer. Sir Guy let his hand drop to Albert's hilt.

Patience, Guy, Albert whispered in his mind. Patience is a virtue, and you've none too much of it.

That was true enough, and he ducked his head, grateful for the correction. He was, after all, a sinful man.

He stalked across the compound.

Strange place, and not at all what had been described to him. The walls, which from the outside had appeared to be stone, were built of rough-hewn logs, like the palisades that settlers in New England built against the depredations of the native saracens. The tops of the poles looked freshly cut, and sap dripped down their sides. His admittedly keen vision could see armies of ants marching to and from it, as though carrying the drippings away to their nests.

Very strange. What was the purpose of it? Why put up logs to rot inside the stone walls? Or had the builders put up a stone facade on the outside of log walls? If the stone walls weren't enough to stop wind or invaders, what possible use could a log palisade do inside stone walls?

It didn't make sense, and he was more than vaguely irritated with Cully and Grayling for not having mentioned this. They had been typically evasive in describing the Wise's habitation, and while he had pressed them, they had been—again, typically—useless, as had Kechiroski.

Maybe this was a change since the three of them had last been here?

But while the logs appeared freshly hewn, they couldn't have been all that new; dozens of sparrows and gislings were nesting in the interstices, and their songs probably should have cheered him, but didn't.

The cobblestone path twisted across the lawn, green and flat as that on a thousand-year-old estate in Pendragonshire, toward the main house, and Sir Guy's boots clicked against the hard stone as he walked.

An impressive looking house, indeed; the high archway and open windows seemed almost Grecian, although the overgrowth of vines had a definite English flavor to it—if he'd had to guess, he would have guessed fourteenth century or so. Quite pleasant.

Strangely, right out in front of the main entrance of the keep, a small tree stood, no more than twice Sir Guy's height.

The branches were heavily laden with deeply ripe apples, although, surprisingly, there was no windfall below.

"It's an apple tree," a low voice murmured from directly behind him.

He turned, reaching for Albert, but stopped the motion. The other man was at least a dozen feet away, and had his hands held out in front of him, fingers spread widely, in an unmistakable call for peace.

"Hello," the Wise said. His voice was low and pleasant, much as Sir Guy's own.

Sir Guy had to admit that he—if it was a he, rather than an it—was a well-made fellow; he was perhaps a touch shorter than Sir Guy, and his face had a few more lines and was topped with slightly less hair, but the Wise was a handsome sort, with a strong chin and a beneficent expression, perhaps somewhat like Sir Guy's own.

That said, Sir Guy was less than pleased with the Wise's choice of garments—his tunic and robes appeared to be an imitation or mockery of the robes of the Order, though they had no piping along the cuffs, and no sign of the Cross or any other insignia at all.

But at least the Wise was unarmed, at least with physical weapons—his sash was empty of anything except a slim white stick, vaguely reminiscent of a wizard's wand, although longer.

"Greetings," Sir Guy said. "I am Guy of Orkney, sworn knight of the Order of—"

"Do you like the tree?" the Wise asked, rudely interrupting him without so much as a by-your-leave.

"I've no opinion on such matters," he said. "I've come here to talk with you about matters of interest, sir. And it appears you have the advantage of me, and I would appreciate you properly intro—"

"It's an apple," the Wise said, as though Sir Guy couldn't see that for himself. He started to let his hand drop to Albert's hilt, but stopped the motion. There would be opportunity enough for that, were such necessary.

"Yes, I've seen apple trees before, sir. But I—"

"The seed came from Fallsworth."

"And what of that? Is there something special about Fallsworth apples that should concern me? Are these such wondrous apples that they should be of great interest to a knight of the Order who is on mission? I've come here to—"

The Wise grinned. "No, I didn't go get it myself; but the wind brings many things to the Isle of Winds, after all."

"As the wind of the ship's sails brought me to this island. And I—"

"I thought it a fitting tribute to Bear."

It was maddening. This . . . this Wise was unable to let Sir Guy get a sentence out without interrupting. If Sir Guy hadn't been a man of calm disposition, he might have sworn out loud.

And Bear? "I would prefer to discuss the matter that has brought me here," he said, carefully, "but if you wish to bring up the late Sir David Shanley, it would suit me better if you spoke of him more formally, and not use the common name that many of his brothers used."

"Don't you?"

"No," he said. "I've always been one for more formality, and think none the less of myself for it." He looked about. "But there are some strange things happening hereabouts. What's the meaning of this palisade? Of this apple tree from which the fruit doesn't fall? And where are the others?"

Was this some sort of deception? Sir Guy knew who the Father of Deception was, and it was not impossible that the Horned One could manifest himself in such a pleasant and handsome form.

"Oh, it's real," the Wise said, answering his thoughts rather than his words. Sir Guy didn't much like that. "All of it is real."

"As is your impertinence, sir. And your rudeness. I've introduced myself quite properly, and I find your refusal to do the same quite rude. Don't you?"

"Every bit of it." The Wise shrugged, as though to say that he wasn't bothered by his own improper behavior, even though he had admitted it.

"And I see simple courtesy as something that both the high and the low ought to practice."

