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ago. Jaylor had read every enticing word about their forbidden lifestyle.
    No band of Rovers should be within the boundaries of Coronnan for any reason. Where had they learned the spells to open a hole in the magic wall? Or which magician had they bribed?
    Jaylor knew from his secret reading that Rovers weren’t above robbing travelers of their purses, packs, and clothes. Mercifully, they slit the throats of their victims so they wouldn’t freeze to death or be attacked by wild animals.
    He checked his appearance. Worn and dusty journey clothes, provincially uncombed hair and beard, small pack and walking staff. He could be any benighted traveler. Except that few people journeyed through the kingdom these days. The Twelve lords were supposed to provide homes for their dependents. Traditions and superstitious fears established during the Great Wars of Disruption kept almost everyone in those homes.
    The Rover camp was suspiciously quiet. No voices called out. Dogs didn’t bark. No person stirred the savory smelling stew cooking over the fire.
    Jaylor pressed his back into the tree as he scanned the landscape. Whoever had been here was not long gone. He hoped no one stood ready to plunge a knife into his back.

Chapter 4
     
    B revelan interrupted her root digging. Her inner sight tingled a warning. Someone was on the back path that sometimes led to her clearing. She faded into the shadow of a tree. Mastering the urge to run from a pursuer, she forced absolute stillness into her body and her mind. Every wild creature of the forest knew that predators saw only movement and disruptions in the patterns of light and shadow.
    “Brevelan?” Maevra, the carpenter’s wife, called. She was in the last weeks of her pregnancy and frequently sought Brevelan’s counsel as a midwife.
    “Coming.” Brevelan breathed deeply once more.
    With a wish and a firm image in her mind, she opened the path to the clearing.
    “Oh, there you are,” Maevra sighed wearily. “I forget how steep the back path is.” She rubbed her protruding belly.
    “You shouldn’t walk so far on a steep track so close to your time, Maevra.” Brelevan urged the woman onto a convenient stump. She sat heavily and awkwardly.
    “I needed to walk.”
    Brevelan masked her concern. This woman, so near her own age, had lost three babes before they were fully formed. Under Brevelan’s careful guidance, this pregnancy looked as if it might run to term.
    “Why?” Brelevan asked. She rested one hand on the swell of the child, the other upon the woman’s shoulder.
    “Because the house was stuffy, the sun is shining, and Garvin is away for the day.”
    Good. It was just boredom and loneliness, not the compulsion that forecast an early labor.
    Energy flowed through Brevelan’s fingers, seeking the child. A personality shifted beneath the heavy folds of the woman’s clothing and the taut skin of the mother’s belly. A strong and steady heartbeat tingled up Brevelan’s fingers. The dark comfort of the womb enveloped her. A soothing world of water and nourishment rippled against her skin.
    She curled her back and ducked her head. Just before her knees bent and drew her into the same posture as the unborn, the same awareness as the babe, she clutched at her own identity and withdrew.
    “Bold and restless, strong, too. I think it’s a boy.” She shook her hand to free it of the lingering link with the child. Her back wanted to continue to curl, so she arched it in defiance. The utter loneliness of being only one person, where a moment ago she had been two, left her dizzy.
    “He’s strong, but not yet ready to come out and face daylight.”
    “How do you know from just a touch?” Maevra looked utterly amazed.
    Brevelan shrugged. “I’m a witchwoman.”
    “Don’t let the others hear you say that.” Maevra looked over her shoulder anxiously. “They may not call you that to your face, but they still make a gesture of warding.” She held her right hand tightly in