The tall black-skinned man yelled angrily at King Danube as they came into view around the corner of a great flowering bush in the magnificent garden behind Ursal castle.

Not a good sign, Abbot Je'howith knew. The Behrenese ambassador must be outraged, and that outrage had to be justified for King Danube to accept such treatment.

"I will find a baron who despises your Church as much as I do," Duke Targon Bree Kalas promised, leaning over to whisper in the abbot's ear.

"And I will show you a God who will remind you of those words when your feeble mortal coil rots in the ground," the old abbot replied quietly.

Duke Kalas, so young and strong and full of life, only laughed at that notion, but if Je'howith's threats did little to unnerve young Kalas, the Duke's mocking did not ruffle the aged priest in the least. Je'howith looked at him with absolute calm, offering silent assurances to the man that he would learn better as the years passed by, as his bones began to ache with every coming storm and he found his breath harder to catch after a lawn game, a ride, or even a walk in the garden.

Kalas read the smug abbot's thoughts clearly, and his laughter abruptly stopped, smile turning into a frown. "Yes, a God," he said, "your God - the all-powerful being who could not save Queen Vivian. Or was it, per-haps, the failure of the frail vessel your God chose to utilize in that pitiful attempt?"

Now it was Je'howith's turn to frown, for Kalas' remarks cut quite deep, especially here in the garden Queen Vivian had designed, the garden that King Danube walked every morning in tribute to his lost wife. They had been so young and full of life then, the King and Queen of Honce-the- Bear. Danube had been barely into his twenties, dashing and strong, and Vivian but seventeen, a sweet and beautiful flower, with raven hair that hung to her waist, mysterious gray eyes that called to the souls of all who gazed into them, and skin as bright as the petals of the white roses climbing around the castle's garden door. All the kingdom loved them, and all the world seemed theirs.

But then Vivian had been touched by the sweating sickness, a swift, rare killer. On the morning of that fateful day nearly twenty years before, walking in this garden, she had complained of a headache. By noon, she had taken to her bed with a slight fever. And by supper, when Je'howith had at last arrived to relieve her discomfort, she was delirious, her pale body lathered in sweat. The abbot worked furiously at her bedside and called for the most powerful stone users of St. Honce to join him.

Queen Vivian had died before the other monks arrived.

King Danube had not blamed Je'howith; indeed he had thanked the old abbot repeatedly for his heroic efforts. In fact, many of the court advisers had remarked often about how gracious King Danube had been in those days following Vivian's death. But Je'howith, who had spent many hours with the couple and who had performed the ceremony of their marriage, had never been convinced that Danube's love for Vivian had run deep, despite these daily walks in the garden. More likely, the abbot thought, the walks were more for Danube's own pleasure than out of respect for the memory of his dead wife. The King and Queen had been happy together - outwardly blissful - but it was no secret that Danube had taken many lovers during their three years of marriage, which explained to many people how Constance Pemblebury, not of noble lineage, had risen to a position of offi-cial court adviser, and was rumored to be in line for the duchy of Entel when Duke Prescott, who had the profound misfortune of marrying six barren women - to hear him tell it - finally died.

It was rumored, and Je'howith knew that it was more than rumor, that Vivian, too, had found a bedside companion.

That man, Duke Targon Bree Kalas, had never been fond of the Abel-lican Church, but his sarcastic dismissals of anything Abellican had turned to open hatred toward the Church and particularly toward Je'howith the night Queen Vivian died.

"Enough of your personal feud," Constance Pemblebury commanded both of them, coming to stand between them. "Yatol Rahib Daibe himself has come to call on King Danube this morning, and his behavior this day is most disrespectful."

"A result of Palmaris," Targon Bree Kalas said, then pointedly added, "of the Church's mishandling of Palmaris."

"Enough!" Constance demanded. "You do not know that. And even if your suspicions prove true, your duty is to King Danube, to stand strong and united behind him against the Behrenese ambassador."

"Yes," Kalas agreed, eyes narrowing as he looked over at Je'howith. "One problem at a time."

The group quieted then, as Yatol Rahib Daibe stalked past, tossing them all a nasty glance, with a particularly vicious scowl aimed at the old abbot in his Abellican robes.