"Just because you see things differently than others doesn't mean that you're being fooled—"

"It's difficult and dangerous to try to fool a knight of the Order, sir."

"—any more than they are."

"And you'll not distract me from my task with your banter."

"And that's true enough, as well." The Wise shook his head. "Shall we get right to the point? Or do you enjoy my company so well? Have you come as a supplicant? Or a creditor? Are you here to beg for help, or demand it?"

The Elder laughed. A far-too-familiar laugh; Kechiroski remembered it from a time when he wasn't Kechiroski. "Nissim al-Furat, Stavros Andropolonikos, Stavros Kechiroski, Sir Stavros Kechiroski—it's all the same to me. I know where your loyalties are; and they stem from who you are. Who you really are, and not who you appear to be."

The Wise had appeared in the form of Shayk Tzidiki, complete with robes, kafiyeh and agal, and the fierce expression beneath it, relieved only by the gentle, knowing eyes.

His training, under the careful tutelage of the , was still with him; he set a puzzled expression on his face, with just a trace the fear beneath it, the way any innocent man suspected of some horrible crime would do.

"Very nicely done, indeed, Nissim," the Wise said. "But hardly the point. If you'd care to posture for a while, I certainly have time. At least here and now; I can't speak for you. But you do neither of your causes—the one that you effect to support, and the other—any good at all that I can see by the delaying such matters. So don't bother doing that."

The Wise took another puff from his hookah. "I'd say I'm a patient man, but human values like patience don't quite apply to me; and I'm not a man." The Wise held out a tray of sweetmeats. "Eat a little, smoke a little, and if you're posing as Stavros Kechiroski at the moment, have a nice glass of retsina; if you're being Nissim al-Farat in this instance, perhaps some other intoxicant."

Stavros hadn't noticed the glass of retsina on the table before him before; he downed it in one quick swallow.

He had instructions as to what to do if his disguise was discovered; there was a capsule still hidden beneath his clothing. His fingers fondled it. No reason not to take advantage of it; he had filed his most recent report in a hidden nook at the port. His death would be a loss to his brothers—but perhaps they would find a way to make some gains out of it.

"Go ahead." The Wise made an expansive gesture that would have been entirely in character for the shayk he was imitating. "In fact, I'll promise you this: if you do not swallow that capsule immediately, I'll reveal your identity to all of the others, immediately. And give them cause to believe me. I can be very persuasive, when I'm of a mind to."

Kechiroski retrieved it, brought it to his mouth, and shattered the glass between his teeth. The end would come soon, but—

But no. Instead of the expected sharp shards of glass in his mouth in a bitter taste on his tongue, it was merely an Injan candy, redolent of honey and persimmon.

"Well, so much for that." The Wise shook his head. "Yes, you've eaten food I've provided you, and you'll remain here as long as I choose. This is my place, and that we shall proceed here, you and me, as I choose, not you. Shall we talk openly now?"

There was no point in evasion; the Wise knew much. He might as well—but he felt a sense of triumph that his work for the committee had been done in faith and ignorance, not knowledge that could be extracted from his body with torture, no matter how long the torture, nor from his mind.

Why was the Wise being so helpful? Could it be that—

"No, it couldn't be. I tried to stay out of human affairs, and the battle between Crown, Empire, and the Dar are entirely human affairs, from my limited point of view. If I were to show a favorite, it would be—well, leave that be; I have no favorites among you. A certain amount of fear of some of the tools that some of you wield, yes, but fear and favor are such . . . different words, don't you think?"

If the Wise was not involved in the affairs of this world, then why the hesitance? Why project such an image of disinterest when he—or she, or it, or them, or whatever it was—was passionately interested in staying out of whatever was going on?

Why?

"It's something not quite human," he said, throwing away half a lifetime of habit, letting himself think aloud. "Amadan Dubh, swords, darklings, and all the rest—it isn't just the Empire, or something similar. It's something much larger."

Not a challenge to the Dar, not the Empire tentatively seeking out weakness in both Crown and Dar—but a distraction to all, that's what it was. That's what it had to be. Setting off a war between Dar, Crown, and Empire, and who would benefit?

Kechiroski didn't know, but he had a suspicion.

More: the Wise knew precisely what it was. And, for whatever reason, was not only disinterested in it—disinterest could be mended with a threat—but was terrified of it, and feared getting involved in it.

By the Beard—

He rose to his feet. "Gray! Sir Joshua Grayling!"

The Wise smiled. "He can't hear you. Nobody can hear you. Nobody will ever hear you. It's all happening right now." He shook his head. "You've been looking in all the wrong places, all of you, and he's quite effectively distracted you. All of you." He cocked his head to one side. "And for his next move, it's precisely too late to stop it. I'm sorry. Not very sorry, but sorry nonetheless."

"It's an apple tree," Black said. Others could call him the Wise; Gray preferred the name that had been given to him.

Black hadn't been waiting on the steps of the main building of the keep; Gray had gone around back to the plaza behind, to find Black half sitting on a waist-high stump of a branch, half leaning against the bole of the tree.

