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“Well,” she said, “and what about your half of our bargain? What be this thing you read?”

“Some small part of a book of the witchlore.”

At that she twisted round in her chair to look up at him. Smiling, he rolled up the scroll and tied it with a thong.

“What sort of lore?” Raena said at last.

“Tell me what sort of lore you do seek from your Lord Havoc, and I’ll tell you what this be.”

“I be not so curious as all that.” She turned back round to face the fire.

With a sigh that was near a snarl, Verrarc sat down in the matching chair opposite hers. For a long moment the only sound in the room was the roar and crackle of the fire.

“Soon, my love.” Raena spoke abruptly. “Soon, I promise you, you shall hear the secret I do guard so carefully. It be a grand thing, I promise you, with naught of harm in it. But there be one last thing that escapes me, and it truly is needful for me to learn it before I may speak.”

“Well and good, then. But I’ll hold you to that ‘soon,’ Rae, I truly will.”

“Fair enough. Tell me somewhat, if you can. What does this word mean: refulgence, I think it were?”

“I’ve not the slightest idea.”

“I were afraid of that. And if you ken it not, I doubt me if anyone in this town does. A nuisance, but not more.” She turned to him and gave him a slow, soft smile that warmed him more than the fire. “It be a good day to spend abed, my love.”

“Just so.”

Verrarc rose, caught her hand, and as she got up pulled her into his arms. She kissed him, let him take another, and giggled like a lass as she squirmed free. As he followed her, he knocked against the little table and swept the scroll to the floor. With a soft curse he stooped and retrieved it, dusting a bit of soot from the roll.

“That be a valuable thing?” Raena remarked.

“It is. I did pick it up in trade, this summer past. It has no proper beginning nor an end, so I do think it were torn apart some while past, but still, the man who owned it did drive a hard bargain.”

“You did find it in a border village or suchlike?”

“I didn’t, but in a dwarven holt. It be about the telling of omens in the signs of earth.”

Raena tossed her head and took a quick step back. Verrarc laid the scroll on the table.

“What be so wrong?” he said.

“Oh, naught, naught.” Yet she laid a hand on her throat, and her face had turned a bit pale. “I did forget that you trade among the Mountain Folk.”

“Every summer, truly.” Verrarc caught her hand and drew her close. “You look frightened.”

“Be not so foolish!” Raena laughed, but it was forced. “Come, my love, kiss me.”

It was an order he followed gladly, but later, when he had time to think, he wondered why she’d looked so afraid of his going among the Mountain People. Was there something there she didn’t want him to find? Or could it be that she’d sheltered among them during one of her strange disappearances? Her secrets again, her cursed wretched secrets!

All his life Verrarc had craved the witchknowledge and magical power. When he thought back, it seemed to him that he’d always known that such things existed, even though logically there was no way he could have known. As a child, he’d sought out the tales told in the marketplace or in the ancient songs, passed down from one scop to another, that told of sorcery and the strange powers of the witchroad. When, as an older boy, he’d travelled with his father to Dwarveholt, he’d heard more and learned more in the strange little human villages on the borders of that country. Here and there he asked questions; once he grew into a man, he’d been given a few cautious answers.

The men of Dwarveholt proper professed to know nothing about such things, but the odd folk in the villages always had some tale or bit of lore to pass on. Finally his persistence brought success. On one journey a half-human trader had offered him a leather-bound book, written in the language of the Slavers. It was old, very old, or so the trader said, written by a priest named Cadwallon when the Slavers had first invaded the