Jansson regained awareness slowly, his head reeling. He lay cheek down in sticky, malodorous mud. He pushed back and up in disgust, then froze, his breath catching in his throat. In front of him stood a large, spotted boar, its small pink eyes fixed on him, glowing with hostility.

On three sides was the wood-rail fence of the enclosure. Pushing with one hand, and feeling with the other for the fence section he hoped was close behind, Jansson wriggled away from the animal. When his hand touched wood, he flattened himself, and scooted under the bottom rail as the boar charged with an enraged squeal. A snout full of gnashing teeth chewed at the dirt and only the creature's bulk kept it from following him. Jansson scuttled backward on all fours, and crashed into a pail filled to the brim with warm milk.

"Baerns!" a young male voice cried out. "I just filled that! What do you think you're doing?"

Jansson leapt to his feet, his sword flashing to the ready. He heard a startled gasp even before he saw the boy. He appeared to be about Jansson's age, and equally as tall, though stockier, with piercing blue eyes and flaming red hair that fell to his shoulders. He was dressed in the usual peasant attire, ankle-high leather boots, thick, well-patched woolen pants and a short, belted tunic made of coarse cloth. He regarded Jansson with a mixture of fear and curiosity, all the while keeping a tight grip on the heavy pitchfork he held.

Close behind him stood a small wooden barn, open at both ends, with stalls along its sides. The hind end of a brindle cow was visible in one. The other stalls appeared to be empty, except for the one nearest the barn door, which was filled with a mound of dried meadow grasses. Jansson stared at it all, his heart pounding with confusion and terror. He had no idea where he was, or how he had gotten here. The last thing he remembered was being in Treyas' study. Now, here he was, covered with smelly mud, and looking at the sharp end of a pitchfork.

The red-haired boy glanced past him and uttered another oath. "If you plan to go on living, put the sword away and get yourself hidden in the hay," he said. "Now!"

Something in his voice made Jansson obey despite his confusion. He ran to the barn and burrowed into the stall full of meadow grasses. Through a screen of sweet-smelling stems, he watched as the boy drew a small silver flask and a dagger from inside his tunic. He took two long swallows from the flask, then to Jansson's astonishment and revulsion, used the dagger to make a deep cut on his arm.

He let the blood drip freely for only a moment, then spoke a few soft words and passed his other hand over the wound. Immediately, the cut was healed, leaving only a long red welt. The boy looked up as six men mounted on horseback thundered into Jansson's view. Jansson shrank farther into the hay, heart racing, as the men roared up to the boy.

"Ah, my good so'diers," the boy called, staggering over to them as they pulled to a halt by the pigsty. "Welcome to my humble farm."

One of the soldiers leaned on the saddlehorn and regarded him with blatant disgust. "Early start on your drunk this morn?" he asked.

"Or late start on las' eve." The boy grinned, waving his flask about. He took another long pull, then belched loudly. "An' wha' brings you out this early?"

"Magic, Darosenim," the man replied, his voice cold and sarcastic. "I suppose, as usual, you don't know anything about it."

The boy looked hurt and staggered backward, as if to find the overturned bucket to sit on. He missed and landed in the spilled milk, eliciting a roar of laughter from the soldiers.

"Ah, my good cap'n, you wound me," he slurred. "Or rather I wound m'self." He held up the bloody dagger and offered his arm for proof. "Your senses were not wrong. Magic was used here. Nothin' grand, nothin' noble. Jus' a clumsy choreboy with a bit too much drink and a dagger too sharp for his own good. Bes' you take it before I kill m'self, nex' I fall." He waved the dagger at the captain, who scoffed and turned his steed.

"Take care, Darosenim," he warned. "If Ver Rugan finds you were lying, your death will be slow and painful. And even your drink will not help then."

The boy nodded, took another swallow and waved at them as they turned away. Jansson watched, his gut so tight he thought he'd be sick. Rugan? It couldn't be! He was locked up! Besides, Jansson thought, Rugan isn't learned in magic. Treyas told me that. It must be a coincidence, someone with the same name. There could be no other explanation.