"I've seen apple trees before," Gray said.

As before, Black looked familiar, but disturbingly different. Dressed in Order robes, yes, but without piping and insignia, and no swords whatever thrust through his sash—not even the wandlike stick that Black had been playing with the last time, which Gray assumed was hidden inside his robes, along with Black's right hand.

Other than that, he was changed but a little. Hair still black as the raven, shot with a bit more gray; beard close-trimmed and neat, like Gray's own.

Black rose from the steps, the apple held out in front of him. "Hello," the Wise said, proffering the apple. "Do you like the tree?"

Gray almost smiled. "An apple from the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil? I think it's forbidden." Although, truth to tell, he felt that he already had more than a taste of that.

"It's an apple." Black shrugged, as though to say, just an apple. "The seed came from Fallsworth. No, I didn't go get it myself—"

"You should have gone yourself. You should have gone to lay a wreath and say a prayer over Bear's grave."

Black shrugged. "The wind brings many things to the Isle of Winds, after all. I thought it a fitting tribute to Bear. Don't you?"

"I think you're trying to distract me," Gray said. "I think that you know something that I need to, that you can do something that I'd want you to do, and I think you're stalling, Black. Do you think your deception will work for me?"

Black's brow wrinkled at the word "deception."

"Oh, it's real. All of it is real."

"As are the matters I've come to ask you about." He wished he had the wit or the knowledge to put all the pieces together, but he didn't. All he had was the responsibility to do that which was right.

"Every bit of it," Black said.

But then there was what the Lady had said to Gray.

And if you should see that faith, wisdom, and justice are insufficient, and since you believe with all your heart that you are a man who has sacrificed his soul, and are without honor, that leaves you one virtue left.

"And that's true enough, as well."

Mercy. But upon whom? Upon the Wise?

The steel of the Khan was but a fraction of an inch from his hand. The Wise had almost fallen prey to lesser Red Swords—and here, in his weakened state, could he stand against the combination of Gray and the Khan?

No.

The Wise shook his head. "Shall we get right to the point? Or do you enjoy my company so well? Have you come as a supplicant? Or a creditor? Are you here to beg for help, or demand it?"

"I demand it," said Sir Guy. "In the name of the king, and of the Order of Crown, Shield, and Dragon."

"And if I do not adhere to your demand?"

Gray had said that he would decide what was to be done. But Gray wasn't here—or, if he was, Sir Guy couldn't see him. It was Sir Guy's choice, and he would make it as a knight should.

"Then ready yourself, whoever you are," Sir Guy said, as he let his hand drop to Albert's hilt.

Be careful, Guy.

"You think to defeat me here, in this place?"

Sir Guy shook his head. "I know not what this will bring, but I'll do as I see best, and let the future bring what it will."

"So be it."

"Demand," said Cully. "You've got your reasons for not sharing what you know, what you can do. I don't give a tinker's damn for those reasons."

"And with a mundane sword, you think to defeat me? When it took almost a dozen swords of the brighest Red? What would your Lady say to that silly idea?"

"Oh, you make it easy for me." Cully smiled, as he drew both of his scabbards, gripping the swords by their hilts, and letting the scabbards fall away. "I'm not required to win, am I? Never took an oath to that effect."

"So why fight? Why dash yourself to bits against me? What would the lady Morgaine think of that? Do you think she would hold you in higher esteem, or lower?"

The words didn't matter, but they were reason in and of himself. No, of course, he had no chance to defeat the Wise, not in his own place—but he did have a chance to distract a little of the Wise's attention, at least, and give Gray the opportunity to do the necessary.

Whatever the necessary might be.

And if that meant that Cully would not, once again, have to stand over a dead body of another of his lambs, but could lie down next to them, well, then, so much the better.

It's in your hands, Joshua; may they be better than my old trembling ones.

He drew himself up straight. "I am Sir Cully of Cully's Woode, sirrah," he said, "and I'll not let Her name sully your lips, whoever or whatever you are." Enough planning, enough reasoning, enough scheming.

Let it come down to this.

"I come to beg," Gray said, dropping to his knees before Black. "To beg for mercy," Gray said, as his hand fell to the hilt of the Khan. "Mercy for what remains of my soul, if anything; mercy for you; mercy for all."

We live again, the Khan said.

"A strange form of begging, with your hand upon the Khan."

No. More and less than that. In one moment of unfettered rage, the Sandoval had turned Linfield into a more than century-long horror.

There was greater power and greater evil in the Khan. Enough to slay the Wise?

Perhaps; perhaps not.

Enough to turn this island into something that would make Linfield a mild inconvenience by comparison?

Yes.

And if Black were to strike him down as he drew, well then, that would be mercy, wouldn't it? A mercy on all those who would be affected by Pantelleria, the island of the winds, turned into a Hell on Earth, wouldn't it?

And yes, it would be a mercy on the soul of Joshua Grayling, who would not leave such behind as his legacy, who could burn in Hell thinking that, at least, there was one sin that he had been stopped from committing.

"You can stop me, Black. You can show me that mercy, that justice."

"Wait—" Black's face had gone ashen. "I can't—I. He."

