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appearance should be as always. Do not at any time ride out—you cannot do so safely without more guards than I dare leave at Grosper. Lock your chamber at night, and see that your bosom knives and snaplocks, as well, are ever with you.”
    He stood up, his hand raised in salute, as if we were men of a squadron he commanded, and—better still—considered crucial to his strategy. We echoed the gesture, warmed by the knowledge that he thought us worthy to be taken so far into his confidence.
    So it was that we did not appear in the lower halls of Grosper again while the clansmen were guests. Instead, we were supplied certain books and papers. Those we studied diligently, realizing that, by means of their information, we were being made privy to the tangle of men and motives that required all our father’s efforts to bring peace to this ever-troubled, blood-soaked Border country.
    I drew from between two thin wooden protectors a map, linen-backed and badly worn by time and usage, to spread it out on the bed, and lay, propped on elbows, my nose nearly touching the faded paper as I studied it.
    â€œThe Yakins,” I read. “Look you here—”
    Look they did, laying aside their own materials of study. The surface of the map I was examining was so rubbed and dulled that we could scarcely determine anything but age damage.
    I sat up, freeing my left hand to tap with a fingernail at three spots set close together.
    â€œWhat do you see?” I demanded.
    Both answered, “Nothing.”
    â€œBut that is what matters—there are no markings! Look here—and here—and here—” My fingertip moved swiftly to other areas.

    Oh, certain features were present, right enough, some indicating trails, one a warn tower. But the area I had first indicated, save for a stain and slight crease or two, held naught but emptiness.
    Bina sat farther back on the bed, no longer peering at the map. “Wool from the highland pastures is prized—was not a cloak of it sent to the queen as a New Year gift, a season agone? Goodly trade comes in from that territory. But mere pastureland would not be marked on a ranger’s map such as this—”
    I glanced from her to Cilla. As if in response to some silent order, she once more bent over the map. It was her turn to point and call out what she saw scribed thereon.
    â€œHere be the hunting land which is the king’s own. Then here is a holding marked ‘Langrun,’ and here one ‘Slagenforth.’ But see—the Cursed Land lies beyond—the Lair of Baltiwaight!”
    â€œMany tales of evil are told of that place,” supplied Bina. “No proof of their truth was ever offered, at least not since the time of the Loathy King—he who became the Demon of Gurlyon’s past. He reigned five hundred years ago and, even though his sins may have mountained in the telling, it is known that he ruled long and wickedly. It could well be true that the country folk nurse a dislike for a strip of country darkened by such history.”
    â€œIn the Yakins, this Chosen Forfind lived a hermit,” I added.
    They were immediately at the map again, pulling it a little away from me to examine it the better. However, at that moment a trumpet call sounded. We slid from the bed and crowded to the window to peer below, in time to see the combined parties of the clan chief and the High Lord Warden ride out together. We had said farewell to our parents earlier, and the fact that we did not appear in public to wish them safe travel would surely prove we were in disgrace.
    I hammered my right fist against the windowsill. Bina and Cilla shared my anger, needing no words. It was a feeling that arose not from disappointment or humiliation but from the constraint that would now lie upon us for future wariness of action.
    Now that the visitors had gone, though, we were free of our section of Grosper. Our study materials, the books and