He watched as Darosenim hauled himself to his feet, re-sheathed the dagger and staggered into the barn, chatting and singing to himself. Jansson started to push the hay aside, but the boy suddenly fell against the railing of the stall, knocking a variety of halters and leads noisily to the barn floor directly in front of his hiding place.

"Baerns and the good mother earth!" Darosenim swore loudly, bending within view of Jansson's face. "Stay down," he hissed, then went back to his drunken singing, all the while trying to pick up the fallen halters with one hand, still holding the flask in the other.

There was a sudden clatter of horse's hooves over wood. A lone soldier swept through the barn, very nearly taking down Darosenim, who raised his flask high and yelled a drunken salute as the soldier raced his horse to catch up with the rest of his troop.

Darosenim lowered the flask. "Seven rode in, seven rode out," he said, his voice holding no trace of drunkenness. "You can come out now, but stay in the barn."

Jansson crawled out of the hay. He picked stray pieces from his hair and wiped rapidly drying mud from his face. He opened his mouth to ask one of the many questions pounding at his brain, but Darosenim beat him to it.

Darosenim pocketed the flask and glared at him. "Are you trying to get us killed?" he demanded hotly. "Coming in here on a TravelStrand wide enough to carry four people! What the hell were you thinking? Who the hell are you? What are you doing here? What do you want?"

Jansson gaped at him, not sure which question to answer first, not sure he should answer any of them. Darosenim pocketed the flask, and spun away.

"I don't know if the captain bought my story or not, but I can't afford to take the chance." He walked to the far stall, beckoning Jansson to follow. He brushed some hay aside, then bent and yanked open a trap door. "Go on down. You can answer my questions there as well as here."

"Down? Where?" Jansson had finally found his voice.

"To safety. Unless you would enjoy being a permanent guest of Ver Rugan." Darosenim shoved him forward, and Jansson nearly fell down the narrow ladder affixed to one wall. He whirled toward Darosenim in anger, then froze. The boy once again held his dagger. Jansson drew a quick breath of irritation, then, on impulse, he reached out gently with his empathy, probing the boy's thoughts. Kyel had told him to trust his Empathic Gift; that it wouldn't let him down. If he trusted it now, he could put his faith in Darosenim. It felt as if the boy had only his best interests at heart. Without another word, he turned and climbed down the ladder into a dark, musty pit. He couldn't see a thing, but he heard the clank of metal on metal, then a sliding sound. He supposed that Darosenim was securing the trap door. A second later a torch flared to life, and Jansson squinted in the sudden brightness.

"Now, then," Darosenim said. "Who are you?"

"My name is Jansson."

"Where are you from? And why?"

"I came from Lidgerwood."

"Lidgerwood!" Darosenim's dagger flashed in the torchlight, his blue eyes gone cold. "Lidgerwood is in Aelfdene Valley, home to the elves. Sorry, you're small and thin, but you're definitely not an elf. Now, I'll ask you again. Where are you from?"

As always, mention of his slight stature roused Jansson's anger and he clenched both fists. "I'm telling you the truth. I came from Lidgerwood. Specifically, the Elfin Council Chambers, third floor study. I was waiting there for my friend, Crown Prince Treyas Merripen."

Darosenim's eyes narrowed. "And how come you to know the Crown Prince?"

Jansson exhaled sharply. "Because I'm King Jansson van Tannen of Odora Dava, that's why!"

Darosenim's gaze flicked over Jansson's fine woolen tunic and suede boots, touched on the red-stoned ring he wore, and came to rest on his sword. "Why do you carry a weapon of the black elves?"

Jansson glanced down at the sword belted at his right hip, wondering how Darosenim knew who had crafted it. The slender blade was hidden in its tooled leather scabbard, but the oval, blue, beryl stone in its hilt glowed in the torchlight. As usual, it evoked strong memories in Jansson, and he again wondered what had prompted him to choose it over all of the other weapons in his armory.

"It was a gift from a friend," he said softly, his anger diffused by melancholy. "Willed to me when the elf who owned it knew he was dying."

Slowly, Darosenim lowered the dagger, and re-sheathed it, although he did not bow or give any other acknowledgment that he believed himself to be in the presence of royalty. Still, he seemed to pick up on Jansson's somber mood. "If you are from Outside as you claim, then you are in grave danger. We must get you back across the border as soon as possible."