"Lost your way with words, have ye?"

Do it now, Joshua. Let us live again, and let—

"No. I can't—I can't say, but I can send you to where it all is happening. But it's too late, Joshua. It won't do any good."

"Who are you to say what will do good? Who am I?"

Let it end, now. The Wise had ample time to strike him down before he drew the Khan; there was no point in talking, not any more.

He started to draw the Khan from his sheath.

But in an eyeblink, he had fallen into madness and darkness, lasting but a moment, or forever.

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Framed

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Contents

Chapter 17
Breaking the World
 

The world breaks us all. It shatters our bodies and brutalizes our souls

The question each of us—shattered body and brutalized soul as a given—is: what to do next.

—Gray

Cully was alone, as he walked through the castle gates, and into the gathering darkness.

The others' horses were hitched next to his, but none of them were there. Not even Penelope, who had been brought up the long winding path to the castle in her padded cart. For the life of him he couldn't have sworn when they went away, or how.

It was confusing being near the Wise. But, at least, it was usually private confusion.

Cully had expected that, of course. On his thankfully rare previous visits with the Wise, only once had he seen another human being, and that had been the last time, the time that Bear had been killed in front of his eyes.

He had expected it to all be the same as last time. And it almost was. The differences were annoying. Instead of the even, regular thumping of boots on the ramparts of his head, the footsteps were ragged, and irregular, as though they had been made by a dozen stumbling soldiers.

He looked for them, but it was already far too dark for him to have seen them even if they were there, and in all likelihood, it was just sounds, provided by the Wise, for his own amusement. It didn't amuse Cully.

He could have called out, but there was no point in that. He just followed the flagstone path around the donjon, past the barracks, and toward the hedge-rimmed plaza beyond.

That was where it had all happened. The way was lit by flickering torches, each one set not into a stone-lined hole that he would have expected, but into the grass. They sputtered and fumed and a few traces of their acrid smoke reached his nostrils, but there was no apparent heat; he held his hand, fingers spread widely, over one and paused for a moment.

No; no heat.

He walked on, and then he was in the plaza. The last time he had been here, bodies had been scattered across the stones, and the light of the noontime sun had beaten rightly down upon him.

But it had been empty of anything else. Yes, hedges had rimmed the plaza, and they were gone now, even though they had been evident but moments before.

It was the new thing that drew his attention. Rising off from almost the center of the plaza, a short tree rose barely head-high.

"It's an apple tree," a low voice murmured from behind him.

Cully turned slowly; there was no need to hurry.

The man facing him was about his own height and build, but not dressed as he would have expected. Instead of a mockery of the robes of the Order, he wore a gray woven sailor's tunic over calf–length breeches, the tunic belted with a length of rope, and carried a walking stick, on which he leaned heavily.

"Hello," the Wise said. His thinning hair was bound back in a sailor's queue, perhaps too tightly—the skin was tight over his temples. He seemed to have trouble breathing, although just a little.

It was the eyes that bothered Cully. They locked on his for a long moment, and seemed to see too much before they looked away.

"Hello," Cully said.

The Wise made no answer.

"Nicely done in distracting Gray the other day," Cully went on. "Did you think that would do more than buy a little time? Or were you waiting for me?" That sounded boastful, yes, but who cared how it sounded?

The Wise only shrugged.

And buying time? Time for what? Cully wasn't sure. If the Wise could be affected with force, that force wasn't going to come from an old man with a couple of swords.

Perhaps time for something else to happen, somewhere else?

The thought chilled him.

"Do you like the tree?" the Wise asked, ignoring him. "It's an apple. The seed came from Fallsworth." The Wise grinned. "No, I didn't go get it myself; but the wind brings many things to the Isle of Winds, after all. I thought it a fitting tribute to Bear. Don't you?"

Little enough; Bear had saved the Wise from a horrible death—or worse. What would a live sword with the soul of the Wise imprisoned in it have meant? And in whose hands?

He had a thought, for just a moment, but forced himself into the moment.

"Is it real? Or is it just some . . . illusion?" Cully waved his hand at the ramparts, from where the phantom stumbling sounds still issued. "Like all the rest. Like the hedge that was here but moments ago and now is gone."

"Oh, it's real. All of it is real." The Wise squatted, supporting himself with his walking stick. "Every bit of it. Just because you see things differently than others doesn't mean that you're being fooled, any more than they are."

"Or any less." Cully was skeptical.

"And that's true enough, as well." The Wise shook his head. "Shall we get right to the point? Or do you enjoy my company so well? Have you come as a supplicant? Or a creditor? Are you here to beg for help, or demand it?"

The others were gone; Penelope was alone in the cart, before the gate.

"Hello?" She hadn't seen them leave, but she had expected that. Cully had talked about his visits to the Wise's keep on the Montagne Grande on Pantelleria, as had Sir Joshua, and described what they had seen.

Interesting descriptions of the Wise. He apparently looked different to all who saw him, and while Cully and Gray had described him thoroughly, she wondered if they had ever noticed that they were largely describing themselves.

Well, what would she see? The girl that she had been, or the scarred wreck that she was?

