By the time he neared the northern gate of Palmaris city proper, Roger Lockless and his grim luggage had attracted more than a little attention. Several farmers and their families, alert to anything moving in the area in these dangerous times, had noted the man's passage, and many even came out to follow him, pestering him with questions.

He offered few explanations all the way to the gate, grunting his answers to general questions, such as, "Did you come from the north?" or "Any goblins up there?" The farmers accepted the vague answers without complaint, but the guards at the gate proved much more insistent. As soon as Roger drew near and it became apparent he had two human bodies strapped across his hobbled horse, one of the two great city gates cracked open and a pair of ar-mored soldiers rushed out to intercept him.

Roger was very much aware of the fact that other guards watching from the walls had their bows drawn and ready, and aimed at his head.

"Your doing?" one of the soldiers snapped, moving to inspect the bodies.

"Not that one," Roger quickly replied as the man lifted Connor's head, his eyes widening in recognition and horror.

The other soldier was at Roger's side in an instant, sword drawn and brought level with the man's neck.

"Do you think I would walk openly into Palmaris bearing the body of the Baron's nephew if I had killed the man?" Roger calmly asked, wanting these soldiers to understand that he knew the iden-tity of the nobleman. "I have been called many things, but I do not number 'fool' among them. And besides, I considered Connor Bildeborough a friend. That is why, though I have other pressing business, I could not leave him on the road for the goblins and buz-zards to pick over his corpse."

"What about this one?" snapped the soldier standing beside the horse. "He is from the abbey, is he not?"

"Not from St. Precious, no," Roger replied. "He is from St.-Mere- Abelle."

The two soldiers looked to each other with trepidation; neither of them had been among those sent to St. Precious when the trouble with the Father Abbot had begun, but both had heard well the sto-ries, and that put a sinister spin indeed on their suspicions when viewing the two bodies draped across Roger's horse.

"You killed this one?" the soldier asked.

"I did," Roger replied without pause.

"An admission of guilt?" the other soldier was quick to interrupt.

"For if I did not, then he surely would have killed me," Roger finished calmly, looking the accusing soldier right in the eye. "I should think that, given the identity of these two, this conversation would be better served in the home of the Baron."

The soldiers looked to each other, unsure of how to proceed.

"Unless you think it better to have the common folk pawing over Connor Bildeborough," Roger added, a sharp edge to his tone. "Perhaps one will find proper use for Defender, or it might be that their rumors will reach the Baron, or the abbot of St. Precious, and who can tell what intrigue that might bring?"

"Open the gates," the soldier standing beside the horse called to the guards on the wall. He motioned to his companion, and the man put his sword away. "Be gone to your homes," he scolded the ex-cited and whispering onlookers, and then he and his companion flanked Roger and started toward the city, grim baggage in tow. They stopped when they got inside the gate, other guards shutting it behind them. Out of sight of the farmers - for they weren't sure whether or not this stranger had any allies among those folk - they grabbed Roger roughly and slammed him up against the wall, frisking every inch of his body and removing anything that even re-sembled a weapon.

A third guard brought out blankets to cover the bodies, then took hold of the horse's reins and led the beast, while the first two grabbed Roger roughly by the elbows and half carried, half dragged him through the city streets.

Roger spent a lot of time alone in Chasewind Manor, the palatial home of Baron Rochefort Bildeborough. He wasn't physically alone, but the two grim-faced soldiers assigned to guard him seemed in no mood for conversation. So he sat and waited, sang songs to himself, even counted the boards of the hardwood floor three times, as the hours passed.

When the Baron finally entered, Roger understood the delay. The man's face was puffy, his eyes sunken, the hollow look of grief all about him. The news of Connor's death had hit him hard, very hard; apparently Connor had not been exaggerating when boasting of his standing with his uncle.

"Who killed my nephew?" Baron Bildeborough asked before he had even taken his seat in the chair opposite Roger.

"His killer has been delivered to you," Roger replied.

"The monk," Baron Bildeborough stated more than asked, as though that fact held little surprise.

"That man and one other of St.-Mere-Abelle attacked us," Roger began.

"Us?"

"Connor, myself, and..." Roger hesitated.

"Go on with your tale about Connor," Baron Bildeborough said impatiently. "The details will wait."

"In the fight, the monk's companion was killed," Roger ex-plained. "And this monk was captured. Connor and I were taking him to you - we were on the very outskirts of the city - when he broke free and killed your nephew, a single thrust of his fingers to the throat."

"My healer tells me that Connor has been dead longer than your story would suggest," Baron Bildeborough put in, "if you then killed the monk, on the outskirts of my city."

"It did not happen quite that way," Roger stuttered. "Connor was dead immediately; I could see that, and so, being no match for the monk, I fled, taking Connor's horse."