"Why?"

Darosenim frowned at him. "Do you know nothing of Karsaba?"

Jansson felt heat flush his cheeks. "I know where it is, the land mass, the general populace, the major crops grown here, if that's what you mean."

Darosenim actually smiled, but it wasn't a taunting smile, merely a sad smile. "That's all well and good, but did you know that Karsaba is a land that steals memories? If you stay here too long, you'll soon forget who and what you are."

Jansson regarded the red-haired boy with doubt. "I've never heard of such a thing."

"Well, it's true."

"But Treyas and I have a small Keep just inside the southern border of Karsaba. I seriously doubt that we would have been allowed to build it if --"

"If what I say is true?" Darosenim interrupted. He was quiet a moment, in which he studied Jansson thoughtfully. "What you know of Karsaba, you have learned from books or lessons. What I know of Karsaba, I have learned by living here. Which do you think is more accurate?"

Jansson said nothing, his irritation increasing. Still, he couldn't debate the boy's words. No one could really know a place until one had visited.

"Now, then," Darosenim continued. "The rest of my questions. What are you doing here? Why are you here?"

At that, Jansson sagged. "I don't know. I really don't know." He reached out, took hold of the young Karsab's arm and looked at the spot where it had been sliced open. "I want to thank you for helping me up there," he said. "That was a brave thing to do, Darosenim. But why?"

The boy flushed and pulled his arm away. "My friends call me Dar. And deep-wound healing leaves just about the same residual magic as the TravelSpell you came in on."

"That wasn't my TravelSpell," Jansson said.

"Your elfin friend's, then?"

"No, he wasn't even in the room."

"Well, someone sent you here." Darosenim turned, and started down the tunnel.

Jansson followed, his mind swirling. A TravelSpell? No one had been there to Spell him. It was just him and the MagicPortal. He grimaced. Him and the Portal and his impatient curiosity. He had grown tired of waiting on Treyas, and had decided to go to Quinlin's and hurry the elf along. He had heard Treyas' instructions to Quinlin, had heard what color the Strands to Bailiwycke were, and had reached out to the blue ones. But instead of Bailiwycke, he had ended up here. He moaned inwardly. Gods! Kyel was going to kill him. Provided someone else didn't first. He hurried to come alongside Darosenim.

"This Ver Rugan ...who is he?"

"A sorcerer, though not much of a one. But he is a tyrant this land would be well rid of." Darosenim cast Jansson a sideways glance. "Do you know Ver Rugan?"

Jansson paused. "I know of someone named Rugan, but he's an elf, not a sorcerer."

"Then it might be one and the same. Ver Rugan is indeed an elf, come from Glede, I understand." He stopped at Jansson's gasp of disbelief. "Then you do know him?"

"I...I don't know. The Rugan I knew...he didn't have sorcery magic. Just elfin." He shook his head. "I don't see how it could the same one. Rugan was imprisoned in..." He broke off, unsure just how much Darosenim knew of magic. "Anyway, the Rugan I knew was actually part of the royal family."

Darosenim looked at him in confusion. "The royal family? If he's part of the royal family, then why is he here?"

"I don't know. Tell me, how long has your Rugan been in power?"

"Only about six months. But in that time he has already killed almost every Mage in Karsaba."

"Why?"

The boy shrugged. "Most likely to get rid of any threat to his rule."

"Have you ever seen him?"

Darosenim nodded. "Why?"

"Tell me what he looks like."

"He's tall, thin, blond hair, blue eyes, arrogant, rude, pompous...I could go on."

Jansson swallowed hard. "No, you don't have to. It sounds like the same person." He sighed, his own confusion rising. "I don't understand any of this - why Rugan would come here, or even how. What could he hope to gain here? And how does he use magic at all? I thought Karsaba had no magic."

"For the most part, that is true. But there are small pockets of magic scattered here and there. Some are stationary, like my farm and Rune Mountain. Others, called Rovers, move freely about the land."

Jansson frowned. "What a strange form of magic." Another thought struck him and he looked again to Darosenim. "You're a mage, aren't you? How is it that Rugan has spared you?"

