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She’d died when I was a boy and I had little but my child’s imaginings to remind me what she was like. And that was mixed up with the gentle myths my sister Rali told.
    Isn’t it odd to think an old man might still want his mother’s comfort and advice? Odd or not, this is what I wished for. And then a different light pierced the facets of that wish and I found myself mourning for Rali, my strong warrior sister whose common sense had been invaluable to me for many years. A final turn dredged up Omerye’s face and the memory of her flute which used to charm reason out of any mess I’d made of things.
    I was Lord Amalric Antero, a man whose wealth and good fortune was the envy of many. But I had no one to lean on when weakness threatened.
    No one I could trust to help.
    Outside the villa walls I heard a horse trot up. Then a stranger’s voice hallooed the house. I rose from the stone bench and went to the grated window in the garden wall.
    It was a woman. Despite my age, my eyes are sharp and I could see her clear.
    She was young, fair of skin and form, but with a commanding presence. She sat tall and easy in the saddle of a fine gray. She wore a hunter’s tunic of forest green over a tight-fitting black body stocking that showed off shapely, but muscular limbs. Her hair was dark, cut short, and on her head was perched a jaunty hat with a long feather of green to match her tunic. A simple chain of silver or white gold gleamed about her neck. Small studs of a similar metal winked at her ears and as she waited for a response to her hailing I saw her draw off elbow-length riding gloves, revealing a pair of wide silver bracelets on each wrist.
    Impatient, she slapped the gloves against the saddle, then dismounted. On foot she was not so tall as her high-split limbs had made her first appear. She moved with a wiry grace, full of energy and purpose. And I noted that her high boots were expensive if well-worn from travel. About her narrow waist was a sturdy, large-buckled belt which bore a slim dirk in a scabbard on one side and what looked to be a leather wand case on the other.
    She hallooed the house again. A servant came out and although I couldn’t hear the conversation I gathered the young woman was asking for me. The servant shook his head, no, the master was not available. He was resting and had given orders not to be disturbed.
    This was true. But curiosity overcame weariness and I hastened to send someone to tell the servant I’d changed my mind, and please show her ladyship in.
    When she strode into the garden, a large purse of well-worn leather slung over one shoulder, I was not disappointed. She was a dark-eyed beauty and close up there was no mistaking her royal bearing. Only a slight bump at the bridge of her nose — hinting of an unset break suffered in some adventure — marred her chiseled perfection.
    But I was too old to be dazzled by such things so it was not her looks that impressed me. Her eyes glittered with an intelligence that was so familiar I could almost say its name. I’d never met her but somehow felt I’d known her long ago. And she was far too young for the number of years my mind was leaping over. She smiled, white teeth glittering against her dark features, and once again I was reminded of someone I once knew.
    A double jolt struck me when she spoke and I heard the rich timber of her voice. It was feminine, but deep and firm, and I felt an old ghost trying to roust itself from the tangles of my memory.
    “Good evening, Lord Antero,” she said, bowing.
    “Good evening, my Lady,” I said. “Thank you for gracing an old man’s day. Please bless me further by revealing your name and what I might do to assist you.”
    She drew a breath and firmed her nerves, as if this were a task she’d long awaited but was now hesitant to perform.
    But when she answered her voice was steady and strong.
    “I am Janela Kether Greycloak,” she said. “Great grand daughter of Janos Greycloak — the