There was no point in delay.

She forced herself to the edge of the cart, and lowered herself to the ground, standing as steadily as she could.

The pain was manageable, although the itching had intensified, yet again. Gentle Sir Stavros had spent hours gently massaging oils into her scarred flesh, and that helped, but she would, she was sure, always hurt, always itch.

Well, what could not be cured must be endured, and the open gates to the keep beckoned to her. She looked for a moment at her bag, wondering if there was any point in bringing it. Matching her paltry apprentice skills against even an ordinary of the College would have been futile, and she had every reason to believe that the Wise could deal with her pitiful little magicks with more ease than the Baba Yaga had done.

Very well, then: it would not be a threat, but a badge of her—low—office, and she would represent her College and her family and her companions as well as she could.

She slung the bag to her shoulder and walked slowly through the front gates.

It was strange. She obviously had been somewhat groggy on the trip of the side of the mountain, because she had the definite impression that the Wise was surrounded by stone walls.

But it wasn't. The wall around the house, gilded against the weather and heavily over laden with vines, was entirely reminiscent of her childhood at Everwood, complete to the decorative spikes topping the uprights. Oh, there were differences; the walls were much higher here, and the swung-open gate had no family crest upon it. But in some ways it felt the same.

She walked through, and wasn't sure whether to smile or to frown. Down the road, seeming preposterously lonely and small in the grassy vastness of the enclosure, Everwood stood.

The captain was not a poor man, but a town home was, by its very nature, much smaller than a rolling country estate, and the house sat all small in lonely in the middle of a vast lawn, with no outbuildings at all, not even the small stable that the captain maintained for both his horses and his carriages. It was as though her old home had been transplanted here, willy-nilly, without any sense of how silly it looked.

But it was, still, the image of Everwood, and that brought a smile to her lips.

"As I knew that it would," sounded from behind her. "Easy, Miss Penelope; don't turn quickly, for you might hurt yourself."

It wasn't the captain, although it looked entirely like him. The same tall, elegant form, with the same gentle expression above the carefully waxed goatee and mustache. And the same voice.

The false captain nodded. "No, I'm not him, nor pretending to be him. But I thought that a familiar appearance might be pleasant for you, Priyanka."

The use of that name was a false note, and if she had had any doubt that it was the captain, it would have dispelled that entirely. He would have called her "Miss Penelope."

"As was my intent. I would like to reassure you—and perhaps I have other motivations, as well; neither human nor other often does things for only one reason—but I wouldn't try to fool you in such a clumsy way. I just wished to treat you gently, for you have been badly used." He looked at her face without any sign of the distaste at her scarring that she was trying to become used to. "I can fix that, you know."

She nodded, as an acknowledgment, not as an agreement. "I am Penelope Priyanka Miller," she said. "At your service."

"I know," he said, rather than introducing himself. "Apprentice of His Majesty's College, companion to Sir Cully of Cully's Woode, beloved daughter of Martin Miller and Hemashri Miller, and other things. I'd say I'm pleased to meet you, but I'm not always one for the proper forms—as I prefer my privacy, these days, and you and your companions have impinged on it, to be blunt."

"Where are the others?"

"Oh, they're here, even if you don't quite notice them. I certainly do. The knights are all one of a kind, even though each one of them thinks himself so very different. All three of them are having much the same discussion with me. Kechiroski and I are having our own talk at this very moment, which I suspect you won't find is all that much like yours."

He reached for her hand, slowly, tentatively, just as the captain had on the rare occasion that he had done so.

She let him take it.

"Would you care to accompany me into the house?" he asked. "You'll find it entirely familiar, save for the staff. I don't think you'll actually see anybody, although the odors of turmeric and cooked apples may be somewhat familiar to you. As might the sounds, if the kitchen door just happens to be open. I certainly can promise you a dish of something quite familiar and pleasant—if you care to partake."

She knew better. "I've been told that if I let so much as a morsel of food pass my lips, I'll have to remain here."

"Ihat is entirely possible." He nodded. "And would that be so very bad? I rarely give my word on anything—it has a tendency to bind my actions more tightly than it does for humans—but I can give you my word that you would find remaining here entirely pleasant, and quite interesting, all in all." He shrugged. "And you might find, should you leave someday—and then make no promises on that account—that your bag would be filled with things more useful than it is now, just as your mind would be filled with skills far more puissant than you're likely to have, even after years of study, and then even at the height of your cycle."

Distraction. That's what it was; he was trying to distract her, but from what? Was he doing the same thing with the others? And to what end? With what goal? It didn't make any—

Wait.

"Hello?"

There was no answer. Sir Guy let his hand drop to Albert's hilt.

Patience, Guy, Albert whispered in his mind. Patience is a virtue, and you've none too much of it.

That was true enough, and he ducked his head, grateful for the correction. He was, after all, a sinful man.

He stalked across the compound.

Strange place, and not at all what had been described to him. The walls, which from the outside had appeared to be stone, were built of rough-hewn logs, like the palisades that settlers in New England built against the depredations of the native saracens. The tops of the poles looked freshly cut, and sap dripped down their sides. His admittedly keen vision could see armies of ants marching to and from it, as though carrying the drippings away to their nests.