"Suspicions confirmed," Targon Bree Kalas muttered under his breath, and he turned to greet King Danube, who was walking toward them, shaking his head.

"Our friends of the southern kingdom are not pleased," the King informed the trio, "not at all."

"Because of the Church's actions in Palmaris," Kalas was happy to say.

"What is this persecution of the Behrenese?" King Danube asked Je'howith. "Are we at war with Behren, and if so, why was I not informed?"

"I know of no persecution," Je'howith replied, lowering his gaze respectfully.

"Now you do," King Danube loudly retorted. "It would seem that your new bishop is not fond of our dark-skinned southern neighbors and has begun a systematic persecution of them in Palmaris."

"They are not Abellican," Je'howith said, as if that was some excuse.

King Danube groaned. "But they are powerful," he replied. "Would you start a war with Behren because they are not Abellican?"

"Of course we desire no war with Behren," Je'howith said.

"Perhaps you are too stupid to understand that one action might lead to another," Targon Bree Kalas put in. "Perhaps - "

Constance Pemblebury grabbed the volatile Duke by the forearm and glowered at him so fiercely that he growled and then quieted, waving his arm dismissively at Je'howith, then stalking away.

"Behren would not go to war with us no matter the situation in Pal-maris," Je'howith stated flatly. This was not the line of reasoning he wanted to take; he had no desire even to discuss the possibility that De'Unnero's rash actions might cause further trouble for the King. Even if the prob-lems in Palmaris wouldn't lead to war, they could complicate other delicate matters.

King Danube had confided in Je'howith that he had issued a command to Duke Tetrafel, the duke of the Wilderlands. Normally, that was merely a decorative title, one of the many empty titles given to keep wealthy families happy and supportive of the Crown. But now King Danube had a plan. The King favored the strong pinto ponies of the To-gai tribesmen of western Behren. Once an independent kingdom, To-gai-ru had been conquered by the yatols a century before, and now all trade for the shaggy To-gai pintos had to go through the Chezru chieftain's court in Jacintha. Danube figured that if Tetrafel could somehow find a pass through the towering peaks of the western Belt-and-Buckle to the To-gai steppes, they could secretly work far better deals for the coveted horses.

Of course, such deals would involve substantial bribes to the ever- observant Yatol Rahib Daibe.

Still, Je'howith had to defend his Church, and remind the King that the Behrenese did not follow the same God. And he had to reassure the King that the Bishop's actions in Palmaris would lead to nothing serious, for a war with the fierce people of Behren could prove disastrous for Honce- the-Bear, especially coming so soon after the conflict with the minions of the demon dactyl.

"No, but they will likely make travel for our merchant ships difficult," King Danube replied.

"Yatol Daibe hinted at just that, wondering how our ships will fare against the numerous pirates running the coast of Behren without the Chezru chieftain's fleet protecting them. He also spoke of tariffs and other unpleasantness, including a moratorium on the trade in To-gai pintos. Has your Church gone to war against Honce-the-Bear's merchants, Abbot Je'howith? First the demands that the merchants return their gemstones - gemstones they paid your own Church dearly to acquire - and now this."

"What of the gemstones?" Targon Bree Kalas asked, returning, obvi-ously concerned.

King Danube waved him away. "I fear that the trial has proven disastrous, Abbot Je'howith," he said.

"More time, my King," Je'howith replied, but his words seemed more like a courtesy than a heartfelt plea, as if Je'howith were speaking merely in his role in the Church and not from his true feelings. "The city is being brought under control, a necessary first step after so difficult a war."

King Danube shook his head. "Honce-the-Bear cannot afford to give more time to Bishop De'Unnero," he said.

Je'howith started to protest, but the King held up his hand and started back toward the rose-ringed door, Constance Pemblebury and Targon Bree Kalas falling in place behind him.

"A baron who despises the Church," the Duke whispered to Je'howith as he passed. "I promise." And it was no idle threat, Je'howith knew, for Pal-maris fell within the boundaries of Kalas' duchy.