"Greystone," said Rochefort. "The name of the horse is Greystone."

Roger nodded. "The monk would not give up his pursuit, and when Greystone threw a shoe, I knew that I would be caught. But I beat him with wits where my strength would not, and though I had only meant to capture him, that he might come back and stand open trial for his crimes, he was killed in the process."

"I have been told that you are long on wits, Roger Billingsbury," the Baron said. "Or do you prefer the name Lockless?"

The stunned young man had no reply.

"Fear not," Baron Bildeborough reassured him. "I have spoken with a former companion of yours, a man who holds you in the highest regard and made no secret to me of your exploits against the powries in Caer Tinella."

Still dumbstruck, Roger could only shake his head.

"By simple coincidence, I employ the daughter of a Mrs. Kelso on my staff," Rochefort explained.

Roger relaxed and even managed a smile. If Baron Bildebor-ough trusted Mrs. Kelso, then he had nothing to fear from the man.

"I warned Connor - what an impetuous and cocky young man he was!" Rochefort said quietly, lowering his head. "If the powries could get to Dobrinion, then none of us was safe, I told him. But this rogue monk," he added, shaking his head. "How could he have expected such an assassin? It makes no sense to me."

"No powries got to Abbot Dobrinion," Roger replied firmly, drawing the man's attention. "And this monk was no rogue."

The Baron's expression was caught somewhere between out-rage and confusion as he looked directly at the surprising Roger.

"That is why Connor and I were coming fast to see you," Roger explained. "Connor knew that the monks, and no powrie, mur-dered Abbot Dobrinion. With the captured monk in tow, he thought he had his proof."

"A monk of the Abellican Order killed Dobrinion?" Rochefort asked skeptically.

"This is much bigger than Abbot Dobrinion," Roger tried to ex-plain. He knew he had to be careful not to give away too much in-formation about his three companions. "It is about stolen gemstones and a struggle within the Church powers. It is all beyond me," he admitted. "All too complicated concerning areas with which I have little knowledge. But the same two monks who attacked my friends and me in the northland killed Abbot Dobrinion. Connor was certain of that."

"What was he doing in the northland?" Rochefort wanted to know. "Did you know him before this incident?"

"Not I, but one of my companions," Roger admitted, and then he took a deep breath and took a chance. "She was married to Connor once, for a short time."

"Jilly," Rochefort breathed.

"I can say no more, and please, for her sake, for my sake, for all our sakes, do not ask," said Roger. "Connor came to warn us, that is all you need to know. And in saving us, he forfeited his own life."

Baron Bildeborough sat back in his chair, digesting all that he had heard, weighing it beside the recent disturbances at St. Pre-cious concerning the Father Abbot and his fellows of St.-Mere-Abelle. After a long while he looked back to Roger, then patted an empty chair beside him. "Come and sit with me as a friend," he said sincerely. "I want to know everything about Connor's last days. And I want to know all about Roger Billingsbury, that we two might discern our best course of action."

Roger tentatively shifted to the chair closer to the Baron, taking more than a little hope in the fact that Bildeborough had referred to them as a team.

"That is him," Juraviel insisted, peering down from the hillock with his keen eyes. "I can tell by the awkward way he sits in the saddle." The elf gave a snicker. "It amazes me that a human as agile as Roger can appear so clumsy on a horse."

"He does not understand the animal," Elbryan explained.

"Because he chooses not to," the elf replied.

"Not everyone was trained by the Touel'alfar," the ranger said with a grin.

"Nor is everyone blessed with a turquoise stone that they might learn the heart of their mount," Pony added, giving Symphony a gentle stroke on the neck.

The horse nickered softly.

The three friends and Symphony went down from the hillock, moving at an angle to intercept Roger.

"It went well!" he called excitedly, delighted to have found them. He kicked his horse into a faster trot and pulled harder on the reins of the horse trailing behind him, a horse the companions had seen before.

"You saw Baron Bildeborough," Elbryan reasoned.

"He gave me the horses," Roger explained. "Including Fielder here," he added, patting the horse that had been Rochefort's fa-vorite. It struck Roger then how generous the Baron had been, al-most mentorlike.

"Greystone is for you," Roger said to Pony, pulling Connor's beautiful palomino ahead. "Baron Bildeborough insisted that Connor would want you to have him. And this," he added, taking a sword, Connor's magnificent blade, Defender, from the side of his saddle.

Pony turned her wide-eyed expression to Elbryan, who only shrugged and said quietly, "It seems fitting."

"But then the Baron knows of us," Juraviel reasoned in less con-tent tones. "Or of Pony, at least."

