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had many other things to do, particularly in the light of recent events. And probably, too, Mark did not count this meeting as having a great deal to do with military strategy.
           Also in the group around the council table were several White Temple physicians, several of whom had been in attendance upon Prince Adrian since he was born. During that period a heavy turnover had taken place among Palace physicians; but everyone knew that there were none better anywhere than those of the White Temple.
           Present also was the Royal Master of the Beasts, who was in charge of winged messengers, among other things, and therefore was likely to be called in on any council where quick communications or late news were of importance. Completing the assembly were two or three minor magicians, aides to Karel.
           Mark had seen Ben come in, and beckoned him over for an almost-private word before the meeting started. “How’s Beth this morning?” the Prince asked.
           “Sleeping like a small log when I left. And your boys?”
           “As well as can be expected.”
           “It’s great to be young, Your Highness.” Ben usually favored his old friend with one “Your Highness” every day. He liked to get the formality in early, and made sure to do so always when others were listening, so everyone would know that the Prince did not carry his familiarity with his old friends too far.
           “I can remember that being young was pleasant,” said the man of thirty, smiling faintly. “And how is Barbara?”
           “Fine,” said Ben promptly. “But she won’t admit it. Sometimes I think I’m married to the Blue Temple.” And he made a little money-rubbing gesture with his massive thumb and forefinger.
           The faint smile got a little wider. Even that much was good to see on Mark’s worn face. He said: “I feel a little better myself. Some hopeful news has just come in—you’ll hear it in a minute. I’d better get this thing started now.” And he turned away, rapping the table with a hard knuckle.
           Ben went to take his seat in the place assigned him by protocol.
           As soon as the meeting was in order, Mark repeated to his assembled advisers his absolute determination to find a cure for Adrian’s blindness and his seizures—or at the very least, to prove beyond doubt, once and for all, that the illness they represented was incurable.
           Having done that, he threw the meeting open to comments and suggestions.
           The wizard Karel stroked his gray beard and his red cheeks and wondered aloud, tentatively, if the child’s condition might not be the result of some last stroke of vengeance on the part of the Dark King. King Vilkata was almost certainly dead now, but his whereabouts had never been learned with any certainty since he was seen to flee the battlefield where he had stood in opposition to the Silver Queen. The Dark King Vilkata had been Mark’s bitter enemy. And he had also been blind.
           Karel’s suggestion was not a new one to the ears of anyone around the table. Mark had often pondered it. But no one had ever been able to come up with any means of confirming it, or disproving it absolutely. It was plain that Karel only raised it again now because the possibility still tormented him that he might have been so outmatched in magic.
           There was a brief silence around the table. Then Jord spoke up, as a grieving grandfather. “Whatever the cause of the poor lad’s suffering, Woundhealer could cure him—I know it could.” This was not a new suggestion either; the only problem with it was that for the past eight years no one in Tasavalta had known where the Sword Woundhealer might be found.
           Mark had paused respectfully to hear both of these remarks yet once more. Now he continued.
           “As I see it, when a particular case has resisted all normal