Darosenim gave a wry smile. "Because he thinks of me as only a drunk with the Gift for Healing. Not much of a threat, but quite an aide. I can't count the number of times I've patched up Rugan's men."

"Men? He's got an army already?"

"It doesn't take much to hire mercenaries. Either enough money to keep them happy, or the threat of harm if they don't follow orders. From what you've said about Ver Rugan's heritage, money is obviously no problem. And from what I know about his power, neither is a threat."

Jansson was quiet for a moment, letting this all sink in. "If you're his healer, why aren't you at the palace with him?" he finally asked.

"Why would he do that? Rune Mountain holds the strongest magic in Karsaba. It's not likely he'd let me get near that much power. My home holds what I need to heal even the gravest wounds. That is all Ver Rugan will allow me. Besides, it's not likely I could do anything more even if I was at Rune Mountain. I'm really not that gifted. If it weren't for - what's the matter?"

Jansson suddenly staggered and clutched at his head as fierce pain stabbed at it. Darosenim caught his arm, lowered him gently to the ground and hunkered down beside him.

"Gods," Jansson moaned. "The TravelSpell must have just caught up with me." He winced again, trying to sort out the sudden feeling of aloneness that swelled through him. He felt empty, as if something inside him had died. A flicker of fear coursed through him. Had what the young mage said about Karsaba stealing memories been true? No, he knew perfectly well who and where he was. But he felt a desperate urge to be back in Mayfaire or Lidgerwood with those he loved.

"I want to go home," he mumbled, looking to Darosenim. "I have no magic. But you do. Please. Send me back."

Darosenim returned his gaze, blue eyes alight with concern and consternation. "I can't throw TravelSpells. And even if I could, there isn't enough magic at the farm for such a use."

"But I came here."

"Because you followed a Strand from outside." Darosenim rose. "Can you walk?"

Unable to shake the feeling of loss, Jansson nodded and got slowly to his feet. "Where are you taking me?"

"To Lask, the only mage besides myself who yet lives. He's the real power behind everything I do. If it weren't for him, I'd have been killed a long time ago. Rugan doesn't know about him. As long as he stays here, hidden, he's safe." He sighed. "Not that this is a way to live - hiding underground, always in the dark, never seeing the sunshine or the moonlight." He sighed again. "But it keeps him alive. And me, as well."

"Why are you helping me?"

Darosenim stared at him as if it were the stupidest question he'd ever heard. "Because you look like you could use a friend." He smiled. "And a bath."

The smile and the words were genuine, Jansson knew. "I'd be grateful for both."

They resumed walking. "So, if this is the same Rugan, what do you know of him?" Darosenim asked.

Jansson grimaced, glancing at the long white scar that ran across the back of his left hand. A scar put there by Rugan three years ago. "Do you know the story of the Triskelion?"

"Yes," Darosenim replied. "Why?"

"Then you know that the Elfin Crown Prince was supposed to be the one to carry a part of it, to re-unite it with the piece held by the King of the North?"

Darosenim nodded. "The Key and the Circlet were the two pieces. The Key was in the protection of the elves, and the Circlet in protection of the gryphons at a place called the Devil's Hold. The Bloodfire is rumored to have the power to move the --" He stopped suddenly, his gaze darting to Jansson's ring, then to the young king's face. "You?" The word erupted from him as if it had only just registered. "You really are the king? You weren't joking?" At Jansson's shake of the head, he dropped to one knee, head bowed. "My apologies, M'Lord. What you must think of me! I'm no more than a bumbling peasant who --"

"May have saved my life," Jansson interrupted. "Please, get up. I don't need, or want, you bowing to me." He waited until Darosenim had once more regained his feet, then continued. "Yes, I commanded the gryphons. But it was Treyas who carried the Key, who released the elfin magic."

"Of course, he is the Crown Prince," Darosenim said, his brow furrowed with confusion.

"No, he's not. Or he wasn't. Rugan was. But the Triskelion chose Treyas over him."

"Why?"

"I don't know. No one knows. But it made Rugan very angry. He took most of that anger out on me."

"Why?" Darosenim asked again.

"Because of --" He broke off suddenly, the words caught in a throat gone dry as he suddenly realized what the terrible sense of loneliness meant.

Kyel's MindLink was gone.