"I did not tell him much," Roger replied. "I promise. But he needed answers - Connor was as a son to him, and the sight of Connor dead nearly broke him." He turned to Elbryan, whom he figured would judge his actions most critically of all. "I came to like the Baron," he said. "And trust him. I do not think he is an enemy of ours, especially considering the identity of Connor's killer."

"It seems that the Baron came to like Roger Lockless, as well," the ranger remarked. "And to trust him. These are no small gifts."

"He understood the message," Roger replied. "And the intent of the messenger. Baron Bildeborough knows that he is in dire straits when measuring his own strength against that of the Abellican Church. He needs allies as badly as we do."

"How much did you tell him of us?" Juraviel interrupted, his voice still stern.

"He did not ask very much at all," Roger calmly replied. "He did come to trust that I was a friend, and an enemy of his enemies. He asked nothing of your identities, other than what I offered about you," he finished, motioning to Pony.

"You did well," Elbryan decided after a few moments. "Where does it all stand now?"

Roger shrugged, fearing to face that question. "The Baron will not let the matter drop, of that I am sure," he said. "He promised me that we would take it to the King, if need be, though I believe he fears to incite a war between crown and Church."

" 'We' ?" Pony asked, picking up the cue.

"He wants me to bear witness," Roger explained. "He bade me to come back to him presently, that we might plan a journey to Ursal, should his private conferences with some trusted monks of St. Precious fail to give him satisfaction.

"Of course I told him that I could not," Roger added, seeing the curious expressions.

Now Roger was confused, as those expressions turned from cu-rious to disapproving.

"We are on to St.-Mere-Abelle, so I believed," Roger said. "Baron Bildeborough wants to be in Ursal before the turn of the season, for he has learned that a College of Abbots is to be assembled in mid-Calember and he is determined to speak with the King before Abbot Je'howith of St. Honce journeys north. Yet there is no possible way that I can go all the way to St.-Mere-Abelle beside you, finish our business there, and then return to Palmaris in time for the Baron's departure."

Still their expressions remained doubting.

"You don't want me to go!" a horrified Roger reasoned.

"Of course we do," Pony replied.

"But if the greater good will be served by having you at Baron Bildeborough's side, then there you should be," Elbryan added, both Pony and Juraviel nodding their assent.

"I have earned my place beside you," Roger protested, lapsing back into his childish nature once again, a prideful mindset which screamed at him that being left out was an affront. "We have learned to fight well together. It was I who killed Brother Justice!"

"Everything you say is true," Pony answered, moving next to the young man and draping her arm about him. "Everything. You have earned your place, and we are glad and grateful to have you beside us, and surely we would be the better off for your particular abilities as we try to make our way into St.-Mere-Abelle."

"But.. ." Roger prompted.

"But we do not think we can win," Pony answered bluntly, her candor catching Roger by surprise.

"Yet still you go."

"They are our friends," said Elbryan. "We must go. We must try every means possible to get Bradwarden and the Chilichunks out of the Father Abbot's clutches."

"Every means," Juraviel emphasized.

Roger started to argue, but stopped abruptly, closing both his eyes and his lips tightly as the point finally came through. "And if you cannot rescue them by force, then their only chance will come from an intervention by the King, or by those forces in the Church not under the Father Abbot's wicked influence," he reasoned.

"You may come with us if you desire," Elbryan said sincerely. "And we will be glad to have you along. But only you have spoken with Baron Bildeborough, and thus only you can decide which course is the most important for Roger Lockless."

"Only I can decide which course is the most important for Bradwarden and the Chilichunks," Roger corrected. He went quiet then, and the others did, too, allowing him his private thoughts. He wanted to go to St.-Mere- Abelle, to take part in this grand adven-ture. Desperately.

But his reason overruled that desperation. Baron Bildeborough needed him more than did Elbryan, Pony, and Juraviel. Juraviel could more than fill his niche as scout, and between Elbryan's sword and Pony's magic, any contributions he might make should battle find them would be nominal at best.

"Promise me that you will find your way back to me when you again pass through Palmaris," the young man said, choking up with every word.

Elbryan gave a laugh. "Could you doubt that?" he said light-heartedly. "Juraviel must come through or near to Palmaris on his road home."

"As will Elbryan and I," Pony added. "For when this is settled, when we again find peace, we will go back to Dundalis, our home, and Bradwarden's. And on our way, I must take my family back to Fellowship Way in Palmaris." Pony offered a quiet smile and hugged the man close, nearly pulling him from his saddle. "And even if our destination lay the opposite way, we would not leave Roger Lockless behind." She kissed the man on the cheek, drawing a deep blush.

"We each have our duties spread clear before us," Pony went on. "Two paths to defeat the one enemy. We will win out, and then we will celebrate - together."