Very strange. What was the purpose of it? Why put up logs to rot inside the stone walls? Or had the builders put up a stone facade on the outside of log walls? If the stone walls weren't enough to stop wind or invaders, what possible use could a log palisade do inside stone walls?

It didn't make sense, and he was more than vaguely irritated with Cully and Grayling for not having mentioned this. They had been typically evasive in describing the Wise's habitation, and while he had pressed them, they had been—again, typically—useless, as had Kechiroski.

Maybe this was a change since the three of them had last been here?

But while the logs appeared freshly hewn, they couldn't have been all that new; dozens of sparrows and gislings were nesting in the interstices, and their songs probably should have cheered him, but didn't.

The cobblestone path twisted across the lawn, green and flat as that on a thousand-year-old estate in Pendragonshire, toward the main house, and Sir Guy's boots clicked against the hard stone as he walked.

An impressive looking house, indeed; the high archway and open windows seemed almost Grecian, although the overgrowth of vines had a definite English flavor to it—if he'd had to guess, he would have guessed fourteenth century or so. Quite pleasant.

Strangely, right out in front of the main entrance of the keep, a small tree stood, no more than twice Sir Guy's height.

The branches were heavily laden with deeply ripe apples, although, surprisingly, there was no windfall below.

"It's an apple tree," a low voice murmured from directly behind him.

He turned, reaching for Albert, but stopped the motion. The other man was at least a dozen feet away, and had his hands held out in front of him, fingers spread widely, in an unmistakable call for peace.

"Hello," the Wise said. His voice was low and pleasant, much as Sir Guy's own.

Sir Guy had to admit that he—if it was a he, rather than an it—was a well-made fellow; he was perhaps a touch shorter than Sir Guy, and his face had a few more lines and was topped with slightly less hair, but the Wise was a handsome sort, with a strong chin and a beneficent expression, perhaps somewhat like Sir Guy's own.

That said, Sir Guy was less than pleased with the Wise's choice of garments—his tunic and robes appeared to be an imitation or mockery of the robes of the Order, though they had no piping along the cuffs, and no sign of the Cross or any other insignia at all.

But at least the Wise was unarmed, at least with physical weapons—his sash was empty of anything except a slim white stick, vaguely reminiscent of a wizard's wand, although longer.

"Greetings," Sir Guy said. "I am Guy of Orkney, sworn knight of the Order of—"

"Do you like the tree?" the Wise asked, rudely interrupting him without so much as a by-your-leave.

"I've no opinion on such matters," he said. "I've come here to talk with you about matters of interest, sir. And it appears you have the advantage of me, and I would appreciate you properly intro—"

"It's an apple," the Wise said, as though Sir Guy couldn't see that for himself. He started to let his hand drop to Albert's hilt, but stopped the motion. There would be opportunity enough for that, were such necessary.

"Yes, I've seen apple trees before, sir. But I—"

"The seed came from Fallsworth."

"And what of that? Is there something special about Fallsworth apples that should concern me? Are these such wondrous apples that they should be of great interest to a knight of the Order who is on mission? I've come here to—"

The Wise grinned. "No, I didn't go get it myself; but the wind brings many things to the Isle of Winds, after all."

"As the wind of the ship's sails brought me to this island. And I—"

"I thought it a fitting tribute to Bear."

It was maddening. This . . . this Wise was unable to let Sir Guy get a sentence out without interrupting. If Sir Guy hadn't been a man of calm disposition, he might have sworn out loud.

And Bear? "I would prefer to discuss the matter that has brought me here," he said, carefully, "but if you wish to bring up the late Sir David Shanley, it would suit me better if you spoke of him more formally, and not use the common name that many of his brothers used."

"Don't you?"

"No," he said. "I've always been one for more formality, and think none the less of myself for it." He looked about. "But there are some strange things happening hereabouts. What's the meaning of this palisade? Of this apple tree from which the fruit doesn't fall? And where are the others?"

Was this some sort of deception? Sir Guy knew who the Father of Deception was, and it was not impossible that the Horned One could manifest himself in such a pleasant and handsome form.

"Oh, it's real," the Wise said, answering his thoughts rather than his words. Sir Guy didn't much like that. "All of it is real."

"As is your impertinence, sir. And your rudeness. I've introduced myself quite properly, and I find your refusal to do the same quite rude. Don't you?"

"Every bit of it." The Wise shrugged, as though to say that he wasn't bothered by his own improper behavior, even though he had admitted it.

"And I see simple courtesy as something that both the high and the low ought to practice."

"Just because you see things differently than others doesn't mean that you're being fooled—"

"It's difficult and dangerous to try to fool a knight of the Order, sir."

"—any more than they are."

"And you'll not distract me from my task with your banter."

"And that's true enough, as well." The Wise shook his head. "Shall we get right to the point? Or do you enjoy my company so well? Have you come as a supplicant? Or a creditor? Are you here to beg for help, or demand it?"

