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"Dead?"

Helm shrugged. "That, or held captive somewhere by the magelords so they have another blood heir of Uthgrael in their power should anything happen to Belaur."

Elminster reached for the flask; Helm handed it over. The youth drank carefully, sneezed once, and handed it back. He licked his lips, and said, "Ye don't make it sound a noble thing to be a prince of Athalantar."

Helm shrugged. "It's for every prince, himself, to make it a noble thing; a duty most princes these days seem to forget."

Elminster looked down at the Lion Sword, which had somehow found its way into his hands again. "What should I do now?"

Helm shrugged. "Go west, to the Horn Hills, and run with the outlaws there. Learn how to live hard, an' use a blade-an' kill. Your revenge, lad, isn't catching one mage in a privy an' running a sword up his backside-the gods have set ye up against far too many princes an' wizards an' hired lickspittle armsmen for that. Even if they all lined up and presented their behinds, your arm'd grow tired before the job was done."

He sighed and added, "Ye spoke truth when ye said it'll be your life's work. Ye have to be less the dreamy boy an' more the knight, an' somehow keep well clear of magelords until ye've learned how to stay alive more'n one battle, when the armsmen of Athalantar come looking to kill ye. Most of 'em aren't much in a fight-but right now, neither are ye. Go to the hills and offer your blade to the outlaws at least two winters. In the cities, everything is under the hand-an' the taint-of wizards. Evil rules, and good men must needs be outlaws-or corpses-if they're to stay good. So be ye an outlaw an' learn to be a good one." He did not quite smile as he added, "If ye survive, travel Faerun until ye find a weapon sharp enough to slay Neldryn-and then come back, and do it."

"Slay who?"

"Neldryn Hawklyn-probably the most powerful of the mage-lords."

Elminster eyed him with sudden fire in his blue-gray eyes. "Ye said ye knew no names of magelords! Is this what a knight of Athalantar calls 'truth'?"

Helm spat aside, into the darkness. "Truth?" He leaned forward. "Just what is 'truth,' boy?"

Elminster frowned. "It is what it is," he said icily. "I know of no hidden meanings."

"Truth," Helm said, "is a weapon. Remember that."

Silence hung between them for a long moment, and then Elminster said, "Right, I've learned thy clever lesson. Tell me then, O wise knight: how much else of all ye've said can I trust? About my father and my uncles?"

Helm hid a smile. When this lad's voice grew quiet, it betokened danger. No bluster about this one. He deserved a fair answer, well enough. The knight said simply, "All of it. As best I know. If ye're still hungry for names to work revenge on, add these to thy tally: Magelords Seldinor Stormcloak and Kadeln Olothstar-but I'd not know the faces of any of the three if I bumped noses with them in a brothel bathing pool."

Elminster regarded the unshaven, stinking man steadily. "Ye are not what I expected a knight of Athalantar to be."

Helm met his gaze squarely. "Ye thought to see shining armor, Prince? Astride a white horse as tall as a cottage? Courtly manners? Noble sacrifices? Not in this world, lad-not since the Queen of the Hunt died."

"Who?"

Helm sighed and looked away. "I forget ye know naught of your own realm. Queen Syndrel Hornweather; your granddam, Uthgrael's queen, an' mistress of all his stag hunts." He looked into the darkness, and added softly, "She was the most beautiful lady I've ever seen."

Elminster got up abruptly. "My thanks for this, Helm Stoneblade. I must be on my way before any of thy fellow wolves return from plundering Heldon. If the gods smile, we shall meet again."

Helm looked up at him. "I hope so, lad. I hope so-an' let it be when Athalantar is free of magelords again, an' my 'fellow wolves,' the true knights of Athalantar, can ride again."

He held out his hands. The flask was in one, and the bread in the other.

"Go west, to the Horn Hills," he said roughly, "an' take care not to be seen. Move at dusk an' dawn,