Roger nodded numbly, too overcome to verbally reply. Elbryan came over and patted him on the shoulder, and he looked past the ranger, to see Juraviel offering a confirming nod. He didn't want to leave them! How could he go away from the first real friends - the first friends who had bothered to point out his faults as well as praise his talents - he had ever known?

And yet, precisely because of that, because these real friends were in dire trouble with the powerful Abellican Church, he knew he had to go back to Baron Bildeborough. Roger had known many trials in his life, but never before had he been asked by his own conscience to willingly sacrifice so very much. This time, unlike his jaunt into Caer Tinella behind the raiding Elbryan, his decision was motivated by altruism, and not jealousy, not fear of being out-done by the ranger. This time Roger acted out of love for Pony and Elbryan, and for Juraviel, the most blunt friend of all.

He said not a word, but took Elbryan's hand in a shake that be-came a hug, then took up Fielder's reins and rode away.

"He has grown," Belli'mar Juraviel observed.

Pony and Elbryan silently agreed; both were as upset by this farewell as was Roger. Pony slipped down from Symphony and went to Greystone; the ranger taking Symphony by the bridle, they walked the horses back to their small camp.

They packed what few supplies they needed and set out on the road south. Juraviel wrapped himself in a blanket to hide his wings and weapons, appearing as a young boy, and took a seat on Greystone behind Pony. They decided to go straight into Palmaris, through the northern gate, for, with the monsters retreating, the city had become more open of late, and they didn't believe they would be denied passage.

There was little conversation among them as they crossed through the northern outskirts, past the houses, most empty, but some with family returned. They actually caught sight of Roger on the road ahead of them several times, but thought it best to let him go in alone. Given what had just transpired between Roger and Baron Bildeborough, approaching the gate beside him would cause unwanted attention.

So much so that, on Juraviel's advice, they decided to set camp outside the city that night, to wait a day and let all thoughts of Roger Lockless pass from the minds of the city guards.

Still, things were quiet between them, and Elbryan in particular seemed in a somber mood.

"Is it Bradwarden?" Pony asked him as they ate supper, a fine stew of coneys Juraviel had shot.

The ranger nodded. "I was remembering his days in Dundalis, before you returned," he admitted. "Or even back before that, when you and I were on the northern slope awaiting our fathers' re-turn from the hunt, when we heard the music of the Forest Ghost."

Pony smiled, recalling that long-past, innocent time. She under-stood the source of Elbryan's melancholy to be more than simple nostalgia, though, understood, and surely empathized with, the pangs of guilt that resonated through her lover's every word.

Juraviel, sitting off to the side, recognized it, too, and was quick to jump into the conversation. "You thought he was dead," the elf remarked.

Both Pony and Elbryan turned to regard him.

"To blame yourselves is foolish," Juraviel went on. "The moun-tain fell on him, so you believed. What were you to do, begin digging your way back in with your bare hands? And you, Nightbird, with your arm torn and broken?"

"Of course we do not blame ourselves," Pony argued, but her words sounded hollow, even to her.

"Of course you do!" Juraviel replied with a burst of mocking laughter. "That is the way with humans - and too often for my taste, their self-blame is justified. But not this time, and not with you two. You did all that you could, loyally, valiantly. Even with all you have heard, you doubt that it could be Bradwarden."

"The evidence seems solid," Elbryan remarked.

"But so does the evidence that the centaur was killed," Juraviel replied. "There is something to this which you do not understand, and rightly so, for if it is indeed Bradwarden, then some force be-yond your comprehension has kept him alive - or has brought him back from the dead. True?"

Elbryan looked to Pony, then both turned back to Juraviel and nodded.

"That alone should alleviate your guilt," the elf reasoned, catching them in his logic trap. "If you were so certain that Bradwarden was killed, then how can you be blamed, by others or by yourselves, for leaving that foul place?"

"True again," Elbryan admitted, managing a smile, glad indeed that the wisdom of the Touel'alfar remained by his side.

"Then look not to the road behind," Juraviel said. "But to the road ahead. If it is indeed Bradwarden, if he is indeed alive, then he needs you now. And when we are done, when the centaur is freed, how much better all the world shall be."

"And we can return to Dundalis with him," Pony put in. "And all the children of those who return to that town to rebuild will know the magic of the song of the Forest Ghost."

Now they were at ease. They finished their dinner, speaking of the days they would know when this dark road was traveled and put well behind them, speaking of their plans when peace again reigned in Honce-the-Bear, when the Timberlands were reclaimed, when the Church was put aright.

They went to sleep early, vowing to make the gates before the break of dawn, and both Pony and Elbryan slept soundly, their elven friend keeping a watchful guard.