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Glancing out the window, the goodwife fluttered like a partridge. The youth outside the gate wore a bright sword, and he looked tempted to use it on her husband.
    â€œI deny hospitality to no one,” Brock replied stiffly. “I only ask you to think . Think of the girl.” As he spoke, the maiden in question came out of the cottage and approached him, walking serenely. He rounded on her. “Get back i’ the house!”
    â€œWhat? Stay out of the Forest, ye tell me, and is it stay out of the yard now? Ye’ll be keeping me in the chimney corner next.” Meg faced her father sunnily, and Trevyn grinned at her, all his chagrin suddenly forgotten. He slipped down from Arundel and opened the gate for himself, though a moment before he had been determined to make Brock do it. The quarrel no longer seemed worth pursuing.
    â€œRafe’s not allowing me in the Forest, either,” he remarked to Meg. “Small fear I shall disobey him in that regard.”
    â€œNay?” she said slowly. She missed the Forest; she missed the foxes that would come and follow by her feet, the wild doves that would light on her shoulders. She felt hurt by her Forest, betrayed, that any of its creatures could turn against her as the wolves had done. But she could not explain this, and especially not to Trevyn. She didn’t want him to think her queer, as so many others did.
    Her mother saved her from further response. The goodwife came bustling out, having settled her hair and flung on a shawl. “Come in, young master, have some fresh, hot scones!” she beseeched Trevyn. She did not take it the least bit amiss that Meg had found a prince in the Forest. And Brock, having had his say and been ignored, led his guest to the cottage with dour courtesy.
    The scones were very good. Trevyn sampled them that day and many a day to come. He stayed a month at Lee, riding out nearly every day to see Megan. His motive was only partly to gall Brock Woodsby. He would greet the goodman distantly, but he always met the girl with honest delight. Meg chatted with him like a longtime friend, and she was full of questions.
    â€œWhat’s yer name mean, Trevyn?”
    â€œBeloved traveler, or some such.” The youth gestured impatiently. “It’s just a baby name. I shall have a sooth-name someday.”
    â€œAy?” Meg wondered cheerfully. “How so?”
    â€œThat is as it comes,” Trevyn countered. “What does your name mean, Megan?”
    â€œNot a thing.” She grinned wickedly. “We’re common folk here.”
    Trevyn almost flushed, feeling a hint of reproach, but Meg went on unconcernedly. “What brings ye to Lee, Trevyn?”
    He laughed. “Arundel! He brought me through the snow straight to the manor gates, and very surprised Rafe was to see me! I would have perished in the storm if it weren’t for him. He is a marvelous horse. Twenty years ago he carried my uncle through far stranger perils in this same Great Forest and beyond.”
    Bemused, Meg let it pass that he had not really answered her question. “Then was yer uncle an outlaw as well?”
    â€œHe joined with the outlaws of the southern Forest after they had saved his life. Arundel brought him to them nearly dead from tortures in the Dark Tower of the evil kings.”
    Meg shuddered. “And he met yer father then?”
    â€œA bit later. They did not know that they were brothers. Hal had been raised as King Iscovar’s heir, but really his father was the lord of Laueroc.”
    â€œFolk say that King Iscovar killed Leuin of Laueroc and the Queen.”
    â€œAy, and he would have liked to bend my uncle to his will. Hal roamed the land constantly to elude him, with my father as his blood brother and companion. Your lord Rafe was their friend, too, in those times; they met him and Queen Rosemary at Celydon. And they traveled to the Northern Barrens, and into Welas, the west land, and