The Elder laughed. A far-too-familiar laugh; Kechiroski remembered it from a time when he wasn't Kechiroski. "Nissim al-Furat, Stavros Andropolonikos, Stavros Kechiroski, Sir Stavros Kechiroski—it's all the same to me. I know where your loyalties are; and they stem from who you are. Who you really are, and not who you appear to be."

The Wise had appeared in the form of Shayk Tzidiki, complete with robes, kafiyeh and agal, and the fierce expression beneath it, relieved only by the gentle, knowing eyes.

His training, under the careful tutelage of the , was still with him; he set a puzzled expression on his face, with just a trace the fear beneath it, the way any innocent man suspected of some horrible crime would do.

"Very nicely done, indeed, Nissim," the Wise said. "But hardly the point. If you'd care to posture for a while, I certainly have time. At least here and now; I can't speak for you. But you do neither of your causes—the one that you effect to support, and the other—any good at all that I can see by the delaying such matters. So don't bother doing that."

The Wise took another puff from his hookah. "I'd say I'm a patient man, but human values like patience don't quite apply to me; and I'm not a man." The Wise held out a tray of sweetmeats. "Eat a little, smoke a little, and if you're posing as Stavros Kechiroski at the moment, have a nice glass of retsina; if you're being Nissim al-Farat in this instance, perhaps some other intoxicant."

Stavros hadn't noticed the glass of retsina on the table before him before; he downed it in one quick swallow.

He had instructions as to what to do if his disguise was discovered; there was a capsule still hidden beneath his clothing. His fingers fondled it. No reason not to take advantage of it; he had filed his most recent report in a hidden nook at the port. His death would be a loss to his brothers—but perhaps they would find a way to make some gains out of it.

"Go ahead." The Wise made an expansive gesture that would have been entirely in character for the shayk he was imitating. "In fact, I'll promise you this: if you do not swallow that capsule immediately, I'll reveal your identity to all of the others, immediately. And give them cause to believe me. I can be very persuasive, when I'm of a mind to."

Kechiroski retrieved it, brought it to his mouth, and shattered the glass between his teeth. The end would come soon, but—

But no. Instead of the expected sharp shards of glass in his mouth in a bitter taste on his tongue, it was merely an Injan candy, redolent of honey and persimmon.

"Well, so much for that." The Wise shook his head. "Yes, you've eaten food I've provided you, and you'll remain here as long as I choose. This is my place, and that we shall proceed here, you and me, as I choose, not you. Shall we talk openly now?"

There was no point in evasion; the Wise knew much. He might as well—but he felt a sense of triumph that his work for the committee had been done in faith and ignorance, not knowledge that could be extracted from his body with torture, no matter how long the torture, nor from his mind.

Why was the Wise being so helpful? Could it be that—

"No, it couldn't be. I tried to stay out of human affairs, and the battle between Crown, Empire, and the Dar are entirely human affairs, from my limited point of view. If I were to show a favorite, it would be—well, leave that be; I have no favorites among you. A certain amount of fear of some of the tools that some of you wield, yes, but fear and favor are such . . . different words, don't you think?"

If the Wise was not involved in the affairs of this world, then why the hesitance? Why project such an image of disinterest when he—or she, or it, or them, or whatever it was—was passionately interested in staying out of whatever was going on?

Why?

"It's something not quite human," he said, throwing away half a lifetime of habit, letting himself think aloud. "Amadan Dubh, swords, darklings, and all the rest—it isn't just the Empire, or something similar. It's something much larger."

Not a challenge to the Dar, not the Empire tentatively seeking out weakness in both Crown and Dar—but a distraction to all, that's what it was. That's what it had to be. Setting off a war between Dar, Crown, and Empire, and who would benefit?

Kechiroski didn't know, but he had a suspicion.

More: the Wise knew precisely what it was. And, for whatever reason, was not only disinterested in it—disinterest could be mended with a threat—but was terrified of it, and feared getting involved in it.

By the Beard—

He rose to his feet. "Gray! Sir Joshua Grayling!"

The Wise smiled. "He can't hear you. Nobody can hear you. Nobody will ever hear you. It's all happening right now." He shook his head. "You've been looking in all the wrong places, all of you, and he's quite effectively distracted you. All of you." He cocked his head to one side. "And for his next move, it's precisely too late to stop it. I'm sorry. Not very sorry, but sorry nonetheless."

"It's an apple tree," Black said. Others could call him the Wise; Gray preferred the name that had been given to him.

Black hadn't been waiting on the steps of the main building of the keep; Gray had gone around back to the plaza behind, to find Black half sitting on a waist-high stump of a branch, half leaning against the bole of the tree.

"I've seen apple trees before," Gray said.

As before, Black looked familiar, but disturbingly different. Dressed in Order robes, yes, but without piping and insignia, and no swords whatever thrust through his sash—not even the wandlike stick that Black had been playing with the last time, which Gray assumed was hidden inside his robes, along with Black's right hand.

Other than that, he was changed but a little. Hair still black as the raven, shot with a bit more gray; beard close-trimmed and neat, like Gray's own.

Black rose from the steps, the apple held out in front of him. "Hello," the Wise said, proffering the apple. "Do you like the tree?"