The sight of the old abbot sitting on the edge of the bed, his face drained of blood, his hands trembling, reassured Father Abbot Markwart, reminded him of the power of his aura. He was only a spiritual entity here in Ursal, and yet the insubstantial mist that was his spirit could evoke primal terror in one as aged and experienced as Abbot Je'howith.

What might the aura of the specter evoke in one who had not studied the history of the gemstones, one who could not bring forth the magic to any great effect? It was time for the King of Honce-the-Bear to learn the truth of power.

Through the walls went Markwart, following the directions Je'howith had given him. He passed unsuspecting soldiers with hardly a thought, then moved through the grand private chambers of the King, through the great audience hall and the private meeting rooms, through the private dining chamber and into King Danube's bedroom.

There lay the great man, fast asleep, alone in a bed that could have held five men comfortably. Such opulence did not offend Markwart; it only whetted his taste for greater riches. And they were within his reach now, he realized, as he moved a cold spectral hand to Danube's face and called softly to the King. The man stirred, grumbled something unintelligible, and tried to roll over.

But then, suddenly, the drawn face of Markwart was there, invading Danube's dreams, forcing its way into his consciousness. He came awake with a start, sitting up quickly, glancing all around, cold sweat beading his forehead.

"Who is there?" he asked.

Markwart concentrated, strengthened the magic to make his form clearer in the darkened room. "You do not know me, King Danube Brock Ursal," the Father Abbot said, his voice as solid and strong as if his corporeal form had been in the room. "But you know of me. I am Father Abbot Markwart of the Abellican Order."

"H-how can this be?" the King stammered. "How did you get past my guards?"

Markwart was laughing before the King finished the question. As he came more awake and more aware of the truth of this specter, King Danube, too, understood the absurdity of his words. He fell back then, sliding down, grabbing the thick comforter and pulling it up higher about him.

But this was not the kind of coldness a thick comforter could defeat.

"Why are you so surprised, my King?" Markwart asked calmly. "You have witnessed the miracles of the gemstones. You are aware of their poten-tial. Does it surprise you that I, the leader of the Church, can make such contact?"

"I have not heard of such a thing," the shaken King replied. "If you wished an audience, Abbot Je'howith could have arranged - "

"I have no time for such useless propriety," Markwart interrupted. "I wished an audience, and so I am here."

The King started to protest, speaking of protocol and courtesy, and when the spirit of Markwart remained unimpressed, he tried a different tack, threatening to call the guards.

Markwart laughed at him. "But I am not here, my King," he said. "Only in spirit have I come to you, and all the weapons of Ursal could not harm that which you see before you."

The King mustered his nerve then, and snarled at Markwart, throwing off the comforter, getting out of bed, and moving determinedly for the door. "Let us see," he stated firmly.

Out reached the specter's arm, and out went Markwart's thoughts, a bar-rage of commands insinuating themselves into Danube Brock Ursal's mind, compelling him to return to the bed. The man struggled, trembling as he determinedly took another step toward the door.

Markwart's spectral hand reached out for him more powerfully and clenched in the empty air. The command "Return!" pounded in Danube's head. Now his progress stopped, though he continued struggling against the tangible will of the Father Abbot. And then he took a step back and then another, and he turned and staggered to the side of the bed, falling over it.

"I warn you," he gasped.

"No, my King, I am the one who issues a warning," Markwart explained, his tone deadly calm and even. "The arrangement in Palmaris goes quite well. Bishop De'Unnero's work has been wondrous and the city is func-tioning more efficiently than even before the war. Whatever threats the Behrenese might spout, whatever the complaints of foolish merchants, the course of Palmaris has been determined. You will do nothing now to jeop-ardize that.

"And indeed, my King," Markwart went on, changing his tone again to one of quiet obedience, "I beg you to meet me in Palmaris that you might learn the truth of the place, rather than listen to the ridiculous rumors uttered by those seeking to gain favor."

King Danube stubbornly rolled back off the bed, to his feet, and turned to face the Father Abbot, determined to assert his rulership here. But when he turned, he found the room empty, the specter of Markwart gone. He glanced all around, even ran about the room in a frantic search, but could find no trace that the Father Abbot had ever been there. Had the Father Abbot really been there?

He tried to tell himself it had all been a dream. After all, the situation in Palmaris had been troubling him deeply when he had gone to sleep that night.

