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to work.

    The hour was much later than it had been when he'd begun. Ardagh stood alone in what was surely the darkest time of the night, sagging slightly with weariness and looking down at the amulet in his hand, feeling it tingling ever so faintly with Power. At this late hour, no one would be about. And no eyes but his could pierce this moonless darkness.
    Then why was he hesitating anew? He was tired, yes, longing for that soft feather mattress, but he'd been much more weary and yet successfully worked far more intricate magics.
    Try it! the prince scolded himself. It was ridiculously easy to compose the spell; it should be ridiculously easy to cast. You have all the words, the gestures, fixed in your head. You're not that weary. Go ahead! Work it!
    But he just couldn't seem to begin. With a little shock of that total Sidhe honesty, Ardagh realized that now he was afraid, he was genuinely afraid!
    His sudden shiver had nothing to do with physical cold. How could he ever forget that terrible moment of banishment, that more terrible yet moment of realization that every Realm-crossing spell had been torn from his mind? Since then, what had there been to do but try creating some new version?
    Out of what? The bits and scraps of spells to be found in this magic-poor Realm? Amazing I managed anything at all!
    There had been so many almost-successes so far, so many tantalizing hints, glimpses of a Gate, of Faerie glory beyond—
    So many heartbreaking failures.
    You idiot! Suppose you finally have the right spell? Are you going to trap yourself here because you're too frightened to use it?
    No. Ardagh grimly began, staring at the little amulet, using it as his focus. This newly minted spell required little more than his own will and a quiet incantation, which was good, because the original spell had been simple as well. A corner of his mind felt the tiny bit of Power in the amulet rouse, tingling, and knew a thrill of hope, but Ardagh could not let anything distract him. He continued chanting softly, willing more and more strength into the spell, willing more and more of the amulets Power awake, willing the spell and the amulet and the full force of his longing into one magical call:
    " Open! Open! Open! "
    There, ah there, he saw the shimmering in the air, he saw the Doorway beginning to form, he knew with a wild blazing of hope that this time it would work, this time he would leave the human Realm behind and—and—
    —and he couldn't hold it, there wasn't enough Power, he couldn't hold—
    With a great rush of air, the Doorway snapped out of being. As the spell gave way, Ardagh's strength went with it. He fell forward as though his legs had been cut out from under him, landing full-length on the cold earth. Alone in the darkness, too worn for self-control, too worn to do anything else at all but despair, the prince wept.
    But the ground was just too chilly for such weakness. After a short while, Ardagh caught his breath and forced his emotions back under control. Shivering, the prince pulled himself slowly to his knees, but could get no further. He huddled like that for what seemed half the night, head resting on one upturned knee, trying to find the strength to stand, the backlash of unspent Power from his failed spell aching in his mind.
    But . . . was someone watching him? With a great effort, Ardagh struggled back to his feet, staggering with exhaustion, trying to identify who . . . Cadwal . . . ? Yes. It was the mercenary whom he'd sensed standing nearby.
    He straightened. How near? Had Cadwal seen anything of what had just happened—or rather, not happened?
    Impossible. Human eyes were all but night-blind, and what was left of the night was still very dark. The man could have seen nothing. Staggering, Ardagh headed back towards his small guest house, his home in Fremainn. Falling across the bed, too weary to undress, he thought with bitter, weary humor, This Realm . . . must like me. For no matter what I do,