Gray almost smiled. "An apple from the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil? I think it's forbidden." Although, truth to tell, he felt that he already had more than a taste of that.

"It's an apple." Black shrugged, as though to say, just an apple. "The seed came from Fallsworth. No, I didn't go get it myself—"

"You should have gone yourself. You should have gone to lay a wreath and say a prayer over Bear's grave."

Black shrugged. "The wind brings many things to the Isle of Winds, after all. I thought it a fitting tribute to Bear. Don't you?"

"I think you're trying to distract me," Gray said. "I think that you know something that I need to, that you can do something that I'd want you to do, and I think you're stalling, Black. Do you think your deception will work for me?"

Black's brow wrinkled at the word "deception."

"Oh, it's real. All of it is real."

"As are the matters I've come to ask you about." He wished he had the wit or the knowledge to put all the pieces together, but he didn't. All he had was the responsibility to do that which was right.

"Every bit of it," Black said.

But then there was what the Lady had said to Gray.

And if you should see that faith, wisdom, and justice are insufficient, and since you believe with all your heart that you are a man who has sacrificed his soul, and are without honor, that leaves you one virtue left.

"And that's true enough, as well."

Mercy. But upon whom? Upon the Wise?

The steel of the Khan was but a fraction of an inch from his hand. The Wise had almost fallen prey to lesser Red Swords—and here, in his weakened state, could he stand against the combination of Gray and the Khan?

No.

The Wise shook his head. "Shall we get right to the point? Or do you enjoy my company so well? Have you come as a supplicant? Or a creditor? Are you here to beg for help, or demand it?"

"I demand it," said Sir Guy. "In the name of the king, and of the Order of Crown, Shield, and Dragon."

"And if I do not adhere to your demand?"

Gray had said that he would decide what was to be done. But Gray wasn't here—or, if he was, Sir Guy couldn't see him. It was Sir Guy's choice, and he would make it as a knight should.

"Then ready yourself, whoever you are," Sir Guy said, as he let his hand drop to Albert's hilt.

Be careful, Guy.

"You think to defeat me here, in this place?"

Sir Guy shook his head. "I know not what this will bring, but I'll do as I see best, and let the future bring what it will."

"So be it."

"Demand," said Cully. "You've got your reasons for not sharing what you know, what you can do. I don't give a tinker's damn for those reasons."

"And with a mundane sword, you think to defeat me? When it took almost a dozen swords of the brighest Red? What would your Lady say to that silly idea?"

"Oh, you make it easy for me." Cully smiled, as he drew both of his scabbards, gripping the swords by their hilts, and letting the scabbards fall away. "I'm not required to win, am I? Never took an oath to that effect."

"So why fight? Why dash yourself to bits against me? What would the lady Morgaine think of that? Do you think she would hold you in higher esteem, or lower?"

The words didn't matter, but they were reason in and of himself. No, of course, he had no chance to defeat the Wise, not in his own place—but he did have a chance to distract a little of the Wise's attention, at least, and give Gray the opportunity to do the necessary.

Whatever the necessary might be.

And if that meant that Cully would not, once again, have to stand over a dead body of another of his lambs, but could lie down next to them, well, then, so much the better.

It's in your hands, Joshua; may they be better than my old trembling ones.

He drew himself up straight. "I am Sir Cully of Cully's Woode, sirrah," he said, "and I'll not let Her name sully your lips, whoever or whatever you are." Enough planning, enough reasoning, enough scheming.

Let it come down to this.

"I come to beg," Gray said, dropping to his knees before Black. "To beg for mercy," Gray said, as his hand fell to the hilt of the Khan. "Mercy for what remains of my soul, if anything; mercy for you; mercy for all."

We live again, the Khan said.

"A strange form of begging, with your hand upon the Khan."

No. More and less than that. In one moment of unfettered rage, the Sandoval had turned Linfield into a more than century-long horror.

There was greater power and greater evil in the Khan. Enough to slay the Wise?

Perhaps; perhaps not.

Enough to turn this island into something that would make Linfield a mild inconvenience by comparison?

Yes.

And if Black were to strike him down as he drew, well then, that would be mercy, wouldn't it? A mercy on all those who would be affected by Pantelleria, the island of the winds, turned into a Hell on Earth, wouldn't it?

And yes, it would be a mercy on the soul of Joshua Grayling, who would not leave such behind as his legacy, who could burn in Hell thinking that, at least, there was one sin that he had been stopped from committing.

"You can stop me, Black. You can show me that mercy, that justice."

"Wait—" Black's face had gone ashen. "I can't—I. He."

"Lost your way with words, have ye?"

Do it now, Joshua. Let us live again, and let—

"No. I can't—I can't say, but I can send you to where it all is happening. But it's too late, Joshua. It won't do any good."

"Who are you to say what will do good? Who am I?"

Let it end, now. The Wise had ample time to strike him down before he drew the Khan; there was no point in talking, not any more.

He started to draw the Khan from his sheath.

But in an eyeblink, he had fallen into madness and darkness, lasting but a moment, or forever.

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Framed