The King slid back onto his bed and eased himself under the thick com-forter. But the ghastly feeling of Markwart invading his thoughts was impossible to ascribe to a dream, and it was a long time before King Danube dared to close his eyes and let sleep take him.

Markwart walked out of his summoning room, exhausted but satisfied. He had planned to go next to De'Unnero, to warn the man again to slow down. He would go to Palmaris, as would the King, and it was important that Danube saw the city in good spirits.

Or was it? Recalling the words of that inner voice, that the sun shone all the brighter after the dark of night, Markwart was no longer certain of that. Perhaps he should goad De'Unnero to an even darker place, let the man clench his fist tight, and then let him have his desire to go rushing out after Nightbird and Pony.

Then he, the shining sun, would have so much more to rescue!

Markwart climbed slowly into his own bed and rolled over with a groan. His journey to contact so fully a man not possessing a soul stone, and thus not reciprocating the contact, and one who was not even well-trained in any use of stone magic or mental meditation, had cost him great amounts of energy. He realized that he could not go to De'Unnero now even if he so desired. But no matter, the Father Abbot decided. Given the measure of terror he had exacted upon King Danube, such a step was no longer nec-essary. The King would not dare oppose him, no matter the situation in Palmaris.

King Danube held his daily audience with his three primary advisers, secu-lar and religious, in the small east garden of Castle Ursal that next sunny morning. This garden was sited below the castle on the high cliff wall over-looking the great city and was backed by the castle wall and surrounded by its own lower wall, secure because it had been built at the steepest face of the two-hundred-foot cliff.

Abbot Je'howith shifted uneasily from foot to foot, swaying as he stared at the impressive city below, and carefully did not glance at Targon Bree Kalas. The Duke appeared very smug this morning, convinced that he had at last settled the fight with Je'howith, and despite the visit the previous night from the Father Abbot, Je'howith wasn't sure that the Duke's confidence was misplaced. Danube hadn't yet arrived, and Je'howith feared what might happen when he did.

"So the war continued a bit longer than we had anticipated," Kalas was saying to Constance Pemblebury. "How were we to know that our enemies would come from within?"

"You exaggerate, my friend," the calm woman replied. "No war, but merely a dispute between great leaders."

Kalas snorted at the thought. "If we let the fool De'Unnero continue his policies in Palmaris, then we will know real war again, and soon, do not doubt," he declared. "By Yatol Rahib Daibe's own words."

"Words you interpret to suit your own needs, Duke Kalas," Je'howith dared to say, had to say, turning to look directly at the man.

"I foresee the logical implications," Kalas started to protest, but his ire washed away as the castle door creaked open and King Danube strode out into the garden, accompanied by a pair of soldiers. He took his seat at the shaded garden table and waited for the other three to join him.

"We must consider carefully the works of Bishop De'Unnero," he said bluntly, getting right to the point. "The transition in Palmaris is not without pitfalls."

"I have a list of candidates drawn for you, my King," Duke Kalas said, "each with his own strengths and advantages."

"A list?" King Danube seemed genuinely surprised.

"Candidates to assume the barony," Kalas explained.

King Danube seemed more annoyed than intrigued, something that con-fused Kalas and Constance but not Je'howith, who began wondering just what might have occurred after Markwart had left his chambers.

"Premature," King Danube decreed, waving his hand, ending any debate before stubborn Kalas could even begin. "No, we must first more honestly assess the work that Bishop De'Unnero has done."

"Y-you have heard the reports," Kalas stammered.

"I have heard what others have been saying," Danube replied coldly. "Others who no doubt have their own agendas concerning Palmaris. No, this matter is too important. I will go to Palmaris personally to assess the situation.

"And only then," the King said sharply, cutting off Kalas' forthcoming protest, "and only if I am not satisfied, will I consider any talk of potential replacements."

Kalas sputtered and simply turned away; the King's decision went com-pletely against what Danube had decreed only the morning before.

But he was the king, after all, and he could change his mind on a whim, if the fate of the whole kingdom weighed in the balance.

Or, Je'howith understood, though the other two advisers did not, Father Abbot Markwart could change his mind for him.